Knees Up Mother Earth

37

Jim Pooley sat in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

It was a Friday lunchtime in May.

Jim had a certain face on.

Neville passed a pint of Large across the highly polished bar counter and accepted Jim’s small change.

“Two questions,” Neville said, as he rang up “no sale” on the publican’s piano. “Firstly, why are you here? And secondly, why do you have that certain face on?”

Jim swallowed ale and Jim shrugged his shoulders. “In answer to your first question, Neville,” said he, “why are any of us here? And in answer to your second question, it’s the speed.”

“The speed?” said Neville, addressing himself to the latter of Jim’s answers. “What do you mean by ‘the speed’?”

“The speed of all this.” Jim made an expansive gesture with his pint-free hand. “Bang, bang, bang, Brentford United, four, Arsenal, nil. Bang, bang, bang, Brentford United, three, Chelsea, one.”

Neville managed a chuckle at this. “The Chelsea striker hammered that one right past the circus giant you now have as a goalie,” said he.

“But the speed of it all,” Jim said with a sigh. “It’s all just happened so fast. One minute it’s November and now it’s May.”

“And the FA Cup Final is tomorrow,” Neville said. “And the team is up against Man U. Should I venture a fiver on them, do you think?”

Jim did a bit more sighing. “Is it real to you?” he asked. “For it certainly is not to me.”

“Hm.” Neville took up a dazzling pint pot and took to the polishing of same. “I don’t really know what’s real any more.” And he rolled his good eye towards Pippa and Loz, who stood, topless as ever, chatting away at the other end of the bar.

“But you’re doing all right for yourself,” said Jim, as he followed the direction of Neville’s eye-rolling. “You’re having the time of your life.”

“And you too, surely,” said Neville. “You could never have dreamed that it would come to this.”

“I never volunteered for this job, Neville, and in truth I don’t enjoy it. The responsibility is too much for me. I wish things were just as they used to be.”

“Well, it will all be over tomorrow – one way or the other.”

“Your words offer little comfort to me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Neville, “but what can I say?”

“Nothing,” said Jim Pooley. “Nothing.”

Norman Hartnel now entered the bar. And if Pooley had a face on him, so, too, did Mr Hartnel.

The shopkeeper slouched up to the bar counter and slumped himself on to a stool.

“Norman,” said Jim.

“Jim,” said Norman.

“Drink?” Neville asked.

“Large whisky,” said Norman.

“Large whisky?” Jim asked, as Neville did the business. “Isn’t that a little strong for this time of day?”

“I am a man sorely vexed,” said Norman. “I am a man consumed with sorrow.”

Neville proffered Scotch and the shopkeeper drained it away in one.

“But surely,” said Neville, “your ship comes in tomorrow. Don’t I recall you telling me that tomorrow you will receive the many millions for your patents?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “I’d quite forgotten about that.”

“It’s true,” said Norman with gloom in his voice. “But money can’t buy you happiness.”

“To quote Jon Bon Jovi,” said Neville, “‘anyone who says that money can’t buy you happiness is shopping in the wrong store.’”

“Jon Bon who?” said Norman.

“Jovi,” said Neville. “Pippa is a fan of his music. She likes to have it playing when we …” Neville’s voice trailed away and his good eye glazed over.

“Well, I’m not happy,” said Norman. “It never rains but it damn well buckets down.”

“Would you care to share it with me?” Jim asked. “A trouble shared being a trouble halved, as they say. As you say, actually.”

“Another Scotch, please,” said Norman to Neville.

“On me,” said Jim, fishing out further small change.

“The fruit machine at The Stripes Bar still raking it in?” asked Neville.

“Perk of the job,” said Jim, and to Norman he said, “Go on.”

Norman accepted his second Scotch and turned the glass between fingers that were in need of a wash. “I have done a bad thing,” he said. “I didn’t really know that it was a bad thing when I did it. Well, I knew it was a bit bad, but not as bad as it may well prove to be.”

“Go on,” said Jim once more.

