Knees Up Mother Earth (3 page)

“Vagabond!”

Jim glanced up. A fellow was peering in his direction – a painfully pale but smartly dressed fellow peering from the open window of a very smart-looking car. A smart-looking car that Jim had not heard pull up at the kerbside in front of him.

“Vagabond!” this fellow persisted.

“I am no vagabond,” said Jim. “I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Entrepreneur, then,” said the fellow. “You’re a local bod, are you not?”

“Born and bred and proud of these facts,” said Jim, adding, “Please go away now, I’m busy.”

“Need directions, local bod, entrepreneur, or whatever.”

Jim peered back at the fellow peering at him. “Why do you peer so?” Pooley asked.

The fellow’s head withdrew through the open window of the smart-looking car and then re-emerged in the company of a stylish pair of mirrored sunspecs. “Light’s a bit bright,” said the fellow. “Better now.”

“I’m so glad,” said Jim. “But please go away.”

“Need directions to the town hall.”

“Why?” Jim enquired.

“Because I don’t know the way.”

“I mean, why do you want to go to the town hall?”

“None of your damned business, nosy vagabond layabout lout!” said the fellow in the mirrored shades.

“Please yourself, then,” said Jim, returning to his concentrations.

“So which way is it?” the fellow demanded. “Speak up, moron: the town hall.”

“Right at the top and then third on your left,” said Jim, smiling sweetly.

“Fine.” The head withdrew. And then the head reappeared. “Is that a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King you’re smoking?” the mouth in this head enquired.

“Actually, it is,” said Jim, smiling even more sweetly than before.

“Splendid,” said the fellow. “Recommend them to your friends. If you have any friends, you loser.”

“
What
?” exclaimed Jim.

But the window closed with an expensive swish and the car departed soundlessly.

Jim Pooley returned once more to his concentrations. The rude man’s words might normally have upset the sensitive Jim, but not, it seemed, upon this day.

Upon this day, and at this particular moment, Jim felt mighty fine. He generally felt
pretty
fine, but then he
was
unfailingly cheerful. But upon this particular day and at this particular moment he felt
more
than pretty fine. He actually felt
exceedingly
fine.

Jim took from its packet another Dadarillo Super-Dooper King and lit it from the failing butt of the first.

“I really, truly, truly feel,” said Jim, drawing on this cigarette and speaking through the smoke, “that this really, truly, truly is going to be my lucky day.”

Neville the part-time barman sat with his arms firmly folded and his knees and heels together. He was not, however, sitting where he would have preferred to have been sitting – to whit, at his favourite corner table in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

Rather, Neville sat, most uncomfortably, for the seat was hard and his smart shoes greatly pained his feet, in a chair of the utility persuasion in the council chamber of Brentford town hall.

Because Neville the part-time barman was also Neville the part-time councillor.

The lads who frequented the saloon bar of The Swan had put Neville’s name forward (for a bit of jolly) at the last local council elections, and so great was Neville’s reputation for being “a good man” that he had been voted into one of the two seats on the council which had recently become available due to unforeseen circumstances. Whatever those may have been.

Neville now occupied one of these two seats. Most uncomfortably.

Neville’s knowledge of local politics extended little further than a summation of opinions postulated within the confines of The Swan’s saloon bar, generally after what is known as “the Ten O’Clock Watershed” – that time after which men have sunk sufficiently in their cups to spout all manner of opinionated toot with complete and utter conviction. And make many promises that they will never keep. And no one blames them for it in the morning.

Because it’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

Neville had accepted his post because of his sense of duty to the borough that he loved in the genuine hope that he
might
be able to make a difference. He didn’t trust any of the other councillors. They were all up to some kind of no-good, Neville just knew it. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew it all the same. Local councillors were
always
up to some kind of no-good, always had been, always would be. It was also a tradition, or an old charter, or something. And it went on in
every
local council up and down the land.

Neville sat and glowered and whistled under his breath. A low and ominous tune, it was, and one that suited the scene.

To Neville’s right sat councillor Vic “Vanilla” Topping, business partner of Leo Felix, the Rastafarian automotive dealer who ran Jah Cars, the previously-owned-car emporium down beside the canal. Vic was in his forties, about as broad as he was long and dodgy as a day that had no ending.

To Neville’s left sat Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark managed Brentford’s one and only theme bar, which had but recently opened within the chapel that had up until a few months before been Brentford’s one and only Spiritualist church. This had come as something of a surprise to the congregation, who could not for the many lives of them understand how it had been granted planning permission.

The name of this theme bar was The Beelzepub. It was a satanic theme bar.

The Beelzepub catered thus far to a somewhat limited clientele, mostly callow acne-faced youths with a penchant for black T-shirts and a bit of Death Metal. And elderly spinsters who had nowhere to go on a Tuesday night now that the Spiritualist church had closed down.

