Robert Rankin - Brentford 03 - East Of Ealing

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East of Ealing

Book 3 of the now legendary Brentford Trilogy

Robert Rankin

Norman gave his ivory-handled screwdriver a final twist and secured the last screw into the side panel

of the slim brass cylinder. Unclamping it from his vice, he lifted it lovingly by its shining axle, and held

it towards the dust-smeared glass of the kitchenette window. It was a work of wonder and that was for

certain. A mere ten inches in diameter and another one in thickness, the dim light painted a rainbow

corona about its varnished circumference.

Norman carried it carefully across to his cluttered kitchen table and, elbowing aside a confusion of

soiled crockery, placed it upon the twin bracket mountings which had been bolted through both

tablecloth and table. The axle dropped into its mounts with a satisfying click and Norman, hardly

daring to breathe, sought out his can of Three-in-One and applied a glistening bead of oil to either end.

If all his calculations, allied to those of a certain Johann Bessler, later known as Orffyreus, who

had first demonstrated the prototype as long ago as 1712 in Zittau, East Germany, proved ultimately to

be correct, he was even now standing upon the very threshold of yet another earth-shattering

scientific breakthrough.

And all it needed was a breath. Norman leaned low

over the brazen wheel and blew upon its edge. There was a faint click, followed by another and yet

another, and with a beauty, which like all of its strange kind lay firmly within the eye of its beholder,

the polished brass wheel began to rotate slowly. Around and around it went, gathering momentum,

until at last it reached a steady rate. Norman drew out his pocket-watch and rattled it against his ear.

The second hand took to once more sweeping the pitted face of the grandaddy's retirement present.

The polished wheel continued to turn; Norman counted beneath his breath and double-checked with his

watch. Twenty-six revolutions per minute, exactly as old mad Bessler had predicted. Around and

around and around for ever and ever and ever.

A broad, if lopsided, smile travelled where it could over Norman's face. Returning his already failing

watch to its fluff-filled waistcoast pocket, he clapped his hands together and did a silly sort of dance

right there and then upon the worn lino of the grimy kitchenette.

The wheel spun, its former clicking now a dull purr, and Norman thrust a knuckle to his mouth and

chuckled noiselessly. His free hand hovered for a moment above the spinning wheel. If the calculations

were indeed correct then virtually nothing, short of out and out destruction, should actually be able to

halt the wheel's motion. Tentatively, he tapped a forefinger on to the polished surface. The wheel

continued to spin. Gently, he plucked at it with finger and thumb. The wheel showed no signs of

easing up. Norman laid firm hold with both hands

upon the slim cylinder, his grasp skidded away, and the wheel rolled on and on and on.

This time he had cracked it! This time he had most definitely cracked it! The ultimate source of

power. Weighing no more than a couple of pounds, its potential knew no bounds. It could charge

up literally anything and, but for the occasional squirt of Three-in-One, needed next to no maintenance.

Without the kitchenette, the shop door-bell suddenly rang in a customer and Norman dragged

himself away from his spinning masterwork to answer the call of business. As he reached the door

he paused a moment and looked back. Twenty-six revolutions per minute, round and around and

around, for ever and ever and ever. With a final silent chuckle and a theatrical backways kick,

Norman passed through the doorway, leaving his world of magic to emerge into the gloomy reality of

his musty corner-shop.

Before the counter stood one James Pooley, betting man, free-thinker, and bachelor of the

parish. His hand, which had even then been snaking across towards the peppermint packets,

returned itself to the tweedy depths of a bottomless trouser pocket. With a cheery, 'Good morning

to you, Norman,' Pooley bade the shopkeeper that very thing.

'Same to yourself, Jim,' said Norman. 'The daily, would it be?'

'The very same, five Woodys and a Sporting Life. I think that today I am a little more than usually

liable to pull off "The Big One".'

'Of course.' Norman deftly drew out a packet of

cigarettes and the aforementioned racing paper without for a moment removing his gaze from the

approximate location of Pooley's ever-wandering hands. It was not that Jim was by nature a dishonest

man, but living daily upon his wits, he dared never let any opportunity, no matter how small, slip by.

