The Sprouts of Wrath (10 page)

Neville drew the bolts upon the saloon bar door but did not bother to take the air. Drizzle depressed him. His carpet-slippered feet flip-flopped across the knackered Axminster and carried him over to the whisky optic and the large buff-coloured envelope that had arrived by hand this very morning.

Neville drew a double and tossed it down his throat. His right forefinger traced the parameters of the envelope and came to rest upon the brewery’s coat of arms. A cockatrice rampant above the motto “Ecce Cerevisia” — “Behold the Beer”. Neville chewed upon his bottom lip and made nervous sniffing sounds with his sensitive nostrils. Those possessed of the “third eye” would have noticed that the part-time barman’s aura was surmounted by a small black cloud on which the words “Gloom and Desolation” were written in Gothic type. Neville lived in dread of these missives which were inevitably the work of the brewery owner’s beloved son, whose entire being seemed solely dedicated to making life miserable for the part-time barman.

Those envelopes which arrived through the post, Neville instantly destroyed and denied all knowledge of, but young Master Robert, as the little parvenu described himself, had got wise to this and now they came by hand, to be signed for. Neville tapped at the envelope; he was going to have to open it, no matter what. With a dismal resignation he took up the wicked messenger and tore it apart. He emptied the contents on to the bar counter and prodded them disdainfully. There were a set of plans, a number of crude felt-tip drawings (or visualizations as the Young Master called them), several pages of typing, some samples of material and a beer mat.

“Oh dear,” said Neville the part-time barman. This had the look of what the legendary Busby Berkeley would have referred to as “A Big Production Number”. He picked up the beer mat and turned it on his palm. On the one side was the ubiquitous brewery coat of arms and on the other the Olympic rings etched in gold above the words … THE PENTATHLON BAR (formerly the Flying Swan). “Oh no,” said Neville, “oh no,
no, no!
”

He was still oh-noing a full half-hour later when a rain-sodden Pooley and Omally entered the bar.

“Watchamate, Neville,” said Jim.

“God save all here,” said John.

Neville nodded a thin greeting and drew off two pints of Large.

“Problems, Neville?” Omally enquired as he accepted his pint.

“The brewery.”

“Oh, those lads. And what is it this time, another cowboy night or more video-games machines?”

Neville laughed. It was a ghastly hollow sound and it quite put the wind up the soggy pair. He displayed the beer mat.

“Blessed be,” said Jim.

“Holy Mother,” said John.

“Exactly,” said the part-time barman. “The little bastard wants to do a full conversion on the whole pub. Do it up like a bloody gymnasium or somesuch.”

“Iconoclast,” Omally declared. “We shall storm the brewery.”

“Burn him at the stake,” Pooley said.

“An auto-da-fé,” Omally suggested.

“Yes,” agreed Jim. “We’ll burn his car too.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Neville, “we’ll show him, eh?”

“We will,” said Omally, “although not right at this moment as Jim and I have a rather pressing bit of business to discuss.”

“A man of words and not of deeds,” said the part-time barman, “is like a garden full of weeds.”

“As to that I have no doubt,” said Omally, steering Jim away towards a side table, “no doubt at all.”

“And so?” said Pooley, once the two were seated. “And so?”

“And so, Jim, I have been giving this matter some careful thought and it is my considered opinion that if you alone perform these few short weeks of labour then the Professor will be under a moral obligation to return your betting slip. It is in your name alone after all.”

Jim shook his head. “Such has already occurred to him, he mentioned to me upon leaving that he considers the betting slip, as in fact you do, joint property. If needs be, he said, he would return my half alone.”

Omally glowered into his beer. “Bob will not pay out on a torn ticket, this much is well known. I can see nothing for it, there is only one solution.”

“You will take honest work then?”

Omally crossed himself. “How can I be expected to work if I am incapacitated?”

“You are ill then, John?”

“Not yet, but suppose I had an accident. Say I tripped over a garden fork that you had carelessly discarded during the course of an enjoyable day in the Professor’s garden. Why, I might be laid up for weeks, months even. Remember
The Man Who Came to Dinner
?”

“A bit before my time, John, but you would be bound to be discovered. The Professor would know.”

“How would he?”

“Because I would tell him, John, that is how.”

“A fine friend you are,” sighed Omally, “it was only a thought.”

“And not one of your better ones. But see, John, a few weeks of hard work is not going to kill us. Considering the life of luxury and ease we are going to enjoy once we pick up our winnings, a bit of exercise will probably do us the world of good.”

Omally pulled at his pint. “Perhaps,” said he. “But I feel that there is a lot more to all this than meets the eye.”

“How so?”

“Well, as you know I greatly admire the old man. His whole being is dedicated to the higher truths. Lesser truths and the lack of them generally trouble him but little. Do you not therefore find his present attitude puzzling?”

“The work ethic, you mean?”

“More so the business of what we saw on the barge.”

“Hm.” Pooley had said little about that, it was something he wished only to forget. “It certainly wasn’t an ape and that’s for sure.”

“Indeed it was not. Now you and I know that and I think the Professor does too. And I think he knows a good deal more than he’s letting on to.”

