Knees Up Mother Earth

23

Richard Gray leafed once more through the documents that had been placed before him. He made some marginal jottings with his fountain pen and then replaced its top and returned the pen to the topmost pocket of his topping suit.

“Mr Hartnel,” said Mr Gray, leaning back in his leather-upholstered chair and gazing across his expansive desk towards the shopkeeper who sat before him. “Mr Hartnel, I have been Brentford’s solicitor in residence for thirty-five years. I knew your father and, if you recall, I drew up the prenuptial agreement that your fiancee demanded.”

Norman nodded dismally. He recalled that all too well.

“And you have since come to me on many occasions, mostly, I recall, in the hope of securing financial backing for one of your, how shall I put this, imaginative inventions. How goes the Hartnel Grumpiness Hyper-Drive, by the way?”

“Very well, actually.” Norman smiled towards the solicitor, who did not return this smile. “I had to really shout at it this morning – I think there’s a bit of dirt in the carburettor.”

“Quite so. Suffice it to say that you have called upon me on many occasions, and here you are once more, upon this Monday morning, calling upon me with this –” Mr Richard Gray cast Norman’s contract towards Norman. “– and asking me to, how did you put it? ‘Give it a quick once-over, because a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’”

Norman’s head bobbed up and down in the manner of a felt dog in a Cortina rear window.

“What exactly do you expect me to say about this?”

“That it’s sound,” said Norman. “That I’m not going to be diddled out of my millions.”

Mr Richard Gray took up his desk calendar. It was one of those Victorian ones, with the little rollers with little brass knobs that you turn to alter the date and the day. “Am I misreading this?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” said Norman. “Why?”

“Because surely it must say April the first. Because surely this must be an April Fool’s Day jape.”

“I assure you, it is not,” said Norman.

“Then you are telling me that you hold five original patents?”

“I have them here in one of my duffel bags,” said Norman. “Would you care to take a look?”

“Certified by the Patent Office? Stamped with their official seal?”

“Yes,” said Norman. And he drew out these items, somewhat crumpled due to their duffel-bag confinement and passed them across the expansive desk and into the manicured hands of Brentford’s solicitor in residence.

This man now examined these plans and documents and seals of certification. And then he sat back once more in his leather-upholstered chair.

“You are telling me,” he said, “that this is really real?”

Norman’s head nodded once more.

“But …” The solicitor perused the plans and the documentation and the contracts and anything else that he might possibly have previously overlooked.

“But?” Norman asked.

“But this is …” The solicitor’s voice trailed off.

“Are you all right?” Norman asked.

“Yes, yes.” Mr Gray raised a manicured hand. He tapped at a little desk console. “Ms Bennett,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” came a breathy feminine voice, a breathy feminine voice that Norman recognised to be that of the breathy feminine receptionist who had ushered him without charm into the solicitor’s office. “Ms Bennett, do we still have that bottle of champagne left over from the Jimmy Bacon case?”

“The one the gang gave you for getting him off the charge of indecent assault against the usherette of the Odeon cinema? And he was bloody guilty, you know that.”

“Quite so, Ms Bennett, but do we still have it?”

“It’s in the fridge, next to your inflatable love trout.”

“Hush.” Mr Richard Gray fluttered his fingers. “Please bring in the bottle and two glasses.”

And presently Ms Bennett entered the office of Mr Richard Gray. She was a stunner, was Ms Bennett, one of those curvy blonde bombshells of a type that have gone out of fashion, but really, truly should not have.

“There you go,” said she, leaning over Norman, who vanished in the shadow of her bosom, and placing the bottle of champagne and the glasses on to the expansive desk.

“That will be all,” said the solicitor in residence. “Back to your desk, now.”

“No champagne for me, then?” The bosom unshadowed Norman. The shapely legs were near enough for him to ogle shamelessly.

“Return to your desk, please,” said Mr Richard Gray.

Norman watched Ms Bennett depart, and sighed a little as she did so. He’d seen Ms Bennett in The Flying Swan once, in the company of John Omally.

“Champagne?” said Mr Richard Gray.

“Does this mean that the contract is A-okay?” asked Norman.

“Mr Hartnel,” said Mr Gray, uncorking the champagne and caring not one hoot for the fact that it spilled all over his expansive desk, and indeed his topping suit. “Mr Hartnel, what you have here is a contract drafted by the Consortium, a multinational concern headed by William Starling – whom, rumour has it, is shortly to be awarded the Order of the Garter by Her Majesty the Queen, God bless her.”

“I met him yesterday,” said Norman. “Very charming fellow.”

“A contract,” the solicitor continued, “that will be activated upon Cup Final Day, although I cannot understand why that should be.”