'You wear the smile of a man who has already pulled off that ever elusive big fellow,' said Jim,

noting well the twisted smirk still firmly plastered across Norman's face.

The shopkeeper passed Jim his life-support apparatus and nodded wildly. 'I have, I have,' said he,

amidst a flurry of nose-tapping. 'Although on this occasion, as upon others, I cannot take full credit

for it all myself.'

'No matter that. Many a wealthy man owes his success in life to the labours of a deceased relative.'

Jim slipped his cigarettes into his breast-pocket and rolled his newspaper. 'So what is it then?

Something of a scientific nature I have no doubt.'

'The very same.'

'Might I hazard a guess?'

'Be very pleased to.'

Jim stroked at the stubble of his chin, which he had been meaning to shave off for at least a day or so,

and cocked his head upon one side. 'Now, if I am not mistaken,' said he, 'your recent obsession, and I

use the word in the kindest possible way, has been with energy. The solar panels upon your roof do

not go unnoticed hereabouts and the fact that you possess the only Morris Minor in the

neighbourhood which runs upon coke has raised more than the occasional

eyebrow. Am I right therefore in assuming that it is towards energy, power, and things of that nature

that you have turned your enormous intellect?'

Norman's head bobbed up and down after the fashion of a toy dog in a Cortina rear window.

'Aha, then if I am not mistaken I will hazard a guess that you have rediscovered the long lost secret

of perpetual motion.'

Norman clapped his hands together. 'You got it,' he crowed. 'Got it in one. I am glad that I did not

lay money upon it. You got it in one.'

'Naturally,' said Jim, blowing on his fingernails. 'But I feel you knew that I would.'

Norman nodded again. 'True,' he said. 'I must admit that I had been somewhat puzzled by the ever-

increasing number of little bright patches appearing upon the window of my kitchenette. However,

noticing of late that each corresponds exactly in size and shape to the blot of dirt upon the end of your

nose, all would seem to be revealed. But what do you think, Jim? The marvel of the age would you say?

Feel free to offer criticism; my shoulders although physically bowed are metaphorically broad.'

Jim thrust his rolled-up paper into a jacket pocket. 'If you will pardon me saying this, Norman, I

have never myself had a lot of truck with the concept of perpetual motion. You will recall, no doubt,

me saying that the chap in Chiswick who gave all those lectures at the Memorial Library propounding

the theory of reincarnation has died yet again.'

Norman nodded yet again.

'And you will also recall my brilliant ban mot made

upon the news of his passing, that the trouble with those fellows is that they are here today and

here tomorrow?'

Norman winced.

'Well, such it is with perpetual motion. A fine thing it might be in itself, and a pleasure to the

inventor thereof, but to the general public, in particular to the man of limited reason with no care

for the higher truth, it presents but one thing only.'

'Which is?'

'Absolute monotony,' said Pooley in a leaden tone. 'All-consuming, soul-destroying, absolute monot-

ony.'

With these few words he turned upon his heel and strode from the shop, leaving Norman to

ponder upon not one but two eternal problems. The first being how a man such as Pooley could have

the sheer gall to write off the greatest scientific discovery of the age with a few poorly chosen words. And

the second, how he had managed, once more, to escape from the shop without having paid for either

Woodbines or Sporting Life.

'The wheels of God grind slowly,' thought Norman to himself. 'But they do grind at twenty-six

revolutions per minute.'

Neville the part-time barman flip-flopped across the deserted saloon-bar of the Flying Swan, his

mono-grammed carpet-slippers raising small clouds of dust from the faded carpet. Rooting with a will,

he sought his newspaper which lay upon the pub's welcome mat beneath a pile of final demands,

gaudy circulars, and rolled posters advertising the forthcoming Festival of Brentford.

Shaking it free of these postal impediments, Neville unfolded the local tabloid and perused the

front page. More good good news. Earthquakes and tidal waves, wars and rumours of wars. Jolly

stuff. And on the home front? Well, there was the plague of black fly currently decimating the allotment

crops. A rival brewery had just put its beer up a penny a pint and its competition, ever happy to accept a

challenge, were hinting at rises of two pence or more.