Exactly who had voted Mr Gwynplaine Dhark on to the local council baffled Neville, but he felt certain that the Powers of Darkness must have had some hand in it.

Neville, whom most who knew him would have sworn did not possess an ounce of malice in him, hated Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

And Mr Gwynplaine Dhark hated Neville.

But Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was democratic.

He hated everyone.

Across the council table sat a further prial of councillors. There was Councillor Doris Whimple, a woman of considerable tweediness who bore an uncanny resemblance to the now legendary Margaret Rutherford; Councillor Arthur Doveston, octogenarian beekeeper and enthusiastic pamphleteer; and Councillor David Berkshire, local librarian and a man of so slight a presence that, should he enter a room, that room would still for the most part appear to be empty.

Neville didn’t notice him for a minute or two, but when he did he nodded a greeting, which was returned by a vague and wistful nod of the councillor’s head.

And that was that for the Brentford councillors: two publicans, a used-car dealer, a lady of the Shires, one ancient and one all-but-invisible librarian.

And all of them, with the exception of Neville, in Neville’s opinion, were up to some kind of no-good.

At the head of the council table stood a grand mahogany chair. It was a heavily carved chair and heavily crested, too, with the badge of the borough – two griffins rampant flanking a pint glass of Large. It was the Mayoral Chair.

The Mayoral Chair was unoccupied.

The Mayoral Chair was always unoccupied.

The Mayor of Brentford did not attend council meetings. He did not attend any meetings at all. The Mayor of Brentford was an ornamental hermit who lived in an oak tree in Gunnersbury Park.

Neville unfolded his slender arms, gave them a stretching, placed his hands upon the table before him and began gently to drum his fingers to the beat of his beneath-breath whistlings. Doris Whimple raised a powdered eyebrow and did
tut-tut-tuttings
with her pinkly painted mouth.

Neville ceased his drummings. “Should we begin the meeting?” he enquired.

“No can do, old sport,” said Vic Vanilla. “Have to wait for the arrival of his nibs.”

“The Mayor?” said Neville.

David Berkshire tittered, although none of them heard him do it.

Doris Whimple shook her head, releasing lavender fragrance into the morbid air. “The Mayor will not be attending,” she said.

“But surely,” said Neville, “this is a most important meeting.”

“The Mayor will
not
be attending,” Doris Whimple repeated sternly.

“Oh,” said Neville.

“You know, his nibs,” said Vic, elbowing Neville gently in the rib cage, “the bloke with the bunce.”

“From the Consortium,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

Neville glanced in the direction of the rival publican and received a gust of his brimstoned breath.

“The Consortium,” said Neville and lowered his gaze. He knew well enough about the Consortium, the Consortium that intended to purchase the football ground, tear up the turf and rip down the stands and build their damnable executive homes on it.

Neville took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped open its cover. “It’s now ten-fifteen,” he observed. “This fellow is a quarter of an hour late. Perhaps we can start the meeting without him. Perhaps we can settle this with a show of hands now. I’m certain that none of us
really
wants to see the football ground go – it is, after all, the very heart of the community.”

“The Church of St Joan is the heart of the community,” said Doris Whimple. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark sniggered. Vic Vanilla shrugged. Neville, who had always considered the saloon bar of The Flying Swan to be the true heart of Brentford, kept his own counsel.

The outer door of the council chamber opened, flooding sunlight into the room. A figure stood, dramatically framed, in the brilliant opening. “Greetings one and all,” said this fellow, striding forward into the chamber.

“Close the door behind you,” called Doris Whimple, which raised a wan smile from Neville. The figure returned to the door, slammed it shut, strode forward once more and came to a halt behind the Mayoral Chair. He carried a slim, black executive case and his face was painfully pale. He glanced from face to face of councillors all, though his glancings were guarded behind his mirrored sunspecs.

Shifty
, thought Neville.
Very shifty
.

“Shufty,” said the fellow. “Gavin Shufty, representative of the Consortium. So sorry I’m late. I asked directions from a local bod sitting on a bench in front of the Memorial Library and the buffoon misdirected me to the council dump.”

Neville managed a bit of a grin in response to this intelligence.

“But no matter.” Gavin Shufty pulled back the Mayoral Chair and seated himself thereupon.

A gasp went up from Doris Whimple, and one would most certainly have also gone up from the aged Concillor Doveston had he not been fast asleep and dreaming of bees.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Gavin Shufty, making as if to rise, “have I committed a social gaffe? Is this someone’s chair?”

“It’s the Mayor’s chair,” said Doris, tinkering with the brooch on her breast, a brooch in the shape of a foxhound savaging a peasant.

“And where is his worship, the Mayor?” enquired Shufty.

“He is not attending this meeting.”

“So, no damage done, then.” Gavin Shufty hoisted his executive case on to the council table and opened it. “Down to business, then. I’ve drawn up the contracts – I’m sure you’ll find them most favourable, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.” And he tapped at his nose as he said this.

