‘Through science and through magic, yes.’
‘Not simply through science alone?’
‘No ma’am, the afterlife is uncharted territory for science. I would propose the construction of a device half scientific, half magical, with which to communicate effectively with the dead. Once this had been successfully achieved, I would suggest your Majesty use this device to contact the Duke of Wellington.’
‘Dear Arthur,’ said the Queen. ‘Deeply missed.’
‘One of your Majesty’s greatest soldiers and statesmen. A gentleman truly loyal to both crown and empire. He would be the man to raise an army of souls in your Majesty’s service.’
‘And whilst so doing, I might chat with dear Albert.’ The Queen dabbed a tear from her eye. ‘We are most impressed by this, Lord Charles and you are granted Royal Assent to build such a piece of apparatus.’
‘Your Majesty is too kind.’
‘You please your Queen,’ said Victoria. ‘Now just make sure you deliver a working model to me by next Thursday, or else.’
Lord Charles had been about to tell the eager monarch that all of this was purely hypothetical, but the arrival of the Treacle Sponge Bastard brought an end to the conversation.
Norman did have his doubts regarding the “communicating with the dead” side of the Bunson’s Necromunicator. But the “broadcasting and communicating of messages to a place far distant, through methods both scientific and magical” held to a certain charm. Norman felt there were gubbins here that might be put to use in the construction of Old Pete’s new hearing aid.
Microchips and transistors were all very well of course, but in Norman’s opinion you could never beat down to earth, nuts and bolts, good old Victorian technology.
For as Norman so thoughtfully put it—
‘An old cart well used may outlast one new,
When Ziggy played guitar.’
Having now almost entirely deconstructed Lord Charles Bunson’s prototype, discovering along the way many an outré component, Norman was not altogether sure of how to reassemble the contrivance, nor of which bits actually worked and which bits didn’t.
‘A pint of Large at the Swan,’ was Norman’s decision at this time and having done the locking up he set off in that direction.
As Norman passed Uncle Ted’s greengrocery he was surprised to see a police car parked at the kerbside. Although perhaps not that surprised considering the things that Uncle Ted got up to. Norman spied policemen inside the shop, talking to Uncle Ted’s wife.
Norman shrugged and ambled on and reached the Flying Swan.
At the bar, Old Pete perched crookedly upon his favourite stool, his half spaniel Chips a-sleeping beneath. Next to the oldster John Omally engaged two local factory girls in conversation. Around and about stood or sat the usual lunchtime drinkers. A stockbroker’s clerk in frank discussion with a plater’s mate. Hairy Dave and Jungle John, builders to the unwary. Smartly suited chaps from nearby office blocks, ***** the postman and other folk that Norman did not know. All was as it ever was and with hope always would be.
Neville served ale from behind the pumps and smiled as Norman entered.
‘Good afternoon, Neville,’ said Norman, making his way to the bar.
‘Usual, is it?’ asked the part-time barman.
Norman settled his bum upon the vacant stool beside Old Pete, said, ‘Yes please, Neville, and afternoon Old Pete.’
Neville went about the business, Old Pete simply stared towards the ceiling.
‘What’s going on at Uncle Ted’s?’ asked Norman, as the part-time barman drew him off a pint of Large.’
‘Gone missing apparently,’ said Neville. ‘Went to a council meeting at eleven, was back at the shop by twelve, then within half an hour he vanished.’
‘That’s not really “gone missing”, is it?’ said Norman. ‘That would just be him slipping away to get up to something untoward. You know what he’s like.’
‘We all do,’ said Neville, ‘including his wife, which is why she had him secretly tagged.’
‘Tagged?’ said Norman, accepting his pint and paying with the exact amount of change. ‘As in electronically tagged? Strap around the ankle, that type of business?’
‘The very same,’ said Neville, tossing Norman’s coinage into the knackered cash register and ringing up no sale. ‘His missus had him tagged with an implant by the local vet while he was asleep, so she could follow all his movements via an app on her mobile phone.’
