“Do so and I strike you,” said Omally.
“Sorry,” said the professor.
John shrugged. “It isn’t what I was going to ask you anyway. What I was going to ask you was this. It is possible for a team with little talent to beat a team with a lot of talent if the team with the little talent is led by a manager skilled in the art of tactics. Tactics win games. Life is all about tactics, in my humble opinion.”
“Your life certainly is,” said Jim. “Especially when these tactics are being employed to win the affections of married women.”
“Sssh,” said John. “Such indiscreet remarks are not worthy of you. What I’m asking you, Professor, is could you formulate a set of tactics whereby Brentford might once, for this season alone, actually win?”
Professor Slocombe stroked his chin. “Hm,” went he. “An interesting challenge. And one, I have to say, not without a certain charm. I agree with you that although improbable, it is certainly possible for Brentford to win through. But my days are full; I would not have the time in them to manage a football team.”
“I’m not suggesting that you manage the team,” said John.
“I felt that you were about to.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I was. Certainly your presence alone on the pitch would inspire the team. But surely you, a man of such erudite learning and with such a love for the borough—”
“John,” said the professor, “with the possible exception of certain members of the town council, you would be hard-pressed to find a Brentonian who does not love the borough.”
“Touché,” said John. “But if you could formulate the tactics, it wouldn’t really matter who the manager was. His job would simply be to pass on these tactics to the team.”
“In principle,” said the professor, “but you mentioned the word ‘inspire’. A football manager must be able to inspire. He must have charisma.”
Omally threw up his hands. “It was worth a try,” said he. “The salary Brentford United can afford to pay a manager is now but a pittance. No professional manager would ever take over the position anyway. The team is doomed, the ground is doomed.” Omally rose to take his leave. “I’m sorry,” said he, “but Jim was right, I have wasted your time.”
Professor Slocombe nodded his head from side to side. “Not so fast, John,” he said. “And allow it to be said that I admire your tactics here. You know full well that if I could do anything to save the club, I would. And I agree with you that it is possible. And I would certainly be prepared to put my mind to the matter of tactics. In fact, to employ, shall we say, certain methods of my own to aid the team’s advancement—”
Jim looked at John.
And John looked at Jim.
Then both of them looked back towards the professor.
“Tactics,” said Professor Slocombe. “Tactics, certain other methods and a charismatic manager.” His head bobbed once more from side to side. “That would be the winning formula.”
“It would,” Omally agreed.
Professor Slocombe gazed thoughtfully upon his uninvited guests. “It is always a pleasure to engage the two of you in conversation,” he said. “The two of you are, how shall I put this, alive. Yes, that’s the word. You live. On your wits the two of you live and not entirely to the dictates of the establishment. But you are most certainly alive.” The professor noted well the twin expressions of bewilderment that had now appeared upon the faces of his guests.
“I think,” he continued, “that together we might well succeed with what many would consider to be an impossible quest. To whit, to take Brentford to the very top this season, and to win the FA Cup.”
“Right,” said John. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Me, too,” said Jim, “but my glass is now empty.”
“Mine, too,” said John, “but I’ll drink to it in principle.”
“Champagne,” said Professor Slocombe, ringing his little brass bell once more. “This calls for champagne.”
“It does?” said Jim.
“If the professor says it does, it does,” said John, laying aside his depleted sherry glass and rubbing his hands together. “It does.”
“We must have a toast,” said Professor Slocombe, “in champagne, of course, to the future success of Brentford United. And to its new manager.”
“You know the man?” John asked.
“The man sits here before you,” said Professor Slocombe.
“Then you are going to take the job?”
“Not me,” said the professor, “but Jim Pooley.”
7
Jim Pooley was returned to consciousness through the medium of Professor Slocombe’s soda siphon, applied towards his laughing gear through the medium of John Omally’s hand control.
“Oh,” went Jim. And, “Get off there,” and, “Oh no,” and, “Oh no,” again.