One particular gem caught the part-time barman's good eye: the local banks, in keeping with a

countrywide trend, were investigating the possibility of dispensing with coin of the realm and

instigating a single credit card system. That would go down a storm with the locals, thought

Neville. Without further ado he consigned the wicked messenger of bad tidings to the wastepaper

basket. 'I shall cancel

this,' said the part-time barman to himself. 'I shall ask Norman to despatch me something of a more

cheerful nature in the future. Possibly the People's Fnend or Gardener's Gazette.'

But on further consideration, even those two periodicals were not exactly devoid of grim tidings

nowadays. The People's Friend, not content with simply going up three pence, assailed its readers with

a fine line in doom prophecy, and the Gardener's Gazette dedicated most of its pages to large anatom-

ical diagrams of black fly. Neville shrugged his dressing-gowned shoulders. Seemed like a nice day

though, but. The sun rising majestic as ever from behind the flat-blocks and tickling the Swan's upper

panes. Always some hope for the future. Although, lately, Neville had been feeling more than a little ill

at ease. It was as if some great burden was descending upon him, inch by inch and pound by pound,

down on to his bony shoulders. He was hard put to explain the feeling, and there was little point in

confiding his unease to the regulars, but he was certain that something altogether wrong was

happening and, moreover, that it was happening to him personally.

Leaving his newspaper to confide its black tidings to the fag ends in the wastepaper basket and his

mail to gather what dust it wished upon the doormat, Neville the part-time barman flip-flopped away

up the Swan's twenty-six stairs to his cornflakes and a cup of the blackest of all black coffees.

In another part of Brentford other things were stirring this Shrove Tuesday morning and what those

other things were and what they would later become were matters which would in their turn weigh

very heavily indeed upon certain part-time barmen's shoulders.

They all truly began upon a certain section of unreclaimed bomb-site along the High Street between

the Beehive pub and a rarely used side-turning known as Abaddon Street. And as fate would have it, it

was across this very stretch of land that an Irish gentleman of indeterminate years, wearing a well-

patched tweed jacket and a flat cap, was even now striding. He was whistling brightly and as it was his

wont to do, leading by the perished rubber grip of a pitted handlebar, an elderly sit-up-and-beg bike.

This was one John Vincent Omally, and his rattling companion, labouring bravely along, although

devoid of front mudguards and rear brake and sorely in need of the healing balm offered by Norman's

oilcan, was none other than that prince of pedaldom, Marchant, the wonder bike. Over the rugged strip

of land came these two heroic figures, the morning sun tinting their features, treading a well-worn

short-cut of their own making. Omally whistling a jaunty tune from the land of his fathers and

Marchant offering what accompaniment he could with the occasional bout of melodic bell ringing.

God was as ever in Omally's Heaven and all seemed very much all right with the world.

As they came a-striding, a-whistling and a-ringing, small birdies fluttered down on to the crumbling

ivy-hung brickwork of the surrounding walls to join them in a rowdy chorus. Beads of dew swung

upon

dandelion stems and fat-bellied garden spiders fiddled with their diamond-hung webs. It certainly wasn't

a bad old life if you had the know of it, and Omally was a man whom it could reasonably be said had that

very know. The lad gave a little skip and doffed his hat to the day. Without warning his foot suddenly

struck a half-buried object which had certainly not existed upon his previous day's journeyings. To the

accompaniment of a great Godless oath which momentarily blotted out the sunlight and raised the

twittering birdies into a startled confusion, the great man of Eire plunged suddenly towards the planet

of his birth, bringing with him his bicycle and tumbling into a painful, untidy, and quite undignified

heap.

'By the blood of the Saints!' swore Omally, attempting to rise but discovering to his horror that

Marchant now held him in something resembling an Indian death-lock. 'In the name of all the Holies!'

