In the spacious living room of Martindale Bungalow, the three boys, feeling distinctly ill at ease, sat stiffly together on the edge of the chaise-longue. Brother Dorian was standing, whisky and soda in hand, with his back to the fireplace.
‘You three young, brave warriors have come through the fire, and now you must become hardened like tempered steel, ready to face up to all the trials and tribulations that you will meet on the road of life. Are you ready for such challenges?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they said, not altogether sure exactly which challenges he was referring to.
‘One of our generous old boys,’ he continued, ‘has kindly given us the lease of this magnificent bungalow together with all its elegant period furniture for as long as we require it. I feel it is our solemn duty to so bear ourselves that should we be here for a hundred years, men will still say, “Neither the furniture nor the residence had a single mark upon them.” Do you agree with these sentiments?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused enthusiastically.
‘You will sleep in the main house, and I have reserved
for this purpose the top attic room, which has a truly panoramic view of the sea. I trust you will find this to your satisfaction.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they chanted eagerly.
‘I have also arranged for all our boys to eat and spend their leisure hours in the capacious garage at the back of the house. In charge there we have a most worthy fifth- former in the person of Pablo Garcia, who has my full authority and acts on my behalf. You will find him firm but fair and you must obey him in all matters. Do you agree to this arrangement?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they sang in unison - at the same time wondering what would have happened if they had said ‘No, sir, these arrangements are unacceptable.’
‘You will find the food here plain but wholesome and a great improvement on that provided by your Mrs Massey.’
‘Mossop, sir,’ said Billy. ‘She was called Mossop.’
‘Mossop, Moscrop, Mossman, Mussell - no matter. You will find our comestibles a distinct improvement. We have an excellent cook in Brother Brendan, who will make sure that your need for sustenance is well met. Does all this meet with your approval?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ they said fervently.
‘Very well. I shall conduct you to the garage and introduce you to Pablo.’
The garage was large enough to accommodate a fleet of cars. The far end had been converted into a mini games area with a small billiard table and a darts board, whilst at the near end there was a large oak dining table with monks’ benches at either side and a large carver chair at the head.
‘This is Pablo Garcia, our head boy at Martindale,’ said Brother Dorian, indicating a tall, dark, heavily built
youth. ‘Three more for you, Pablo. That gives you a total of fourteen. Can you cope?’
‘No problem, Brother,’ Pablo replied. ‘I can cope.’
‘Then I shall leave you now in the capable hands of Pablo, who will show you our facilities and explain our routines. Good afternoon, boys.’
‘Good afternoon, sir, and thank you, sir,’ the three boys said.
When he had gone, Billy turned to his two companions.
‘We’re going to be OK here,’ he said. ‘It’s much better.’
‘I just knew things were going to get better,’ said Robin. ‘Everything has turned out for the best.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Titch doubtfully.
No sooner had he spoken than Pablo took out a large scout knife and threw it at the garage door just behind Billy’s head, missing him by a hair’s breadth.
‘I did not say you could speak,’ he said with a most peculiar smile on his face. ‘In this place, I am boss and you speak when I say so. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ they mumbled.
‘Louder!’ he cried. ‘Say, “Yes, Pablo, we hear you.” ’
‘Yes, Pablo, we hear you,’ they shouted together.
‘Told you there’d be trouble,’ whispered Titch.
‘Did you speak then?’ demanded Pablo, recovering his knife from the door.
‘Not me,’ replied Titch. ‘Not a word.’
‘Understand this,’ said Pablo. ‘If you want to play darts or billiards, you ask permission and then you sign the book. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ they said.
‘At mealtimes, I bring the food from the main kitchen. You eat when I say so. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘You step out of line and you don’t eat. Give me cheek - you don’t eat. Break any of the rules - you don’t eat. Say, “Yes, Pablo.” ’
‘Yes, Pablo.’
‘May we please play darts and billiards this afternoon, Pablo?’ asked Billy.
‘Yes,’ said Pablo. ‘But first, you go down on one knee - all three of you - and say, “May we please, Pablo?” ’
‘May we please, Pablo?’ they asked from the kneeling position.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’re getting the idea. Now sign the book, join the others at the back and wait your turn. I have to go into Blackpool for Brother Dorian’s snuff and I shall be gone for a couple of hours.’