‘Wise woman,’ said Norman, tasting ale.
‘So, he apparently returned to the shop at around twelve,’ Neville continued, ‘went into the store room at the back a little later and never came out again.’
‘Eh?’ said Norman.
‘The building has no back exit and his wife was in the front shop all of the time. He simply vanished off the radar, as it were. His wife came in here to ask if I’d seen him, she showed me her phone and how his blip just faded away. Pretty odd business, I’d say.’
Norman shrugged and continued tasting beer. ‘Mind you,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he went off to that place he’s always talking about. That magic place that only greengrocers go to.’
‘What of this?’ asked Neville. ‘Are you suggesting he slipped away through a wardrobe to a land of snow and ice?’
‘Almost,’ said Norman. ‘He told me that the greengrocer’s version is a tropical paradise, burdened with exotic fruit and veg.’
‘Really?’ said Neville. ‘That’s what he told you.’
Norman nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And what is this tropical paradise called?’ asked Neville.
‘Banarnia,’ said Norman.
The sun went behind a cloud and a dog howled in the distance.
Neville was about to remark upon the fact that humour was somewhat more difficult than it at first appeared, when Old Pete caught his attention.
‘What’s that you’ve got up the end there?’ asked the antique horticulturalist.
‘The new guest ale,’ said Neville. And then, just to see what might happen. ‘It’s called Quasimodo.’ He glanced all around and about, just in case someone might be stupid enough to say that the name rang a bell.
But no-one did.
‘And it’s a very fine ale indeed,’ said Neville.
‘Give us a taste then,’ said Old Pete. ‘A pint will do for a taster if you please.’
Neville drew off a small measure into a whiskey tumbler. Old Pete sniffed, then Old Pete tasted, then he ordered, ‘more’.
‘If you want more you will have to pay,’ said Neville.
Old Pete reached into a pocket, drew out coinage and without checking its worth, tossed it onto the counter. Neville hastily pulled the oldster a pint before he changed his mind.
With Neville and Norman looking on, the elder drained his pint pot in two most long and languid gulps.
‘Remarkable,’ he said, drawing a ragged cuff across his chops. ‘Absolutely remarkable.’
‘It is a very fine ale,’ said Neville. ‘In all truth I think I might say it’s the finest I ever tasted.’
‘What?’ said Norman. ‘Better than Large?’
Neville decanted a miniscule measure for Norman.
‘I’ll have one too please Neville,’ said Omally.
Tastings were had and all agreed that Quasimodo was a king amongst ales.
Old Pete ordered another pint. ‘It’s the way beer used to taste,’ he said, ‘back in the good old days. People always say things were better back in the good old days and that’s because they were. Believe me on this, I lived through those days and things were really that good.’
‘It does have something rather special to it,’ Omally agreed, as he ordered one of his own. ‘And we all thought Large was as good as a beer could be.’
Neville pulled Omally’s pint and then pulled one for himself. ‘I never drink on duty as a rule,’ said he, ‘but on this occasion I will make an exception.’
When Jim Pooley appe
ared at the Swan just beyond four of the afternoon clock he was somewhat surprised to find the saloon bar full of drunken people.
Much ribaldry was on the go and songs were being sung.
Singing? In the Swan? Jim rubbed at his eyes, was he dreaming? A conga line passed him by and staggered into the street. Pooley dug his elbows in and forced his way to the bar.
‘Jimsh,’ slurred Omally. ‘My bestest friend, Jim. How wonderful to see you!’
‘Pissed as a pudding,’ said Pooley. ‘Whatever goes on here?’
‘Guest ale,’ said John, pointing unsteadily. ‘Quasimodo,’ he cried.
‘Quasimodo?’ asked Jim. ‘That name rings a bell.’
Silence momentarily reigned supreme.
Then to be engulfed beneath an avalanche of laughter.