“Me neither,” said Norman, “but these things take time, I suppose. He’ll probably want to count all the many millions, make sure I’m not short-changed.”

“Undoubtedly so.” Mr Gray rolled his eyes.

More damn eye-rolling, thought Norman.

“Undoubtedly so,” Mr Gray continued, “but on that date, the Consortium will take control of your patents and you will receive a twenty-three-million-pound advance.”

“That’s what I thought it said,” said Norman.

“Against a fifty per cent royalty on your patented inventions. And given the groundbreaking nature of your inventions and the fact that they will totally revolutionise transport, telecommunications, power supply and just about everything else on the planet, I would estimate that within five years you will be one of the two richest men on Earth, Mr William Starling being the other.”

“You don’t think that I should hold out for a better deal then? Say a sixty per cent royalty?”

Mr Gray, who was sipping champagne, coughed into it. “Excuse me,” he said, drawing a shirt cuff sporting a Masonic cufflink over his mouth. “To bring these plans of yours into actuality will require a financial investment of millions. To have been offered a fifty per cent deal is beyond the wildest dreams of any inventor. History is being made here, Mr Hartnel, right here in this office.”

“Splendid,” said Norman, sipping his own champagne. “This isn’t as good as Mr Starling’s champagne,” he added.

“Mr Hartnel, you will soon be able to purchase every bottle of champagne in the whole world, should you so wish it.”

“I don’t think I would,” said Norman. “My fridge isn’t all that big.”

“Then buy another one. Buy ten – buy a thousand.”

“I wouldn’t know where to put them all.”

“Quite so. Then let us get down to business. More champagne?”

“I haven’t finished this one yet.”

“Then do.”

Norman did.

Mr Gray refilled his glass. “To business,” he said once more. “I am honoured that you have chosen me to represent you. You will, of course, need a great deal of legal advice during the coming months and years. There will be a lot of paperwork and a man of boundless wealth such as yourself would not wish to be burdened with it. But have no fear, I will take care of this tedious business for you. I will draw up an agreement of exclusivity.”

“What is that?” Norman asked.

“Nothing to trouble yourself about. Simply an agreement, a gentlemen’s agreement between the two of us, that I am your sole representative in all forthcoming legal matters. Your man, in fact. I will handle all your business, that you might enjoy the fruits of your labours, to whit, your enormous wealth.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Norman. “So the contract is A-okay, is it?”

“There is no small print. It is a thoroughly honest contract, with no legal loopholes and no danger to yourself of being swindled.”

“Splendid,” said Norman, gathering up the contract and his plans, patents and whatnots and so ons and ramming them back into his duffel bag.

“I’ll draw up the agreement now,” said Mr Gray. “A trifling point-five of a per cent and all your legal troubles will be forever behind you. This is your lucky day, Mr Hartnel. More champagne?”

“No thanks,” said Norman. “I have to get back to the shop. Peg thinks I’m in the toilet – I climbed out through the window.”

“It will take no more than a moment to draw up the agreement.” Mr Gray took out his fountain pen once more.

“Well,” said Norman, rising to his feet and shrugging, “thanks very much for the offer, but I don’t think I’ll bother. If the contract is A-okay, that’s enough for me.”

“Oh no,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. You have no idea of all the seemingly insurmountable problems that lie ahead of you. I can deal with them all. I am your man. I am your man.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” said Norman. “Twenty-three million will be more than enough to be going on with. I’m not a greedy man.”

“But …” Mr Richard Gray now clawed at the air, almost in the manner of a drowning man. “No, wait. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

“I have to get back,” said Norman. “The lady outside said there was a twenty-five-pound consultancy fee. I paid her in cash. Thanks for your time. Goodbye.”

And with that, Norman left the office of Mr Richard Gray. And Mr Richard Gray opened his office window and threw himself out of it.

On to the dustbins outside.

For the office was on the ground floor.

“Mr Hartnel,” said Ms Bennett as Norman was leaving the building, “the office intercom was still on and I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Mr Gray.”

“Better an egg in peace than an ox in war,” said Norman.

“I do so agree,” said Ms Bennett.

“You do?” said Norman.

“I so do. And I love the way you said it. You’re a very assertive man, Mr Hartnel.”

“I am?” said Norman, adjusting his wig.

“You are. And a very handsome one, if I dare say so.”

“Well,” said Norman, “there’s no harm in daring.”

“Perhaps we might go for a drink at lunchtime?”

“Why?” Norman asked.

“Well.” Ms Bennett threw back her blondey hair and thrust out her preposterous bosoms. “To get to know each other a little better, perhaps.”

“I’d like that,” said Norman. “What shall we say? One o’clock in The Swan, would that be all right?”

Ms Bennett left her chair and moved to sit upon her desk, where she crossed her shapely legs in a most provocative fashion. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” she said.