“He generally does.” A lace garter of ale-foam slid seductively down Jim’s glass.

“He knows our transactions have never been one hundred per cent honest, but it’s never bothered him before. Something’s going on, Jim.”

“I have no doubt of that, but if you will take my advice. John, stay out of it, find yourself a job, nose to the cartwheel, elbow to the sprocket-set, things of that nature.”

“I’ll give the matter some thought,” said John, “I’ll give it some close thought.”

Jim Pooley shook his head. “Whose round is it?” he asked.

The Swan was filling with post-match celebrants, out to toast the charity of the home team in letting the Lords Taverners off with a mere sixteen-nil walloping. Neville was going great guns behind the pump but the grim expression had not left his face.

Omally elbowed his way to the bar. “Two of similar,” he said. Neville took the glasses. He drew off a pint of the very best and passed it to Omally. John took a thoughtful sip. “I shall miss this,” he said.

“Why, are you going away then?”

“No, I mean that with all the coming changes, the beer will be the first thing to suffer.”

“It will not,” said Neville whose pride was his beer.

“Come now.” Omally held up his glass and examined its contents. “We’ll be seeing some strange faces behind this bar counter I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You what?” exclaimed Neville.

“Well, if the brewery are in for changes, then they’ll be supplying new bar personnel I would have thought.”

Neville halted in mid-pull of Pooley’s pint. “By the gods,” said he, “do you think so?”

“Well, you haven’t had a full complement since Croughton left.”

“Left?” said Neville. “He’s now serving eighteen months, his hand was in my till up to the elbow!”

“Young Master Bobsmuck will want one or two of his lady friends in here I shouldn’t wonder.” Neville’s face contorted into a mask of horror, his good eye started in its socket. He was not by nature a misogynist, but he did not believe there was a woman alive who could pull a decent pint. “I’d cover yourself now,” continued Omally, “just to be on the safe side.”

“Yes… yes.” Neville dragged at the pump handle, filling Jim’s glass with foam. “Yes, I must.”

“There must be someone locally who knows the trade,” said John, “someone who understands good ale, respects the brewer’s art, someone who would uphold the high standards of this noble edifice, someone trustworthy, someone…”

“Someone like yourself perhaps?” said Neville.

“Me?” Omally made deprecating gestures. “Why, I’ve never…”

Neville turned the full force of his good eye upon Omally. The two men gazed at one another in silence. Along the bar dissatisfied patrons beat upon the counter with empty glasses and expressed doubts over Neville’s parentage.

“I pay a basic wage,” said Neville. “If it is acceptable to the applicant and I consider the applicant suitable to the post, all well to the good. If, however, my choice proves erroneous and the applicant chooses to rob me, then that is a matter for the magistrates’ court.”

“I seek only honest employment,” said John. “My reasons are my own. My word is my bond, I shall not rob you. I can start tomorrow.”

“All right,” said Neville, “then you are hired. Give me no cause to regret my decision, we have known one another a long time.”

“I shall not,” said Omally. “Let us consider these two pints a clincher to the deal. My thanks.”

“No,” said Neville, “we shall consider these two pints to be a physical illustration of an ever-popular maxim, and one that you will come to know and understand when you work for me. Namely, that you only get out of life what you put into it. Cough up.”

Omally coughed up. The mob closed in about Neville.

“You were a long time at the bar,” Pooley observed. “The service here is not what it used to be.”

“No,” said Omally, “but it soon will be again. For I now work here.”

The days passed into a week and work upon the five Olympic sites pressed on relentlessly. The stadium “legs”, elegant columns of chromium and glass, some forty feet each in diameter, rose higher with the passing of each single hour. Finally there stood five slim towers, their lofty pinnacles dwindled by perspective into needle points five hundred feet above Brentford. The raising of these towers to such perfection in so short a length of time was in itself a marvel of engineering, but it was nothing when held up before the face of what was yet to come.

Early on the evening of the second Wednesday, the first dirigible appeared in the darkening sky. The gentle drone of drazy hoops announced its coming as it appeared from out of the setting sun, a flattened disc of black, lit below by many twinkling lights, and trailing in its wake the first segment of the great Star Stadium. The borough’s curious thronged the byways to view the spectacle,
oohing
and
aahing
like sprogs at a firework display.

Old Pete leant upon his Penang lawyer and squinted disapprovingly through a pair of ex-army field glasses. “Remember the R101,” he told Young Chips. His canine companion grinned up at him, lifted his furry leg up against Marchant’s front wheel and followed Pete into the Flying Swan.

The saloon bar was already crowded. Gentlemen of the press filled the air with rowdy conversation and cheap cigar smoke and Old Pete was forced to make free with his cane to clear a path to the bar. “Terribly sorry, guvnor,” he apologized to a newly maimed photographer as he shuffled by. “No damage done, I hope.” The pressman glared daggers at the retreating reprobate and nursed his shattered kneecap.

“Evening, Pete.” The voice belonged to John Omally, the cleanly shaven and neatly turned-out barman in the white shirt and clip-on dicky. “What will it be then?”

“That’s very kind of you, John.”

Omally shook his head and applied a finishing touch to a dazzling pint pot. “Sorry,” he said. “More than my job’s worth.”