“But I don’t want to talk about that,” said Norman. “It’s women that are causing me grief.”

Jim held his counsel and Norman continued, “I think Peg’s putting it about.” And Jim and Neville raised eyebrows to this. “She is,” said Norman. “I followed her in my van. She’s having it away with Scoop Molloy from the Brentford Mercury.”

“The cad,” said Neville. “I’ll bar him the next time he comes in.”

“I don’t really blame her,” said Norman, “because I’ve been—”

“Banging the bird from the solicitor’s,” said Old Pete, who’d been listening in.

“And that’s the real problem,” said Norman. “Apparently she’s pregnant.”

“Unfortunate,” said Neville.

“And she wants me to meet her tonight. I think she’s going to blackmail me, or something.”

“Is that really a problem?” Jim asked. “If you’re really going to become so rich and everything.”

“I don’t want the money,” said Norman. “I wish I’d never got involved in that patents business in the first place, but I just don’t know what to do.”

“Are you sure it’s your baby?” Jim asked.

“No,” said Norman. “Of course I’m not.”

“Call her bluff,” said Old Pete. “If she’s thinking to blackmail you, hold your nerve.”

Norman’s shoulders slumped some more. “I don’t know what to do for the best,” said he.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to blackmail you,” Pooley said. “Maybe she just wants to talk – she’s probably very upset, too. Perhaps everything can be done in a civilised manner, no matter what it is.”

“Do you really think so, Jim?” said Norman.

“Certainly,” said Jim, in the most convincing tone that he could muster.

“Jim,” said Norman, “would you come with me? Tonight, when I meet her. I’d feel a lot happier if I had a friend with me.”

“I can’t do that,” said Jim. “It’s between you and her. She wouldn’t appreciate my presence.”

“You wouldn’t have to sit with us, just be nearby, for moral support, as it were. I’d feel a lot happier.”

“I’d like to help you, Norman, but I’m rather busy at present. The team I manage is playing for the FA Cup tomorrow afternoon.”

Norman sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “You have troubles of your own. And I have to leave. I have a pressing appointment, a loose end that must now be firmly tied up once and for all.” Norman drained his Scotch and rose from his stool to take his leave.

“Hold on,” said Jim. “Where and when are you meeting her?”

“In The Beelzepub,” said Norman. “At ten this evening.”

“I’ll do my best to be there,” said Jim, “but I won’t make any promises.”

Norman shook Jim by the hand. “I’ll be forever in your debt,” said he.

“Debts?” said John Omally. “What debts are these?”

John had been sitting at Jim Pooley’s office desk when the man with the suit had entered without knocking. He was a very large man, broad at the shoulders and at the hips also. He carried a metal executive case and this he placed upon the desk, having first swept papers to right and left to make a spot of room.

“Steady on,” said John.

“Many debts,” said the big, broad man, flipping the catches on the case. “Many court costs and damages.”

“Many what?” John asked.

The big, broad man lifted the lid of his case and brought out many papers. “You are John Vincent Omally,” he said.

“Well—” said John.

“It wasn’t a question,” said the man. “You are John Vincent Omally, personal assistant to James Arbuthnot Pooley, manager of Brentford United Football Club.”

John made a face not dissimilar to that which Jim had recently been making.

“The court summonses were all addressed to you,” said the man, “but you failed to attend any of the proceedings.”

“I’m a very busy man,” said John, who vaguely recalled a lot of official-looking correspondence arriving for him, all of which he had consigned to the bin without opening it.

“Perhaps you believe yourself to be above the law,” said the big, broad man.

John made a so-so face towards this.

The big, broad man affected a smirk. “The court found in favour of the following,” said he, and he read out a list of names.

Omally did groanings. These were the names of the town councillors who had fallen through the floor of the executive box during the Brentford-Orton Goldhay game.

“They all sued, and they all won, as their cases went undefended. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the Brentford Mercury more than a month ago.”

“I only ever read the sports page,” said John, “and the front page when it’s about one of the Brentford team’s wins.”

