Knees Up Mother Earth (23 page)

“I’m not going to take it,” said Neville.

“Of course you’re not.” Old Pete finished his large dark rum. “Same again,” he said, “and have one yourself, on me.”

“One for yourself?” said John Omally.

He and Jim stood in The Stripes Bar. It was a Stripes Bar that was still undergoing redecoration. Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s builders in residence, were bashing away with the three-knot emulsion brushes and spreading paint in most places other than on the walls.

“I’m cutting down,” said Jim. “Make mine a half.”

“Two more pints over here, please,” John told Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

Mr Rumpelstiltskin drew off two pints of Large.

“A shame about the Beverley Sisters catching fire like that,” said Jim as he took his up.

“Swings and roundabouts,” said John, “but at least The Rock Gods escaped unscathed. I’m sure I can persuade them to attend another Benefit Night, although I’m not so sure that I’ll be able to provide an audience. Shall we adjourn to my office? It escaped the worst of the holocaust.”

John and Jim adjourned to John’s office in The Stripes Bar and sat themselves down, John upon his comfy recliner.

“Do you really think we’re safe?” Jim asked.

“If the professor says we’re safe, we’re safe.”

“I hope so.”

“And the Campbell is no longer following you around, which must prove something. Jim, we are presently weird-free. Nothing else weird is going to occur, nothing else preposterous.”

“I really
do
hope so.”

“Perk up, Jim.” John raised his glass. “We’re back in the game. There are pennies to be made, games to be won and a betting ticket in your pocket that will take us both to wealth.”

“If Brentford wins seven games on the trot.”

“Trust the professor’s tactics. So far, so good.”

“But another game on Wednesday – so soon.”

“It’s hard work in the big league, but the payoffs are more than favourable. Now, about these strippers.”

“Strippers,” said Jim. “
Strippers
?”

“Strippers,” said John. “I thought I might engage some for lunchtimes in here, to bring in a bit of trade.”

“Neville won’t take kindly to that.”

“I have not entirely forgiven Neville for bopping us on the head. But this is business, Jim. We need the money to pay the team.”

“I’ve been wondering about my wages, John. When do you think I’ll be seeing any? I’m all but broke and my landlady is all for casting me into the street.”

“What? The manager of Brentford United? I’ll have words with that lady. You leave it to me.”

Jim shrugged and sighed. “So, strippers it is,” he said in a hopeless tone. “What else?”

“More sponsorship. I have a new mobile phone.” John flourished same and Jim flinched. “And new stock for the club shop. You can leave all that to me, I’m on the case.”

“And me?”

“You just enthuse the team, pass on the professor’s tactics – do your job. We’ll succeed. I have every confidence that we will.”

“We can but try,” said Jim Pooley. “But see, who is this?”

Jim pointed and John followed the direction of his pointing.

“It’s Small Dave,” said John, “Brentford’s dwarfish postman, locally known as a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard with nasty warty little hands.”

“I know who he is,” said Jim, “and his horrid warty little hands fair put the wind up me. But what is he doing here?”

“Good day, each,” said Small Dave, waddling over.

“Good day, Dave,” said John.

And Jim did likewise.

“Thought I’d just pop in,” said the diminutive deliverer of the Queen’s mail. “Tell you a bit of hot news.”

“Really?” said Jim. “What news is this?”

Small Dave made gagging sounds in his throat. “My voice departs me,” he whispered. “My throat is parched.”

“Pint of Large over here, please, barman,” Omally called. “Courtesy of the management.”

“Cheers,” said Small Dave. And upon receiving his pint, he said “cheers” once again and climbed on to a chair to address his benefactor. “He’s back,” said the small one.

“Who’s back?” Jim asked.

“Archroy is back.”

“Archroy?”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

“Archroy is back?” said Jim.

“That’s what I said.” Small Dave took up his pint in his two tiny hands, which Jim and John refrained from gazing upon, and gulped away the better part of it. “Arrived this morning, looking very full of himself. Well tanned he is and wearing a pith helmet.”

“He’s been gone for ages,” said Jim. “How long has it been?”

“Eighteen months,” said Small Dave, finishing his pint. “Went in search of the Ark of Noah that supposedly rests upon Mount Ararat, which is now buried in the ice.”

“And did he find it?” asked Jim.

“Apparently not. The borders are closed – there was some unpleasantness – so he set sail for other parts.”

“He’s a nutter,” said John. “Always was. A dreamer, even when we were back at school together. He goes off on his wanderings in search of mythical artefacts and always comes back empty-handed.”

“Not this time,” said Small Dave, rattling his empty glass upon the table. “This time he’s hit the motherlode. Oh no, my voice is giving out again.”

“One more, then,” said Omally, calling out to Mr Rumpelstiltskin for more. “But this had better be good.”

