It was the first day of Christmas, and nowhere around lay thick snow. Nevertheless transport was proving to be an issue. But for the odd puncture, some near-fatal speed-wobbles on Yarlet Bank, north of Stafford, and a chilling encounter with a spectral lollipop lady in Sandbach that left us paralysed with fear and sickening for home for nigh on three hours, the journey up to Old Trafford with the Honourable and Worthy Pedallers had been uneventful. We’d arrived in good time for beer before kick-off, and enjoyed the ninety minutes, although the referee had deemed it part of his duties to reward Manchester United a Christmas victory at all cost, and the Major’s men travelled south empty-handed for the return fixture. Arriving at Piccadilly Station we were faced with more bad news: rail services south of Manchester had been cancelled at short notice for some emergency engineering.
Of course, we would be able to reach Molineux in time for the kick-off, though we would have to negotiate unfamiliar terrain in the black of night. We had lights. We had sufficient puncture repair supplies. And, if we were lucky enough to find some out-of-the-way country hostelry willing to serve us, the money saved on train fare would come in very handy indeed – especially if they had some pork pies. The problem was that every single one of the Honourable and Worthy Pedallers had arranged to be at his mother’s house by seven-thirty that evening, and every one of the mothers had agreed to time her Christmas dinner accordingly. Not only might the whole society miss its Christmas dinner; there was also a distinct possibility that mothers would hold off serving until their son’s arrival, leading to dry turkey, lumpy gravy, cold sprouts, black parsnips, greasy roast potatoes, overcooked carrots, burnt Yorkshires, crabby babies and consequent domestic unjoyfulness. Most of us had planned to spend large portions of St Stephen’s, St John the Apostle’s and Holy Innocents’ Day down the pub (Christmas Day having fallen on a Friday that year), but having to do so in order to avoid an angry family would take some of the shine off the experience.
Of the fifty members who’d made the trip to Manchester that day, only George Forge (of Tettenhall, of course) had a telephone. He placed the call from a booth in the station while we stood smoking cigarettes (the station café was closed).
‘You look glum, mate,’ said Neville Proudlock as George rejoined the group.
Far-from-perfect timing…
‘Yes,’ said George, accepting one of Neville’s Woodbines, ‘Far-from-perfect timing, as it turns out. Mummy says the bird has already been in twenty minutes, and she’s busy peeling the potatoes as we speak. Katherine is peeling the sprouts and Alexandra is carving the little crosses on the stalks, while Mrs Collier is obviously….’
‘Why do they do that?’ asked Dicky Toolan.
‘What?’
‘Why do they carve those silly little crosses into the stalk of the sprouts?’
‘So that they roast perfectly,’ replied George.
‘But what difference does it make?’
There was silence among the Honourable and Worthy Pedallers. In the rafters of the enormous station, a pigeon fluttered its wings.
Ezekiel Graves came to his senses first. ‘Dicky – does he look like Mrs Beeton?’
‘How would I know?’ said Dicky.
‘You were saying, George….’
‘Ah, yes. Well, Mrs Collier is with her brother’s family in Tipton, it being Christmas; Tristan is out on his new bike – a future pedaller, no doubt – and father is entertaining Uncle Lawrence in the drawing room.’
‘Is that his uncle or your uncle?’
‘Christ, Dicky: does it matter?’ said Ezekiel Graves, immediately turning to George, ‘This Arcadian mise-en-scene you’re putting together has a purpose of some kind, presumably…?’
‘Well, y-yes. There’s nobody free to relay messages to anybody else’s mother, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you sure there isn’t a stray gardener or valet hanging around below stairs? Maybe a lady-in-waiting at the bus stop?’ asked Ezekiel sardonically.
‘Mummy was quite adamant…’
‘Quite sure,’ said George blankly, ‘The gardener doesn’t live in. I left Gonby’s address anyway, in case something changed, but Mummy was quite adamant there could be no interference with the Christmas agenda. She does tend to run a very tight ship.’
‘Well,’ I said, grinding my Woodbine into the floor, ‘I suppose we might as well saddle up. We’ve got a long night ahead.’
‘Ar,’ said Jack Dudley, and we all thought immediately of his Margaret, ‘And a long bloody Boxing Day.’
