Knees Up Mother Earth (12 page)

“Er, Jim.” Omally nudged Jim’s elbow with his own and whispered into Jim’s ear, “Jim, there isn’t any money to pay these lads with. All the available money is paying our wages.”

“Then we’ll take a cut in salary,” said Jim.

“
What
?” Omally made a horrified face.

“And as my personal PA, whose job it is to take the burden of everyday matters from my shoulders, it will be your job to see that we raise sufficient funds each week to pay the lads.”

“
WHAT
?”

“A special cheer if you will for Mr Omally,” said Jim to the team, “the man who will be organising the financial wherewithal to pay your wages.”

“Three cheers for Mr Omally,” said Ernest Muffler. “And make them loud ones, lads.”

And loud ones they were.

Omally glared pointy daggers at Jim.

But Jim wore the face of an angel.

“And so,” said Jim, “to the training and tactics. For tonight is, after all, a training session, and in order that we dispose of all rival teams that stand between us and the championship, we shall be employing entirely new tactics – tactics that have never previously been employed. We shall take each of our opponents by surprise. Put your trust in me and prepare yourselves for victory.”

Horace Beaverbrooke lit up a cigarette. Jim stepped forward and plucked it from his fingers. “Not during training sessions,” he said. “Now, if you would kindly divide yourselves up into two teams, substitutes included. A short kick-around is in order so that I can gauge your relative skills.”

The team didn’t move.

“Go to it,” said Jim and he clapped his hands together.

And so the team went to it.

John and Jim settled on to the bench and watched them go to it. Jim lit up a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King.

“Your speech was truly inspired, Jim,” said John. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

“I don’t think I did,” said Jim. “The words just came out of my mouth.”

“As did the ones about
me
raising the funds to pay the team.”

“John,” said Jim, “we have our own pub now, and our own gift shop. I feel confident that you will find ways to provide for the team.”

“I wish I could share your confidence.”

“We’ll succeed,” said Jim. “I just know that we will. Now, let’s watch our team doing its stuff.”

And so they watched.

And so they flinched.

If a special prize was to be awarded for ineptitude and downright uselessness in a football side, there was no doubt in the minds of either John or Jim that this special prize would be unanimously awarded to the lads of Brentford United.

“They’re useless,” said John, as sportsmen blundered into one another, tripped over the ball and avoided every tackle as if it were a beast of prey. “They can’t play at all. The fat bloke from the circus just put the ball past the Brentford goalie.”

“There are certain weaknesses,” said Jim.

“Certain weaknesses?” hooted John. “These lads couldn’t kick a hole through an ozone layer.”

Jim produced from his pocket a whistle. An Acme Thunderer.

“Where did you get
that
from?” John asked.

“My pocket,” said Jim, and he put it to his lips and blew.

Play came to an end and the players limped from the pitch, puffing and panting and looking for the most part near to death.

“Well done,” said Jim. “Five minutes to gather your breath and then we will work upon the new tactics.”

“We usually go to The Stripes Bar for a pint about now,” said Trevor Brooking
[12]
. “It’s a dangerous thing to overtrain. You could tear a hamstring, or pull a ligament or get a groin strain, or something.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Jim. “When do we play the first FA Cup qualifying match?”

“Saturday,” said Ernest. “Against Penge.”

“Saturday?” Jim all but swallowed the cigarette he was puffing upon. “
This coming Saturday
?”

“It’s an away game,” said Ernest. “We’ll need to hire a coach.”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked at Jim.

“Best make a note of that,” said Jim wearily. “Hire a coach, John.”

John made a note of that.

“So,” said Jim, as brightly as he could, “the pints will have to wait. Back on to the pitch and we’ll get straight to work on the tactics.”

“But, Boss,” said Alf Snatcher, whose waggly tail was troubling him. And although Jim liked the sound of “boss”, he did not like the sound of the “but”.

“But me no buts,” said Mr Pooley. “We have a match to win.”

High in the corner of the south stand, unseen by team and boss alike, Professor Slocombe sat and watched the tactics being put into operation.

And Professor Slocombe smiled unto himself, leaned upon his ivory-topped cane and whispered, “Good boy, Jim. We will succeed.”

