‘But…’ went Pooley. ‘But…’
‘All it takes is a little courage,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘But then doesn’t everything? And you, Jim Pooley, I perceive to be a man of courage.’
John Omally sniggered. ‘If timidity chose to wear a human face, that face would belong to Jim Pooley,’ said he.
‘I’m not timid,’ said Jim. ‘Simply cautious. And you can’t just go knocking down a monument that pays tribute to the borough’s noble past.’
Mr Pocklington turned the executive case towards John and Jim and clicked the catches. The lid opened to reveal a tantalising wealth of high denomination money notes.
Omally pressed the lid shut. ‘I will deal with the monument personally,’ he said. ‘Jim can express his courage by watering the trees and polishing the new street signs.’
‘Huh,’ went Jim and he folded his arms.
‘You mock your friend,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘But I recognise it to be a mark of friendship. And I recognise Mr Pooley to truly be a man of courage.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jim. ‘But I know of only one man of courage and I am certainly not him.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Mr Pocklington.
‘John does,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t you, John?’
‘Jim is speaking of the Man of Courage. It is a tale we were told when we were in infant school. It is Jim’s very favourite story I believe.’
‘It is,’ said Jim. ‘And do you remember the nursery rhyme?’
‘I do,’ said John and he and Jim performed a recitation.
When the Man of Courage comes
We wiggle our fingers and jiggle our thumbs.
When the Man of Courage goes
We jiggle our fingers and wiggle our toes.
‘Well now,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘I have never heard that rhyme before and I must confess that there are a few things in life I enjoy more than hearing a good story well told. Will you tell me the tale, Jim Pooley?’
‘What? Now?’ said Jim.
‘Why not? I consider our business concluded. A tale would serve me well at this time.’
‘Are you serious?’ Jim asked.
‘Extremely.’
Jim looked at John.
And John looked at Jim.
‘Tell him the story,’ said John.
‘But… I…’ Jim wasn’t keen.
‘Oh do,’ said Mr Pocklington, a pleading tone to his voice.
‘Well, all right,’ said Jim. ‘It all began—’
‘I’ll have to stop you there,’ said the town clerk. ‘You have to start it properly, but before you do I must ask you this, does it involve a boy named Jack and a number of chickens?’
‘Actually it does,’ said Jim.
‘All the best tales do. But you must start the tale with “once upon a time” and conclude it with “and they all lived happily ever after”. I cannot stress the importance of this.’
John and Jim once more exchanged glances.
John tapped on the lid of the executive case.
‘Oh all right then,’ said Jim. ‘Once upon a time that was very long ago there lived a boy called Jack—’
Mr Pocklington clapped his hands together.
‘—he was a simple farmer’s lad whose job it was to tend his father’s chickens—’ Jim paused for a moment, this was frankly ridiculous.
John tapped once more upon the briefcase. Jim shrugged his shoulders and continued.
‘—chickens were in those days much bigger than they are now,’ Jim continued. ‘Not quite the size of ostriches, but bigger than your average turkey. They took a considerable amount of tending and Jack was not at all fond of mucking out the hen house. Jack, though a lad loyal to his father, was a lad of ambition: he had a dream you see. To become a knight in the service of the king. To go upon quests, to perform brave and chivalrous deeds, to rescue maidens and of course to slay dragons, for dragons there were a plenty in those bygone days of Jack.’
Jim paused to gather his breath. He peered at Mr Pocklington. The town clerk’s eyes were closed and his face wore a blissful expression.
Jim went on with his tale.
‘Dragons,’ said Jim. ‘And wyverns too and the cockatrice and the manticore and of course the dreadful basilisk.’
‘The dreadful basilisk,’ mouthed Stephen Pocklington.
‘The basilisk,’ said Jim, ‘was known then as the King of Reptiles. It was a loathsome beast whose very breath brought death. The basilisk, they say springs forth from an egg which has been laid by an elderly cockerel and nurtured in a dung pile. It is a winged and dragonish beast with a scorpion’s tail, some say. And—’ Jim paused another moment, this time for effect ‘—upon Jack’s father’s farm there was an ancient cock that lived its days upon an ancient dung pile. And on a day as bright as this that cock did lay an egg.