“Oh yes,” said the professor, nodding enthusiastically.
“Oh no,” said Jim once more, spitting soda as he did so.
“You are indeed the man for the job.” Professor Slocombe nodded decisively.
“I’m not,” flustered Jim. “Believe me, I’m not.”
“Oh yes you are.”
“Oh no I’m not.”
“Are,” said the professor.
“Not,” said Jim. “Not times squared, to infinity.”
“I’ll take the job,” said John, “if you’re offering it.”
“I’m not offering it,” said the professor, “Neville is.”
“He won’t offer it to Jim.”
“No,” said Jim, “he won’t.”
“I’m sure he will if I put in a word for you.”
“Hm,” went Jim, wiping soda from his face. “This is indeed true. But I don’t want the job, Professor. I know nothing about football.”
“So much the better still, the team will not know you.”
“But many of the borough will. I’m not unknown in this area.”
“Then so much the better even stiller. You will be applauded as a local hero, a fearless fellow taking on what most would consider an impossible, indeed, a preposterous task.”
“I number myself amongst these considerers,” said Jim.
“Champagne?” Omally asked. “Gammon brought in a bottle.”
“I can’t do this.” Jim was on his feet now and preparing for the taking of his leave.
“You can.” Professor Slocombe poured champagne. “And you will. I will guide your every step. I will, how shall I put it, invest you with a certain charisma. Under my guidance you will lead the team to victory.”
“Truly?” Jim asked, with more doubt in his voice than there are zeros in a googol, or coughs to get it right if you’re unsure.
“Absolutely,” said Professor Slocombe.
“No,” said Jim, a-vigorously shaking of his head. “I can’t do it. I’m a nobody. It wasn’t my idea to come here, it was John’s. I don’t want to be involved in this.”
“You’d rather just stay as you are, then?” Professor Slocombe fixed Jim with a stare.
“I’m happy as I am,” Jim said.
Professor Slocombe shrugged. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose that you are.”
“I know I don’t amount to much.” Jim accepted the glass of champagne John offered to him. “But I have my dreams. One day I’ll win through. One day my ship will come into port.”
“This ship being of the variety that runs upon four hooves at Ascot?”
“Amongst other places.” Jim slurped champagne. “I have tactics of my own. And winning formulas, in theory at least.”
“I’m offering you a chance to really succeed.” Professor Slocombe raised his glass to Jim. “To do something really special that would benefit you as well as the borough as a whole. What do you have to lose in taking on this challenge?”
Jim Pooley shrugged, slowly and thoughtfully. “Nothing specific. Although—”
“Although what?” the professor asked.
“My freedom?” Jim suggested. �
�Football management is a full-time job and full-time employment has never sat altogether easily down to dine with me. In fact, it’s generally departed prior to the pudding course and without paying the bill.”
Professor Slocombe nodded once more. “But imagine what might happen if you saw this job through to its successful conclusion. How much did you lay out upon bets with Bob the Bookie this morning, Jim?”
“The usual,” said Pooley. “A fiver. And if the horses come in, then that five pounds will multiply itself to nearly half a million more pounds of a similar nature.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Professor Slocombe put his glass aside. “I’ll buy your betting slip from you now for – what shall we say? – one hundred pounds.”
“One hundred pounds?” said Jim.
“One hundred.”
“No.” Jim shook his head. “This slip could be worth half a million.”
“I’ll bet you one hundred pounds that it isn’t.”
“You’re getting me all confused,” said Jim, finishing his champagne.
“Me too,” Omally agreed. “Where’s this leading?”
“It is leading this-a-ways,” the professor said. “Jim has the courage of his convictions. He believes in what he does, even though others – specifically, in Jim’s case, Bob the Bookie – do not. Jim presses on, day upon day, certain that eventually he will succeed.”
“I will,” said Jim. “Please do not deny me my dreams, Professor.”
