The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

27

Now Small Dave was a postman.

A postman, Small Dave was.

At one time he had the reputation for being a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard. But after a very nasty experience involving the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe, a zero-gravity camel named Simon and a mothership from the lost planet Ceres, he had mellowed somewhat and was now, for the most part, quite easy-going.

For the most part.

But not this morning.

This morning Small Dave was all in a lather. All in a lather and a regular foam. He’d arrived at the Brentford Sorting Office with the not-unreasonable expectation of finding the usual two sacks of mail awaiting him.

But not this morning.

This morning there were twenty-three sacks.

“Aaaaaagh!” went Small Dave, all in a lather and a regular foam. “Twenty-three sacks! Aaaaagh!”

Mrs Elronhubbard the postmistress looked Small Dave up and down. Though mostly down, due to his lack of inches.

“I’m terribly sorry, Small Dave,” said she. “But all these printed pamphlets arrived last night and one is to go into every single letterbox in Brentford.”

“Outrage!” Small Dave knotted a dolly-sized fist and shook it. “Outrage! Outrage! Outrage!”

“I’m sorry, but there it is.”

Small Dave kicked the nearest sack, spilling out its contents. He stooped (though not very far) and plucked up a pamphlet. And at this he glared, fiercely.

FREE MONEY ran the headline, in a manner calculated to gain the reader’s attention.

“Eh?” went Small Dave.

THE BRENTFORD MILLENNIUM FUND IS OFFERING YOU A CHANCE TO SHARE IN THE BOROUGH’S GOOD FORTUNE.

“Oh,” went Small Dave.

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS COME UP WITH A PROJECT FOR THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS AND THE FUND WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE CASH YOU NEED.

“It’s a wind-up,” said Small Dave.

THIS IS NOT A WIND-UP.

“Blimey,” said Small Dave.

SO FILL IN THE ATTACHED APPLICATION FORM. STICK IT IN THE ATTACHED PRE-PAID ENVELOPE AND POP THAT INTO AN UNATTACHED POST BOX. AND LOTS OF MONEY WILL BE YOURS!

“Incredible,” said Small Dave.

YES, ISN’T IT!

“Paragliding,” said Mrs Elronhubbard.

“What?” went Small Dave.

“Synchronized paragliding, like synchronized swimming only up in the sky. I’m going to put in for a grant.”

“But you’re nearly eighty.”

“You’re only as old as the men you feel.”

Small Dave sighed. “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” said he. “But of course there’s a law against that kind of thing.”

“Quite,” said Mrs Elronhubbard. “And there should be another about recycling old gags. So, Small Dave, up and at it.”

“I am up.”

“Oh, so you are. Well then, get at it.”

Small Dave made grumbling noises. “It’s no bloody use,” he complained. “It takes me nearly a day to deliver two sacks. It would take me a month to deliver this lot.”

“Then God bless the Brentford Millennium Committee.”

“What?”

“They’ve supplied you with ten part-time workers, who are out in the car park even now, awaiting your orders.”

“My orders?”

“Yours. You have been awarded the title Millennial Postman First Class and your salary’s been doubled.”

“Oh.” Small Dave puffed out his pigeon chest. “Right then, let’s get to it.”

“Well,” said Professor Slocombe, reading through the pamphlet. “When you get to it, John, you certainly get to it.”

“Thank you.” John Omally buttered toast and grinned across the ancient’s breakfast table. “I think it should provoke a positive response.”

“Guggy.” Jim dipped a bread soldier into his boiled egg. “It will all turn guggy, like this yolk.”

“Why so?” asked the Professor.

“Because every conman and nutcase in the borough will apply.”

“That is the general idea.”

“But they’ll only be doing it to grab the cash. There won’t actually be any projects.”

“He might have a point there, John.”

“No, Professor.” John Omally shook his head. “I know who’s who in Brentford. Trust me to weed out the wide boys and the moondancers.”

“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said Jim.

“I resent that.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Let’s look on the bright side, shall we?”

“Jim, I think at long last we’re actually on the bright side.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. So would now be a good time to raise the matter of our salaries?”

“Now would be a good time to raise our salaries.”

“Jolly good.”

Fred’s voice rose. It rose and rose. It rattled the crystals of the new chandelier, it made the window panes vibrate, it caused the nose to drop off a toby jug on the mantelpiece, and if chaos theory is to be believed it buggered up the sprout crop in Upper Sumatra.

“Bring me their heads!” screamed Fred. “Bring me their frigging heads.”

Clive had his hands firmly clasped over his ears. But his nose was beginning to bleed. “I really don’t think that heads are the solution,” he shouted.

“I do,” shouted Derek. “I think we should cull the entire population of Brentford.”

Fred’s hands were all of a quiver. They clutched in their fingers one of Omally’s pamphlets. They ripped this pamphlet into tiny little pieces and flung these pieces into the air. “I want this sabotaged!” screamed Fred in an even higher register. “And I want my money back.”

But he didn’t get it.

Early the next morning John and Jim sat in the Brentford Sorting Office viewing the twenty-three sacks of application forms which had all arrived by return of post.

“I think we can chalk this up as a one hundred per cent positive response,” said John. “Shall we dig in?”

“Is this what we’re being paid for?” Jim asked.

“Of course. Whatever did you think?”

“Well, it was always my opinion that company directors spent their days swanning about in limousines, eating at expensive restaurants, smoking large cigars and taking the afternoons off with their secretaries.”

“Ah.” John made thoughtful noddings. “I take your point. You feel that a task such as this should be left to underlings.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m getting above myself. But I do have pressing business of my own that I should be attending to.”

“Millennial business?”

“Precisely.”

“And what business would this be?”

“The building of the Jim Pooley.”

“Ah. But don’t I recall you saying that there isn’t enough time left for anything like that?”

“Aha.” Jim tapped his nose.

“You tapped your nose, Jim,” said John. “This is a new development.”

Jim tapped it again. “I have decided to enlist the services of our two local builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John. They are going to construct the Jim Pooley in the traditional style of a rude hut. A couple of weeks and it will be up.”

“One light breeze and it will be down again.”

“I shall oversee the building work myself.”

“Neville isn’t going to like it.”

“I don’t think I’ll mention it to Neville.”

Omally shrugged. “Well, please yourself, Jim. If you think this bit of self-indulgence is more important than helping the Professor.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s my personal contribution to the celebrations.”

“You are, as ever, altruism personified. But regrettably, as I am the managing director of the Brentford Millennium Committee, and so one up the chain of command from your good self, I hereby inform you that you can’t have the time off.”

“What?”

“And you’d be wasting it anyway. Hairy Dave and Jungle John are already at work on Omally’s. Arse-ends and everything.”

AND EVERYTHING

Now there is much that might have been written of what occurred during the months that led up to December. Of the many and various projects which were put into operation and the many and various plain folk of Brentford who absconded with large quantities of cash and now live on an island in the Caribbean. Of Fred’s doomed attempts to recover his money, of more hair-raising life and death struggles, of how the Flying Swan was restored to its former glory, and then converted once more to the Road to Calvary and then restored yet again, converted yet again, restored yet again and so on and so forth.

And some tender passages might have been included regarding Jim’s relationship with Suzy and how the old business was finally conducted. And how the old business was not the old business at all when it came to Jim and Suzy. But how it was making love.

And of just how special making love can be.

But time does not allow. And so let us move forward to Monday, December the twenty-ninth 1997. To early evening, a new moon rising in the sky, a considerable nip in the air and words being spoken in the Flying Swan.

No, excuse me, the Road to Calvary.