Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  And Marchant, appalled by the extra weight of the suitcase, snagged up Omally’s right trouser cuff in its chain wheel and locked its front brake.

  Which pitched Omally onto the kerb and wiped the smile off his face.

  5

  Neville the part-time barman stood once more within the sanctuary of The Swan’s saloon bar. Behind the counter. In his carpet slippers. Neville pressed a shot glass beneath the whisky optic and drew off a measure of comfort. For Neville was sorely discomforted. Neville was a part-time barman racked with anguish and guilt, deeply shaken by the events that had so recently befallen him.

  That he should have had to have been there, in that Godless, soulless council chamber, to witness the selling out of the borough’s heritage. Not only that, but to have had to have signed – Neville’s brain sought words appropriate – that pact with Satan.

  And that he should actually prosper from the football club’s destruction.

  “I shall give every penny to charity,” said Neville, downing Scotch. But his words echoed hollowly in the otherwise deserted bar. He would not give it all to charity. He knew that he would not. For all of the goodness that Neville had in him, and there was much, it would take a gooderer man than he to give up all that money, to give up the dream of a lifetime: to own The Flying Swan.

  Neville hung his noble head. He had done a very bad thing. But what else could he have done? Refused to sign his contract? That would have pleased the Consortium no end. One less batch of shares to hand out. There really had been nothing else he could have done. He had been helpless.

  And this sense of helplessness added greatly to the part-time barman’s despair. It was a terrible sensation.

  Neville sighed a deep and heartfelt sigh and swallowed further Scotch. What else could he have done? Surely everything that could have been done to save the club had been done. There had been petitions and fund-raising nights and benefits and raffles and auctions and fun-runs and car-boot sales and pub events and—

  Neville sighed once again. There had been none of these things. No one in Brentford had done anything. Folk had simply shrugged their shoulders and said “it will never happen” and “it can’t happen here”. But it could and it would. And as the months had passed and it had become more and more apparent that it could and would happen, folk had said, “It is an outrage, someone should have done something.”

  But nobody had.

  And now, it seemed, it was all too late.

  Neville sighed some more and sipped some more of his liquor. And when he downed the last of his liquor he drew himself another.

  A brisk rapping upon the saloon bar door stirred Neville from his dismal reverie. The part-time barman swung aloft the counter flap, padded across the carpet upon his carpet-slippered feet and drew aside the bolts. The door swung open to the day’s first patron and this patron was Old Pete.

  An ancient geezer was Old Pete,

  Of rheumy eye and grizzled chin.

  From his Wellingtoned feet to his flat cap of tweed,

  He was ragged and dog-eared and going to seed.

  He had served at the Somme for his country and king,

  And his strides were secured by a circlet of string.

  He had canker and gout and Health Service hips,

  A stick that was stout and a spaniel called Chips.[5]

  “Thirty seconds late in opening,” the oldster observed, pocketing his retirement watch and hobbling past Neville. “The world is ending and there’s a fact for you.”

  “My apologies, Old Pete,” said Neville.

  “Worth a freeman’s on the house, I would have thought.” Old Pete hoisted himself with difficulty on to his favourite barstool.

  “Not in a month that is composed of Sundays all,” replied Neville, returning himself to his place behind the counter and lowering the flap. “What will it be today, Old Pete? Large dark rum, as ever?”

  “Large dark rum it is.” Old Pete secured Chips’ lead to a stanchion on his stool that had been especially fitted for the purpose and observed Neville as he went about his business.

  “You look the glum Charlie today,” said Old Pete. “Is something troubling you, Neville?”

  “Nothing that I would wish to trouble you with.”

  “Thank the Lord of the lawnseed for that. I only asked out of politeness.” Old Pete accepted his large dark rum and paid for it with the exact small change. “You need a pick-me-up,” said he, raising his glass of rum and giving it a tasting.

  Neville sighed once more, but this time in company. “I need something,” he said.

