My favourite month of the year was always September, with its St Martin’s summers and first golden hints of autumn, and the dazzling sunny days that always mark the beginning of the football season. This is our new year, without the pressure of making resolutions; instead we surrender responsibility for our future happiness and prosperity to the gentlemen in old gold and black, knowing we’ll ultimately be disappointed, but not every Saturday, not all year.

September of ‘22 was a little different, though. Saturdays were still the centrepiece of the week, of course, but the mood in the Fox, the Feathers, and the Unicorn, was more black than golden. Wolves had yet to win. Jack Addenbrooke had died. And Dicky Toolan was out of love again.

It was his mum who answered the door. “Oi’ve tried weckin’ ‘im up, Gonby,” she said turning her back to me and heading to the kitchen, where a kettle whistled urgently, “Cor do it. Cuppa tie?”

“Thanks, Mrs T. Mind if I try?”

I headed up the creaking staircase and knocked on Dicky’s door.

“Wake up, featherhead, we’ve got a train to catch.”

“Ay gooin’.”

“Ay gooin’.”

“Don’t be daft. Your mum’s brewing a cuppa downstairs.”

“Ay gooin’,” he repeated, angrily though not towards me, “Football’s stupid. Grown men running around. Wyester money.”

“That’s Nelly Bamford talking, not you, Dicky. Now come on. First win of the season’s waiting for us in Manchester. You don’t want to miss that.”

“Tea’s ready!” shouted Mrs Toolan from downstairs.

Of course, I didn’t believe we were actually going to win that day. We’d scored one goal in five games so far and the only thing the optimist in me could find to look to were the new grounds we might see in whichever Third Division we landed in.

I chatted a little with Mrs Toolan before Dicky emerged, unshaven, his blond mop unruly beneath a topcoat of pomade, and what appeared to be the suit of a down-at-heel Victorian undertaker. Or one of his clients.

With no time for a makeover, I kept my sartorial concerns to myself and we headed out to the High Level station. I suffered a long lament regarding Nelly, her soft, womanly ways, and her hardness towards Dicky as we climbed North Street, and I wished for an open taproom or a friendly face that might distract my friend, but none appeared; excursions had been organized by the Honorable and Worthy Pedallers, a rival splinter group styling themselves “The Well-Oiled of Compton”, the Veterans of Kirbekan Wolves Supporters Club, Gentleman Jack’s Jolly Ramblers and the Horseley Fields Flotilla, and we appeared to be the only ones taking more conventional transport.

After some fruitless cajoling for strong drink, I bought us a cup of tea each and we sat in the refreshment room. Dicky said very little, and nothing that he hadn’t already said during the walk there, chin down into his chest and playing with the tablecloth. I lit a senior service and, looking around for a less depressing view, saw an old lady approach our table.

“Well here’s the jolly prince Richard,” she said croakily, a ringless arthritic hand clawing at her sagging neck, “all glum, for he doesn’t know his fate….”

“Do I know you?” asked Dicky, rather rudely I thought.

“Oh, I know you, master Richard. I know your past, and I know your future.”

“Begone, crone!”

Here I had to draw the line. “Dicky! Stop moping and mind your manners. I think the lady has something to say to you.”

“Nothing to say,” she said, enigmatically, “Something to give.” And she laid on the table a blue velvet pouch. Dicky stared at the gift irritably for a few seconds, and then we both looked up from the table. The hag was gone.

“Have a look inside,” I said.

Dicky reached inside and retrieved a packet of Craven ‘A’.

“I had one of them off Clem Badgers the other week,” I said.

“Ar, me too,” replied Dicky. “Taste like fresh air. And do’ roll your eyes loik that, Gonby! Yow smoke Senior Service same as I do!”

“I know I do, ar, but I do’ spend me woolly life moaning, do I? What else is in there?”

Dicky pulled out the next gift and lay it on the table. Neither of us spoke a while.

“What is that abomination?” I asked, finally, and Dicky launched a mouthful of tea across the refreshment room.

“Who’s moaning now, eh?” he asked. I was just pleased he was smiling again.

The article in question was a rosette, half in our beloved old gold and black, and half in the bland red and white of Manchester United. “It is horrible, though,” said Dicky, after the two of us had inspected it thoroughly. “No true fan would ever wear it.”