And high in the corner of the north stand, equally unseen and even unsensed by the professor, another sat. He sat half-in and half-out of the floodlight’s glare. The half of him that was in shadow was not to be seen at all, but the half of him that was to be seen, the lower half, was all in black, a blackness that was two shades darker than the blackest black yet known. And this blackness came and went, as if going in and out of focus. And strange unearthly sounds issued from the half that was not to be seen. Coming from the mouthparts. Probably.

And the sounds that were issued were the sounds of words.

But not of any language known to man.

The translation of these words, had a translator been present to do the translating thereof, would have been as follows, for they came in answer to those spoken by the professor. To whit, “We will succeed.”

And these words that came in answer, in this unknown tongue, meant, “Oh no you won’t.”

Norman, having slept throughout the afternoon – much to the distress of his customers, who had been unable to effect entry to his shop – was awakened at six by the return of his wife.

Who gave Norman a thrashing.

The evening meal was a sombre affair, lacking for sparkling conversation and gay badinage. But then it always did. And upon this particular evening, Norman felt this lack most deeply.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful, he thought to himself as he munched upon the fish and chips his wife had sent him out for, to have one of those marriages where you actually got on with your wife? Were friends with her, and woke up without the dread of what might lie in wait for you during the coming day. Indeed, awoke with the prospect, well founded, that sex might await you before you even got up for the breakfast that had been cooked for you.

Such marriages did exist, Norman felt certain of it. Not that he actually knew anyone who had one of these marriages, but they must exist. Somewhere.

Norman finished his fish and chips, scrunched up and binned the papers and heard his wife, Peg, slam the back door behind her as she went off for her weekly tuba lesson. He sighed, then smiled as he settled himself down in front of his newly constructed computer, which had by now grown comfortably hot, having been left on throughout the afternoon.

“It never rains, but it pours,” said the shopkeeper. “But a bird in the hand is worth two in Shepherds Bush.”

And Norman tapped at the antiquated keyboard, which was a glorious affair fashioned after the old-fashion of a manual typewriter, with raised brass keys with enamelled lettering upon them, and wondered how, exactly, you worked a computer.

“Manual,” said Norman, reaching for the cloth-bound copy of
The Babbage 1900 Series Computer Assembly Manual
. “It will all be in the manual.”

And, of course, it was.

“Ah,” said Norman. “Cable into the phone socket. Interesting concept.” Norman gazed towards his telephone. It was a fine Bakelite affair that had served the Hartnel clan well ever since its installation in the late 1930s. It didn’t have a socket, as such, though, just a big black box where it was wired into the wall. A big black box that had the word “DANGER” printed upon it and a kind of lightning-flash motif. Norman took out his screwdriver and tinkered with this box.

And in less time than it takes to call an ambulance for someone who has been electrocuted as a result of tampering with something electrical that they really shouldn’t have tampered with, but slightly more time than it takes to recover from such an electrocution and do the calling yourself, Norman was all cabled up with only the minimum of fingertip charring and singeing of the wig.

“Piece of cake,” said Norman, applying himself once more to manual and keyboard. The valves hummed away nicely, projecting an amber glow through the air holes in the back of the mahogany cabinet that housed the monitor screen and making that electrical toasty smell that is oft-times referred to as ozone, but is probably Freon. And then things began to appear upon the monitor screen.

Norman viewed these things and purred his approval.

They all looked very exciting, but he didn’t know what they meant. They were definitely symbols of some sort, row upon row of them, travelling sedately across the screen. Mathematical symbols? Norman certainly hoped so. If he was to come up with The Big Figure, the number of it all, the very number of existence – perhaps, Norman mused, the mathematical equation that was the Universe, or even God himself – then row upon row of mathematical-looking figures doodling their way across the screen was probably as good a place as any to start.

Norman continued with his viewing, and with his musing also. It was a private and personal kind of musing. And it ran in this fashion: perhaps, Norman’s musing went, going outright for The Big Figure was overly ambitious. It was not so much that he lacked the confidence to go for The Big Figure – far from it, Norman had every confidence in what he might personally achieve. All things
were
possible, to Norman’s mind. All things
could
be achieved if he, Norman, put his, Norman’s, mind to these things. That others thought him a dreamer did not enter into it. People were always saying that this can’t be done, and that can’t be done, and that to achieve big ends required vast organisations with vaster budgets. Norman pooh-poohed such narrow-mindedness.