The tangled bike did what it could to get a grip of itself and spun its back wheel, chewing up several of

Omally's most highly-prized fingers. 'You stupid beast!' screamed himself, lashing out with an over-

sized hobnail. 'Have a care will you?' The bike, having long years of acquaintanceship with its master to

its credit, considered that this might be the time to keep the now legendary low profile.

Amidst much cursing and a great deal of needless profanity, Omally struggled painfully to his feet

and sought the cause of his downfall. Almost at once he spied out the villain, a nubble of polished

metal protruding from the dusty path. John was not slow in levelling his size-nine boot at it.

He was someway between mid-swing and full-swing when a mental image of a bygone relative

swam into his mind. He had performed a similar action upon a half-buried obstruction during the time

of the blitz. The loud report and singular lack of mortal remains paid a posthumous tribute to his lack of

forethought. DANGER UNEXPLODED BOMB! screamed a siren in Omally's brain. John lowered his size-nine

terror weapon gently to the deck and stooped gingerly towards the earth to examine the object. To his

amazement he found himself staring at the proverbial thing of beauty. A mushroom of highly-polished

brass surmounted by an enamel crown. There was that indefinable quality of value about it and

Omally was not slow to notice the fact. His fingers greedily wore away at its earthy surrounding, exposing

a slender, fluted column extending downwards. From even this small portion it was clear that the thing

was a rare piece of workmanship; the flutes were cunningly inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Omally

climbed to his feet and peered furtively around to assure himself that he was alone with his treasure.

That he had struck the motherlode at last was almost a certainty. There was nothing of the doodlebug

or Mark Seventeen Blockbuster about this boy, but very much of the antique bedstead of Victoria and

Albert proportions.

John rubbed his hands together and chuckled. What was it his old Da had once said? A dead bird

never falls out of the nest, that was it. Carefully covering his find with a clump or two of grass,

Omally continued upon his way. The birdies had

flown and the spiders had it away on their eight ones, but before Omally reached his secret exit in the

planked fencing he was whistling once more, and Marchant was doing his level best to keep up with the

increasingly more sprightly tune.

Jim Pooley sat upon his favourite bench before the Memorial Library, racing paper spread out across

his knees, liberated Woodbine aglow between his lips, and Biro perched atop his right ear. Few were

the passers-by who even troubled to notice the sitter upon the bench. Fewer still observed the chalk-

drawn pentagram encircling that bench, the sprig of hemlock attached to the sitter's lapel, or the

bulge of the tarot pack in his waistcoat pocket. Such subtleties were lost to the casual observer, but to

the trained eye they would be instantly significant. Jim Pooley was now having a crack at occultism

in his never-ending quest to pull off the six-horse Super-Yankee.

Jim had tried them all and found each uniformly lacking. The I-Ching he had studied until his eyes

crossed. The prophecies of Nostradamus, the dice, the long sticks, the flight paths of birds, and the

changes of barometric pressure registered upon the charts of the library entrance hall - each had

received his attention as a possible catalyst for the pulling off of the ever-elusive Big One. He had

considered , selling his soul to the devil but it was on the cards that the Prince of Darkness probably

had his name down for conscription anyway.

Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, Jim

peered down at his paper. Somewhere, he knew, upon this page were those six horses. Tomorrow, he

knew, he would kick himself for not having seen the obvious cosmic connection. Jim concentrated every

ounce of his psychic energies upon the page. Presently he was asleep. Blissful were his Morphean

slumbers upon this warm spring morning and blissful they would no doubt have remained, at least until

opening time at the Swan, had not a deft blow from a size-nine boot struck him upon the sole of the left foot

and blasted him into consciousness. The man who could dream winners awoke with a painful start.

'Morning Jim,' said the grinning Omally. 'Having forty winks were we?'

Pooley squinted up at his rude awakener with a bloodshot eye. 'Yoga,' said he. 'Lamaic meditation. I

was almost on the brink of a breakthrough and you've spoilt it.'

Omally rested his bicycle upon the library fence and his bum upon the bench. 'Sorry,' said he. 'Please

pardon my intrusion upon the contemplation of your navel. You looked to all the world the very picture of a

sleeper.'