“I would do no such thing. That would be unthinkable and it would be cruel and callous. What I am saying, Jim, is that you are a man of conviction. You persevere. You stick to your guns and to what you believe.”
“Indeed so,” Jim agreed. “I do that.”
“So you will bet again tomorrow, should you fail today.”
“I will,” Jim agreed also.
“Then why not bet upon a sure thing?”
“I fail to understand you, Professor.”
“What odds do you think Bob would give you against Brentford winning the FA Cup?”
Jim shrugged and grinned and laughed a little also. “I’ve no idea. One hundred thousand to one, at the very least.”
Professor Slocombe raised a snowy eyebrow.
“Oh,” said Jim. “Then you really think …”
“I’m sure of it.” Professor Slocombe now raised a thumb to go with his eyebrow. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more certain I become. The two of you have added a certain piquancy, a certain spice to a day otherwise bland. I am prepared to apply myself to this project. I cannot force you to take up this challenge. I can, however, ask whether you have faith in my judgement.”
“Absolute faith,” said Jim, because he did.
“Then let us drink to success.”
Jim shrugged. “To success,” he said.
“Brentford for the cup,” said John Omally.
And they drank.
And later they walked, away from the professor’s house and back along the tree-lined drive to the everyday sprawl that was present-day Brentford.
Jim had his head down as he walked. His unfailing cheerfulness was definitely failing him. John Omally was sprightly enough.
“There are many pennies to be made out of this,” he told the cheerless Jim. “I can see the two of us prospering greatly from this fortunate appointment of yours.”
Jim ceased his walking and glared pointy knives at his bestest friend. “You have got me into some messes in the past,” he said, “but nothing on the scale of this.”
“You’ll be fine.” Omally made a bright and breezy face. “With the professor behind you and me at your side, what can go wrong?”
Jim dug into his pockets and sought out his fags.
“And that reminds me,” said John Omally.
At length, they reached The Flying Swan. It was at a greater length than the usual walking distance from The Butts because the journey had taken in the Brentford allotments, where John had displayed to Jim the fruits of his morning’s business. To whit, the five hundred packets of Dadarillos he had acquired that morning from the fellow in The Plume Café.
“Wallah,” went Omally, whipping back the potato sack to reveal the hoard.
“Oh, splendid,” said Jim. “As if things couldn’t get any worse, you have secreted a hoard of stolen cigarettes in my allotment shed, along with your horrible bike. Perfect. How can I ever thank you?”
“They are not stolen,” John explained. “And as I purchased them with our shared entrepreneurial business funds, you are entitled to half of the profits, as soon as you have sold them all.”
“Oh lucky man me,” said Jim Pooley.
The at-length to The Flying Swan was also increased by Jim Pooley making his second visit of the day to the business premises of Bob the Bookie.
At least Jim had a smile back on his face when he left these business premises. As evidently did Bob, whose loud and joyous laughter followed Jim on his way.
“It is going to be such a pleasure to take his money,” Jim told John as they proceeded on their journey.
John patted Jim upon the back and at that greatened length they reached The Flying Swan.
It was lunchtime now and The Swan was going great guns in the trade department. Young pale-faced business types, who toiled away in the nearby Mowlems building at jobs which probably involved computers, spoke noisily over their halves of cider and Lighterman’s lunches.[7] John and Jim elbowed their way towards the bar counter.
“Two pints of Large, please, Neville,” said John. “Jim is in the chair.”
“I’m penniless,” said Jim, “so I am not.”
Neville looked his patrons up and down, then up and down once more.
John and Jim looked back at Neville.
“Would you both just mind turning full circle?” Neville asked.
“Excuse me?” said Jim.
“Humour me,” said Neville. “A little twirl, but slowly, if you’ll be so kind.”
“All right then.” Jim shrugged and did a little twirl, but slowly.
John shrugged also and joined him in this curious perambulation.
“Happy now?” Jim asked.
