06 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. 

December 1962

Brendan Wright, at ten years old, was older and wiser than most of us, so when he suggested we go for a walk the kids of Crundale Road put their trust in him and walked. Thus, it came to pass that on a grey winter’s day on the run up to Christmas, our natural leader led a handful of boys and girls into the unknown.

Far from home, we eventually came to a monument at the end of a bustling shopping street – a monument that looked enormous.

‘That’s where Billy Bunter is buried,’ said our worldly sage, which saddened me greatly. Billy Bunter had been on the 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, shrieking with euphoria. Inevitably, momentum and gravity took over and as elation turned to fear, one by one we tumbled, gaining a few bumps 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 we gathered the best branches and set off on the long walk home. But our burden proved cumbersome and when the spirit of Agincourt waned, the branches were abandoned.

Two thirds of the way home our weary band came to a corner shop on a busy junction that had an outside display of seasonal fruit and vegetables. The temptation was too much for our leader, who quickly ushered everyone back. 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 and in ones and twos the rest followed, until everyone but me had joined our leader on the other side of the junction.

I didn’t expect the brazen scallywags to start peeling their oranges there and then, but in open view of the shop, they did, putting greater pressure on me. Theft was theft and my dad was as stricter than most. I wanted an orange, of course I did, but I feared the hiding I’d get if I got found out.

To shouts of encouragement I made the snatch and flew across the junction clutching the single, solitary brazil nut I’d grabbed at the last second – an instinctive compromise with my conscience.

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 that ran alongside the golf course until, on the gradient up to Featherby Road, I gave up and chucked the nut away.

A couple of mothers were out on the street when we all 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