'Nothing of the sort,' Pooley replied in a wounded tone. 'Do you think that I, like yourself, can afford to

fritter away my time in dalliance and idleness? My life is spent in the never-ending search for higher

truths.'

'Those which come in six or more figures?'

'None but the very same.'

'And how goes this search?'

'Fraught as ever with pitfalls for the unwary traveller.'

'As does our each,' said the Irish philosopher.

The two men sat awhile upon the library bench. Each would dearly have liked a smoke but out of

politeness each waited upon his fellow to make that first selfless gesture of the day. 'I'm dying for a

fag,' sighed Jim, at length.

Omally patted his pockets in a professional manner, narrowly avoiding the destruction of five

Woodbine he had secreted in his waistcoat pocket. Tm out,' he said.

Jim shrugged. 'Why do we always go through this performance?' he asked.

Omally shook his head, 'I have no idea whatever, give us a fag, Jim?'

'Would that I could John, would that I could. But times are up against me at the present.'

Omally shook his head sadly, 'These are troubled times for us all I fear. Take my knee here,' he

raised the gored article towards Jim's nose. 'What does that say to you?'

Pooley put his ear to Omally's knee, 'It is not saying much,' he said. 'Is it perhaps trying to tell me

that it has a packet of cigarettes in its sock?'

'Not even warm.'

'Then you've got me.' Omally sighed. 'Shall we simply smoke our own today, Jim?'

'Good idea.' Pooley reached into his waistcoat pocket and Omally did likewise. Both withdrew

identical packets into the sunlight and both opened these in unison. John's displayed five cigarettes.

Pooley's was empty. 'Now there's a thing,' said Jim.

'Decoy!' screamed John Omally. Pooley accepted the cigarette in the manner with which it was

offered. 'My thanks,' said he. 'I really do have the feeling that today I might just pull off the long-awaited

Big One.'

'I have something of the same feeling myself,' his companion replied.

The part-time barman finished the last of his toast and patted about his lips with a red gingham napkin.

He leaned back in his chair and rested his palms upon his stomach. He felt certain that he was putting

on weight. A thin man from birth, tall, gaunt, and scholar-stooped, Neville had never possessed a single

ounce of surplus fat. But recently it seemed to him that his jackets were growing ever more tight

beneath the armpits, and that the lower button on his waistcoat was becoming increasingly more difficult

to secure. 'Most curious,' said Neville, rising from his seat and padding over to the bathroom scales

which were now a permanent fixture in the middle of the living-room floor. Climbing aboard, he

peered down between his slippered toes. Eleven stone dead, exactly as it had been for the last twenty

years. The part-time barman shook his head in wonder, it was all very mysterious. Perhaps the scales

were wrong, gummed up with carpet fluff or something. He'd let Norman give them the once-over. Or

perhaps it was the dry cleaners? Things never seemed quite right there since that big combine bought

old Tom Telford out. Possibly this new lot were having a pop at him. Putting an extra tuck in the seat

of his strides every time he put them in for their monthly hose down.

Most unsporting that, hitting a lad below the belt.

Neville laughed feebly at his unintended funny, but really this was no laughter matter. Taking out

the tape measure, which now never left his person, he stretched it about his waist. All seemed the

same. Possibly it was simply a figment of his imagination. Possibly he was going mad. The thought

was never far from his mind nowadays. Neville shuddered. He would just have to pull himself together.

Sighing deeply, he shuffled away to the bedroom to dress. Flinging off his silken dressing-gown

he took up the rogue trousers from where they hung in their creases over the chair and yanked them

up his legs. With difficulty he buttoned himself into respectability. They were definitely too tight for

comfort, there was no point in denying it. Neville stooped for his socks but stopped in horror. The

blood drained from his face and his good eye started from its socket; a nasty blue tinge crept about the

barman's lips. It was worse than he feared, far worse. His trouser bottoms were swinging about his

ankles like flags at half-mast. He wasn't only getting fatter, he was growing taller! Neville slumped

back on to his bed, his face a grey mask of despair. It was impossible. Certainly folk could put on

weight pretty rapidly, but to suddenly spring up by a good inch and a half over night? That was

downright impossible, wasn't it?