‘Thank you, Pablo,’ the three boys said.
‘Bassett, I’m leaving you in charge and I’ll want a full report when I get back.’
When Pablo had gone, there was an audible sigh of relief - a cork-out-of-the-bottle effect - as the fourteen boys tried to make up their daily quota of conversation like Trappist monks suddenly released from their vows.
As the trio played a game of ‘30T at the darts board, Billy said:
‘Thought you said this was a good billet, Potts. That Pablo is a bloody big bully.’
‘Not so,’ said Potts. ‘He sounds tough but he’s always very fair. You’ll see.’
‘It’s more like a gaol,’ said Robin. ‘We just need a couple of warders, a few Alsatians and a solitary confinement cell, and we’re there.’
‘And James Cagney and George Raft,’ added Billy, ‘and don’t forget the electric chair.’
‘We could try digging a tunnel,’ said Titch, ‘but with my kind of luck it’d come up in Brother Dorian’s bedroom.’
‘Anyway, the food here is good,’ said Potts. ‘You’ll see at dinner tonight.’
‘Dinner at night?’ said Billy. ‘What kind of weird place is this we’ve come to? Next thing you’ll be saying supper is tomorrow morning.’
Dinner was at seven o’clock in the evening, and the fifteen boys - all with good healthy appetites - were standing around in anticipation of the ‘off’ signal. In front of Pablo’s place at the head of the table, the soup plates and the thick ‘paving-stone’ slices of bread were piled up ready for the feast.
‘Come and get it!’ called Brother Brendan from the kitchen in the big house.
‘Right. Bassett and I will bring the food across,’ said Pablo. ‘The rest of you wait at your places.’
The trio sat down at one of the benches in readiness.
‘If he catches you sitting down,’ said Potts, ‘you don’t eat. You have to wait until Pablo gives the word before you sit down and before you can begin.’
Pablo and Bassett soon came back carrying between them a large, double-handled cauldron of hot, delicioussmelling soup.
‘Make way! It’s fish soup!’ called Pablo as they set the heavy dish down at the head of the table.
The diners stood at their places, their tongues hanging out, their mouths watering at the prospect of getting that lovely concoction inside them.
‘First - grace!’ announced Pablo, throwing his scout knife quivering into the table. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’
‘Amen!’ they all replied impatiently.
‘Sit!’ he ordered.
Then, skilfully and carefully, he ladled the soup into the plates, which were then passed from hand to hand
down the table. Next came the slices of bread, and when all had been distributed, he said:
‘You can begin!’
Fourteen spoons were lifted and were about to descend as one when suddenly Pablo called:
‘Wait! There’s one slice of bread left.’
‘You have it, Pablo,’ said Potts ingratiatingly. ‘You’ve earned it.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Justice must not only be done, but must be seen to be done.’
Wresting his knife from the table, he cut the slice into fifteen small squares - each about the size of an Oxo cube - and distributed one each to the assembled company.
‘Never let it be said,’ he stated, ‘that I, Pablo, took more than my fair share. Now, once again - you can begin.’
It was then that Billy saw the fish eyes floating on the surface of his soup. He thought for a moment of caterpillars and cabbage. He hesitated. He closed his eyes and made a decision.
Bugger it! he thought I’m too hungry to worry about it.
The boys fell into their new way of life, and although they found it difficult at first to adjust to Pablo’s hard manner, they found that Brother Dorian’s early assessment of him as ‘firm but fair’ was about right. They weren’t too keen on his knife-throwing exercises, but these were severely curtailed after an incident one Saturday morning.
‘See that small round mark on the door, Hoppy,’ he said, pointing to a knot about the size of a penny.
‘Yes, I see it, Pablo.’
‘Throwing underhand, I’ll get the knife right into it. Watch!’
He threw the knife low down, but instead of hitting the mark with the point of the blade, he struck it with the hilt. The knife bounced out of the door and embedded itself in his shin. Pablo uttered no sound. He looked in surprise at his leg, reached down, calmly removed the knife and went off to get a plaster. Billy noticed that after that there was a definite reduction in knife-throwing.