“Looking forward to the match on Wednesday, Neville?” asked Old Pete, reacquainting himself with his favourite stool in The Swan’s saloon bar.

“I’m damn sure I barred you for a week,” said the part-time barman.

“What’s a week between old friends?” Old Pete grinned a toothless grin. “And you barred Norman, too. I think I’m losing the plot. I heard you have unbarred John and Jim.”

“Yes,” said Neville, “well—”

“And a very wise move on your part. A large dark rum, if you will. I have the exact change.”

Neville drew off a large dark rum for the antiquated horticulturalist. “What match is this you’re talking about?” he asked.

“The team’s next match, against Orton Goldhay Wanderers, the legendary thrashers of Penge upon their legendary Day of Shame. Should be a good’n.”

“And you’ll be there, will you?”

“In spirit,” said Old Pete, “but out of loyalty to yourself and The Swan I’ll be drinking here rather than in The Stripes Bar.”

“Cheese,” said Neville.

“And I have something for you.” Old Pete rooted about in his tweedy pocket. “As a token of our longstanding friendship, as it were.”

“Oh,” said Neville. “What’s that then?”

“Mandragora,” said Old Pete. “The crop has come in. The first batch is on the house, Neville.” And Old Pete passed Neville a bag of what looked to all the world to be Mary Johanna herself.

“This place is a crack den,” said a casual observer.

“Back to the Cottage Hospital with you,” said Neville, showing the casual observer the door.

“This stuff,” said Old Pete, “will make you a god-damn sexual tyrannosaurus. Just like me.”

“I don’t think so.” Neville pushed the bag back across the mahogany bar counter.

“Give it a go,” said the elder, pushing it back. “Two teaspoons in your morning coffee. Trust me, it will perk up your old chap no end.”

“My old chap does not need perking up.”

“Neville,” said Old Pete, “I have no wish to be crude here, but when was the last time you had a shag?”

“That is none of your business.” Neville made an appalled face and pushed the bag back towards Old Pete.

“Not in my living memory,” said Old Pete, “and my living memory goes back one heck of a long way.”

“I’m a busy man, Pete. I have no time for trivial dalliances.”

“I see you ogling the office girls that come in here at lunchtimes, but you don’t have the courage to ask them out. You’re afraid that your old chap will let you down.”

“Lies,” said Neville. “Damned and filthy lies.”

“Try it,” said Old Pete, pushing the bag once more in Neville’s direction. “What have you got to lose?”

“I don’t take drugs,” said Neville, pushing it back.

“It isn’t drugs,” said Old Pete, pushing it back at Neville once again. “It’s a natural herb extract. You’ll thank me for it, Neville, you really will.”

Neville gazed down upon the little bag. “No,” said he.

“Go on, Neville. Trust me, I’m a horticulturist.”

Neville sighed, took the bag and placed it upon a shelf behind the bar, amongst the Spanish souvenirs.

“Good boy,” said Old Pete.

“I’m not going to take it,” said Neville.

“Of course you’re not.” Old Pete finished his large dark rum. “Same again,” he said, “and have one yourself, on me.”

“One for yourself?” said John Omally.

He and Jim stood in The Stripes Bar. It was a Stripes Bar that was still undergoing redecoration. Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s builders in residence, were bashing away with the three-knot emulsion brushes and spreading paint in most places other than on the walls.

“I’m cutting down,” said Jim. “Make mine a half.”

“Two more pints over here, please,” John told Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

Mr Rumpelstiltskin drew off two pints of Large.

“A shame about the Beverley Sisters catching fire like that,” said Jim as he took his up.

“Swings and roundabouts,” said John, “but at least The Rock Gods escaped unscathed. I’m sure I can persuade them to attend another Benefit Night, although I’m not so sure that I’ll be able to provide an audience. Shall we adjourn to my office? It escaped the worst of the holocaust.”

John and Jim adjourned to John’s office in The Stripes Bar and sat themselves down, John upon his comfy recliner.

“Do you really think we’re safe?” Jim asked.

“If the professor says we’re safe, we’re safe.”

“I hope so.”

“And the Campbell is no longer following you around, which must prove something. Jim, we are presently weird-free. Nothing else weird is going to occur, nothing else preposterous.”

“I really do hope so.”

“Perk up, Jim.” John raised his glass. “We’re back in the game. There are pennies to be made, games to be won and a betting ticket in your pocket that will take us both to wealth.”

“If Brentford wins seven games on the trot.”

“Trust the professor’s tactics. So far, so good.”

“But another game on Wednesday – so soon.”

“It’s hard work in the big league, but the payoffs are more than favourable. Now, about these strippers.”

“Strippers,” said Jim. “Strippers?”