Twenty minutes later Jim was drunk.
‘The best beer I ever have tasted,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Omally. ‘And we should drink it in celebration my friend for shortly you and I will be very rich.’
Jim, who was not as drunk as John, cautioned him to confidence. ‘Not so loud,’ he told his friend. ‘These are private matters.’
‘Quite so,’ John agreed in a whisper. ‘So where have you been?’
‘I was waiting for someone,’ said Jim, ‘but they never turned up. Then later I had to go to the Post Office.’
John Omally laughed. ‘Jim Pooley,’ he said, ‘living the dream.’
Jim laughed too and ordered two more pints. He felt it prudent not to mention the cheque he had just sent off to Prince Goodwill Jeremy. Jim would certainly have the last laugh and be living the dream when his Nigerian Majesty showered gold upon him.
And so it came to pass that day, as afternoon turned evening, that drunken men talked toot one to another. And all was as it should be there within the Flying Swan.
Was as it was
And is
And in all hope
Would ever ever be.
6
SEARCH FOR MISSING
GREENGROCER PROVES
FRUITLESS
The editor of The Brentford Mercury had been up half the night fine-tuning this masterpiece. But he’d managed still to meet the printer’s deadline.
The editor considered it to be one of his greatest ever achievements, although, when held to the light of future events, it would appear a dull lack-lustre affair.
As Jim Pooley never invested in any paper but for the Sporting Life, he was somewhat surprised to find a copy of the Mercury lying in wait for him upon his doormat when he descended his stairs to fetch in his pint of milk. It had next door’s number pencilled upon it and as such bore testament to the free spirit of Norman’s paperboy.
Returning to his kitchenette bearing both milk and newspaper, Jim added the former to his cup of tea and studied the latter at length.
It was indeed rather odd about Uncle Ted. Not that anyone was really going to miss him. It was an open secret in the borough that his long-suffering wife was having an affair with Mr Kay who ran the electrical shop in the High Street. Jim shrugged, it was none of his business what these people got up to; he had important matters of his own to deal with.
Jim leafed through the rest of the paper in search of any mention regarding the Goodwill Giant. There was none.
There was, however, an entire page dedicated to the forthcoming ring road and the benefits it would bring to the people of Brentford. As Jim gave this a good reading through, certain phrases sprang from the page to greet him.
“Brentford High Street will
become a picturesque plaza.”
“A tree-lined pedestrian
boulevard, to the envy
of surrounding boroughs.”
“The services of the award-
winning design partnership,
the Goodwill Landscaping Company
have been secured to
bring their genius and
foresight to……”
‘Award winning?’ Jim shook his head.
‘Genius?’ Jim shook his head once more.
‘Foresight?’ Jim gave his head yet another shake. And then he gave it one more, and this to be certain. And now he was certain. Certain that he did not have a hangover. Jim was amazed.
Considering the amount of Quasimodo he and John had put away between them, he should now be nursing a hangover to stagger the senses of the gods. But he was not. His head was clear. Jim felt fine and dandy.
‘Now that’s what I call beer,’ said Jim, vowing there and then that he would reacquaint himself with the wondrous brew this coming lunchtime.
Jim turned his gaze once more to the printed page. The ring road was scheduled for construction the day after tomorrow during the hours of darkness on Midsummer’s Eve, with Prince Charles doing the official opening at nine o’clock on Midsummer’s Day. This was all a bit sudden, wasn’t it!
Jim now recalled something about a “power breakfast” at the Plume, where Mr Pocklington would be addressing the present management team of the Goodwill Landscaping Company, namely himself and John. As fine and dandiness now filled Pooley’s being, he felt cautiously optimistic about the future. Perhaps he and John would actually make some money with this venture and if they could do so without there being a jail sentence involved, then all would be well with the world.
Jim smiled a smile and finished his cup of tea.
John Omally was taking tea with Mr Stephen Pocklington. As Jim approached the Plume Café he spied them out, sitting in the window and smiling and chatting away.