Pete grumbled to himself. “I’ll never get used to you being that side of the counter,” said he. “A light ale if you will, and not a warm one.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Neville watched his Celtic barman from the corner of his good eye. Omally’s behaviour, thus far, had been exemplary. His manner was courteous and his skill at the pump handle a pleasure to behold. Neville had hardly to say a word, Omally was always one jump ahead, quick to replenish an optic or replace a failing barrel. His dedication even stretched to the escorting home of young ladies who had imbibed too freely. He was almost too good to be true, which was proving a little difficult for Neville, a man from whom trust had long departed.

In truth Omally, who had spent his formative years as a lounge boy in Clancy’s, was thoroughly enjoying himself and had now decided that when he got his share of Pooley’s winnings he was going to open a pub.

Jim Pooley now entered the bar and elbowed his way through the crush.

“Did you wipe your boots?” Omally enquired. Neville tittered foolishly and went off about his end of the business.

“Watchamate John, Pete,” said Jim, nodding to the elder and ignoring the Irishman’s remark. “A pint of Large, please.”

“A rough day on the herbaceous border?” asked Pete as John pulled the pint of Jim’s preference.

“I fear the Professor is taking liberties with me.” Jim took out his baccy and rolled a cigarette. “Each time I dig a hole I look around to find the earth unturned. Each spadeful of leaves seems to weigh a hundredweight.”

Old Pete chuckled. “His good self the Professor wishes to make a man of you,” he suggested. “He pays a fair daily wage though, I bet. Cash up front, didn’t you say?”

Pooley, who was learning always to keep at least two sentences ahead when conversing with Old Pete, dismissed the remark. “Scarcely enough to make ends meet, and none whatever to permit a largesse.” He accepted his pint and passed the exact amount in pennies and halfpennies into Omally’s outstretched palm. “Great stuff all this, eh, Pete?” Jim gestured upwards and outwards. “Great days for Brentford.”

Old Pete made a contemptuous face. “Fol de rol,” he muttered. “Now don’t get me wrong, I’d like to see it, I saw the last one over here when it was on at the White City. But this lark, fairy castles in the sky, it can’t hold water.”

“It will keep the rain off Brentford.”

“Yes and bugger the allotment crops.”

“Free ringside seats though, think of that.”

“You’ll not get me up there.” Pete waggled his cane in the air, causing nearby pressmen to fall back in distress. “I shall sell my ticket and take a few weeks in Eastbourne till it’s over.”

Pooley looked thoughtful. “I wonder what they will do with the stadium once it’s taken down.”

“They should stick it up on Sydenham Hill like they did with the Crystal Palace. Mind you, they haven’t got it up yet.”

“I can’t see anything stopping them,” said Jim.

“Oh, can’t you now.” Old Pete drew Pooley closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Not everyone is as keen as you two to have this thing built. Some think the whole thing is an abomination. There is a small group of people who call themselves ‘Action by Informed Individuals against a Positive Threat’.”

“Oh, yes?” said John.

“Oh, yes, and they are thinking of engaging themselves in a little, shall we say …”

“Not sabotage?” The perilous quaver in Jim’s voice was not lost upon the elder. “What are you talking about?”

Old Pete finished his light ale and peered into the empty bottom of the glass, possibly searching for a reply that might be written there upon.

Pooley dug deeply into his trouser pocket. “A dark rum?” he asked with resignation.

“My thanks,” said Pete. Omally did the business and at Pooley’s insistence hovered near at hand to catch what was said. “They’re not local nutters, this lot, in fact they are out-borough.” Old Pete used the all-inclusive and not underogatory term, which was applied by Brentonians to all who lived beyond the borders of the Brentford Triangle. “Ecologists, Earth Mysteries Investigators, call them what you will. A little coven of them there is. They reckon that the stadium buggers up some kind of ley line configuration that runs through the borough.”

“Are you taking the piss?” John asked. His outspokenness cost him a dark rum, which Neville, ever watchful, observed Omally pay for out of his own pocket.

“My thanks, John. Now as I was saying, these boys consider themselves to be upon some kind of divine mission. They intend to form a circle about each of the stadium legs and chant some kind of exorcism.”

Pooley shrugged. “That can’t do any harm I suppose.”

“Possibly not, except I overheard them saying that it was to be a ‘fire ceremony’.” Old Pete raised his glass and took rum. Pooley and Omally exchanged worried looks.

“You didn’t happen to overhear when, by any chance?” Omally asked.

Old Pete perused his glass. “My memory is not what it was,” said he.

“Your conversation, although of passing interest, incurs too great an expense upon my person,” said John, turning away to serve a customer. “I must away to my work.”

Old Pete shrugged and turned towards Pooley. “I am two to the credit and have no wish to put undue strain upon our friendship. Tonight it is, and midnight, on Griffin Island. For your information, that’s them over there.” Pete nodded through the crowd to a small conclave, clad in duffle coats and Wellington boots. They sat at a side table whispering seriously over their fruit juices.

“Thanks,” said Jim, “thanks very much. Whose round is it?”

“Yours, I think,” said Old Pete.