“Absolutely,” said Neville. “I just wanted to get a really good look at you both, from all angles, as it were.”
“I see,” said Jim. “But why?”
“Because it is the last look at the both of you that I will ever be taking. You’re both barred for life!”
“What?” Jim’s jaw fell, to land with a palpable clunk upon his chest. “Barred?”
“Barred!” quoth Neville. “Now kindly get out of my pub.”
“Hold on there, Neville.” John made a cheesy grin. “That is not at all funny. Look at poor Jim, the colour’s gone right out of his chops.”
“Barred,” said Neville and he bared his teeth. “Traitorous, devious dogs. Out of my pub now or I’ll take my knobkerrie to the both of you.”
“Five more halves of cider over here,” called a pale-faced business type.
“Be with you in a moment, sir,” said Neville. “As soon as I have evicted these two undesirable elements from the establishment.”
“Neville,” said John, “have you become bereft of your senses? It’s us – John and Jim, your favourite patrons.”
“Curs and rapscallions,” cried Neville, reaching below the counter for his knobkerrie.
“Neville, please.” John raised calming palms. “Whatever is going on? What is all this about?”
“You know full well. You put him up to it, I know you did.” Neville glared at Jim with his good eye.
“What did I do?” Jim Pooley clutched at his heart.
“I’ve just had a phone call from Professor Slocombe,” said Neville.
“Ah,” said John.
“‘Ah?’ Is that all you have to say, ‘Ah?’” Neville now raised his knobkerrie.
“I think I’ll be heading back to the office,” said the pale-faced business type.
“It’s not
my fault,” wailed Jim. “I didn’t volunteer for the job. It was all Professor Slocombe’s idea.”
“I trusted you.” Neville waggled his knobkerrie in Jim’s direction. “And I trusted this Irish ne’er-do-well. And what do you do? Stab me in the back, that’s what you do.”
Jim Pooley shook his head. “Never,” he said. “We never did. We never would.”
“Manager!” Neville had a good old shake on now. His good eye bulged from its socket. “You couldn’t manage a knees-up in a whore house.”
“Neville, calm yourself.” John leaned forward across the bar counter. “This could really work to your benefit. Allow me to explain. You see—”
But John Omally said no more, as at that moment Neville swung his knobkerrie and bopped him on the head. John’s eyes crossed and then they closed and John sank slowly to the carpet.
Jim looked down in horror. Words tried to form in his mouth, but could not. He raised a bitter gaze towards Neville and prepared to leap across the counter and exact a bloody revenge.
But Neville swung his club once more.
And Pooley hit the deck.
8
Norman pressed home the bolts on the shop door and turned the “open” sign to “closed”. Norman always loved his Wednesday afternoons, when at one he could shut up shop and engage in his own activities. With Peg, his oversized other half, off at her weekly meeting with the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild, Norman’s time was his own. Certainly he was supposed to remove himself to the wholesalers to stock up on Pontefract cakes and liquorice sticks and jujubes and sherbet lemons. But as folk never bought those sweeties any more, and the jars that lined the dusty shelves always remained full, it didn’t really matter anyway.
Norman divested himself of his brown shopkeeper’s coat and hung it behind the door of the kitchenette, taking unto himself the patched jacket of green Boleskine tweed that had been his father’s before him and slipping it on as if it were a loving glove. Norman let himself out through the back door, locking it behind him, and sauntered off to his lock-up in Abaddon Street.
Now, a lock-up garage is a wonderful thing, almost as wonderful in its way as an allotment shed. It is a “man’s” place, full of a man’s accoutrements: tools and spare parts and things that no longer work because they need a few spare parts to set them going, and boxes of old magazines that must not be thrown away because there are interesting articles in them that might one day be interesting to read. And as with an allotment shed, or indeed a garden shed, there is always a half-bag of gone-solid cement that you always fall over when you come in. Which is there, as we all know, because it is a tradition, or an old charter, or something.
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