Return journeys with the Pedallers could be rather tiring affairs, but, though we were all rather miserable about missing Christmas dinner, the melancholy was balanced by a sense of anticipation, being as we were playing the following day. It was almost like another away trip, and we sang to keep our spirits up:
UNTIL OUR WHEELS REACH THE GROUND Go we east or west Or north or south Or any combination thereof We will reach our destination Without any hesitation Whatever distance is involved, because… REFRAIN: A pedaller’s a pedaller’s a pedaller’s a pedaller -- He pedals and his wheels go round. A wanderer’s a wanderer and he will not stop his wandering Until his wheels reach the ground Today that ground is Molineux in Whitmore Reans But be it anywhere from Aberdeen to Rome We will pedal there, drink beer there, cheer there and sing And then we’ll saddle up and ride back home!
With only incandescent bulbs and the tips of our cigarettes to light our way, we pedalled on south through Cheshire. Though the winter was mild, we began to freeze in the early hours, and alighted our vehicles on a piece of common land near Nantwich to gather fuel for a bonfire. Spirits lowered and the mood was sombre as the flames caught; the look in the eyes of those around the fire spoke of loss and longing for home. It was the plaintive tenor of George Forge that began the song that, though rarely heard due to the generally upbeat character of the Honourable and Worthy Pedallers, was known by heart by every rider in the group.
SONG TO WULFRUN ('TO HEAR THAT WHISTLE BLOW’)
Our wheels have come such a long, long way
And they yet have a way to go.
Our hands have gripped their handlebars for more than a day
And our prostates suffered terrible blows.
And now we are alone in the still of the night
In a place without a name
And our journey has been made for the mere sight
Of a simple football game.
REFRAIN:
Am I a fool, Lady Wulfrun, to travel so far from thee?
So far from the Ball, the Fox and the Stile and the bosom of my family?
Am I a fool, Lady Wulfrun, to push my bike through snow
And rain and fog and winds just to hear that whistle blow?
Just to hear that whistle blow…
Just to hear that whistle blow…
As we harmonized the minor seventh on the refrain I began to make out the sound of a motor, pitched somewhere between Jack Dudley’s strident baritone and Ezekiel’s booming bass. It was the first engine I’d heard in perhaps an hour, and it grew continuously louder until a pair of headlights appeared around a bend south of where our fire roared. They belonged to a lorry, which slowed as it approached us, coming to rest with the motor idling. There was a pause before a tall man descended from the cab and walked towards us with erect posture. The face was illuminated by the glow of a churchwarden pipe, but I didn’t recognize it. When it got to within ten yards of us, however, a tenor voice cried over my shoulder.
‘Uncle Lawrence!’
‘Thought it must be you!’ came the reply from the man, whose face was was finely-featured, with an aquiline nose and a thin moustache.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked George.
‘Well, your mother let it slip that you would be delayed, and I had a driver arriving at the depot that evening. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to take the wagon around to Gonby’s and get some more addresses.
‘You’ve been to our houses?’ asked Ezekiel, with trepidation.
‘Indeed I have. And I’ve not come empty handed.’
We followed him to the cargo doors of the wagon. Inside were some fifty oval packages of silver foil, with names written on them in felt tip, to the left fifty smaller, more circular-shaped packages, to the front of them an assortment of gravy boats, thermos flasks, measuring jugs and serving jugs, also labelled (and covered where necessary), and at the back a large cardboard box marked ‘Silver and Cruet’.
‘Right,’ said Uncle Lawrence, taking the first of the oval packages, ‘Which one of you is Dicky Toolan?’
Margaret Dudley had been sour to say the least…
When all the plates had been distributed, and the correct gravy added to the correct parts of each, we sat by the fire and tucked into our Christmas dinners. Uncle Lawrence indulged George with idyllic tales from Tettenhall, before giving generous appraisals of the comings and goings and Christmas scenes he’d encountered at each house he’d visited (Margaret Dudley had been sour to say the least, but Dicky Toolan’s mum had sent along an extra portion to compensate). Pudding was served, along with a warming brandy, before we loaded the dishes and then the bikes into the back of the van, climbed in and headed home to Wolverhampton. The food had been cold, and the gravy rather lumpy, but the occasion was one of the most joyful Christmas meals I’d ever had, though if we’re honest it had fallen well after the midnight chimes had struck in all the pretty villages of Cheshire.
All in all, a memorable day out with the Pedallers, and better was to come that very afternoon as a United side bloated with turkey and overconfidence met with a seven-nil drubbing at the hands of the Major’s mighty Wanderers. With the best goal average in the league we would go top if we could win our game in hand on Leeds; it felt as though 1932 really could be the year we returned to the First Division, after a long, cold quarter of a century.