But perhaps he should take things a bit at a time on this particular project, because it was, after all, a very BIG project. And if he did manage to come up with The Big Figure before anyone else did and could patent it, it would put him in a very powerful position. A kind of King of the World position, The Big Figure giving its discoverer all but limitless power, assuming that it did actually exist and that it was actually possible to discover it. And then actually do something with it.

Norman ceased his musing; such musing was not helpful. Such musing inspired doubt. Better just to get on with the project, find The Big Figure and then cock a snoot to the lads at The Flying Swan who had doubted his ability to do so.

Norman consulted the manual once more. “Oh, I see,” said Norman. “It’s a computer program, loading itself up.” Pleased that he could at least understand the basic concept of what was going on, Norman left the computer to be going on with whatever it was going on with and went off to make himself a mug of tea.

He returned, tea mug in hand, to discover that the computer had done whatever it wanted to do and now awaited his instructions.

“All right,” said Norman, “let’s see what you can do.” And he began to type:
If one man can dig a hole six foot deep and three foot square in two and a half hours, how many men would it take to make fifteen such holes in forty-five minutes
?

Norman shook his head. Surely that was too easy for a calculating machine.
Multiply this figure by the area of a lean-to shed and the angle of a ship upon the horizon
.

“No,” said Norman. “I won’t know whether it gets the answer right or not. There has to be a way of testing this machine’s abilities. Oh, what’s this?”

The computer screen now lit up with the words “TECHNICAL SPECIFICATION: TESLA BROADCAST POWER SYSTEM”.

“I never asked for that,” said Norman. “I wonder what that might be.” There was a key marked “ENTER” upon the keyboard and Norman gave this a tap. Figures and diagrams and tracts of printed text now appeared upon the screen. Norman read the printed text and Norman’s eyebrows rose.

“Tell me,” said Norman, “that this isn’t what it appears to be.” But there was no one present to tell Norman otherwise.

“It’s a plan for a device,” said Norman, “that can broadcast electricity on a radio frequency, without cables. But no such device exists, surely – or ever has existed.”

Norman now jiggled the little brass mouse about, scrolling words and diagrams and technical bits and bobs up the screen. “Patented in eighteen sixty-two,” read Norman. “Patent, the property of Charles Babbage and Nikola Tesla. Babbage! And this is a Babbage computer. A Victorian computer. This can’t be right. Although …” Norman cast his inventor’s eye over the diagrams and technical bits and bobs. “This Broadcast Power System looks as if it might actually work – it’s really a very simple system. But I’m sure there’s no record of this. There’s never been ‘broadcast electricity’. Something like that would revolutionise everything.” Norman scrolled on. Plans appeared for electric automobiles that ran without batteries, drawing their locomotive power from broadcast electricity received upon radio waves. And electric airships. And flying hansom cabs. And automata.

“Oh my goodness,” said Norman. “The Motherlode. The works of Victorian inventors that somehow were never brought to fruition. The work of unrecognised geniuses – much like myself, in fact. And all this has lain locked away for nearly a century, waiting …” Norman paused. “Waiting for me,” he continued.

The training session had reached its conclusion, and there had been no fatalities. No heart attacks, no mental breakdowns, very little in the way of swearing and no one so badly bruised as to need assistance when leaving the field of play.

“You’ve all done very well,” Jim told them. “You can all take a shower, if you fancy that kind of thing, and then join myself and Mr Omally in The Stripes Bar. The first pint is on me.”

As there were no shower enthusiasts, Jim led the sweaty team off to the bar.

“I think that all went rather well,” said Jim when he had acquainted himself with a pint. “What do you think, John?”

“It’s undoubtedly a new approach.” Omally settled himself on to an uncomfortable chair and supped upon his second-rate ale. “I’m even looking forward to Saturday. I can’t wait to see what Penge makes of it.”

“Don’t forget that you’re in charge of hiring the coach,” Jim told him.

“I’ll have a word with Big Bob Charker who runs the Historic Tour of Brentford bus. He’ll be grateful for the business and he owes me a favour or two.”

“And the fund-raising to pay for the team’s wages?”

“I have an idea for that. Friday night will be Benefit Night, right here in our personal pub.”

“Tomorrow night is Friday night,” said Jim. “It will surely take powers greater than your own to organise a Benefit Night in a single day.”