“Strippers,” said John. “I thought I might engage some for lunchtimes in here, to bring in a bit of trade.”

“Neville won’t take kindly to that.”

“I have not entirely forgiven Neville for bopping us on the head. But this is business, Jim. We need the money to pay the team.”

“I’ve been wondering about my wages, John. When do you think I’ll be seeing any? I’m all but broke and my landlady is all for casting me into the street.”

“What? The manager of Brentford United? I’ll have words with that lady. You leave it to me.”

Jim shrugged and sighed. “So, strippers it is,” he said in a hopeless tone. “What else?”

“More sponsorship. I have a new mobile phone.” John flourished same and Jim flinched. “And new stock for the club shop. You can leave all that to me, I’m on the case.”

“And me?”

“You just enthuse the team, pass on the professor’s tactics – do your job. We’ll succeed. I have every confidence that we will.”

“We can but try,” said Jim Pooley. “But see, who is this?”

Jim pointed and John followed the direction of his pointing.

“It’s Small Dave,” said John, “Brentford’s dwarfish postman, locally known as a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard with nasty warty little hands.”

“I know who he is,” said Jim, “and his horrid warty little hands fair put the wind up me. But what is he doing here?”

“Good day, each,” said Small Dave, waddling over.

“Good day, Dave,” said John.

And Jim did likewise.

“Thought I’d just pop in,” said the diminutive deliverer of the Queen’s mail. “Tell you a bit of hot news.”

“Really?” said Jim. “What news is this?”

Small Dave made gagging sounds in his throat. “My voice departs me,” he whispered. “My throat is parched.”

“Pint of Large over here, please, barman,” Omally called. “Courtesy of the management.”

“Cheers,” said Small Dave. And upon receiving his pint, he said “cheers” once again and climbed on to a chair to address his benefactor. “He’s back,” said the small one.

“Who’s back?” Jim asked.

“Archroy is back.”

“Archroy?”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

“Archroy is back?” said Jim.

“That’s what I said.” Small Dave took up his pint in his two tiny hands, which Jim and John refrained from gazing upon, and gulped away the better part of it. “Arrived this morning, looking very full of himself. Well tanned he is and wearing a pith helmet.”

“He’s been gone for ages,” said Jim. “How long has it been?”

“Eighteen months,” said Small Dave, finishing his pint. “Went in search of the Ark of Noah that supposedly rests upon Mount Ararat, which is now buried in the ice.”

“And did he find it?” asked Jim.

“Apparently not. The borders are closed – there was some unpleasantness – so he set sail for other parts.”

“He’s a nutter,” said John. “Always was. A dreamer, even when we were back at school together. He goes off on his wanderings in search of mythical artefacts and always comes back empty-handed.”

“Not this time,” said Small Dave, rattling his empty glass upon the table. “This time he’s hit the motherlode. Oh no, my voice is giving out again.”

“One more, then,” said Omally, calling out to Mr Rumpelstiltskin for more. “But this had better be good.”

“Oh, it is.” Small Dave awaited the arrival of his new pint and, upon its arrival, continued with the telling of his tale. “He got blown off course somewhere in the Adriatic. Got washed up upon an island.” Small Dave went on to name the island.

“Never heard of it,” said John.

“That’s because it’s not on any modern map. Did you ever see that film Jason and the Argonauts?”

“One of my favourites,” said Jim. “A Ray Harryhausen.”

“That’s the one,” said Small Dave.

“Ah, yes,” said Jim, “and that island is where Jason captured the Golden Fleece.”

“You are correct,” said Small Dave. “And that’s what Archroy’s done.”

“What has he done?” John asked.

“He’s found the Golden Fleece and he’s brought it back to Brentford.”

John looked at Jim once more.

And Jim looked back at John.

“On your way, Dave,” said John Omally. “And give that pint to me.”

“I’m not kidding, lads,” said Small Dave, clinging on to his pint. “He really has found it, and it really is magic. Remember the warts?”

“What warts would these be?” asked John, as if he didn’t know.

“As if you don’t know,” said Small Dave. “All over my hands. Well, look at them now.” And Small Dave held up his hands. “He laid the Golden Fleece upon me and all my warts vanished away.”

And John beheld the hands of Small Dave.

And Jim beheld these hands also.

And lo, these hands were free of warts.

These tiny hands were wartless.

“Now let me just quote you, John,” said Jim. “Nothing else weird is going to occur, you said. Nothing else preposterous.”

Norman drank that lunchtime in The Flying Swan, in the company of Ms Bennett. Later, the two of them took a little drive in Norman’s van.

And what went on in that van, somewhat later, when it was parked-up in a quiet cul-de-sac, would have been considered by John to be more than quite preposterous.