Not so spartan was Rodney Potts. On the same Saturday morning, Potts came into the garage, holding his hand to his forehead and grimacing in pain as he approached Pablo.
‘I have the most terrible headache, Pablo. May I please be excused from football practice this afternoon?’
‘Come off it, Potts,’ said Pablo. ‘You’re making it up. You’re like a shy bride on her wedding night.’
‘Honestly, Pablo, it’s true. I do have a headache.’
‘S’probably a brain tumour,’ said Titch cheerfully.
‘Yes, that’s what it looks like,’ said Robin. ‘Why, there’s even a big bump at the back here.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Billy. ‘That’s where his mother dropped him. Or maybe it’s proof that he comes from the apes. You’re the missing link, Potts.’
They came home from football later that day and were sitting around the table waiting for their cream of onion soup.
‘So, then, Pottsy,’ said Titch. ‘How’s the brain tumour?’
‘Cut it out, Smalley,’ he said.
‘I would, if I were a surgeon,’ said Titch.
‘Don’t worry, Pottsy,’ said Robin. ‘We’ll see you get a good funeral.’
‘Or he could give his body for medical research,’ said Billy.
‘If you’re not careful, Pottsy,’ said Titch, ‘people will start to call you big-headed.’
‘Anyway,’ said Pablo, ‘you missed the football, Potts, and in my book that means death. Which do you prefer - burial or cremation?’
‘Just stop it - all of you!’ cried Potts, rushing away from the table.
Later that night, Billy realised that they had overstepped the mark with the hypersensitive Potts when they found him kneeling by his bedside, his missal open, reciting the prayer, Litany for a Happy Death.
‘O Lord my God, I now, at this moment, readily and willingly accept at Thy hand whatever kind of death it may please Thee to send me, with all its pains, penalties and sorrows. ’
‘Listen, Potts,’ Billy said. ‘It was all a daft joke. No one really meant it. You’ll live till you’re a hundred.’
‘No,’ said Potts. ‘I’m ready to die and I shall phone my dad tomorrow and tell him to arrange the funeral.’
‘Don’t be so stupid, Pottsy,’ said Robin.
‘It’s all gone wrong,’ said Titch. ‘There’ll be trouble.’
Titch was right. For once his pessimistic prediction came true.
The following night when Billy, dressed only in pyjamas, was coming out of the downstairs lavatory, he saw in the main hallway a small knot of boys, with Brother Dorian towering in their midst. He was brandishing a long cane above his head.
‘Pull the chain and close the lavatory door, boy,’ he bellowed. ‘Then come over here.’
Shaking with fear, Billy joined the little assembly.
‘Now, this evening,’ began Brother Dorian, ‘I have had a most distressing telephone call from Potts’s father. He accuses you, Hopkins, of persecuting and tormenting his son. Is this so?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Billy, now paralysed with terror.
r
‘He claims that you have convinced his son that he is about to die of a tumour on the brain. Is this true?’
‘It’s not true about the tumour, sir, but Potts did think he was going to die.’
‘Did you think you were going to die, Potts?’
‘Yes, sir. He asked me if I wanted to be buried or cremated.’
‘I cannot allow this kind of thing to go on under my roof,’ roared Brother Dorian. ‘I am going to give you, Hopkins, a thrashing you will never forget. Bend over.’
As Billy was in the act of touching his toes, he thought back to the last time he’d had the stick - to the agony, to the purple weals left on his backside. This time would be infinitely worse, as he was wearing only thin cotton pyjamas. His fingers reached his toes.
‘Stretch tighter, boy. Tighter.’
Billy winced, steeled himself and waited for the first stroke to descend.
‘Wait, sir,’ said a voice. ‘I cannot allow you to do this.’
It was Robin.
‘Cannot allow! What on earth do you mean, boy?’ raged the brother.
‘Everybody here present was involved,’ said Robin. ‘So you must punish us all.’
Titch and the other boys exchanged glances on hearing this. They did not look altogether happy about Robin’s suggestion.
‘Explain yourself, Gabrielson.’
‘It was just a prank, sir. A joke that went wrong. We had no idea that Potts would take us seriously.’