  “Mandragora officinarum,” said Old Pete.

  “Pardon me?” said Neville.

  “Mandragora officinarum,” said Old Pete once more. “It’s a powerful aphrodisiac. It used to be known as the ‘gallows plant’ because it was believed to take seed from the seminal effluvia that dripped from hanged criminals. I am currently cultivating a crop of it on my allotment patch. It’s said to have magical powers – prolongs active life, increases virility, puts a spring into your step and lead in your pencil, so to speak.”

  “I’m sure it does,” said Neville wearily.

  “It does too,” said Old Pete. “Do you doubt my words?”

  “Oh no.” Neville gave his head further shakings. Old Pete was hailed hereabouts as a veritable fount of knowledge regarding all matters horticultural. What he didn’t know about allotment cultivation, he didn’t know because it didn’t exist.

  “Well, think on,” said Old Pete.

  And Neville thought on. And this thinking on further depressed him.

  James Arbuthnot Pooley entered The Flying Swan.

  “Watchamate, Pete, Neville,” said Jim in a cheery fashion.

  Old Pete grunted and Neville nodded.

  “Oh dear,” said Jim, crossing to the bar and ascending the stool next to Old Pete. “Do I sense an atmosphere of gloom upon this glorious morning?”

  “It’s Neville,” said Pete. “His pecker’s playing him up and his legs are giving out. Needs a dose of Mandragora. I told him.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my pecker,” said Neville. “Pint of Large would it be, Jim?”

  “It would,” said Pooley, extracting the exact change from his trouser pocket and counting it on to the counter.

  Neville drew the perfect pint and presented same to his patron.

  Pooley perused the perfect pint, presented same to his laughing gear, took a taste and said, “Ahhh.”

  Neville managed a sort of smile. At least the ale was, as ever, superb. He rang up “no sale” on the aged cash register and deposited Pooley’s coinage therein.

  Pooley placed his perfect pint upon the bar counter, took out his packet of Dadarillos, removed from it an overlong ciggie and lit up.

  “God’s garden-claw,” gasped Old Pete, sniffing at the plume of smoke that wafted in his direction. “Smell’s like a tart’s laundry basket. What are you smoking there, Pooley?”

  “Dadarillos,” said the lad. “An all-new smoking taste sensation. A blend of the finest long-grain tobaccos and an extra special secret ingredient that …”

  “Well blow it somewhere else, you craven buffoon.”

  “Quite so,” said Jim, blowing it somewhere else.

  “Not at me,” said Neville, fanning the air.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So,” said Old Pete as Jim blew smoke down the front of his open-necked shirt, “given your regular morning’s contribution to Bob the Bookie’s retirement fund, have you, Pooley?”

  “I feel lucky today,” said Jim.

  “Put your money into the soil,” saged the ancient. “Great oaks from little acorns grow and the sprout is the father to the cabbage.”

  “I’ll stick with my system, thank you. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Old Pete sniggered. “You craven buffoon,” said he once more.

  And, “God save all here,” came the voice of John Omally as this man now entered The Flying Swan.
“Morning, each.”

  Jim waggled his fag-toting hand, Old Pete mumbled and Neville said, “Hello.”

  John placed his bum on the bar stool next to Jim and his elbows upon the counter. “Pint of Large, please, Neville,” said he. “Jim’s in the chair.”

  “I certainly am not,” said Jim.

  “You will be,” said John, “for I have a lucrative business proposition to put your way.”

  “Not in my bar,” said Neville. “Whatever it is.”

  “It’s all above board,” said Omally, accepting his perfect pint.

  “On my tab,” said Jim.

  “You have no tab,” said Neville, rolling his good eye.

  Jim fished into another pocket and brought from it further coinage. Neville tossed it into the knackered cash register and rang up “no sale” once again.

  Omally tasted the ale and found favour with this tasting. “We will speak shortly,” he said to Jim, “but firstly we must talk of other matters. Let’s be having you, Neville.”

