The Antipope (10 page)

The Captain shook his head in bewilderment and mopped the perspiration from his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. For the next half an hour his life was nothing short of a nightmare. The truck’s dark occupant swung open the rear doors of the mighty vehicle, exposing another fathomless void. Working without apparent effort and clearly oblivious to the great weight of some of the more ornate and heavily gilded pieces of furniture he and the Captain unloaded and installed in the Mission an entire suite, table, chairs, sideboard, cabinet, a pair of golden candelabra, velvet wall-hangings and a crested coat of arms. All these items would clearly have been well at home amid the splendours of Fontainebleau. Each was the work of exquisite and painstaking craftsmanship, and each bore etched into the polished woodwork or inlaid in precious metals the motif of the bull.

When all was installed the Captain numbly put his signature to the manifest, which was printed in a language he did not understand. The driver returned to his black cab, the door swinging closed behind him leaving no trace of its presence. The vast black vehicle departed as silently as it had arrived. The Captain leant upon the Mission porch exhausted, breathing heavily and clutching at his heart.

“There is one more thing to be done and you may return to your quarters,” said the tramp looming above him.

“I can do no more,” gasped the Captain, “leave me here to die, I have seen enough of life, too much in fact.”

“Come now,” said the tramp, “no need to be melodramatic, this is but a simple task.” He handed the Captain a gallon can of petrol. “That rubbish in the garden, dispose of it.”

“What?”

“It is offensive, put it to the torch!”

The Captain took the can. Upon giddy legs he stumbled through the Mission and out into the yard to confront the mound of furniture which had served him these thirty long years.

“The torch,” ordered the tramp.

The Captain’s fingers tightened around the petrol cap, he was powerless to resist. “Damn you,” he mumbled beneath his breath. “Damn and blast you to hell.”

It was Thursday. The sun shone enthusiastically down through Neville’s window and twinkled upon the white cowboy suit which hung in its plastic covering upon the bedroom door. Neville raised a sleepy eyelid and yawned deeply. Today was going to be one to remember. He cast an eye towards the suit, pristine as a bridal gown. Beside it upon the chair hung the silver pistols in their studded holsters and the fringed white stetson. He put a hand beneath the pillow and withdrew the chromium sheriffs star. Squinting at it through his good eye he noted well how it caught the light and how the mirrored surfaces shone like rare jewels. Yes, he was going to look pretty dapper tonight, that was for sure.

He was still, however, harbouring some doubts regarding the coming festivities. It was always impossible to gauge exactly what the locals might do. He knew some would attend, if only for a chance at the scotch and to take advantage of the cheap drink and extended hours. But the dart players had already defected and the seasoned drinkers were hard upon their heels, tired of being jockeyed from their time-honoured places at the bar by the continual stream of tourists and sensation-seekers currently filling the Swan. But still, thought Neville, if only a small percentage of the morbid canal viewers turned up, the evening would be far from dull.

Neville climbed out of bed, placing his star reverently upon the side table. He stifled another yawn, straightened his shoulders and stepped to the window. From Neville’s eyrie high in the upper eaves of the Swan he was afforded an excellent view of the surrounding district. With the aid of his spyglass he could see out between the flatblocks as far as the roundabout and the river. He could make out the gasometer and the piano museum and on further into the early haze where the cars were already moving dreamily across the flyover.

It was a vista which never ceased to inspire him. Neville’s spirit was essentially that of the Brentonian. From this one window alone he could see five of Brentford’s eighteen pubs, he could watch the larval inhabitants of the flatblocks stirring in their concrete cocoons, Andy Johnson’s milkfloat rattling along the Kew Road and the paperboy standing in the shadow of the bus shelter smoking a stolen Woodbine and reading one of Norman’s Fine Art Publications, destined for a discerning connoisseur in Sprite Street.

This morning, as he drew great draughts of oxygen through his nose, an ominous and hauntingly familiar perfume filled Neville’s head. He had scented it vaguely upon the winds for many weeks, and had noted with growing apprehension that each day it was a little stronger, a little nearer, a little more clearly defined. What it was and what it meant he knew not, only that it was of evil portent. Neville pinched at his nostrils, shrugging away this disturbing sensation. Probably it was only nerves. He stepped into his carpet slippers and down two flights of stairs to the bar.

The paperboy, seeing the bar lights snap on, abandoned his study of the female form and crossed the Ealing Road to deliver Neville’s newspaper.

Omally was stirring from his nest. Wiping the sleep away from his eyes with a soiled pyjama sleeve the man from the Emerald Isle rose, a reluctant phoenix, from the ashes of the night before. There was little fire evident in this rare bird, and had it not been for the urgency of the day which lay before him he would surely have returned to the arms of whatever incendiary morpheus rekindled his combustible plumage. He lit a pre-cornflake Woodbine and through the fits of terrible coughing paid his early morning respects to the statuette of Our Lady which stood noseless yet benign upon the mantelpiece.