Pooley and Omally strolled over the St Mary's Allotments en route to John's hut and the cup that

cheers. Jim tapped his racing paper upon his leg and sought inspiration from the old enamel

advertising

signs along the way which served here and there as plot dividers. None was immediately

forthcoming. The two threaded their way between the ranks of bean poles and waxed netting, the

corrugated shanties, and zinc watertanks. They walked in single file along a narrow track through a

farrowed field of broccoli and one of early flowering sprouts, finally arriving at the wicket fence

and pleasant ivy-hung trelliswork that stood before Omally's private plot. John parked his bicycle in

its favourite place, took up his daily pinta, turned several keys in as many weighty locks, and within

a few short minutes the two men lazed upon a pair of commandeered railway carriage seats, watching

the kettle taking up the bubble on the Primus.

'There is a king's ransom, I do hear, to be had out of the antique trade at present,' said John matter-

of-factly.

'Oh yes?' Pooley replied without enthusiasm.

'Certainly, the junk of yesterday is proving to be the ob-ja-dart of today and the nestegg of

tomorrow.' Omally rose to dump two tea bags into as many enamel mugs and top the fellows up

with boiling water. 'A veritable king's ransom, ready for the taking. A man could not go it alone in

such a trade, he would need a partner, of course.'

'Of course.'

'A man he could trust.' John put much emphasis upon the word as he wrung out the tea bags and

added the cream of the milk to his own mug and a splash of the rest to Jim's. 'Yes, he would

definitely want a man he could rely on.'

'I am convinced of that,' said Jim, accepting his mug. 'A bit strong, isn't it?'

'Antique bedding is currently the vogue amongst the trendies of Kensington, I understand,' John

continued.

'Oh those bodies.'

'Yes, the fashionable set do be weeping, wailing, and gnashing its expensively-capped teeth for the

lack of it.'

Pooley blew on to his tea. 'Strange days,' said he.

John felt that he was obviously not getting his point across in quite the right way. A more direct

approach was necessary. 'Jim,' he said in a highly confidential tone. 'What would you say if I was to

offer you a chance of a partnership in an enterprise which would involve you in absolutely no

financial risk whatever?'

'I would say that there is always a first time for everything, I suppose.'

'What if I was to tell you that at this very moment I know of where there is an extremely valuable

antique lying discarded and unwanted which is ours for the taking, what would you say then?'

Jim sipped at his tea. 'I would say to you then, Omally,' he said, without daring to look up, 'dig the

bugger out yourself.'

Omally's eyebrows soared towards his flat cap.

Pooley simply pointed to an L-shaped tear in his own left trouser knee. 'I passed along your path

not half an hour before you,' he said simply.

'Your lack of enterprise is a thing to inspire disgust.'

'He that diggeth a pit will fall into it. Ecclesiasticus

Chapter twenty-seven, verse twenty-six,' said Jim Pooley. 'I am not a religious man as you well know,

but I feel that the Scriptures definitely have it sussed on this point. A commendable try though.' Jim

took out his cigarette packet from his top pocket and handed the Irishman a tailor-made.

'Thank you,' said Omally.

'Now, if you really have a wish to make a killing today -' John nodded enthusiastically, it was early

yet and his brain was only just warming up to the daily challenge, '- I have seen something which has

the potential to earn a man more pennies than a thousand buried bedframes. Something which a man

can only be expected to witness once in a lifetime. And something of such vast financial potential that

if a man was to see it and not take advantage of the experience, he should consider himself a soul lost

for ever and beyond all hope.'

'Your words are pure music,' said John Omally. 'Play on, sweet friend, play on.'

As Neville the part-time barman drew the polished brass bolts on the saloon-bar door and stood in the

opening, sniffing the air, the clatter of two pairs of hobnail boots and the grating of rear mudguard

upon back wheel announced the approach of a brace of regulars. One of these was a gentleman of

Celtic extraction who had recently become convinced that the future lay in perpetual motion and its

application to the fifth gear of the common bicycle. Neville installed himself behind the bar counter

and closed the hinged counter top.

