The Sprouts of Wrath

8

At precisely eleven o’clock Neville sheepishly opened the saloon-bar door, upon the safety chain. Lowering his pomander he took a delicate peck at the air. It smelt like fish. “It smells like fish,” said the puzzled barkeep.

“That’s because it is fish.” John Omally grinned through the crack. “Open up there, Neville.”

“Sorry, John.” The part-time barman slipped the chain and flip-flopped back across the bar. Omally followed him, a bulging bin-liner slung across his shoulder. “By the saints, Neville,” said he as the barman placed the pomander upon the bar counter and himself behind it, “you smell like the proverbial tart’s handbag!”

“Again, sorry.” Neville held a shining glass beneath the spout of the beer engine and drew off a pint of the very best. He held it to the light. It was clear as an author’s conscience. “The drains must be up,” he tapped at his sensitive nostrils with a free finger, “or something.”

“I understand.” Omally settled himself on to his favourite stool. He had no intention of being drawn into another discourse on the barman’s ENP. “I’ve two beauties here,” he said, depositing his load on to the bar counter. “Fresh river trout,” he explained. He placed his glass to his lips and took the first sip of the day. Neville paused a moment, his day was won or lost upon the outcome of this single sip. “Magic,” said John, smacking his lips together and taking another draught. “Magic.”

Neville relaxed. “Still ten bob a pound, I trust?”

“The very same, a couple of six pounders here.” Neville gave Omally the old fish-eye and took out his pocket scales. “Well, fives at the very least, hand-fed on hempseed and mealworms.”

“Not hand fed upon spanners like those other two you sold me?”

Omally smiled his winning smile and sipped his ale. “You will have your little joke,” said he between sippings.

“And you yours, but not at my expense.” Neville weighed up the fish, cashed up NO SALE on the publican’s piano and drew out five crisp one pound notes. “Shall I take for your pint now?” he asked.

“That’s a bit previous,” said John. “Jim will be here at any moment.”

Neville offered Omally a sociable smile and hauled the day’s catch away to the pub freezer.

Old Pete, Brentford’s horticultural elder statesman, entered the Flying Swan, his half-terrier Chips hard as ever upon his down-at-heels.

“Morning, John,” said he, joining Omally at the bar.

“Morning, Pete,” himself replied. “Morning, Chips.”

The dog sniffed quizzically at the air. His antiquated master did likewise. “Now there’s a thing,” said Old Pete.

Omally plucked a copy of the Brentford Mercury from the bar counter and began to fan nonchalantly at the air. “What’s that?” he enquired.

“Funny how a particular smell can stir a particular memory.”

“Oh yes?” How the miasmal cocktail of wet fish and pomander could stir up anything other than acute nausea escaped Omally.

“Her name was Jasmine,” Old Pete recalled wistfully, “she ran a Bangkok brothel.”

“You disgusting old bastard,” said John Omally, concealing his mirth.

“Of course I could be wrong.” The ancient had another sniff or two and thought to detect the familiar whiff of a large dark rum hovering in the overcharged air. “It might just be ten pound of freshly poached river salmon,” he announced loudly.

Omally spluttered into what was left of his pint. “A large dark rum over here, please, Neville,” he said, wiping foam from his nose.

“Why, thank you, John,” said Old Pete, chuckling wickedly, “most unexpected.” Neville, returning from the freezer, wiping his hands upon his bar apron, drew the old rogue his prize from the bullseye optic.

“Your very good health, John.”

“And yours, Pete.” Omally raised his glass and peered sadly through its now empty bottom.

“Same again, is it?” Neville enquired. “Care to settle up now, would you?”

As if upon cue Jim Pooley entered the Flying Swan. “Watchamate all,” said he.

Pete touched his flat cap, Neville inclined his shining pate, Young Chips woofed non-committally and Omally said, “Good day.”

“Who’s in the chair?” Jim enquired.

“Guess?” Omally proffered his empty glass.

“Ah.” Jim patted his pockets. “I regret that a business transaction has sorely taxed my purse upon this morning,” said he, turning to Omally with what he considered to be a “significant look”.

“We’ll split it then.” Omally pushed his glass across the shining bar top. “Two pints of Large, please, Neville.”

“And a dark rum,” said Old Pete with a blackmailer’s optimism.

“And a small dark rum,” said Omally, “which will be your last.”

Old Pete grinned toothlessly. He knew better than to kill the fish that laid the golden egg. There was always another Friday. “Much obliged,” said he.

The honours were done and Omally called to account. John led his partner away to the privacy of a side table where he split the change and tossed Jim another pound note.

Pooley sorrowfully examined the residue of the day’s wages. “I do not appear to be quids in here,” he observed.

“It is impossible to project a specific return upon working capital,” said John informatively. “For the wheels of commerce to spin freely, their axles must receive constant financial lubrication.”

“You mean paying off that old villain?” Pooley nodded towards Pete, who raised his glass in reply and said “Cheers!” Young Chips, whose hearing was more than acute, made a mental note to visit Jim’s ankle when the occasion arose.

“A mere bagatelle,” said Omally. “Now what about that other bit of business?”

Pooley supped his ale. “Your prediction odds-wise was somewhat over-optimistic,” said he, “but then it is always impossible to project a specific return upon …”

“Touchée,” said Omally, peeling another pound note into Jim’s direction. “I believe I might have short-changed you in error.”

“By another ten shillings, I believe,” replied Pooley.

“Ah, yes.” A ten-shilling note changed hands.

“Thank you, John, but truly, do you honestly believe that this is going to come off?”

Omally nodded. “It is a sure thing, I am telling you.” He drew his companion closer. “And Bob went for it?”

“He made a small provision or two, but, yes, well, he went for it.”

“Wonderful,” said Omally. “Then shortly we will both be very, very rich. Neville!” he called out, “what is the exact time, do you know?”

The part-time barman eye-balled the battered Guinness clock. “Do you mean pub time or GMT?”

“GMT.”

“Eleven twenty-two.”

“Thank you, Neville.” Omally turned to Jim and patted him upon the shoulder. “You honestly have nothing to fear,” said he, “we can now leave it all to the messenger of the gods.”

“The what?”

“The what and the whom. Mercury, the wing-heeled wonderboy.”

“Oh, that lad.”

“That lad,” said Omally. “Now drink up, the next is on me.”

“To Mercury.” Jim raised his glass.