  “Pardon me?” said Neville.

  “The meeting,” said John, “that you have so recently returned from. At the town hall. Concerning the future of the football club.”

  All eyes other than Neville’s turned towards Neville.

  “Aha,” said Old Pete.

  “Was the meeting today?” Jim asked. “Is the club saved?”

  Neville chewed upon his bottom lip. His normally bar-tanned complexion was a whiter shade of pale.

  “I like not the aspect of our barlord,” said Old Pete. “It bespeaketh perfidy and tergiversation.”

  Neville gave his lip a further chewing. “I have to change a barrel in the cellar,” said he.

  “No you don’t,” said Omally. “You have to tell us what went on.”

  “I don’t,” said Neville. “I really don’t.”

  “Well then,” said Old Pete, “I’m off to The Beelzepub. I’m sure that nice Mr Dhark will be pleased to offer his version of events. Coming with me, lads?”

  Jim looked at John.

  And John looked at Jim.

  “Fair enough,” said Pooley.

  “No,” said Neville, “don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”

  “Then speak to us, Neville,” said John.

  And Neville spake unto John and unto Jim and unto Old Pete also. And the words that Neville spake brought no gladness to those ears that received them.

  Quite the reverse, in fact.

  “You did what?” quoth Old Pete. “You signed away the club?”

  “I was outvoted,” said Neville. “I was powerless to stop it.”

  “Judas,” said Old Pete. “You have sold the borough’s birthright for a mess of porridge.”

  “It’s pottage,” said Omally, who knew his scripture. “But this isn’t good, Neville.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Pooley. “It wasn’t Neville’s fault. What else could he have done? It’s not as if he’s going to benefit financially from this, is it?”

  Neville shook his head vigorously. He had “carelessly” neglected to mention the matter of the shares.

  “You shouldn’t have signed, though, Neville,” said Jim. “If it were to come out in the local papers, there’s no telling what people might do.”

  “What?” said Neville. “What do you mean?”

  “I know what he means,” said Old Pete, miming the throwing of a rope over a beam.

  “No,” said Neville, fingering his throat.

  “It will be bye-bye to all this,” Old Pete continued. “You’ll be a social pariah, Neville. You’ll be driven out of this pub. Tarred and feathered, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “No.” The face of Neville was now a whiter shade of even whiter pale. His hands began to tremble and his knees to knock.

  “Stop it,” said Jim to Old Pete. “Can’t you see that you’re frightening him? They won’t tar and feather you, Neville.”

  “No?” said Neville. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Phew.”

  “They’ll probably just knock you about a bit. Break your legs or something.”

  “Stop!” howled Neville.

  Old Pete scratched at his grizzly chin. “Horrible business, broken legs,” he said. “The bones never knit together properly; I’ve been limping since I had my right kneecap blown away at Paschendale. I’ve a spare walking stick I could let you have cheap.”

  Neville buried his face in his hands and began to weep. “What am I going to do?” he blubbered between weepings.

  “Well.” Old Pete glanced towards Jim and John and it was almost as if telepathic thoughts moved between them. “There might be some way of keeping this from the public”

  “There must,” blubbered Neville. “But what could it be?”

  “Well,” said Old Pete thoughtfully, “John, Jim and I might be persuaded to keep our mouths shut.”

  Neville peeped through his fingers. “What did you say?” he asked.

  Old Pete wore a breezy grin upon his wrinkled face. “Neville,” said he, “you are a good man; everybody hereabouts knows that you are a good man. But you are also a foolish man. You don’t really think that any of your fellow councillors will be owning up to their dirty deeds, do you? They’ll be keeping their heads down behind the sandbags. But you, however, told us.”

  “But,” said Neville, “but you’re my friends. Surely I can trust my friends.”

  “Indeed you can,” said Jim. “We won’t give you away.”

  Old Pete cast Jim a disparaging glance.

  “Well I won’t,” said Jim. “Neville’s all right. I won’t give him away.”