‘I support Gabrielson, sir,’ said Pablo. ‘We were all involved. You must punish us all.’
‘I see. I see,’ said Brother Dorian. ‘Get up, Hopkins.’
His heart still thumping, Billy straightened up.
‘Now, Potts. Why did you name Hopkins if so many others were involved?’
‘His was the first name to come to mind,’ said Potts.
‘Potts, you are a great sissy!’ boomed the brother. ‘A girl! A spoiled brat! It’s time you grew up and faced up to the world. As for the rest of you, these games must stop. I shall overlook it this time. Now be off with all of you before I change my mind.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you, sir,’ they all murmured as they began climbing the stairs.
‘Wait a moment!’
They froze.
‘Tell me, Potts. What did you decide in the end? Burial or cremation?’
‘Burial, sir.’
‘That’s good, Potts, since cremation is forbidden by the Church.’
Back in their room, Titch said:
‘That was a close shave. I like the way, Robin, you volunteered us all for the stick. That was very brave of you. If you ask me, you’ve spent too much time reading all that public school stuff in The Fifth Form at St Dominic's. Next time, volunteer your own backside. If you want to be brave, let it be your own funeral, not ours!’
‘I owe you one, Robin!’ said Billy. ‘What courage! What bravery! What madness!’
In the warm spring of that year, there was little to remind them that a major world war was being fought in far- off lands, and that only a few miles away Goering’s Blitzkrieg continued unabated. The air above them was filled with friendly aircraft and the boys had become expert in aircraft identification: Avro Ansons, Bothas, Paul Defiants, Hurricanes and Spitfires - they could recognise
them all with hardly a second glance.
After the brain tumour incident, the trio became more friendly towards Potts and began to include him in their activities.
‘He’s spent too much time in the company of women,’ said Robin. ‘Remember, he’s got four older sisters at home, molly-coddling him.’
As Potts was drawn into their games, he in turn became less selfish and less turned in on himself. One day, he even told them a joke.
‘This man met a girl at a party and he took her into a dark corner and asked her for a kiss.
‘ “No, I won’t,” she said.
‘ “Why not?” he asked.
‘ “Because I’ve got scruples,” she said.
‘ “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ve been vaccinated.” ’
‘Is that it, Pottsy?’ they asked.
‘That’s it,’ he said anxiously, searching their faces.
The three boys all laughed, perhaps over-long.
‘That’s not bad, Pottsy,’ said Billy. ‘Not bad at all.’
Sometimes they walked around the superb golf course at the back of the bungalow, looking for lost golf balls. Occasionally, when their searches were proving fruitless, they hid in the bushes and waited for the odd ball to come bouncing over the horizon - its arrival thoughtfully announced by a distant figure calling out, ‘Fore!’ Then they would snatch the ball up and run for all they were worth to the beach, leaving the unfortunate golfer to drop another ball at the cost of a penalty stroke.
Most of their evenings were spent on the beach, constructing masterpieces in sand, and now that there was a team of fifteen working on the projects, whole cities were shaped rather than single castles. The joy of building their town was only exceeded by the sheer ecstasy of
destroying it in an imaginary raid over Berlin. Holding Titch aloft like an aeroplane, Billy and Robin carried him over the unsuspecting city.
‘Target in view, skipper.’
‘Roger, Titch, old boy.’
‘Starboard a little, skipper. Now port a little, skipper. Steady! Steady-y-y! Bombs gone!’
A brick would be dropped mercilessly on a building which had taken all of two hours to create, and the fantasy air-raid would continue until the city had been razed. Then the boys would break out humming the RAF march-past as the young bombers headed home to their well-earned celebration in the local pub and the love and admiration of their WAAF girlfriends.
One day - out of the blue - Billy had a letter written in an almost illegible scrawl from his dad - a rare event indeed, since Tommy found it inordinately difficult to put pen to paper, having left school at the age of ten.
Well, Billy, so you have moved in with Brother Dorian so I am coming over to see how you are getting on next Saturday with a special present for him I will be on the nine o’clock train from Manchester so please meet me hoping this finds you as it leaves me.
Your loving Dad.