“This was on the court page. But no matter, I have all the information here. Perhaps you’d care to write me out a cheque – assuming that you have a lot of ink in your Biro.”

The big man laughed. The humour was lost upon John.

“So,” said the big man, suddenly grave, “cheque, is it, or repossession?”

“Repossession?” John asked.

“I represent a firm of bailiffs,” said the big man, now proffering his card. “We have taken over the debts. I must demand payment at once or I will be forced to take possession of the premises and all property within them – which would include the team’s strip, boots, oranges for half-time, et cetera.”

“Oh no,” said John, “you can’t do that. We’re playing for the FA Cup tomorrow.”

The big, broad man replaced his papers and closed his executive case. And then he lunged forward over the desk, snatched John up by his lapels and hoisted him into the air.

“I trust,” said he, as he did so, “that you are not intending to obstruct a bailiff in the course of his duties.”

“I …” gurgled John, lining up to swing a punch that would in all probability prove to be his last. “I …”

“Put Mr Omally down, if you will.”

John peeped over the big, broad shoulder. The Campbell stood in the doorway. “Put him down, says I.”

The big, broad man let John slip from his fingers. He turned upon the figure in the doorway. “And who might you be?” he asked.

“Mahatma Campbell,” said the Campbell. “Take your leave now, if you will.”

The big, broad man stared at the Campbell. “On your way,” said he.

“I’ll stand my ground,” said the Campbell. “And I’ll stand this ground. Take your case and begone.”

The big, broad man lifted his metal case from the desk and then, before John’s horrified eyes, he flung it with terrific force straight at the Campbell’s head.

And John looked on as, with unthinkable speed, the Campbell drew his claymore and swung it at the oncoming case. There was a crash and a flurry of sparks as the claymore cleaved the case into two neat halves, which crashed to the floor amidst a flutter of neatly sliced court summonses.

The Campbell tucked away his claymore. “Away upon your toes,” said he.

The big man glared at the Campbell, and the big man’s eyes darkened, darkened to black. And a blackness fell all about the office and John Omally took to the ducking of his head.

“There’s no ducking out of this one,” said Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of Manchester United Football Club. “Tomorrow is the big match and we are going to win it.”

His team sat before him in the well-posh executive boardroom of the world’s most successful football club.

“I don’t want to have to be chucking any more football boots at players’ heads, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

His team shifted upon their well-posh executive boardroom chairs. The chairs were Bauhaus classics; the bums that sat upon them were separated from them by Armani suit trousers and Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

“This is a game that we must win,” continued Sir Alex. “A game that we are going to win.”

Team heads nodded enthusiastically.

“We’ll win, Boss,” said a player whose name had a trademark stamp upon it.

“We will,” said another whose face adorned a million bedroom walls.

“You will,” said Sir Alex. “But that is not why I have assembled you all here. I have done so because I want to introduce you to someone. You will not be aware of this, but the club has recently become involved in certain financial negotiations. In fact, the club has changed hands for a more than lucrative sum – one that will assure that when you win tomorrow, and you will win, you will each receive a cash bonus to the tune of half a million pounds.”

The team did oohings and aahings. Even with all the money they made every week, half a million smackers in cash was not something to be sneezed at.

“Allow me to introduce to you the new owner of Manchester United.” The big well-posh executive boardroom doors swung open to reveal a tall, slim man with a dark suit and a head of blondy hair.

“Mr William Starling,” said Sir Alex Ferguson.

“Mr Omally,” said the Campbell, “you can come out now.”

John raised his head from the devastation that had so recently been Jim Pooley’s office.

“Has he gone?” John asked.

“For ever,” said the Campbell, wiping something black from his claymore on to the hem of his kilt.

“He was one of—”

“Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions, aye. I’m thinking that you should accompany Mr Pooley to a place of safety for the night. I would advise the professor’s.”

John rose to his feet and did dustings down of himself. “Starling took a magical oath not to harm Jim or me.”

“Best to be safe,” said the Campbell. “Unless you think otherwise.”

