The Sprouts of Wrath

22

The days passed into a week and work upon the five Olympic sites pressed on relentlessly. The stadium “legs”, elegant columns of chromium and glass, some forty feet each in diameter, rose higher with the passing of each single hour. Finally there stood five slim towers, their lofty pinnacles dwindled by perspective into needle points five hundred feet above Brentford. The raising of these towers to such perfection in so short a length of time was in itself a marvel of engineering, but it was nothing when held up before the face of what was yet to come.

Early on the evening of the second Wednesday, the first dirigible appeared in the darkening sky. The gentle drone of drazy hoops announced its coming as it appeared from out of the setting sun, a flattened disc of black, lit below by many twinkling lights, and trailing in its wake the first segment of the great Star Stadium. The borough’s curious thronged the byways to view the spectacle, oohing and aahing like sprogs at a firework display.

Old Pete leant upon his Penang lawyer and squinted disapprovingly through a pair of ex-army field glasses. “Remember the R101,” he told Young Chips. His canine companion grinned up at him, lifted his furry leg up against Marchant’s front wheel and followed Pete into the Flying Swan.

The saloon bar was already crowded. Gentlemen of the press filled the air with rowdy conversation and cheap cigar smoke and Old Pete was forced to make free with his cane to clear a path to the bar. “Terribly sorry, guvnor,” he apologized to a newly maimed photographer as he shuffled by. “No damage done, I hope.” The pressman glared daggers at the retreating reprobate and nursed his shattered kneecap.

“Evening, Pete.” The voice belonged to John Omally, the cleanly shaven and neatly turned-out barman in the white shirt and clip-on dicky. “What will it be then?”

“That’s very kind of you, John.”

Omally shook his head and applied a finishing touch to a dazzling pint pot. “Sorry,” he said. “More than my job’s worth.”

Pete grumbled to himself. “I’ll never get used to you being that side of the counter,” said he. “A light ale if you will, and not a warm one.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Neville watched his Celtic barman from the corner of his good eye. Omally’s behaviour, thus far, had been exemplary. His manner was courteous and his skill at the pump handle a pleasure to behold. Neville had hardly to say a word, Omally was always one jump ahead, quick to replenish an optic or replace a failing barrel. His dedication even stretched to the escorting home of young ladies who had imbibed too freely. He was almost too good to be true, which was proving a little difficult for Neville, a man from whom trust had long departed.

In truth Omally, who had spent his formative years as a lounge boy in Clancy’s, was thoroughly enjoying himself and had now decided that when he got his share of Pooley’s winnings he was going to open a pub.

Jim Pooley now entered the bar and elbowed his way through the crush.

“Did you wipe your boots?” Omally enquired. Neville tittered foolishly and went off about his end of the business.

“Watchamate John, Pete,” said Jim, nodding to the elder and ignoring the Irishman’s remark. “A pint of Large, please.”

“A rough day on the herbaceous border?” asked Pete as John pulled the pint of Jim’s preference.

“I fear the Professor is taking liberties with me.” Jim took out his baccy and rolled a cigarette. “Each time I dig a hole I look around to find the earth unturned. Each spadeful of leaves seems to weigh a hundredweight.”

Old Pete chuckled. “His good self the Professor wishes to make a man of you,” he suggested. “He pays a fair daily wage though, I bet. Cash up front, didn’t you say?”

Pooley, who was learning always to keep at least two sentences ahead when conversing with Old Pete, dismissed the remark. “Scarcely enough to make ends meet, and none whatever to permit a largesse.” He accepted his pint and passed the exact amount in pennies and halfpennies into Omally’s outstretched palm. “Great stuff all this, eh, Pete?” Jim gestured upwards and outwards. “Great days for Brentford.”

Old Pete made a contemptuous face. “Fol de rol,” he muttered. “Now don’t get me wrong, I’d like to see it, I saw the last one over here when it was on at the White City. But this lark, fairy castles in the sky, it can’t hold water.”

“It will keep the rain off Brentford.”

“Yes and bugger the allotment crops.”

“Free ringside seats though, think of that.”

“You’ll not get me up there.” Pete waggled his cane in the air, causing nearby pressmen to fall back in distress. “I shall sell my ticket and take a few weeks in Eastbourne till it’s over.”

Pooley looked thoughtful. “I wonder what they will do with the stadium once it’s taken down.”

“They should stick it up on Sydenham Hill like they did with the Crystal Palace. Mind you, they haven’t got it up yet.”

“I can’t see anything stopping them,” said Jim.

“Oh, can’t you now.” Old Pete drew Pooley closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Not everyone is as keen as you two to have this thing built. Some think the whole thing is an abomination. There is a small group of people who call themselves ‘Action by Informed Individuals against a Positive Threat’.”

“Oh, yes?” said John.

“Oh, yes, and they are thinking of engaging themselves in a little, shall we say …”

“Not sabotage?” The perilous quaver in Jim’s voice was not lost upon the elder. “What are you talking about?”

Old Pete finished his light ale and peered into the empty bottom of the glass, possibly searching for a reply that might be written there upon.

Pooley dug deeply into his trouser pocket. “A dark rum?” he asked with resignation.

“My thanks,” said Pete. Omally did the business and at Pooley’s insistence hovered near at hand to catch what was said. “They’re not local nutters, this lot, in fact they are out-borough.” Old Pete used the all-inclusive and not underogatory term, which was applied by Brentonians to all who lived beyond the borders of the Brentford Triangle. “Ecologists, Earth Mysteries Investigators, call them what you will. A little coven of them there is. They reckon that the stadium buggers up some kind of ley line configuration that runs through the borough.”

“Are you taking the piss?” John asked. His outspokenness cost him a dark rum, which Neville, ever watchful, observed Omally pay for out of his own pocket.

“My thanks, John. Now as I was saying, these boys consider themselves to be upon some kind of divine mission. They intend to form a circle about each of the stadium legs and chant some kind of exorcism.”

Pooley shrugged. “That can’t do any harm I suppose.”

“Possibly not, except I overheard them saying that it was to be a ‘fire ceremony’.” Old Pete raised his glass and took rum. Pooley and Omally exchanged worried looks.

“You didn’t happen to overhear when, by any chance?” Omally asked.

Old Pete perused his glass. “My memory is not what it was,” said he.

“Your conversation, although of passing interest, incurs too great an expense upon my person,” said John, turning away to serve a customer. “I must away to my work.”

Old Pete shrugged and turned towards Pooley. “I am two to the credit and have no wish to put undue strain upon our friendship. Tonight it is, and midnight, on Griffin Island. For your information, that’s them over there.” Pete nodded through the crowd to a small conclave, clad in duffle coats and Wellington boots. They sat at a side table whispering seriously over their fruit juices.

“Thanks,” said Jim, “thanks very much. Whose round is it?”

“Yours, I think,” said Old Pete.