“Oh, it is.” Small Dave awaited the arrival of his new pint and, upon its arrival, continued with the telling of his tale. “He got blown off course somewhere in the Adriatic. Got washed up upon an island.” Small Dave went on to name the island.

“Never heard of it,” said John.

“That’s because it’s not on any modern map. Did you ever see that film
Jason and the Argonauts
?”

“One of my favourites,” said Jim. “A Ray Harryhausen.”

“That’s the one,” said Small Dave.

“Ah, yes,” said Jim, “and that island is where Jason captured the Golden Fleece.”

“You are correct,” said Small Dave. “And that’s what Archroy’s done.”

“What has he done?” John asked.

“He’s found the Golden Fleece and he’s brought it back to Brentford.”

John looked at Jim once more.

And Jim looked back at John.

“On your way, Dave,” said John Omally. “And give that pint to me.”

“I’m not kidding, lads,” said Small Dave, clinging on to his pint. “He really has found it, and it really is magic. Remember the warts?”

“What warts would these be?” asked John, as if he didn’t know.

“As if you don’t know,” said Small Dave. “All over my hands. Well, look at them now.” And Small Dave held up his hands. “He laid the Golden Fleece upon me and all my warts vanished away.”

And John beheld the hands of Small Dave.

And Jim beheld these hands also.

And lo, these hands were free of warts.

These tiny hands were wartless.

“Now let me just quote you, John,” said Jim. “Nothing else weird is going to occur, you said. Nothing else preposterous.”

Norman drank that lunchtime in The Flying Swan, in the company of Ms Bennett. Later, the two of them took a little drive in Norman’s van.

And what went on in that van, somewhat later, when it was parked-up in a quiet cul-de-sac, would have been considered by John to be more than quite preposterous.

Archroy did not pop into The Stripes Bar for a pint or two to celebrate his unexpected return to Brentford. Neither did he pop into The Flying Swan. Which was probably a good thing, because Neville was having a bit of trouble with the brewery.

It was Tuesday now and Neville was cringing at the unexpected and truly unwelcome arrival of the brewery-owner’s son, Young Master Robert.

Young Master Robert paced up and down The Swan’s saloon bar, turning occasionally to glance at Neville before pacing on.

“Everything is in order,” Neville told him. “The books balance, as near as books can balance. Trade is good.”

“Really?” Young Master Robert ceased his pacing and turned his visage fully upon Neville. “Words reach my ear,” said he, “words to the effect that The Stripes Bar has engaged the services of a lunchtime stripper.”

“No,” said Neville. “Really?”

“Trade appears somewhat slack in here at the present,” said the young master. “And the present is lunchtime, is it not?”

“They’ll be in soon,” said Neville. “They always are – young pasty-faced office types. We get through a lot of cider.”

“But not today, apparently.”

“They’ll be in.”

“Then perhaps I’ll wait and say my hellos.”

“Cheese,” said Neville.

“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “This place needs a pep-up, something to draw in the punters.”

“We have regular trade,” said Neville. “This is a highly respected establishment, very popular with the locals.”

“A lot of no-marks.” Young Master Robert paced up to the bar counter and sat himself down upon Old Pete’s favourite stool, which was unusually empty. “I hear that the team actually won a match on Saturday.”

“Indeed,” said Neville, “and I am responsible for appointing the new manager, not that I wish to take any credit. Although if any is going, I will receive it without complaint.”

“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “Needs a new look.”

“It really doesn’t.” Neville found himself wringing his hands. He thrust these wringing hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s perfect as it is. It couldn’t be more perfect.”

“New look,” said Young Master Robert. “Pep-up. Vodka and Slimline.”

Neville hastened to oblige. “Please don’t do anything to the decor,” he begged the young master as he presented him with his drink.

“One thing at a time,” said the brewery-owner’s one and only boy-child. “Let’s start with the bar staff.”

“Oh no,” said Neville. “You’re not going to sack me?”

“Oh no, not yet, but the place needs a little colour. And if The Stripes has strippers, then The Flying Swan needs ladies, too.”

“Not strippers,” said Neville. “Anything but strippers.”

“Not strippers, but female bar staff.”

Neville flinched, horribly. He’d never met a woman yet who could draw a decent pint.

“Female bar staff?” he said in a tremulous tone.

“
Topless
female bar staff,” said Young Master Robert.

“By the shades of the seraphim,” said Jim Pooley, for Dr Strange Comics were rarely far from his mind these days, “that lady has very large bosoms.”

“
Very
large,” said John Omally. “I agree that she doesn’t have much of an act, just sort of crawls on to the stage and tries to stand upright, but it works for me.”

John and Jim viewed the stripper, as did the large male contingent that thronged The Stripes Bar. Which included, upon this occasion, the now legendary Ivor Biggun.