“No,” said John. “And thank you.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming here once again,” said Professor Slocombe. Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy grinned at him from the fireside chairs in the professor’s study.

“We came at your calling,” said Terrence.

“Positively trotlike,” said Sponge Boy.

“And I appreciate this.” The professor seated himself at his desk and toyed with a nail from the true cross. “Tomorrow it must be – are you both prepared?”

“We are, Master,” said Terrence. “But why did we have to wait for so long?”

“Many reasons,” said the professor, “but now the time has come. You are to destroy the Consortium building. The streets of Chiswick will be deserted during the big match. This is when it must be done. Also, this is the period during which our adversary will be at his weakest regarding the defence of these premises. He will be concentrating his efforts upon the defeat of Brentford United.”

“You know that he bought out Man United?” said Sponge Boy.

“I am aware of this,” said the professor. “I shall be attending the match in person. I am prepared for a battle of wills, as it were.”

“And magic,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Dr Strange and Baron Mordo.”

“I do not expect things to be easy, but in the popular parlance of the football manager, I am ‘quietly confident’.”

“Will we have the Campbell with us?” asked Terrence.

“You will,” said the professor, “and he will fight to the death, if needs be, and beyond that, I should imagine.”

Sponge Boy said, “Professor, might I be permitted to ask you a question?”

Professor Slocombe nodded his aged head.

“What is the Campbell?” Sponge Boy asked.

“A familiar,” said Professor Slocombe. “A witch’s familiar. A lost soul conjured from the regions of Hell to aid one who had sold their own soul to the King of Darkness.”

“And he is in your employ?”

“I liberated him,” said the professor, “many years ago. I freed his soul.”

“Positively Faustian,” said Sponge Boy. “And he can be trusted?”

“Absolutely. Have no fear for that. I would say to you that he is my man, but the Campbell was never a man. He may appear to be a man, but he is not. The Campbell was once a Skye terrier.”

“A dog?” said Terrence. “He’s really a dog?”

“A sprout?” said Mr H.G. Wells. “Do you mean to tell me that the motive power behind my Time Machine is a Brussels sprout?”

“You built the thing,” said Norman, whose pressing appointment had been with Mr Wells and young Winston at Norman’s allotment lock-up. “Surely you know what powers it.”

“Hm,” said Mr Wells. “Perhaps it slipped my mind.”

“Well, it’s definitely the sprout,” said Norman. “I have had this thing to pieces time and time again over the last four months.”

“Long months,” said Mr Wells, “in this dire time.”

“And at my expense,” Norman said. “You’ve run up enormous bills with Madame Loretta Rune, not to mention at The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar.”

Mr Wells did not mention The Flying Swan or The Stripes Bar. “Merely keeping body and soul together,” he said.

“Well, be that as it may, I have reinstalled the sprout, rebuilt its broken mountings with Meccano and I truly believe that your Time Machine is now fully operational once more.”

Mr Wells patted Norman on the shoulder. “Then thank you,” said he. “Winston and I will now return to the Victorian era. Our prolonged stay here has at least assured me that the King of Darkness has not acquired any of the Victorian supertechnology I thought existed upon the computer system that you reconstructed. And so my work here is done.”

Mr Wells climbed into his Time Machine and young Winston climbed in beside him. “I am returning now to the Victorian era,” said Mr Wells, “to change my clothes and drop off young Winston here. But I will be popping back to this time briefly tomorrow. I wouldn’t wish to miss Brentford United winning the FA Cup.”

“Pleasure knowing ya, gov’nor,” said the ill-washed youth. “Gawd scupper me scrote if it weren’t.”

Mr Wells fastened his safety belt and prepared for takeoff.

Norman dithered.

And then Norman blurted.

“Mr Wells,” he blurted, “before you go, there’s something I have to tell you – something I should have told you before, but I just couldn’t pluck up the courage.”

“Yes?” said Mr Wells. “What do you have to say?”

“You’re really not going to like this,” said Norman. “And I’m really, really sorry.”