  “Nor me,” said Omally.

  “That’s very fair of you both,” said Old Pete, “and I applaud such loyalty. But then the two of you have your youth and your entrepreneurial enterprises. I, however, must drag myself painfully through my twilight years upon the pittance of a pension that the state but grudgingly doles out to me.”

  “Ah,” said Neville. “Another large rum, would it be? On the house.”

  “Why thank you, Neville,” said Old Pete. “That is most unexpected.”

  “And you two?”

  “Well,” said Jim, “as you’re buying.”

  Neville went about his sorry business.

  “It’s such a shame, though,” said Jim, “to lose the football ground.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve never even been to a match,” said Old Pete.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t support the team. In spirit, anyway.”

  “Do you fancy their chances this season?” Neville asked as he pulled the pints.

  Jim shook his head. “Why would you ask a question like that?” he enquired.

  Neville sighed another sigh. “It was just something,” he said, “something that came up at the meeting.”

  “Go on,” said Omally.

  “It was that swine Gavin Shufty,” said Neville. “He was so full of himself that when I made the suggestion I made, he had everyone write it into their contracts. To mock me.”

  “Go on,” said Omally once again.

  “It’s just this,” said Neville, “and I know it’s absurd, which is why he let it be written into the contracts. He agreed that if Brentford United won the FA Cup this season, then he’d write off the debt and tear up the contracts.”

  “Win the FA Cup?” Old Pete began to laugh. Immoderately.

  “Brentford?” said Omally.

  “Our Brentford?” said Jim.

  And then they, too, began to laugh.

  “That’s it,” said Neville, “rub salt into my wounds. Rub my face into the dirt. Rub me down with creosote and sell me on to the circus.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jim, between guffawings, “but come on, Neville. Brentford United win the FA Cup?”

  “They do have until the end of the season. Shufty agreed that the Consortium would allow the team to play the entire season before the ground was torn down. I had him write that
on, too.”

  “You were certainly on a roll.” Omally clutched at his stomach and did rollings about of his own.

  “Stop it,” cried Neville. “It isn’t funny.”

  “No.” Jim fought with hilarity. “It isn’t funny, Neville. You really did do your best. But Brentford win the FA Cup?” And Jim fell once more into mirth.

  “You rotten lot,” said Neville, turning away to seek more Scotch. “I won’t bother to ask you now.”

  Jim raised a head from his chucklings. “Ask what?” he asked.

  “Whether you knew of anyone. I was going to, but I shan’t now.”

  “What are you on about, Neville?” said John.

  “The manager’s job.”

  “What, for here? Are you going to quit and run before the tarring and feathering starts?”

  “Not for here. And I’m not the manager here, as you know full well. Not that I’ve ever actually met the manager. I meant for the club. The manager of Brentford United quit last week. He absconded with the takings from the club’s bar.”

  “I never knew that,” said John.

  “Well, I did and Gavin Shufty did. And Shufty, who was laughing just like you are, even said that I could appoint a new manager for the team’s final season. I was going to ask whether any of you might know of someone who—”

  “Could take on the job and take the club on to win the FA Cup?” Old Pete all but wet himself with further laughter.

  “But I won’t now,” said Neville, tossing back more Scotch than was strictly good for him.

  “Hold on there,” said Omally. “Let us all slow down and think here for a moment.”

  “Forget it,” said Neville. “I’m not offering the job to you.”

  “Not me.” John shook his curly-haired head. “But possibly someone. Surely I’ve read of eccentric millionaire pop star types who buy up failing football clubs and lead the teams to glory. Wasn’t there that fat pianist who wears the improbable wigs?”

  “Ben Elton,” said Jim.

  “Not Ben Elton, you buffoon,” said Old Pete. “He was the bloke with the beard on the Treasure Island.”

  “That was Ben Gunn,” said Omally.

  “So which club did he buy?” Old Pete scratched at his flat cap.