Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “Didn’t that cushion his fall?” Jim took back his tea and sipped at it.

  “The casual observer blacked Mr Ratter’s eye.” John re-availed himself of Jim’s tea.

  “Harsh,” said Jim. “But you’re all right?”

  “I wasn’t in the box when it collapsed. I was being interviewed by constables Mild and Meek, who were making enquiries regarding the Voices of Free Radio Brentford.”

  “You denied all knowledge, of course.”

  “Of course. They said they’ll be coming back later to speak to you about it.”

  “You didn’t put me in the frame?”

  “Of course I didn’t. I think we can expect a visit from the Health and Safety people also. I’ll do my best to keep them at arm’s length.”

  “If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” said Jim, but he said it with a certain brightness in his voice, with a certain unfailing cheerfulness. He took his teacup from John’s fingers, but found it was now empty.

  “Still,” said John, turning the newspaper towards himself and running an eye across it, “you seem perky enough. ‘Bertie’s Boogie Bees’, eh – you’re making a name for yourself.”

  “My name isn’t Bertie, but I know what you mean. I’m really beginning to enjoy this, John. It’s a great old game, this football lark.”

  “The shopkeeping victims of the executive-box catastrophe might not agree with you, what with them also having had their shop windows broken and their premises looted and everything.”

  “These things happen,” said Jim, puffing contentedly on his Dadarillo. “There’s nothing new about football hooliganism.”

  “There is in Brentford.”

  “Then it’s a cross we’ll have to bear. You could suggest to them that they get shutters for their windows.”

  Omally made a face.

  “You already made the suggestion?” said Jim.

  “The club is paying for these security improvements,” said John. “I had no choice. But don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll sue us for compensation or anything. It was an accident, wasn’t it? And accidents will happen. And I did warn them not to stamp their feet. I’m sure it won’t cost too much to cobble together a few window shutters.”

  Jim Pooley ground out his cigarette. “And where are we going to find the money?”

  “Perhaps we could get an advance from Norman.”

  “I’m not going to be put off,” said Jim, “no matter what. After all the chaos and bloodshed last night I know I should be, but I’m not. We won again, John – ten-two. We’re heading for the record books here. The only way is up.”

  “If I wore a hat,” said John, “I’d take it off to you.”

  “We’re going to win this thing, John. I feel it in my fingers.”

  “Do you feel it in your toes?”

  “I do. So you’ll probably want to start making some more calls on your portable phone.”

  “Will I?” John asked. “And is there any more tea?”

  “You will,” said Jim, “and there isn’t. Firstly you must get on to Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s master builders, and have them come and fix the executive box’s floor. And the other thing.”

  “Other thing?” John asked.

  “We need a new right-winger,” said Jim, “what with Billy Kurton upping sticks and having it away on his toes.”

  “Buy a new player?” John all but fell backwards from his chair. “Have you gone insane? We don’t have the money for that.”

  “Then you’ll have to find some. Those Siamese twins looked pretty puffed after the match. I don’t think they can take much more.”

  “But …” said John. “But—”

  “But me no buts,” said Jim. “We’re a team, aren’t we? You said so yourself. Together we will triumph. Here, take a look at this.” Jim rose from his chair and drew John’s attention to a large chart pinned to the wall.

  “Nice,” said John. “It covers that damp patch well.”

  “It’s a fixtures chart,” Jim explained. “FA Cup fixtures. The team will have to play a lot more than seven games this season, but it’s only the Cup-qualifying games that matter. It works like this.” And Jim proceeded to explain to John exactly how it worked.

  Now, if anyone has ever tried to explain to you the rules of backgammon, or bridge, it’s the same kind of thing. It’s even more complicated than the offside rule.

  “Ah,” said John, when Jim had done with his explaining. “It all makes perfect sense. It’s quite simple, really.”

  Jim cast John that old-fashioned look.

  “What?” said John.