Billy hadn’t seen any of his family for over three months, and so it was with great eagerness that he went down to Central Station to meet him. The train was only one hour late and then there he was - Dad, dressed in his funeral best, complete with pot hat, hurrying down the platform to meet him. He was clasping a large brown paper bag to his chest.
‘How do, son,’ he said. ‘I won’t give a hug or anything like that as I’ve got summat precious here for you and your Brother Dorian.’
‘How do. Dad,’ said Billy, falling into the vernacular. ‘S’great to see you again after all these months. But what’ve you got in the bag?’
‘Shhh!’ he whispered. ‘Eggs! Three dozen of ’em! Eggs! Like bloody gold. In fact better’n gold ’cos you can’t eat that stuff.’
‘I haven’t tasted an egg since God knows when,’ said Billy. ‘They’re scarce, aren’t they?’
‘Scarce! Scarce!’Tommy said, appealing to the unseen listener he seemed to carry on his shoulder for moral support and confirmation of his arguments. ‘I should bloody well think they are. They’re worth more than a bloody penny-black. They queue up for hours in Manchester just to get one.’
‘Then where did you get ’em from, Dad?’
‘Ah!’ he said, tapping his nose with his finger and addressing his phantom audience. ‘He wants to know where we got ’em from. But what we say is “Ask no questions and you’ll get told no lies.” Anyroad, come on, let’s get out o’ this station.’
‘It’s too early to go up to Cleveleys,’ said Billy. ‘They’ll still be having their dinner up there - what they call lunch.’
‘Then what do you say to a plate of fish and chips and a pot o’ tea at Woolworth’s?’
Billy’s heart turned over with joy, not only at the prospect of the promised meal, but because it was so good to see Dad’s simple manner and to have him around again; he seemed so normal after all the bizarre experiences of the previous few months.
In later years, Billy might have enjoyed grander meals
- champagne dinners and the like - but there was never anything to equal the feast of that day in Woolworth’s - eaten to the background music of Deanna Durbin singing ‘Waltzing, waltzing, high in the clouds’.
Whilst they were tucking in, Billy took the opportunity to catch up on family news.
‘Our Jim’s been given another ship - HMS Fiji , a new type of cruiser,’ said Tommy. ‘Our Sam’s joined the Marines. He got fed up going up and down in that lift. Les’s still in the ARP messengers and our Flo’s still at Dunlop’s. Oh, aye, and she’s got herself a fellah at last - a sergeant in the army. Polly and Steve have another house in Cheetham Hill - not as good as the one that was bombed. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they?’
‘And what about Mam?’
‘She keeps us all going in spite of some terrible air raids we’ve been having. We get down to the cellar quick now - and no messing.’
‘Tell her ta for all those postal orders she’s been sending me. I’d have starved without them. One of these days I hope to get back to Manchester again.’
‘You’re best stopping where y’are with the raids we’ve been having. There’s hardly any of the town left.’
After dinner, they strolled together - father and son - along the front towards South Shore.
‘Is there anything you need here, our Billy?’
‘I don’t think so, though one thing that would be useful would be a bike; it would save a lot of tram fare. My two pals have both got bikes and we could ride together. Maybe Mr Sykes could find a cheap one that we could do up.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
They reached Tommy’s favourite Blackpool pub, the Manchester, and the tempting smell of XL ales was too much for him.
‘Wait outside a moment, Billy,’ he said. ‘I’ll just pop in and have a quick one.’
After a minute he came out again.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve changed me mind. I won’t go to see Brother Dorian with the smell of beer on me breath.’
They continued their walk until they reached the Pleasure Beach.
‘Most of it’s closed up for the duration,’ said Billy.
‘But not all of it,’ Tommy said gleefully, now in boyish mood. It seemed to be the effect that Blackpool had on him. ‘Come on, our Billy. Let’s have a go on this.’
He bought two tickets and together they clambered aboard a car to ride the Big Dipper. At a crazy, breakneck speed they hurtled around the roller-coaster, leaving their stomachs behind at every turn and every sudden, precipitous plunge into empty space.
‘Wheee!’ squealed Tommy in delight, now a young child again, but still clutching his precious cargo of eggs.
After their suicidal ride round the perimeter of the Pleasure Beach, they took the promenade tram-car to Cleveleys.
