Knees Up Mother Earth (18 page)

John turned towards Jim. “I know you are hardly
compus mentis
,” said John, “but what are your thoughts on this?”

“
Zzzzzzzz
,” said Jim Pooley.

Jim Pooley awoke to a sunshiny Saturday morning.

Jim Pooley awoke to find Gammon smiling down upon him.

“Wah!” went Jim. “What are
you
doing in my boudoir?”

“Coffee and croissants, sir,” said Gammon, removing the silver dome from an eighteenth-century croissant dish and wafting delicious smells in Jim’s direction.

“What am I doing
here
?” Jim asked, a-blinking and a-rubbing of his eyes. “I am at the professor’s house and …” Jim did pullings at himself. “These aren’t my pyjamas,” he continued. “My pyjamas have the A Team on them.”

“You imbibed a little too freely last night, sir. The professor was pleased to put you up.”

“Oh,” said Jim. And, “How kind,” said Jim. And, “Pour me a coffee then, please,” said Jim also.

Gammon obliged and then bowed himself from the bedroom.

Jim sat up and sipped coffee.

“Imbibed too freely?” Jim shook his head from side to side. He didn’t have a hangover. What time had he and John left The Stripes Bar? Jim now cocked his head upon one side. What time had he actually arrived at The Stripes Bar? And what had actually happened at the Benefit Night at The Stripes Bar?

Jim Pooley made a very grave face. He had absolutely no memory of the evening before.

Scoop Molloy’s memories of the evening before had been put down upon paper even before the evening before was done. Scoop had viewed the smoke and the exploding exit doors and the fleeing folk through the rear window of Norman’s van in the car park, where he and Peg had retired to make the beast with two backs after John had disturbed their earlier tryst outside the fire exit. Scoop had been forced to excuse himself from the frantic coitus. He was a professional. The news always had to come first.

So to speak.

And upon returning to the offices of the
Brentford Mercury
with many pages of purple prose, he had been granted that moment so beloved of newsmen throughout the ages: that moment when they can cry, “Hold the front page!”

And, to his chagrin, Scoop discovered that the front page was already being held for information that was coming in regarding a lock-up garage in Abaddon Street that had apparently been destroyed by a terrorist bomb. The headline “BIN LADEN ATTACK UPON BRENTFORD” was already being set up in six-inch Times Roman lettering.

“You’ll have to put your piece on the sports page,” Badger Beaumont, the
Mercury
’s inebriate theatre critic, told him. “I was there, at the scene of the outrage, walking my old brown dog, and I got my headline in first.”

“But I have ‘HUNDREDS FLEE IN TERROR’,” said Scoop, “and I saw all kinds of weird stuff going on in The Stripes Bar after the fleeing was done. I peeped in through the doorway.”

“Sorry,” said Beaumont. “That’s journobiz, I guess.”

“But,” said Scoop. “But …”

“Butter?” asked Professor Slocombe. “For your toast, Jim?”

Jim now sat, with John, at the professor’s breakfasting table in his marvellous conservatory. It was one of those wonderful Victorian jobbies with all the cast-iron fiddly bits and the brass handles on the walls that you turn to engage complicated mechanisms which open upper windows. And there was all manner of exotic foliage and rare blooms perfuming the air, and it was all very blissful.

And Jim was in a state of some confusion.

“I can’t remember anything,” said Jim, accepting butter for his toast that he might enjoy a second breakfast, as in the manner of Hobbits. “I remember going home for a bath and that’s it. Waking up here this morning is the next thing I remember.”

Omally cast a cautious glance towards the professor.

A knowing one was returned to him.

“I expect it will all come back to you in time,” Omally told Jim, although John’s fingers were crossed beneath the table. “But suffice it to say, it was a most profitable night. We took almost two thousand pounds on the door alone. I haven’t checked the bar takings yet, but we have more than enough to pay the team for the next few weeks.”

“Oh my God,” said Jim. “The team – did they all get drunk?”

“No,” said John. “I told you, I—”

“You told me what?”

“Nothing,” said John. “The team all drank the Team Special ale I had the brewery lay on for them. It was non-alcoholic. They’ll be fine this morning.”

“Where are my clothes?” Jim asked.

“I’m having them cleaned for you, sir.” Gammon poured Jim further coffee. “You were a bit sick.”