“A decent turnout for a lunchtime,” said Jim.

“It’s a wonder what a few posters will do,” said John.

“Neville is not going to like this.”

“He’s a professional. He understands the spirit of healthy competition. Hey, look, here’s Norman. And who’s that with him? I know that woman.”

“Hello, lads,” said Norman, mooching up to the bar counter. “This is my business associate, Ms Bennett.”

“We’ve met,” said John, putting out his hand for an intimate shake.

“Have we?” said Ms Bennett, declining the offer of John’s hand.

“Champagne,” said Norman, “if you have any.”

“Of course we have.” John drew the attention of Mr Rumpelstiltskin, which was difficult as the barman’s eyes were fixed upon the bosom of the stripper. “Champagne over here.”

“She’s nearly up,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “No, she’s down again.”

“Champagne,” repeated Omally.

“Cheers,” said Norman. “And get in further glasses. You can have some, too.”

“So what are we celebrating?” Omally asked.

“My patents,” said Norman. “I am shortly to be very rich indeed.”

“This would be the electrical business that nearly killed us all in The Flying Swan, would it?” said John.

“I’ve done a deal,” said Norman. “Signed the contracts yesterday evening.”

Mr Rumpelstiltskin uncorked a bottle of warm champagne and decanted it into champagne flutes and into John and Jim’s pints. “Can I have a glass myself?” he asked. “I’ve never tasted champagne.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Norman. “A friend in court is better than a penny in a purse.”

“We’re getting married,” said Ms Bennett.

“You’re
what
?” said Omally.

“I’m divorcing Peg,” said Norman. “I haven’t actually broached the subject with her yet. She doesn’t actually believe in my patents – happily. Even though the chap who’s bought them mentioned them to her on Sunday, she still doesn’t believe in them. Unlike Yola here.”

“I believe in you,” said Ms Bennett, giving Norman’s crotch a loving tweak. “You’re a wonderful man, Norman.”

“We’re soul-buddies,” said Norman. “We were made for each other. We’re going to buy a castle together.”

“And a yacht,” said Ms Bennett. “And Argos.”

“Argos?” asked Jim.

“It’s a retail outlet,” said Norman, “with very competitive prices. It has its own catalogue. Yola likes the jewellery section.”

“Well, I wish you both the best of luck,” said Jim, raising his glass in salute.

“Norman,” said John, “do you think I might have a small word with you?”

“You might,” said Norman, tipping champagne down his throat, “so long as it’s very small indeed.”

“In private,” said John.

“I have no secrets from Yola,” said Norman, and Yola snuggled against his chest and gave his bum a pat.

“Naturally not.” Omally made smilings at Yola that were not returned to him. “But it is a personal matter. If you’d be so kind as to indulge me.”

“A trouble shared
is
a bird in the bush,” said Norman, removing his person with difficulty from Yola’s caresses and following John to his office.

“Sit yourself down,” John told him and Norman did so in John’s lounger. “Norman,” said John, seating himself, “Norman, how long have we known each other?”

“Since we were wee small boys together,” said Norman.

“Yes.”

“With holes in our socks and tears in our trouser seats.”

“Quite so.”

“Playing conkers and scrumping apples.”

“This is true.”

“Filling our mouths with gobstoppers and slipping in through the back doors of the Odeon for Saturday morning pictures.”

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“Playing ‘knock down ginger’ on Mrs Smith’s door and—”

“Shut up, Norman, please.”

“Oh,” said Norman.

“My point is,” said Omally, “that we have known each other, man and boy, for a good many years and I am proud to call you my friend.”

“No,” said Norman.

“No? No, I’m not your friend?”

“No,” said Norman. “As in no, you can’t borrow a fiver.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you for a fiver.”

“Not a
tenner
, surely? Have you no shame?”

Omally sighed a deep and truly heartfelt. “I wasn’t going to ask you for any money at all – unless, of course, you’d care to invest a couple of million in a football club.”

“I might well do that.” Norman swigged champagne. “But I don’t get my money until Cup-Final Day. I’ll certainly give it some thought, though.”

“This isn’t about money,” said John. “Well, in a manner of speaking it is, but it isn’t that I want to take your money. It’s about her.” Omally gestured in a subtle and understated manner towards Ms Bennett.

Ms Bennett waved back at John, incorporating into this wave a subtle and understated two-fingered “Harvey Smith”.

“Norman,” whispered Omally, “would you say that I knew something about women?”

“If it makes you happy,” said Norman. “You know something about women. There, I’ve said it. If that’s all you wanted, I’ll be on my way now.”

Omally made an exasperated face. “Norman, I’m trying to save you a lot of pain and anguish here – and a lot of money, as well.”

Norman’s glass was empty and the shopkeeper turned it between his fingers. “What
are
you trying to say?” he asked.