The Irishman’s suite of rooms was far from what one would describe as sumptuous. The chances of it appearing in
House and Garden
, except possibly as an example of the “Before” school of design, were pretty remote. Upon this particular morning, however, the monotone decor was overwhelmed by an incongruous and highly coloured object which stood upon the Fablon table-top in Omally’s dining-room. It was a large and gaudy carton bearing upon its decorative sides the logo of the carnival shop.

Within this unlikely container, which Omally had smuggled home in a potato sack, was nothing less than an accurate reproduction, correct to the smallest detail, even to the point of spurs and mask, of that well-known and much-loved mode of range-wear affected by the Lone Ranger. It was also identical in every way to the one which Jim Pooley had hired not an hour previous to the furtive Omally’s entrance to the carnival shop.

For Mr Jeffreys, who ran the faltering business, it had been a day he would long remember. How he had come into the original possession of the ten identical costumes was a matter he preferred to forget. But upon this particular day that he should, within a few short hours, not only hire out these two costumes, but the other eight to boot, was quite beyond all expectation. Possibly the ancient series had returned to the small screen, bringing about a revival. Anyway, whatever the cause, he didn’t care; the cash register had crashed away merrily and there would soon be enough in it to pay off the bill for the two dozen Superman costumes he had similarly ordered in error.

Neville picked up his newspaper from the welcome mat and gazed about the bar. He had been up until three in the morning arranging the finishing touches. Little remained of the Swan’s original character; the entire bar now resembled to a Model T the interior of a western saloon. The sawdust which had for the last few days been getting into everybody’s beer now completely smothered the floor. Wanted posters, buffalo horns, leather saddles and items of cowboy paraphernalia lined the walls.

The shorts glasses had been piled in pyramids behind the bar and the place was gaudy with advertisements promoting “Old Snakebelly – The Drink That Made the South Rise Again”. This doubtful beverage was the sole cause of the Swan’s bizarre transformation. It was the brainchild of the brewery owner’s eldest son, who had spent two weeks on a package tour of the States and had returned with a mid-Atlantic accent and a penchant for Randolph Scott impersonations. It was not the finest blend of spirits ever to grace a bar optic, and would probably have been more at home removing tar from bargees’ gumboots. The old brewer, however, was not only a man indulgent of his progeny’s mercurial whims but a shrewd and devious entrepreneur who knew a tax dodge when he saw one.

Lunchtime trade at the Flying Swan was alarmingly slack. Two sullen professional drinkers sat doggedly at the bar, glowering into their pints and picking sawdust from their teeth. Old Pete entered the bar around twelve, took one look at the decorations and made a remark much favoured by gentlemen of his advanced years. Young Chips lifted his furry leg at the sawdust floor and the two departed grumbling to themselves.

When Neville cashed up at three, the till had taken less than two pounds. Neville counted the small change with nervous fingers; he was certain that the ominous smell he had detected that morning was beginning to penetrate the beer-soaked atmosphere of the saloon bar.

It all began in earnest when at three fifteen a van from the brewery catering division drew up outside the Swan in the charge of a young man with advanced acne and a cowboy hat. This diminutive figure strutted to and fro in a pair of boots which sported what the Americans humourously call “elevator heels”. He announced himself to be Young Master Robert and said that he would be taking over personal control of the event. Neville was horrorstruck, he’d been looking forward to it for weeks, he’d got the sheriffs star and everything and now at the eleventh hour, this upstart…

To add insult to injury, the young man stepped straight behind the bar and drew himself a large scotch. Neville watched open-jawed as a parade of supplies sufficient to cater for half the British Army passed before his eyes in a steady and constant stream. There were packets of sausages, beefburgers, baconburgers, beans and bacon-burgers, sausage beef and baconburgers and something round and dubious called a steakette. There were enormous catering cans of beans which the porters rolled in like beer casks. There were sacks of french rolls, jars of pickled onions, radishes, beetroots, cocktail cucumbers and gherkins. There were hundredweight sacks of charcoal.

“I have been light on the cooking oil,” Young Master Robert announced as the slack-jawed Neville watched two porters manoeuvring an enormous drum in through the saloon bar door.

Young Master Robert drew himself another scotch and explained the situation. “Now hear this,” he said, his voice a facetious parody of Aldo Ray in some incomprehensible submarine movie, “what we have here is an on-going situation.”

“A what?”

“We have product, that is to say Old Snakebelly.” He held up a bottle of the devil brew. “We have location” – he indicated the surroundings – “and we have motivation.” Here he pointed to the banner which hung above the bar, draped over the moth-eaten bison’s head. It read: GRAND COWBOY EXTRAVAGANZA PRIZES PRIZES PRIZES.