  “Never mind,” said Jim. “But as you can see, there’s a lot of away games and we must be prepared.”

  “Right,” said John.

  “Right,” said Jim.

  “Anything else you can think of?” John asked.

  “Not really,” said Jim.

  “Right,” said John once again.

  “Right indeed,” said Jim.

  There was a pause. A moment of silence.

  John perused his wristlet watch. “The bar’s open,” he said.

  The saloon bar door of The Flying Swan wasn’t open, even though it was now five past eleven.

  The door of Neville’s bedroom wasn’t open, either. It was similarly locked. Neville sat upon his bed and Neville had a big sweat on. Downstairs, he knew, downstairs in his saloon bar, were two young women. Two beautiful young women. Two beautiful young women who were stripped to the waist.

  Neville shuddered. His fingers trembled. These trembling fingers poured a trembling but substantial measure of his private stock of whisky into a glass that would have held his false teeth, had he worn any. Which he didn’t, for his teeth were all his own. Neville upended the glass into his mouth and gulped back the contents. What was he going to do? He couldn’t go down there and stand at the bar, his bar, with those things bobbing away on either side of him. He’d faint again. He knew he would. Well, faint again again. Because he had re-fainted after the first time, when Pippa and Loz had loomed over him trying to bring him round by fanning him with the T-shirts they’d removed.

  “What am I going to do?” cried Neville.

  But answer came there none.

  “I could run.” Neville’s good eye turned towards his wardrobe and the battered suitcase that gathered dust upon its top. Slip out, over the back wall, make a run for it.

  Neville shook his head. Fiercely. No, that wouldn’t do. The Swan was his life. He wouldn’t be driven from it by two pairs of breasts. It was unthinkable.

  Sadly it wasn’t unthinkable, because Neville was thinking it.

  “What am I going to do?” Neville took up his pillow and hugged it to his own bosom. “What am I going to do?”

  And then something caught the part-time barman’s good eye. Something that had been under his pillow. Something that he had all but forgotten about. He’d put it there for safekeeping. And because, in its plastic bag, it had looked very suspicious behind the bar amongst the Spanish souvenirs. It had looked, in fact, like drugs.

  Which somehow, in a way, was what it was: the bag of Mandragora given to him by Old Pete.

  Neville took up the bag, opened it and sniffed at its contents suspiciously. What had that old villain said? That stuff will make you a god-damn sexual tyrannosaurus. Just like me. Neville quite liked the smell. It smelt fruity. But what, exactly, did it really do? Did it really prolong active life, increase virility, put a spring in your step and lead in your pencil?

  What if it did?

  Neville took a deep breath through his mouth and blew it out of his unblocked nostril. It might be just what he needed – a bit of a sexual pick-me-up, or at least something that would lift his spirits, take the edge off his blind terror, simply give him confidence. What would be the harm in taking it? Old Pete wouldn’t poison him, that was unlikely.

  Although.

  Neville held the packet at arm’s length. The oldster had a wicked sense of hu
mour. This fruity-smelling herbal something might prove to be a powerful laxative.

  “No,” said Neville, drawing it near to himself once more and giving it another sniff. “He prides himself on his horticultural knowledge. If he says that this stuff does what he says it does, then it will do what he says it does.”

  And with that said, Neville emptied a small quantity into his false-teeth-glass-if-he-wore-false-teeth-which-he-didn’t. And topped the glass up with whisky.

  “Tell you what,” said Neville, steeling himself and tipping in at least half the remaining contents of the bag. “In for a penny, in for a pound. There’s no point in going off half-cocked, is there?”

  27

  Norman felt remarkably chipper.

  Which was odd, considering.

  Considering the punishment he’d taken when the floor of the executive box had given way.

  Norman distinctly remembered falling through. And coming into contact with the concrete of the stand below. And then the other shopkeepers coming into contact with him, as they, too, plummeted downwards. And Norman also remembered the sounds, those terrible sounds of his own bones breaking – his wrist bones and his ribcage, and his jaw, as well.