“She only wants you for your money, Norman.”

“Who does?” Norman asked.

“Yola – Yola Bennett.”

Norman made the face of surprise. And then the face of doubt. This face of doubt became the face of grave concern.

“You’re just jealous,” said Norman, which went to prove that faces can be misleading.

“No, it’s not that. I promise you it’s not.”

“She loves me,” said Norman. “She said that she loves me.”

“It’s your filthy lucre she loves. She’ll suck you dry, Norman.”

Norman stared hard into the face of Omally. “Suck me dry?” he said.

Omally nodded.

“What, every night?”
[30]

Omally would have thrown up his hands, but one was holding his Large-and-champagne shandy. “When you get your money,” he said, “
if
you get your money, you can have your pick of women. Thousands of women. You could have your own harem.”

“In my castle?”

“Certainly. Or have an extension built.”

“So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t tie myself down just yet?”

“That sort of thing. Don’t make any rash commitments.”

“I see,” said Norman. And he nodded, thoughtfully.

“Word to the wise, that’s all.” And Omally tapped at his nose.

“Don’t tap at my nose like that,” said Norman.

“I wasn’t. I was tapping at
my
nose.”

“Oh yes, so you were.”

“So you’ll bear in mind what I said.”

“I will,” said Norman.

“And you won’t do anything silly, like get engaged to Yola or anything?”

“Ah,” said Norman.

“
You haven’t
!”

Norman grinned towards John. “No,” said Norman in a whispery tone, “I haven’t. Nor do I intend to. I’m not stupid, John. I know exactly what she’s up to, but I’m presently getting the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, so I think I’ll just stick with it for now, if that’s all right by you. Care for another?”

And with that said, Norman returned to the loving arms of Yola Bennett.

Jim Pooley joined John at his office table. He sat himself down and said, “All right?”

Omally shrugged and shook his head.

“Did you put Norman right on that gold-digger?”

“I don’t think he needed putting right. That shopkeeper has more savvy than a Sainsbury’s cold-meat counter. I think we’ve sorely misjudged that fellow.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “That’s a shame, because it occurred to me that we might ask him to invest some money in the club.”

“Forget it,” said John.

“Shame,” said Jim, “because the stripper’s got herself upright and she wants paying.”

“I’ll get it to her later.”

“And the Campbell has just brought me this.” Jim proffered an envelope. “More tactics from the professor, I think. The Campbell said we should put the team through their paces tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s game.”

Omally pulled out his new mobile phone. “I’ll call them all up, then,” said he. “Leave it to me, my friend.”

At seven o’clock, the team assembled themselves upon the hallowed turf of Griffin Park. Jim marched up and down before them, smiling encouragement.

The team returned his smile to him in a somewhat sheepish fashion.

“Is everything all right with you chaps?” asked Jim.

Shoulders shrugged and mumblings were all the rage.

“You look a tad, how shall I put this,
uncertain
.”

Ernest Muffler spoke. “Perhaps if you’d like to count heads,” said he.

“Count heads?” Pooley shook his. “Okey-dokey.” And Jim counted heads. “Someone’s missing,” he observed. “Who’s missing?”

“It’s Billy Kurton,” said Ernest.

“Our right-winger. Where is he?”

“Gone,” said Ernest. “Upped sticks and gone.”

“
What
?” said Jim.

Ernest raised his palms. “Went round there earlier. The folk next door said a removal van came in the middle of the night. They said he owed a lot of money to the builders for his patio.”

“Terrible,” said Jim.

“I know. I’ve seen it – it’s a terrible job, pointing all over the place. And level? It’s like a humpback bridge with the mumps.”

“I don’t mean
that
. I mean it’s terrible that we’ve lost our right-winger.”

“It will put us at a bit of a disadvantage,” said Ernest, “when it comes to us scoring goals.”

“Right,” said Jim, “but we won’t be disheartened.”

“We
won’t
?” said Ernest.

“We won’t,” said Jim. “A temporary setback. We’ll put in one of the substitutes until we can purchase a new right-winger.”

“We’ll have a crack,” said Don and Phil, the conjoined twins.

Jim made a truly thoughtful face. “You are absolutely certain that you qualify as
one
player?” he said.

“We only have one passport,” said Don.

“And one birth certificate,” said Phil.

“And one pair of trousers,” said Ernest, “although they have four legs in them.”

Jim perused the new tactics, penned upon parchment by Professor Slocombe. He’d spent half the afternoon trying to memorise them, but had failed dismally. “All will be well,” said Jim. “Trust me on this. We will be on home ground, cheered on by our loyal supporters. And with these new tactics
I
have formulated, we shall triumph. Now, they might at first seem somewhat complicated, but put your trust in me and follow them to the letter and I guarantee that we will succeed.”