As the tram lurched its way northwards along the front, Dad seemed to get more and more jumpy.
‘This is like going to see the bloody Pope or King George,’ he said. ‘I need a drink for this kinda thing but I can’t even have that. Anyroad, I’ve brought me peace offering.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad. You’ll be all right. Just be yourself. He’s only human like the rest of us.’
‘That’s just what he’s not. Human like the rest of us. He’s a brother. Doesn’t smoke or drink or do any of the things that make life worth living. Anyroad, what do I do? Do I shake hands with him or kiss his ring, or what?’
‘He’s not a bishop. Dad. Just say good afternoon.’
OUR KID
‘And he talks like Winston Churchill. He’s probably a friend of his.’
‘Give him the eggs. That’ll keep him quiet.’
The tram passed the Norbreck Hydro.
‘For a minute there, I thought you lived in that bloody big castle. It wouldn’t have surprised me.’
‘No, that’s been taken over by Lord Woolton. That’s where they do all the work on the ration books for the whole country.’
‘Then the Germans should drop a bomb on that bloody place for a start. That lot in there are starving us to death with their coupons for this and coupons for that.’
They reached Cleveleys and the bungalow and Billy took his dad up to the front door and rang the bell. Dad removed his pot hat and held it in his right hand whilst he held the bag of eggs in his left. The door was opened by the great man himself.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Billy. ‘This is my father who has come from Manchester to have a word with you.’
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopkins. An honour and a privilege,’ boomed Brother Dorian.
‘Very happy to shake your hand, sir,’ said Dad. ‘And I’ve brought you a little gift for your dinner table, sir.’
‘How generous of you! How magnanimous of you! And how appreciated it will be! What is it, by the way?’
‘Three dozen eggs, sir.’
‘Three dozen eggs!’ echoed the brother, taking the eggs quickly before Dad could change his mind. ‘I can’t believe it, Mr Hopkins.’
He inspected the eggs.
‘Why, these are almost as valuable as Faberge eggs.’
‘These are the best new-laid,’ said Dad with a puzzled frown. ‘Where do these Farberjay eggs come from?’
Billy Hopkins
‘They’re from Russia,’ said the brother.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Dad, relieved. ‘These are from English Leghorns. We don’t deal in foreign eggs at Smithfield Market.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Brother Dorian, equally puzzled. ‘William here is a fine young chap and we all think very highly of him. He gets on very well with all his school companions, don’t you, my boy?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Billy dutifully.
‘Anyway, come along into the drawing room, Mr Hopkins, and we’ll have a chat. William, take the eggs to Brother Brendan, there’s a good fellow.’
The two men went into the drawing room and were in there for over half an hour. Billy tried to overhear what they were saying but in vain - the door was too thick. Eventually they emerged.
‘So nice to have met you, Mr Hopkins, and so interesting to hear about your family, especially your son on HMS Fiji. We must listen out for news of him. I am sure he will distinguish himself again as he has obviously done aboard HMS Renown with the vital part he played in the sinking of the Graf Spee. Good afternoon, Mr Hopkins, and if you are ever in the area again, don’t hesitate to call. And thank you so much for the eggs. I’ll make sure the boys get the benefit of them.’
‘Thankee, sir,’ said Dad. ‘And God bless you and all you’re doing for these lads.’
Billy accompanied his dad to the tram stop.
‘The old bastard,’ said Dad when they got outside the door. ‘He was drinking Guinness and smoking all the time we was talking, and the old get never offered me a bleeding drink or a bleeding smoke. The bloody old skinflint. Then the bastard says he’d rather have bleeding Russian eggs. Well, I hope them good English eggs
OUR KID
bleeding choke him. Make sure you get some of ’em from the bastard, our Billy.’
‘I will, Dad. Don’t worry. Ta-ra, Dad,’ Billy called as the tram pulled away. ‘Love to everyone at home. Make sure you get a drink on the way back.’
‘Have no fear on that score, son. I will,’ he shouted. ‘And I’ll see Mr Sykes about a bike for you. Ta-ra.’
He was gone. Billy walked sadly back to the bungalow. Neither he nor any of the boys got to see a single egg on their dining table.