“Anything else in there?” I asked, pouring another cup of tea and lighting a Senior Service.

Dicky rummaged again, this time opening his fist to reveal an unusual looking ring. It held no gem but rather what appeared to be a tiny cut square of Staffordshire blue brick.

“The woman was clearly mad,” I said, getting up to head to the platform.

“And yet she seemed so normal,” replied Dicky quietly, refilling the pouch and taking it with him.

□ □ □ □ □

His dry moment in the refreshment room was the last amusing thing Dicky Toolan said that journey. All the way to Piccadilly he was either moaning about Nelly, asking if he’d ever find another one like her (you had to hope not, but knowing Dicky’s luck you just knew he would) or staring forlornly out of the window with a pensive Senior Service. It was a huge relief when the train pulled into Manchester – particularly as it was now after opening time.

Dicky passed her a shilling, and then a shiny tanner. “Have one yerself, bab”, he said softly…

The Bull’s Head was already lively, with a pianist in one corner and crackling conversation in the other, but there was room to stand at the bar, which would come in handy given the thirst Dicky’s lovelorn mithering had given me. I shouted up the first round, but before I could find the right change Dicky was practically barging me out of the way. And at once I didn’t blame him. There was an Irish lilt to the voice that invited you to listen, and having listened, to look. Straight dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and framed a small nose and big green eyes. Dicky passed her a shilling, and then a shiny tanner. “Have one yerself, bab”, he said softly, and when she smiled back a single dimple showed to the left of her lips, which were as red as John Silcock’s shirt.

“Thanks, chuck,” she said, before reaching for the spirit shelf.

Their talk continued, with Dicky including me occasionally out of politeness. I felt in the way but didn’t want to move too far away from the beer engine. The girl, whose name was Alice, lamented pleasantly the ennui of Ardwick while swooning to talk of Wolverhampton.

On the arrival of his next pint, Dicky reached for his Senior Service. “Could I try one of those?” asked Alice.

“No, no: not these,” replied Debonair Dicky, “Try a Craven ‘A’: much better for your throat.”

“You are a gentleman! What are you doing up here in boring old Manchester, then?”

If Whitmore Reans and Wednesfield had held her attention, talk of our travels the length and breadth of Britain with the Old Gold were clearly going to work in Dicky’s favour, and so it proved. Though he laid it on a bit thick (even borrowing some of my stories about games he’d missed due to moping around his mom’s house about some local wench or other) she hung on every word.

“I quite like United, but just to read about. In the paper, you know.”

Normally contemptuous of what we called “breakfast table fans”, Casanova Toolan today was a vivid advocate for reading, and the work the mass media carried out on behalf of the more casual supporter.

“Would you like to come along to the game today?” he asked finally.

“I’d love to, but I fear the excitement would be quite too much.”

“Not at all. There will be refreshment in case you feel faint.”

“Anyway I have to be up the market. My brothers will need their tea.”

“Well, I have something for you,” said Dicky, producing from his bag the tacky half-and-half rosette.

“Where did you get this? It’s beautiful,” said Alice.

It was then that Gentleman Jack’s Jolly Ramblers entered the pub, led by Cornelius Bacon in gaiters and trench coat, so I left Dicky to it to catch up. They were in fine fettle, having finally found Elijah Flynn, missing since the Bury game the previous season. Elijah had found work in a cotton mill in Ancoats and then stowed away on an export ship, missing the beginning of the season as a result. We gave detailed highlights to him (highlights was not, on reflection, le mot juste) and he told us tales of mermaids, Caribbean maidens and India Pale Ale until it was time to head out to the game.

“So?” I said to Dicky. as we stepped out onto Piccadilly, “Any news for me?”

“News?” he said, retreiving his Senior Service from the inside pocket of his antiquated jacket.

“Let’s just get to the game, Gonby,” he said, irritatedly.

Dicky’s irritation would continue during and after the game, in which we once again failed to score and fell to a single goal by Joe Spence. September was ending, and a long, cold, hard winter awaited us.

I saw the toccy brick ring once again, some weeks later, on the right hand of Nelly Bamford. By that time she was engaged to a tatter she’d never marry from Bushbury Lane, and Dicky was down in the mouth about a shopgirl called Agnes Poulter.