Thick as thieves, thought Jim, but as it was yet another beautiful day and he had awoken to it without a hangover, Pooley was prepared to approach this Power Breakfast with a positive mental attitude.
Jim entered the Plume and Mr Pocklington rose from his chair to greet him.
‘Mr Pooley, I presume,’ said he. ‘I have heard so many great things about you.’
Pooley shook the hand he was offered and sat himself down at the table next to John. Mr Pocklington poured him tea and John Omally asked him how he was.
‘Not at all bad,’ said Jim. ‘And yourself? No hangings over from last night’s beery marathon?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said John, ‘bottoms up.’
He and Jim drank tea.
‘I am so glad you were able to squeeze this meeting into your otherwise busy work schedule,’ said Mr Pocklington.
Sarcasm? thought Jim.
‘I am sure you appreciate that an opportunity like this is only likely to present itself once in a single lifetime.’
Jim nodded in a manner calculated to indicate a thoughtful response.
‘We were just discussing the renamings when you arrived.’
‘The whats?’ Jim asked.
‘The renamings of the roads that are to be pedestrianised. I suggested Pooley Avenue, but John felt Pooley Plaza rolled off the tongue more easily.’
‘The Pooley what and who?’ Jim Pooley asked.
‘The High Street,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘John has modestly claimed the square before the Town Hall to bear his name and I a crescent or two. But we both felt the High Street should go to you, as it were.’
‘This is something of a shock,’ said Jim. ‘But Pooley Plaza, it does have a certain ring to it.’
‘Like Quasimodo,’ said John.
‘Precisely.’ The town clerk who had never ceased to smile since Pooley had entered the Plume, now smiled even more so. ‘John was telling me all about the ale,’ said he. ‘I must certainly sample some at the earliest opportunity.’
Jim “took in” Mr Pocklington. A smartly-dressed young fellow. Slender of body and fair of face. There was certainly something about him. Something special. Something that just made you want to like him.
‘A pint or two at my expense to toast Pooley Plaza,’ said this likeable special fellow. ‘Now, I should like you both to have this.’ And he brought from beneath the table a leather executive case. ‘Its contents should
easily cover all your present expenses. You will of course need to take on local labour to perform the necessary roadworks. For Pooley Plaza and all the rest, I myself favour cobblestones.’
‘Cobblestones?’ John whistled. ‘You would need thousands and I have no idea where cobblestones might be acquired.’
‘Acquired?’ The town clerk laughed a pleasant laugh. ‘I would imagine they would be nigh on impossible to acquire, hence we shall avail ourselves of those that are already there.’
Jim Pooley gave his head a scratch. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain?’ he said.
‘Under the present roads,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘Beneath the tarmac the original cobblestones still exist. I have done my research into these matters. It would simply be a matter of removing the tarmac to expose those picturesque cobbles. They will so enhance the looks of Pooley Plaza.’
‘Oh,’ said Jim.
‘Yes,’ the town clerk went on. ‘Tell your workers to take care with their pneumatic drills. So as not to spoil the cobbles.’
Pooley’s face expressed no small amount of doubt.
‘You have qualms, Mr Pooley?’ The town clerk asked.
‘Well,’ said Jim. ‘Things that sound simple so very rarely are.’
‘I will of course supply the trees,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘I leave the replacing of the street signs, the positioning of benches and boulevard tables and, of course, the demolition of the monument to you.’
‘The demolition of the monument?’ asked Pooley.
‘That ugly pink granite monstrosity. It would quite spoil the look of the plaza. Get it knocked down and dump the bits in the river.’
‘Now hold on there,’ said Jim. ‘That monument records great moments in the borough’s noble history. We can’t just go knocking it down.’
‘I am the town clerk,’ said the town clerk. ‘And if I give the demolition the go ahead, it will go ahead.’
‘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.’
The Lord of the Ring Roads Page 5