“Contracts?” said Neville. “What contracts are these?”

“For the purchase of the football ground by the Consortium.”

“Oh no,” said Neville. “No, no, no. This meeting is to debate the matter of selling the football ground. It is not a forgone conclusion.”

“Really?” said Shufty. “Then I must have got my figures wrong. Let’s see.” And he drew from his case a pocket calculator of advanced design, which was very possibly powered by the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter.

Or possibly not.

And tapped at it with his forefinger.

“No, I am correct,” he continued. “The club, which is to say the council, that owns the Griffin Park ground is in debt to the bank to the tune of £1,650,320.”

“No,” said Neville. “Surely not.”

“Oh no.” Gavin Shufty struck his forehead. “My mistake.”

“Phew,” said Neville.

“It’s £1,650,689 – I forgot to take today’s interest on the debt into account.”

Neville groaned dismally.

“Only joking,” said Shufty.

Neville brightened.

“You don’t really owe all that money to the bank.”

“Blessed be,” said Neville.

“You owe it to the Consortium – which, in an act of supreme public spiritedness paid off the loan to the bank and took it on for you. So, to business, the contracts.”

“No, no, no,” said Neville and he shook his head once more.

“Does anybody else have anything to say?” asked Shufty. “I find this vagabond frankly annoying.”

“What?” went Neville.

“I have something to say,” said Gwynplaine Dhark.

“And that is?” said Shufty.

“Where would you like us to sign?”

“Now you’re talking my kind of language.”

“No,” said Neville. “This isn’t right. This isn’t how it should be.”

“No,” said David Berkshire. “I agree. It isn’t right.”

“Seems you’re all on your own, then,” said Shufty to Neville.

“No,” said David Berkshire. “I said no, too.”

“And
I
heard him,” said Neville.

“So,” said Gavin Shufty, “two dissenters. How about you, madam?” He addressed Doris Whimple. “Surely a beautiful and intelligent woman such as yourself does not wish the council to go into further endless debts to save a football team that has not won a single match so far this season and shows no hope of ever winning one. Not when the handsome sum the Consortium is prepared to pay could be spent on numerous community projects.”

“Well,” said Doris Whimple, “I did hear some talk of a community centre.”

“I have the plans here with me in my case. Your name is, madam?”

“Doris Whimple,” said Doris Whimple.

“What a pretty name. The new community centre lacks for one, perhaps you would care to honour it with your own?”

“Now, see here,” said Neville.

“Desist in your puerile protestations,” said Gwynplaine Dhark. “The cause is a lost one. Bow to progress.”

“Quite so.” Gavin Shufty beamed upon Gwynplaine Dhark. “And your name is, sir?”

“Dhark,” said Dhark, “Gwynplaine Dhark.”

“A noble name, and one that I feel should grace one of the roads of the new estate of executive homes. Dhark Crescent perhaps, or Dhark Street.”

“Dhark Alley more like,” said Neville.

“So, who else? You, sir?” Gavin Shufty addressed Vic Vanilla.

“Vanilla Way will do fine for me,” said Vic Vanilla. “That and all the other little matters we spoke about on the phone.” And Vic Vanilla tapped at his bulbous nose.

“Quite so,” said Gavin Shufty. “It’s all in the contracts.”

“No,” protested Neville once more. “It’s quite clear to me what’s going on here.”

“You’re the barman from The Flying Swan, aren’t you?” said Gavin Shufty. “I was warned about you.”

“This is disgraceful,” said Neville, rising from his seat. “This is bribery and corruption. I will have no part of this.”

“Sit down, Neville.” Vic Vanilla gave Neville’s jacket a tugging. “You’ll do all right out of this. You’ll make enough to buy The Flying Swan from the brewery, if you want.”

Neville looked down at Vic Vanilla. “What did you say?” he asked.

Vic gave his nose another tapping. “Shares,” said he. “We, as signatories on behalf of the council, are each to be awarded one thousand shares in the building project.”

“It’s all legal and above board,” said Gavin Shufty. “One thousand shares each, the same agreement that we have reached with all the other councils we’ve dealt with. The shares are without value until the new executive estate is built, at which point, when the new homes go on sale, they rocket to at least one hundred pounds a share. Perhaps more. You can sell them, should you so wish.”

“One hundred thousand smackers,” said Vic, now rubbing his greasy palms together. “That would buy you The Swan, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Neville whispered.

“And all strictly legal. Owner of your own pub. Ain’t that every part-time barman’s dream?”

Neville nodded thoughtfully. “It is,” he said in a wistfully whispery voice.

“Then go for it,” said Vic. “The team’s a dead’n. The Brentford Bees have had their glory days, way back in the nineteen-twenties. The ground’s never even a quarter full on Saturday afternoons. No one really cares any more. I’ll bet you’ve never even been to a game.”