Neville nodded gravely.

“I have given this a lot of thought, brain-wise,” the youth continued. “I ran a few ideas up the flagpole and they got saluted and I mean S-A-L-U-luted!”

Neville flexed his nostrils, he didn’t like the smell of this. The young man was clearly a monomaniac of the first order. A porter in a soiled leather apron, hand-rolled cigarette dripping from his lower lip, appeared in the doorway. “Where do you want this mouthwash then guv?” he asked, gesturing over his right shoulder.

“Ah, yes, the Product,” said Young Master Robert, thrusting his way past Neville and following the porter into the street. There were 108 crates of Old Snakebelly, and when stacked they covered exactly half the available space of the newly built patio.

“There is nowhere else we can put it,” Neville explained. “There’s no space in the cellar, and at least if they’re here whoever is cooking at the barbeque can keep an eye on them.”

Young Master Robert was inspecting the barbeque. “Who constructed this?” he queried.

“Two local builders.”

The youth strutted about the red brick construction. “There is something not altogether A-O-K here design-wise.”

Neville shrugged his shoulders, he knew nothing about barbeques anyway and had never even troubled to look at the plans the brewery had sent. “It is identical to the plan and has the Council’s seal of approval, safety-wise!” Neville lied.

Young Master Robert, who also knew nothing of barbeques but was a master of gamesmanship, nodded thoughtfully and said, “We will see.”

“What time will the extra bar staff be getting here?” Neville asked.

“18.30,” said the Young Master, “a couple of right bits of crumpet.” He had obviously not yet totally mastered the subtler points of American terminology.

By half past six the Young Master had still failed to light the barbeque. The occasional fits of coughing and cries of anguish coming from the patio told the part-time barman that at least the young man was by no means a quitter.

At six forty-five by the Guinness clock there was still no sign of the extra bar staff. Neville sauntered across the bar and down the short passage to the patio door. Gingerly he edged it open. Nothing was visible of Young Master Robert; a thick black pall of smoke utterly engulfed the yard obscuring all vision. Neville held his nose and squinted into the murk, thinking to detect some movement amid the impenetrable fog. “Everything going all right?” he called gaily.

“Yes, fine, fine,” came a strangled voice. “Think I’ve got the measure of it technique-wise.”

“Good,” said Neville. Quietly closing the door, he collapsed into a convulsion of laughter. Wiping the tears from his eyes he returned to the saloon bar, where he found himself confronted by two young ladies of the Page Three variety, who stood looking disdainful and ill at ease. They were clad in only the scantiest of costumes and looked like escapees from some gay nineties Chicago brothel.

“You the guvnor?” said one of these lovelies, giving Neville the old fisheye. “Only we’ve been ’anging about ’ere, ain’t we?”

Neville pulled back his shoulders and thrust out his pigeon chest. “Good evening,” said he in his finest Ronald Coleman. “You are, I trust, the two young ladies sent by the brewery to assist in the proceedings?”

“You what?” said one.

“To help behind the bar?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And may I ask your names?”

“I’m Sandra,” said Sandra.

“I’m Mandy,” said her companion.

“Neville,” said Neville, extending his hand.

Sandra tittered. Mandy said, “It’s a bit of a dump ’ere, ain’t it?”

Neville returned his unshaken hand to its pocket. “You didn’t come through the streets in those costumes did you?”

“Nah,” said Mandy, “we come in the car, didn’t we?”

“And you are, I trust, acquainted with the running of a bar?”

Sandra yawned and began to polish her nails. Mandy said, “We’ve worked in all the top clubs, we’re ’ostesses, ain’t we?”

Neville was fascinated to note that the two beauties seemed unable to form a single sentence which did not terminate in a question mark. “Well then, I’ll leave you in charge while I go up and get changed.”

“We can manage, can’t we?” said Mandy.

The cowboy suit hung behind the bedroom door in its plastic covering. With great care Neville lifted it down and laid it upon the bed. Carefully parting the plastic he pressed his nose to the fabric of the suit, savouring the bittersweet smell of the dry cleaner’s craft.

Gently he put his thumbs to the pearl buttons and removed the jacket from the hanger. He sighed deeply, and with the reverence a priest accords to his ornamentum he slipped into the jacket. The material was crisp and pure, the sleeves crackled slightly as he eased his arms into them and the starched cuffs clamped about his wrists like loving manacles. Without further hesitation the part-time barman climbed into the trousers, clipped on the gun belt and tilted the hat on to his head at a rakish angle. Pinning the glittering badge of office carefully to his breast he stepped to the pitted glass of the wardrobe mirror to view the total effect.