The Sprouts of Wrath

14

The Flying Swan was unusually crowded for the time of day. John and Jim elbowed their way towards the bar and cried out for attention. Neville detached himself from a noisy throng at the counter and came over to do the honours.

“It’s busy,” John observed.

Neville tapped at his slender nose. “Whitehall,” he whispered hoarsely, “there’s all sorts in from Westminster, and on a Saturday too. It seems you can’t just say you’re hosting the Olympic games without getting some kind of official say-so. All seems a little fussy to me. Something to do with red tape.”

“So you mean that there might be some doubt,” Pooley clutched at his breast pocket, wherein rested his key to the potential millions.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Neville, presenting the pints. “Still, it’s all good for business isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim, “yes indeed,” He had paid for the drinks before he recalled that they were Omally’s treat.

“Cheers,” said John.

“I don’t like the sound of this coloured tape,” said Jim. “This could cost us.”

“I suggest we listen in,” Omally nodded towards a nearby conclave and Pooley followed him in the direction of the nod.

The Whitehall types were clustered about one “Badger” Beaumont, the Mercury’s inebriate theatre critic. In the absence of Scoop Molloy, who was recovering from the effects of a night without shame, he was acting as official Olympic correspondent.

John and Jim pondered long upon the Whitehallinesians.

They were of a species new to the borough. Omally’s eye for a well-tailored suit recognized that rare variety that is measured for in inches without laughter and paid for in guineas without complaint. Their faces had that scrubbed and plucked quality only found elsewhere upon Madame Tussaud’s dummies and oven-ready chickens. Noses inked in by suffused veins found favour and weak chins were all the rage. There was an even half dozen of them, and from right to left, in terms of position rather than political persuasion, they were: ministers for Sport and Recreation, Development, Housing, Trade and Industry, Foreign Affairs and Finance. There were also under-ministers, under-secretaries, press secretaries, advisers, chauffeurs, masseurs, minders and minions. Omally also spied out several of those young ladies that are trained in the arts which amuse men.

All were arrayed about the Swan in their social groupings, clucking and chatting, laughing and nodding. And doing it all very loudly.

Pooley and Omally listened carefully to the ministers as they conversed.

“I am perplexed,” said Jim.

“You and me both,” said John.

Neville swept by with a platter of salmon sandwiches. “Everything to your liking, gentlemen?” he asked, his good eye all awink. He appeared to be sporting his bestest suit, the weddings, funerals and special lodge meetings number. “Quality punters, eh?”

Omally watched in dumb disbelief as Neville fawned over a group of pin-striped “Hoorays” and their females, who were nonchalantly sipping halves of bitter and flicking cigarette ash into the jardinieres. “Who would have thought it,” said John, “Neville sucking up to these cretins.”

“It will end in tears,” said Jim philosophically. “But see, here comes Bob. Will you hold him whilst I do the hitting or likeways about?”

“Let us hear his story first, there might well be free drinks in it.”

Bob waded bravely through the crowd, fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of dental crowns beaming from his face. “Hello, lads,” he said, “hoped I’d find you here, how’s tricks?”

“Never better,” said Jim. “And yourself?”

“Oh, fine, fine.”

“That is good to hear,” said Pooley, “that is very good.”

“It is good,” Omally agreed.

“Listen,” said Bob. “No hard feelings, eh?”

“Hard feelings?” Jim looked mystified. “About what?”

“You know.” Bob made a gun from his right hand and clicked it towards Pooley’s head. “All a misunderstanding, no offence meant.”

“Oh, that.” Pooley put his forefinger to his temple and cocked his thumb. “No offence meant? None taken, I assure you.”

“Oh, good, good, it’s just, well, joke over, eh, Jim?”

“Joke?”

“The bet.”

“The bet?”

“Come on now, Jim, the one million to one.”

“One million!” Omally’s eyebrows rose towards his curly crown. He could not restrain his hands from rubbing together.

“Good joke,” said Bob, “but let’s call it off now, eh? Tell you what, I’ll buy back the betting slip, what shall we say, twenty-five pounds?” Pooley looked at Omally. “Fifty then?” Omally looked at Pooley. “All right,” said Bob. “Never let it be said that I am not a good sport. Seventy-five pounds and that’s my final offer.”

“I’ll hold,” said John. “You hit.”

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The voice belonged to Jennifer Naylor.

“Let me buy you a drink,” said Bob, grinning up at his angel of deliverance and detaching himself from John’s grip.

“Later, I’m rather tied up at the moment.” Jennifer indicated Philip Cameron and Mavis Peake who had entered in her wake, freighting large bundles of xeroxed paper. “This way!”

Pooley flinched. “This way” would forever now hold only bitter memories for him.

Jennifer approached the Hoorays’ table, considering it suitable to her needs, then ushered the entire bunch away with a simple, “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here, thank you.”

John watched in admiration. “Jim,” said he, “now that is a woman. If ever I was to marry.”

Jim turned to his friend in surprise. “Marry?” said he. “Whatever do you mean?”

“It comes to all men, or at least to most.”

“But not to you, John.” Pooley straightened an imaginary tie. “A man would have to be worth a lot of scratch to get a woman like that for a wife. A veritable millionaire at the very least.”

“My glass is empty,” said John. “Whose round is it?”

“Yours, John, without a shadow of a doubt.”

“Itineraries, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jennifer Naylor as Mavis and Philip moved amongst the throng, distributing the xeroxed sheets. “You will see that everything has been laid on for your convenience. If there are any problems, I will be happy to help out wherever I can.”

Neville, returning to the bar, found an itinerary pushed into his hand. Somewhat flattered, he thrust out his chest, grinned broadly and examined the thing with keen interest.

“A coach will pick us up from here at twelve noon,” Jennifer continued.

“Twelve noon?” The grin fell from Neville’s face. He gazed up in horror towards the Guinness clock. It was already eleven forty-five. “Hang on,” he cried. “What’s the hurry?”

“There will be a reception at the town hall,” said Jennifer, ignoring the barman’s protests. “Full buffet, choice of wines, etc., etc.”

Neville found a large platter of salmon sandwiches being thrust back into his hands. “Sorry, old chap,” said one of the Hoorays, “and could you cancel those bottles of vino.”

“Then there will be a private viewing of the Olympic model at one o’clock where you will have the opportunity to pose questions to Messrs Membrane and Mucus, the design consultants. A tour of the local brewery and a later wine tasting at Punter’s Wine Bar will lead us through nicely to the Mayoral banquet at seven-thirty. Do please keep your itineraries with you as they will serve as security passes to the various functions.”

John Omally hastily availed himself of two copies. “This sounds like our kind of day out,” he told Jim, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Same again?” Neville asked, spying out Pooley’s empty glass.

“Ah, no thanks, Neville, I think we’ve had enough for now.”

The barman turned away in fury to view more plates of salmon sandwiches being pushed back across the bar counter. “Bastards!” was all he had to say.

Pooley and Omally were the first to board the coach. Although Jim wanted to sit next to the driver, Omally counselled subtlety and the keeping of the now legendary low profile and thrust him towards a rear seat.

“Not over the wheel,” said Jim. “It makes me travel sick.”

Omally shook his head. “You’re so childish,” he said.

The ministers and team climbed on board, talking loudly, all white collars, blue ties and red faces. After a brief kerfuffle over who got to sit next to the driver, a pecking order was established and they lowered their Gieves and Hawkes and prepared for the off.

Jennifer Naylor climbed aboard, with the unnecessary assistance of Philip Cameron, and took up the microphone. “If you are all sitting comfortably,” she said, “then off we go.” And off they jolly well went.