  He could remember all this. And then things went a bit hazy.

  Norman stood behind the counter of Peg’s Paper Shop and felt at himself. Gingerly. He wasn’t even bruised. How could that be? By all accounts he should surely be dead, but he wasn’t. How could that be?

  Norman scratched at his wig and sought an answer. There was something, he was sure of it. He did have some recollections. A face swam into Norman’s thoughts, if faces could but swim. And this face was the face of Archroy.

  Archroy.

  “Yes,” whispered Norman. “I think I do recall, after all.”

  He could see the face of Archroy gazing down at him. It was a face displaying an expression of concern. And a voice, too – Archroy’s voice. And the voice said, “Don’t worry, old chap, you’ll be all right. You’re not going to die.”

  “Die?” whispered Norman. “I was going to die.”

  And the shopkeeper remembered something else, amongst all the chaos and the screaming and the people running in all directions (well, one direction each). Something Archroy had put over him. Something woolly and warm and golden and twinkling.

  And then that was it.

  And Norman had woken up in his bed with not a bruise or a bit of his person broken.

  And Peg had actually let him sleep late, until nearly half-past ten. Which was decidedly odd in itself. Beyond odd, in fact. Little less than unnerving.

  “Odd,” whispered Norman. “Most odd. I will have to speak to Archroy of this. I’ve heard that he’s definitely back in the borough.”

  “What are you whispering about?” boomed the voice of Peg.

  “Nothing, my dear, nothing. In fact, I’m just popping out for a moment. I won’t be more than five minutes.”

  “You’d better not be.”

  Norman slipped off his shopkeeper’s coat and slipped from the shop. He crossed the road and entered the phone box (a red K2 designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott) and from here he phoned the offices of Mr Richard Gray, Solicitor of Law.

  Ms Yola Bennett answered the phone.

  “It’s me,” said Norman.

  “Norman,” said Yola. “My love, how are you?”

  “How are you?” Norman asked. “I woke up in my bed this morning, but I don’t remember getting home. Things are a bit confused. Were you injured?”

  “I wasn’t in the box when the floor fell through, I was downstairs in the bar. I couldn’t find you in all the confusion. They said you were taken to the hospital, but you weren’t. I’ve been so worried.”

  “Well, I’m fine,” said Norman. “Not even a chafing. Would you care for a lunchtime shag, I mean drink?”

  “I can’t get away this lunchtime. We’ve got a lot of bandaged-up town councillors here, all intent on suing the club for compensation.”

  “Oh,” said Norman. “Well, perhaps tonight? I’ll call you later.”

  “E-mail me,” said Yola. “You do have a computer, don’t you, Norman?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Then take down my e-mail address and e-mail me.”

  “Right,” said Norman, and he took out a sharpened pencil and a bit of old till receipt that he had been saving for a rainy day and took down Yola’s e-mail address. “Got it,” said Norman, when he had done so.

  “Lovely,” said Yola. “And Norman.”

  “Yes?”

  “Love you.”

  “Mmm,” went Norman, replacing the receiver.

  Norman stood before the phone box, taking in the sunshine and the healthy Brentford air. He really should go straight back to the shop. That would be the best thing to do.

  But then, as chance would have it, if such a thing there really is as chance, Norman chanced to see a distinctive form marching up the Baling Road. Decked out in pith helmet and safari suit and jungle boots, this distinctive form was none other than Archroy himself.

  “Archroy himself,” said Norman, as he watched the distinctive form vanish into the saloon bar of The Flying Swan. “A five-minute conversation with that lad wouldn’t hurt.”

  But then Norman’s eyes strayed once more towards Peg’s Paper Shop.

  But then Norman shrugged. “If wishes were butter cakes, beggars would bite,” said Norman.

  It was nearing twelve of the midday clock now and The Swan hadn’t, as yet, got into its lunchtime trade.