‘And from that egg a basilisk was hatched. Disliking the sunlight as such creatures do it took itself off to the barn and dwelt there among the shadows. Soon the basilisk’s evil breath filled up the barn, the horses sickened and died, the ostler too.
‘Jack’s father had some wisdom about him and he caught a rat, tied a string to its tail and shooed it into the barn. Soon the string slackened and the farmer drew out the rat’s corpse.
‘“It is the work of a basilisk,” he told his son. “There is no doubt of this. A brave man must be found who will slay this dreadful beast, go to the village and find such a man if you can.”
‘So Jack went to the village and spoke with all he met, but there were none there who would dare to face the basilisk. So Jack paid a visit to the local wise man to ask his advice.
‘The wise man consulted his books of magical lore and told Jack that a basilisk can only be destroyed by a Man of Courage. Such a man must don a protective suit of leather sewn with many pieces of broken mirror. He must wear mirrored cusps to shield his eyes and a mask filled with herbs to spare his lungs from the basilisk’s evil breath. He must take with him a rake with which to drag the creature into the sunlight. Where, upon seeing its own reflection in the many mirrors it would die from fear of itself.
‘“Make me such a suit of clothes,’ said Jack, “and I will slay the basilisk.”
‘The wise man gathered together all the mirrors in the village and with ritual words proceeding from his tongue he broke them and sewed the pieces onto a suit of creaking leather. He fashioned mirrored cusps for Jack’s eyes and equipped him with a mask of herbs and a long-handled rake.
‘Jack’s father was alarmed by what his son had chosen to do, but he was a proud father to Jack and so let him have his way.
‘Jack approached the barn amidst many inquisitive villagers, though none but he dared enter that place of death.
‘The villagers waited whilst Jack bravely entered the building. They heard terrible screeches and after some time and what must have been a frightful struggle Jack emerged victorious with the basilisk writhing on the end of the long-handled rake.
‘The villagers then took fear and fled and but for his father Jack was all alone. Bravely, he drew the basilisk towards himself and it seeing itself many times reflected in the mirrored suit, died with a fearful scream.
‘Jack paraded the creature’s lifeless body through the village and presented it to the wise man who congratulated Jack upon his bravery and added the basilisk to his cabinet of curiosities.
‘Jack became a hero that day and word spread to other villages of his bravery. And men came from other villages to meet with Jack and ask whether he might, for a handsome purse, slay the beasties that infected their regions.
‘And so Jack became the Man of Courage and slew many creatures. All in fact, as far as is known, which is why the likes of them are never seen today. There,’ said Jim. ‘The end.’
Jim picked up his tea to moisten his throat and smiled towards Mr Pocklington.
But the town clerk was not smiling. His face was ashen and only the whites of his eyes were showing. He rocked back a
nd forwards on his chair and gasped to catch his breath.
‘What’s wrong with him, John?’ asked Jim. ‘Is he having a heart attack, or something?’
‘Finish it…’ croaked Mr Pocklington, with what breath there was remaining to him.
‘It is finished,’ said Jim. ‘That was the end.’
‘Properly, properly—’ the town clerk’s voice was fading away.
‘Jim,’ cried John. ‘He means the end bit, the happy ever after bit. You didn’t say the happy ever after bit.’
‘Eh?’ went Pooley. ‘What?’
‘Just say it, man,’ John shouted.
‘And they all lived happily ever after,’ said Jim.
The town clerk took a great gulp of air. His eyes became focussed and colour returned to his cheeks.
Jim offered him his teacup. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Pocklington waved away Jim’s hand sending the teacup spinning to meet the window with a crash. He dragged himself out of his chair and staggered to the door. Throwing it open he lurched into the street and was presently lost from view.
‘What a very strange young man,’ said Jim Pooley.
