It was Harold “Budgie” Perton’s idea to visit the talking otters of Alderley Edge, and I’d said it was a bad idea from the off.

“Remember what happened when that polar bear gave you a tip in Dudley Zoo?”

“That was different,” he said, with the characteristic forward twitch of the neck that had given him his nickname, “Captive animals will tell you anything.”

It was ironic, given our current circumstances, that I’d turned down a trip with the Speleologist Squadron, thinking a simple train journey preferable to a four-day exploration of Derbyshire pot-holes en route to Maine Road. But the express had yet to even stop at Stafford before Budgie was pestering me to change at Crewe for a slow train through Cheshire and I was longing to feel the ache in my back and the damp around my ankles.

… one of them had a small guitar and they were singing ballads in the lazy August sun.

We’d alighted at Alderley Edge and headed straight to the Drum and Monkey for a couple of pints before climbing up the Edge to a small stream marked on the map given to Budgie by some Stafford Road fan called Hosby whose recent luck on the horses had allowed him to hire a wireless radio set from Rediffusion. The otters were easy enough to find, as one of them had a small guitar and they were singing ballads in the lazy August sun.

“Eh up,” said the guitarist as we approached (they’d just finished a number about a shrew that fell in love with a magpie).

“Howdo?” said another scratching his ear. We returned their greetings and there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Oh,” said the guitarist, “You’re here to see us?”

“Yes,” said Budgie, twitching.

“I thought you were ramblers or summat. What do yer need to know?”

“The future,” said Budgie.

“Let me guess,” said the smallest of them, who had been eyeing us up rather suspiciously since we arrived, “You need to know… anything you can bet on.”

We were silent. The otters laughed. “Such mundane work, in every sense,” said the guitarist, with a shake of his head, “ I could tell you so much more…, when you’ll get a lady Prime Minister, when they’ll close the last cotton mill, what the Russians really want…; but you’d rather know who finishes second in the 2.40 at Haydock.”

“Well, yes….”

“Well, as it’s a strictly commercial interest you have, there will be a small fee. Three bob.”

“Three bob?” said Budgie, with a particularly anxious double-twitch.

“Stigmatized Child.”

“Yeah. Dead cert, though.”

Budgie dug into his pockets and the transaction was made.

“Stigmatized Child,” said the guitarist.

“That was unfair,” I said. Budgie was bright red. The otter stared back at me.

“To finish second,” he said, “in the 2.40 at Haydock: Stigmatized Child.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Thank you,” said Budgie, clearly still a little bitter about the consultancy fee.

“You lads aren’t from round here, are yer?”

“No,” I said, “Staffordshire.”

“Oop here to watch the Wolves?”

“Ar.”

“Well, if you can find anybody to take a bet on that game you’ll beat Citeh foo-er nil.”

“Do you know anywhere we could place the other bet?”

“You’ve not got a bookie oop here?” the guitarist made a glance at his more furtive-looking friend, before continuing, more quietly, “Well, yes. I do know someone. But don’t tell them I sent you.”

As we headed west to the abandoned copper mine, I tried to persuade Budgie to rethink the enterprise. It was clear, though, that nothing would deter him – after all, once you’ve taken as unreasonable a decision as to make a subterranean rendezvous with giant moles in order to place a bet, reason itself has largely been abandoned. After forty minutes we were crawling through a narrow channel some thirty feet in, unsure if this were even the right mine. Once the narrow part was passed, the tunnel split into two and I decided to open the packet of pork scratchings I’d bought in the Drum and Monkey and drop morsels every so often so we could find our way out again. We had finished dropping the contents of Budgie’s packet by the time we found them.

They jumped out of us from openings either side of the tunnel. Each was about four foot six in height and carried a lamp. Their beady eyes looked at us and they let out a roar.

“Yow ay moles!” cried Budgie.

“Yow ay moles!” cried Budgie.

“What are you doing here? This is our tunnel.”

“We’ve come to lay a bet.”

“How much?”

“Five bob”

“Are you sure?” I said to him. He clearly wasn’t, but there was no going back.

“Give it here,” said the larger bear.

Budgie handed over a dollar and the two bears walked off, picking the scratchings up and eating them as they went.

“Hey! Don’t you want to know what I’m betting on?” called Budgie. But the pair just laughed and carried on crunching into the scratchings, before warning us not to follow them.

We were alone in the dark. I lit a Craven ‘A’ and looked at Budgie in the light of the match. “If that hoss comes in I’m comin’ back for moi money,” he said sullenly. I told him he’d be better off thinking about survival.

Now, half an hour later, we were tired, and our backs ached from multiple low passages. I had just four matches and only one cigarette left. As I lit it, I thought I heard sounds from a tunnel somewhere; perhaps the bears were returning with beer they’d bought with their five illegitimate shillings. But I soon recognized the changes in pitch, and realized it had nothing to do with any preternatural fauna.

Song of the Speleologist Squadron (“Wanderers Underground”)

 No hole’s too small
 If it is we’ll crawl
 To see the Wanderers play
 For we love to camp
 And be where it’s damp
 When the Wolves are playing away
 
 We’re the Speleologist Squadron!
 They call us the Caving Boys!
 In the ground or under it  
 We’re making all the noise!
 
 We’re the Speleologist Squadron!
 We’re the Wanderers Underground!
 Find us a pothole or a football goal
 And we’ll make this terrible sound! 

“I thought yow were gooin’ owverground this wickend!” laughed Billy Braddock when his lamp appeared around the corner.

“I thought you were in the Peaks.”

“We was. Found a tunnel straight through.”

The Caving Boys already knew the Alderley Edge mines very well, and we were out in no time, rushing to the station for the next train to Manchester. In time for kick-off, we watched Cullis’s boys come through with the four-nil win the otters had foretold. Budgie whined a bit about returning to the Edge, particularly when he saw the racing results in the Pink Final, but we plied him with drink in the Bull’s Head and managed to get him onto the express.

All in all a memorable day in what would be a most memorable season. God bless the Speleologist Squadron and up the bloomin’ Wolves!