  As Norman entered the bar, his eyes adjusting to the transition from bright sunlight to “ambient bar glow”, he did not espy all too many patrons.

  At the bar counter sat Bob the Bookie, Old Pete, Councillor Doveston (who had not been up in the executive box as he wasn’t too good with stairs) and Archroy. And that was it, for the saloon bar was otherwise deserted.

  “Good morning, each,” called Norman, making his way towards the bar.

  But no head turned and no greetings were returned to him.

  “Please yourselves, then,” said Norman, climbing on to the barstool next to Archroy. “A pint of Large, please, Neville. Oh my God!”

  They were there. Before him. Beyond the bar counter and before him. Breasts. Big breasts. Big bare breasts. Two matching pairs of Big Bare Breasts. Norman stared at these big bare breasts. He gawped at these big bare breasts. These big bare breasts consumed all of Norman’s vision, as they similarly did the vision of the other patrons who sat transfixed before the bar counter.

  “Boo-boos,” said Norman. “Big boo-boos.”

  “Pint of Large was it, my luv?” asked Pippa. “My name’s Pippa, by the way.”

  “Norman,” said Norman, breathlessly. “Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Norman. Is this the Large?” Pippa ran her hand up and down the enamel pump handle in manner suggestive of …

  “Yes,” gasped Norman. “That’s the one.”

  Pippa took up a dazzling pint pot, held it beneath the Large pump and cranked out foam and bubbles. “There’s something wrong with this pump,” she said, and she wiggled her bare bosoms about. Wiggled bare bosoms, right there, behind the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan!

  “I’m hallucinating,” said Norman. “I must have concussion from the fall I took. Or possibly I’ve developed X-ray vision. Yes, that might be it.”

  “They’re real,” said Archroy, turning a grin towards Norman. “They’re the Real McCoy. And good day to you, old chap. No ill effects from last night, I trust?”

  “No,” said Norman. “And welcome back, Archroy. And I have to talk to you about that.”

  “Later, old chap. But for now, why not just sit back and enjoy the view.”

  “The view?” said Norman.

  “The view,” said Archroy. “And believe me, I speak as one who has seen views. I have seen views and I have seen views. The sunrise over Kathmandu reflecte
d in the sacred Ganges. The mists upon the peak of Kanchenjunga, rolling down towards Nepal. The glories of fair Atlantis and also the glories of Rome (which are of another day, of course). But I have to say that, but for the bare-naked lady-boys of Bangkok, this is an unparalleled view.”

  “Yes indeed,” agreed Norman. “But where’s Neville?”

  Pippa presented Norman with a pint of froth. “It’s got a bit of a head,” said she, “but it will settle down.”

  “I hope it will soon,” said Norman, plucking at his trouser front.

  “Naughty boy,” purred Pippa.

  “But where’s Neville?”

  “He hasn’t come down from his bedroom yet. He was taken a bit poorly earlier. Loz and I had to open up for him.”

  “But Neville would never be late in opening up,” said Norman.

  “Well, he was today. How much is Large? Do ya know?”

  Considering his pint of froth, Norman named a figure that was well below the actual asking price and paid with the exact coinage.

  Pippa rang up “no sale” on the cash register and pocketed Norman’s pennies. Then she wiped herself down with a bar cloth, much to the joy of her beholders.

  “Good day, each.”

  The eyes of the beholders drew away from the beauty that was being beheld by them and beheld … Neville.

  And the eyes of the beholders blinked and did the now legendary double take. Neville appeared somewhat …

  Different.

  He was not in his regular barman’s apparel – the slacks, the button-collared shirt and dicky bow. This was a new and hitherto unseen Neville. Although always smartly turned out, this was something more.

  The part-time barman sported, and that was the word, a brightly checked sports jacket and a dashing red silk cravat. And his hair was all quaffed up at the front and he wore a pair of—