‘But one of great generosity.’ John Omally patted the case. ‘All this cash and he never even mentioned the business of the Brentford Lottery. We shall soon be rich, my friend. Quite rich.’
Jim Pooley shook his head and sighed.
‘And you can pay for that bloody cup,’ called the voice of Lily Marlene.
7
Jennifer Naylor mused upon the blokeyness of Brentford. It was a subject that never failed to fascinate her. And indeed one which had informed her desire to attain a PhD.
Her thesis
THE BLOKEYNESS OF BRENTFORD
Elliptical navigations through the geo-political
and socio-physical infrastructures of male-
oriented egocentricity, encompassing anthro-
pological and environmental contextualisations
within a West London borough.
was nearing completion.
As Ms Naylor sat this morning at her desk within the Memorial Library she felt a small degree of concern. For one of her research subjects had failed to make his daily appearance and engage in yet another skirmish in his ongoing war against technology.
Jim Pooley had not entered the building.
And although this meant that the library’s silence was untroubled by Mr Pooley’s raucous verbosity, it also meant that the scholarly Ms Naylor was denied her opportunity for study.
So instead she perused a copy of The Brentford Mercury, for here indeed was always to be found much mannish grist for her academic mill. Today was no exception and although now too late to be included in her thesis, this business with the ring road afforded the aspiring Doctor of Philosophy considerable interest.
This pointless encirclement of the borough was in her opinion symptomatic of man’s primal urge to surround and devour. Mr Pocklington’s obsession with this orbicular folly clearly displayed his desire to dominate the landscape and impose his singular will upon the environment.
Ms Naylor typed the words bottle-fed and prep-school into her laptop. But both were suppositions, Mr Pocklington remained to all intents and purposes a mystery.
He was clearly the dominant alpha male of the community. He was enterprising, charismatic and to Ms Naylor’s surmise, utterly ruthless. But what the man was, did not answer who the man was. His deeds were made manifest, but the man behind the deeds remained an enigma. An enigma cloaked by secrecy, whilst contained within the boundaries of a smart designer suit.
The learnéd librarian had diligently sought to trace Mr Pocklington’s origins. His place and date of birth, the schools and halls of further learning that he had attended, the qualifications he must surely have attained, precisely how he had risen to the rank of town clerk. But all to no avail. Ms Naylor had turned up precisely nothing.
Mr Pocklington’s past was entirely his own, a closely guarded secret.
Now to some women and indeed some men, this would have added to the sense of fascination surrounding Mr Pocklington. But to the educated and discerning Ms Naylor there was something about this man that made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. With slightly trembling fingers she added the word sociopath to the growing list beneath the name of Mr Stephen Pocklington.
As exemplars of Brentford masculinity Hairy Dave and Jungle John, builders of the parish, were of questionable provenance. Not that they were in any way effeminate, indeed the twin brothers could pass for members of ZZ Top any day of the week, with perhaps the exception of Sunday, when soberly dressed for chapel they resembled a pair of Rasputins. It was simply the case that everything about these lads was questionable. Their time-keeping, their skill sets, their reliability, the vast expanses of “builders’ bottom” they revealed whilst “working”.
All was questionable.
Jim Pooley stood before their front door, a wad of money notes within his pocket, a list of streets to be pedestrianised in one hand and a door-knocker in the other.
It had simply come away, as those of questionable nature so often will.
The front door creaked open a crack and a hairy face peered out.
‘Jim Pooley,’ said this hairy face. ‘It’s me, John.’
‘Good morning to you, John,’ said Jim.
‘Ah,’ said the other. ‘It’s morning, is it? Well that explains a lot.’
‘Right, John,’ said Jim.
‘Actually it’s Dave,’ said Dave, ‘but I had you going, didn’t I?’
‘You certainly did,’ said Jim.
‘And now I’ve had you going again. Because now I am John.’
Pooley sighed. Deeply.
‘Had my name changed to make it the same as my brother’s. To avoid all that confusion in the courts and everything.’