“Oh my God once more,” said Jim. “Not
here
? I’m so sorry, Professor.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jim. You acquitted yourself in a gentlemanly manner.”

“But I can’t understand why I can’t remember anything.”

“It’s all for the best, Jim. Trust me on this.” John raised his coffee cup to Jim. “Think only of today, Jim. Today is going to be a big day for Brentford United.”

Jim felt his stomach knotting. The prospect of the forthcoming match was terrifying in the extreme.

“Do I
have
to go?” Jim asked.

“You certainly do,” said Professor Slocombe. “But have no fear, I will be going with you.”

“You will?” said Jim.

“I will, and I will be sitting beside you on the bench.”

“That makes me feel a good deal better. What about the bus, John?”

“All arranged,” said John Omally, dabbing a serviette about his laughing gear. “Big Bob Charker will pick us up from your place at ten.”

“Will I have to walk home in these PJ’s?” Jim asked.

“I will fetch you some appropriate day wear, sir,” said Gammon.

And the new day came to Brentford.

To find many in the borough most unwilling to greet it.

The “STRIPES BAR HOLOCAUST”, as it would come to be known due to the six-inch Times Roman headline on the rear sports page of the day’s edition of the
Brentford Mercury
, would linger long in the memories of those who had been there to experience it. And those who had been there would speak of their experiences again and again over the coming weeks, each lingering long upon the gory details and even longer upon whatever deeds of personal bravery they claimed to have performed.

But upon this particular morning, all concerned were laying long in bed, trying to sleep the whole thing off.

Big Bob Charker, Brentford’s tour-bus driver, had always been an early riser and today was no exception. He was already at the depot polishing his bus.

The depot was more of a shed than a depot. In fact, it
was
a shed – a shed large enough to house a bus, but a shed more so than less. It was an aged shed that had once been an engine shed in the days when steam trains still ran from Brentford Station, days that were now far gone.

The yard, ex-railways and now the property of Brentford Magical History Tours, Ltd. looked just the way such a yard should look: decoratively decked out in rusted ironwork of the corrugated persuasion and flanked around by tall fences topped with razor-wire. A sign on the gate read “BEWARE THE SAVAGE DOGS THAT ROAM THESE PREMISES BY NIGHT” and a great many of those corroding oil drums that always look as if they must contain something very, very dangerous indeed.

Big Bob Charker was a man of biblical proportions and spoke in a manner appropriate to his stature.

“Dost thou truly think the team will win through to the FA Cup Final?” he asked Periwig Tombs, the mechanic, who was wiping his hands upon an oily rag, as mechanics will do whenever they are given the chance.

“Nope,” said Periwig. “Why do you ask?”

“Because John Omally spake unto me as one who hath the wisdom of Solomon, and did persuade me to provide free transport for the team in return for an endorsement upon their raiments.”

“Woe unto your house, then, Big Bob,” said Periwig sarcastically. “For surely it was written that he who giveth his services freely goeth without beer, but still must render unto his mechanic that which is owed unto him. Weekly.”

Big Bob placed his official cap upon his head. “Verily I say unto you,” he said, “that should the team fail to gain victory over the Pengeites, then lo, they will be walking home.”

“I’m not walking home in this,” said Jim. “I look like Bertie Wooster.”

John Omally cast an eye over Jim’s apparel, which consisted of a three-piece, plus-fours suit of green Boleskine tweed. “To be honest,” said John, his fingers crossed once more, but this time in his pocket, “it rather suits you, makes you look, how shall I put it …”

“A prat?” Gammon suggested, tittering behind his hand.

“A character,” said John. “Football managers are noted for their eccentricities – weird haircuts, unkempt eyebrows, odd regional accents, a penchant for blonde Swedish television presenters.” John made a wistful face at the thought of the latter. “And ill-fitting nylon tracksuits. You’ll cut a dash in that outfit. In no time folk will be copying you. You could well become a fashion icon.”

“Do you really think so?” Jim did a foolish kind of a twirl.

“Absolutely,” said John, bravely keeping the straightest of faces. “Now we really must be going. Big Bob will be on his way.”

And Big Bob was.

