07 The Great Expedition

October 1962: New arrivals to Crundale Road were Colin McIntosh and his sister Lynn. Colin was too old to bother with me he but when introduced himself to Brendan Wright on our street, I was there listening in. 

Brendan Wright lived next door to me on Crundale Road. Being older, he was our natural leader. When he suggested we go for a walk, the kids of Crundale Road put their trust in him and walked. One grey winter’s day on the run up to Christmas, Brendan led a handful of us into the unknown. We walked and walked, eventually coming to a monument on the other side of a bustling shopping street. As monuments go it was average in size but to me, it seemed huge, and when our worldly sage informed us ‘that’s where Billy Bunter is buried,’ I didn’t question it. As privileged as I felt to gaze upon Bunter’s last resting place, it saddened me greatly. Billy Bunter had been on telly just weeks before and it shook me to learn he’d died.

From there we came upon a wilderness so vast that it brought a collective ‘Wow!’ 

After some exploration we were drawn to a distant horizon, where we found ourselves gazing down a sweeping incline. Something inside compels a child to run down a hill and off we went, yelling and shrieking. Inevitably, momentum and gravity took over and as euphoria turned to fear, one by one we tumbled, gaining a few scratches and bruises on the way.

At the bottom of the steep slope, branches were selected and snapped from an abundance of leafless trees. These were used for swishing, most notably in the decapitation of monster weeds. Brendan said we should take the best branches home to make longbows. A brilliant idea, I thought. In fading light I and other boys gathered the best and set off on the long walk home, filled with the spirit of Agincourt. But our burden was cumbersome and when we reached to civilisation, we reached it empty handed.

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Two thirds of the way home our weary band came to a corner shop with an outside display of seasonal fruit and vegetables (where Canadian Avenue meets Woodlands Road). The temptation was too much for our leader, who quickly ushered everyone back to the cover of a wall. After establishing everyone was hungry, he came up with a plan, targeting the big oranges at the front of the display. ‘Just watch me,’ he said. Stepping casually from the cover of the wall, Brendan had a sly look around. Then, in a flash, he swiped an orange and darted across the road.

Timing was crucial if we were to make the snatch and get safely across the road but in ones and twos the rest followed, till all but one had joined our leader on the other side of the junction (on the corner of Cornwallis Avenue). I didn’t expect the brazen scallywags to start peeling their ill gotten gains there and then, but in full view of the shop, they did and that cranked up the pressure on me. Theft was theft and my dad was as stricter than most. I wanted an orange, of course I did, but I knew I’d be in for a leathering if I got found out. 

To shouts of encouragement I made my move, made the snatch and flew across the road, only I shied away from the oranges at the last second and grabbed a nut instead; a single, solitary brazil nut. 

Stealing a brazil nut is not a good idea. While my orange slurping friends strolled along Cornwallis Avenue, I trailed behind, repeatedly bouncing the nut off the pavement in a futile attempt to crack it. I was still at it on the footpath by the golf course, till, on the gradient up to Featherby Road, I gave up and chucked it away.

A few mothers were out in the street when the bedraggled army arrived home, but there was no undue fuss. We’d all gone missing together and we’d all returned together. It had been a marvellous day, and though I had mixed feelings about the nut, I’d seen Billy Bunter’s grave and I was quietly proud of that.

Billy Bunter RIP