‘Shrewd thinking,’ said Jim. ‘Might I come in?’
‘I have no idea,’ said John. ‘Might you?’
‘I might if you’d let me.’
‘Well we can but try. The door’s a bit jammed you see. It always swells up in the winter.’
‘But it’s summer,’ said Jim.
‘Tell it to the bloody door,’ said John.
The time to run would probably be now, thought Jim.
‘You pull and I’ll push,’ said John.
‘But surely that will close the door,’ said Jim.
‘Ah,’ said John, ‘that’s where we’ve been going wrong. You push then and I’ll pull.’
And soon Jim Pooley stood in the corridor. He handed the knocker to John. ‘It came off,’ he explained.
John thrust the knocker into a pocket of his bib and brace overalls. ‘Watch out for the hole in the ceiling,’ he said.
Jim squinted skywards but saw no such hole.
‘The cellar ceiling,’ said John. ‘Careful where you step.’
Jim stepped carefully and followed John into the front room. But for the presence of the other John it was a room of profound emptiness.
The other John laboured at a wall with an enormous chisel. He was banging in a nail.
‘Jim’s here,’ said the John with the knocker.
The John with the chisel turned his head. ‘Are you a doctor, Jim?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Jim. ‘I like to think of myself as an entrepreneur.’
‘Shame,’ said this John. ‘Because I’ve nearly taken the end of my finger off with the blade on this hammer and fear I might soon bleed to death.’
‘Toilet paper,’ said the other John.
‘That might do, fetch some quick.’
‘We have none,’ said knocker John. ‘I’ll add it to the shopping list.’
The John with the chisel dropped his tool, dug into the pocket of his bib and brace overalls and withdrew a questionable handkerchief. With this he wrapped his gory finger. ‘Putting up a picture,’ he explained to Jim.
‘Nice,’ said he.
‘So what can we do
for you, Jim?’ asked the John with the knocker.
‘Job,’ said Jim.
‘Sorry,’ said the John with the hurty finger. ‘We are not taking on any extra staff. This is a family business, just my sister and me.’
‘Say it right,’ said his brother.
‘Sorry, my sister and I.’
‘I don’t want a job,’ said Jim. ‘I have a job. I am an entrepreneur.’
‘Not so loud,’ said hurty-finger John. ‘We do have neighbours, you know.’
‘I have come to offer you a job. To offer both of you a job.’
The Johns exchanged looks of concern.
‘We’re very busy at this time of year,’ said hurty-finger. ‘As you can see for yourself.’
‘The nail in the wall?’ Jim asked.
‘Ah,’ said hurty-finger’s brother. ‘I told you it was a nail, didn’t I? Not a threadless screw, as you supposed.’
Hurty-finger shrugged.
‘Do you have a pneumatic drill?’ Jim asked him.
‘No, it’s just the way my trousers hang.’
Jim was about to remark that humour was not always as easy a thing to achieve as it might at first appear, but as this line had so far failed dismally to establish itself as a running gag, he did not.
‘We have two pneumatic drills,’ said knocker John and he counted on his fingers. ‘Which makes one each,’ he concluded.
‘Well, I have the perfect job for you both then. A simple piece of tarmac-upping. A piece of cake for artisans like you.’
‘What kind of cake?’ asked knocker John.
‘Chocolate?’ Jim said.
‘My favourite,’ said knocker John.
His brother, however, had doubts. ‘Tarmac-upping can be a troublesome business,’ he said. ‘Digging holes in roads can lead to some unpleasantness. Cyclists tend to fall into these holes and we tend to find ourselves in court.’
‘These roads will have warning signs put on them by the council,’ said Jim.
‘But then there’s the matter of vibration white finger.’
‘What?’ asked Jim.
‘Vibration white finger,’ knocker John agreed.
‘Is that a heavy metal band?’ Jim asked. ‘Like Hard Shoulder Emergency or Merkin Holocaust?’
The Lord of the Ring Roads (The Final Brentford Trilogy Book 1) Page 6