'God save all here,' said John Omally, pushing open the door.

'Count that double,' said Pooley, following up the rear.

Neville pushed a polished glass beneath the spout of the beer engine and drew upon the enamel pump

handle. Before the patrons had hoisted themselves on to their accustomed barstools, two pints of Large

stood brimming before them, golden brown and crystal clear. 'Welcome,' said Neville.

'Hello once more,' said Omally, 'Jim is in the chair.' Pooley smiled and pushed the exact amount of

pennies and halfpennies across the polished counter top. Neville rang up 'No Sale' and once more all was

as it ever had been and hopefully ever would be in Brentford.

'How goes the game then, gentlemen?' Neville asked the patrons, already a third of the way through

their pints.

'As ever, cruel to the working man,' said John. 'And how is yourself?'

'To tell you the truth, a little iffy. In your personal opinion, John, how do I look to you?'

'The very picture of health.'

'Not a little puffy?' Neville fingered his middle regions.

'Not at all.'

'No hint of stoutness there? You can be frank with me, I have no fear of criticism.'

Omally shook his head and looked towards Jim. 'You look fine,' said Pooley. 'Are you feeling a bit

poorly, then?'

'No, no.' Neville shook his head with vigour. 'It's just that, well . . .'he considered the two drinkers

who surveyed him with dubious expressions. 'Oh, nothing at all. I look all right you think? No higher,

say, than usual?' Two heads swung to and fro upon their respective necks. 'Best to forget it then, a

small matter, do not let it spoil your ale.'

'Have no fear of that,' said John Omally.

The Swan's door opened to admit the entry of an elderly gentleman and his dog. 'Morning, John,

Jim,' said Old Pete, sidling up to the bar. 'Large dark rum please, Neville.' Neville took himself off to

the optic.

'Morning, Pete,' said Pooley, 'good day, Chips.' The ancient's furry companion woofed non-

committally. 'Are you fit?'

'As well as can be expected. And how goes the sport for you? That Big One still lurking up beyond

your frayed cuff?'

Pooley made a 'so-so' gesture. 'Inches, but. . .'

Old Pete accepted his drink from Neville and held up the glass to evaluate the exact volume of his

measure before grudgingly pushing the correct change across the bar top. 'So,' he continued, addressing

himself to Omally, 'and how fare the crops?'

'Blooming,' said Omally. 'I expect a bumper harvest this year. Come the Festival. I expect several

firsts and as many seconds in the Show.'

'King Teddies again then, is it?' Revered as the personification of all agricultural knowledge within a

radius of an 'nth number of miles, Old Pete had little truck with potato growers.

'Nature's finest food,' said John. 'Was it not the spud which sustained the Joyces, the Wildes, the

Behans and the Traynors? Show me a great man and I will show you a spud to his rear.'

'I have little regard for footballers,' said Old Pete. 'If you were any kind of a farmer you would diversify

your crops a little. I myself have fostered no fewer than five new varieties of sprout.'

Omally crossed himself and made a disgusted face. 'Don't even speak the word,' said he. 'I cannot

be having with that most despicable of all vegetables.'

'The sprout is your man,' intoned the old one. 'Full of iron. A man could live alone upon a desert

island all his life if he had nothing more than a few sprout seeds and bit of common sense.'

'A pox on all sprouts,' said John, crouching low over his pint. 'May the black fly take the lot of

them.'

Pooley was consulting his racing paper. Possibly there was a horse running whose name was an

anagram of 'sprout'. Such factors were not to be taken lightly when one was seeking that all elusive

cosmic connection. The effort was quite considerable and very shortly Jim, like Dickens's now legendary

fat boy, was once more asleep. Neville made to take up the half-finished glass for the washer. With a

sudden transformation from Dickens to Edgar Alien Poe, the sleeper awoke. 'Not done here,' said Jim.

'It's Omally's round.' Omally got them in.

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