He drew the big bus to a halt before Jim’s lodgings and tooted the horn. Jim – who had, upon his return home in the company of John, been somewhat surprised to find that there were no clothes missing from his inextensive wardrobe and was demanding explanations, as well as stuffing his wallet and cigarettes into the pocket of his tweedy plus-fours and getting himself into a state and receiving no satisfactory replies to his endless questions – was hustled by John from the house and out into the street.

“Sodom and Gomorrah!” went Big Bob, taking in Pooley’s apparel. “Surely thou art Bertie Wooster himself.”

“Morning, Bob,” said John, smiling up and into the cab. “Looking forward to watching the team put paid to Penge?”

“Fear the wrath that will surely visit their failure,” said Big Bob in ready reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said John. “All aboard now, Bertie.”

“What did you say?” Jim asked.

“I said, ‘All aboard, it’s nearly ten-thirty.’”

“You certainly did not.”

John and Jim climbed aboard.

“Can we go on the top deck?” Jim asked. “Sit at the front? We can stomp our feet over the driver’s head until he comes upstairs and threatens to chuck us off.”

“Sit there.” John indicated the bench seat next to where the conductor would be standing, had there been a conductor to stand there.

“Spoilsport,” said Jim, slumping down sulkily and taking out his cigarette packet.

Big Bob glanced back at him through the little glass hatch at the rear of his cab. “No smoking downstairs,” he told Jim.

John made his way to the driver and handed him a list of the team’s addresses. “As fast as you can, please,” he told Bob.

“You should have arranged that the team all meet up at the football ground,” Jim told John upon his return. “We could have picked them all up in one go.”

John shook his head. “I don’t trust them,” he said. “This way we can beat upon their doors and shout up at their bedroom windows. We’ll shout loudly, and they’ll feel too guilty to refuse us.”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you, John?” said Jim.

“I’ve missed one or two so far,” said John in an enigmatic manner, “but I won’t be caught out again.”

“Don’t forget to pick up the professor,” said Jim.

“He’s second to last on the list.”

And it
was
a struggle. And they
weren’t
keen. But, one by one, John and Jim winkled them out. They all looked in a bit of a state.

They all looked rather hungover.

“I thought you said …” said Jim.

“I
did
,” said John, and he addressed the team and the substitutes who now filled most of the bus’s lower deck. “I have something of which to inform you all,” said John.

“Oh yes?” came mumblings from here and there.

“None of you actually has a hangover,” said John.

There were mutterings at this, and the word “bollocks” was brought into service.

“No,” said John, as Big Bob took a corner sharply and nearly had him off the bus. “The Team Special beer that I had laid on for you was non-alcoholic. I did it for your own good, so that you would play at your best today.”

There were further mutterings, and then someone said, “We know.”

“Who said that?” John asked.

“Me,” said Dave Quimsby. “And don’t shout so loud, I’ve got a hangover.”

“You have
not
got a hangover,” said John. “It was non-alcoholic beer.”

“It may have been at The Stripes Bar, but it wasn’t at The Beelzepub.”

“What?” said Omally.

“After all the fire and chaos …” said Dave.

“Fire and chaos?” asked Jim.

“Fire and chaos,” said Dave. “Gwynplaine Dhark from The Beelzepub turned up at the ground. In this very bus, actually …”

“What?” said John once more.

“Short-notice booking,” Big Bob called back through his little glass hatch. “He had to pay double.”

“Gwynplaine Dhark took us all for a celebratory drink at his pub,” said Dave. “On the house. We didn’t get home until after
three
.”

“Treachery!” cried John. “Sabotage!”

“Not so loud!” cried all and sundry. Especially Dave Quimsby.

“This is bad,” said Jim. “This is very bad.”

Big Bob brought the bus to a halt at Professor Slocombe’s house and Jim helped the ancient scholar aboard.

“We’ve been sabotaged,” Jim told the professor. “Gwynplaine Dhark took the team back to his pub for a late-nighter. They’ve all got hangovers.”

“So much the better,” said Professor Slocombe.

“So much the
what
?” said Jim.

“Trust me.” The ancient fellow tapped at his ancient nose. “I think I’ll go and sit upstairs now,” he continued. “I’ve always wanted to sit at the front and stomp my feet over the driver’s head until he comes up and threatens to throw me off.”

There was one more stop to be made before the trip to Penge proper began. And this was at Mohammed Smith’s Sports Shop in the High Street. John had done a deal with Mr Smith. It was a sponsorship deal.