“Trust me,” said Omally. “I’m a PA.”

Pints sank and more were ordered.

And paid for by the members of the team.

Omally engaged the conjoined twins in conversation, subtly steering the dialogue towards a particular area of their lives that was of particular interest to himself.

Jim sat chatting to Ernest Muffler, whom John seemed anxious to avoid, for some reason.

“We really can win this,” Jim told him.

Ernest offered Jim a guarded, doubtful glance.

“It’s true,” said Jim. “Powers greater than our own are at work to aid us to victory.”

“Have you ever heard of a thing called a group dynamic?” Ernest asked him.

“Is it one of those Californian things where blokes take their clothes off and hug trees in a forest?” Jim asked him in return.

“No,” said Ernest, now offering Jim another kind of glance.

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t mean that I … I mean, well … no, I
don’t
know what a group dynamic is.”

“It’s something to do with motivating a bunch of people, getting them all to work together for a common goal, that kind of thing.”

“That’s the kind of thing I’m trying to do,” said Jim.

“Well, you’ll have a hard time doing it with this bunch,” said Ernest. “They’ll do what you tell them, to some extent, especially as you’re actually going to pay them, but you can’t really trust them. They’re all up to something.”

“Everybody seems to be.” Jim took further sup upon his substandard pint. “But surely none of them will do anything to sabotage the team’s chances of success.”

“I’m sure they’ll all try their hardest to win if they all actually turn up for the game. I did hear you say something about a Benefit Night tomorrow evening to raise money for our wages.”

“You can consider your wages paid,” said Jim, all but finishing his substandard pint.

“And I appreciate that. But if you have a Benefit Night for the team tomorrow evening, the team will be expected to attend. It would be impolite not to. So they’ll all get pissed and have hangovers on Saturday morning.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “I see. That’s what you’d call a dilemma, isn’t it?”

“Happily though,” said Ernest, rising from Jim’s table and taking himself off to the toilet, “it’s your dilemma, not mine.”

Jim now sat and stared gloomily into what was left of his substandard pint. This really was all too much. All too much of everything. Especially responsibility. Jim’s brief flirtation with responsibility had never led to a lasting relationship. Jim considered that being responsible for himself alone was a full-time job in itself. And one which, of course, left no time for any other kind of full-time job. But to have all this so suddenly and unceremoniously dumped upon his shoulders, even with all of Omally’s boasts of selfless support and the professor pulling the strings, as it were, was, Jim considered …

All too much.

“Those twins lead a most remarkable sex life,” said Omally, placing a newly drawn pint before Jim and settling himself into Ernest’s uncomfortable chair. “I think I might consider joining the circus.”

“I think I might come with you,” said Jim. “I don’t think I can go through with this.”

John patted Jim upon his sagging shoulder. “Perk up, my friend. The first day on the job is always the trickiest.”

“And you would know this from experience, would you?”

John Omally scratched at his curly bonce. “Well, I’ve heard it said,” said he. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually lasted for more than a single day in what they call regular employment.”

“We’re doomed,” said Jim.

“Now don’t start that again. We’re
not
doomed. We have the professor to aid us. And our own pub, Jim, don’t forget that. And when Neville finds The Swan empty tomorrow night, he’ll rue the day that he bopped us on the head.”

“We might have to cancel the Benefit Night,” said Jim and he went on to explain why.

John gave the matter a moment’s thought. “Have no fear,” said he. “I’ll take care of it,” and he gave his nose a significant tap. “Now, is there anything else that troubles you?”

“Well,” said Jim, taking a big breath. “There’s …”

“No,” said John, putting his tapping finger to Jim Pooley’s lips. “Drink your ale and stop worrying yourself. We’ll come through this and we’ll come out on top. Trust me, I’m a—”

“I know,” said Jim. “A PA.”

“No,” said John. “A Brentonian. And we lads can get through anything.”

Professor Slocombe descended at length from the south stand of the football ground. Behind and beneath the stand, just along from The Stripes Bar, there existed a rude hut constructed of railways ties, daub and wattle, canvas and corrugated iron. To the first and passing glance, this curious dwelling resembled little other than a stack of debris, carelessly discarded. And to the second and third glances also. For this was the way that the Campbell preferred it. For this was the Campbell’s home.