Knees Up Mother Earth

34

Norman numbered-up the Monday morning Mercurys. He ogled the front page and read the headline aloud:

“BERTIE’S BEES BURN BURNLEY –

10-6 VICTORY SPARKS RIOTS.”

Norman shook his head and straightened his wig. Another victory for the team. That put them through to the quarterfinals. Three more wins and they would have the cup.

And on Cup-Final Day, he would have his millions.

Norman gnawed upon a knuckle blackened by newsprint. He would have his millions, but what had he done? He had claimed those patents for his own and sold them to this William Starling, who was the King of Darkness, and who sought to rule the world. And, what was it? Ah, yes, hasten the Apocalypse.

Hasten the Apocalypse?

That was “bring on the bad stuff”.

And if the bad stuff was going to be brought on, it was all Norman’s fault for being so greedy.

But was it really his fault? Norman cogitated once more upon this, as he had been cogitating so frequently of late. Had it really been his fault? Was it not more that he had been put in the frame, as it were?

It had all started with Norman wanting to find The Big Figure. But that had been his idea.

Or had it?

Norman added rackings of the brain to his cogitations. How had he come up with that idea in the first place? Had he actually come up with it himself? A dark thought entered Norman’s head, along with a sudden flash of remembrance. Wavy, wavy lines seemed to move across Norman’s mind and the sounds of harp music accompanied these wavy lines.

And Norman had a flashback.

He was standing in his shop, numbering-up the morning’s papers and thinking about improvements he could make to the better mousetrap he was building – the one that he felt certain would have the whole world beating a path to his door.

And then the shop bell had rung-in a customer.

Except that it wasn’t a customer. It was a pasty-faced young man in dark specs and a suit of lacklustre grey. This young man carried a bulging suitcase. He bid Norman good day and proffered his card:

LUKE SHAW

Sales representative for Dadarillo Cigarettes

A subsidiary of the Consortium

The card was rather grey also and Norman peered up from it and into the matching face of the sales representative.

“I don’t want any,” said Norman. “Goodbye.”

“I think you’ll FIND that you do,” said the young man, with exaggerated politeness. “I think you’ll FIND that you do.”

“I won’t,” said Norman, “whatever you have to offer.”

The young man gave Norman’s shop a good looking over. Well, Norman assumed that he did so, because although his eyes were hidden, his head moved around and about.

“What are you looking for?” Norman asked, following the direction of the moving head.

“Mr Hartnel?” said the sales representative. “Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel?”

“I’m rarely confused,” said Norman, “although sometimes I get puzzled.”

“But only about THE BIG problems in life, I’m thinking.”

“Actually, yes,” said Norman, “although I’ve found that even the biggest problems have simple solutions, generally involving a Meccano set somewhere down the line. Feather by feather the goose gets plucked, you know.”

“You are a most interesting man, Mr Hartnel. An interesting FIGURE.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Norman asked.

“Like what, Mr Hartnel?”

“Putting very heavy emphasis upon certain words that do not need heavy emphasis putting upon them.”

“I’m from Penge,” said Mr Luke Shaw.

“Ah,” said Norman. “That explains it. I understand that Penge is a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself.”

“Very nice.”

“Home is where the heart is,” Norman said. “And a boy’s best friend is his mother.”

“Quite so,” said Mr Luke Shaw. “How many packets will you take?”

“I won’t take any,” Norman said. “I can’t sell new brands of cigarettes to the locals. They won’t wear it. They’re very stuck in their ways.”

“I think you’ll FIND that THE offer I’m making you will reap BIG profits. The FIGURE I’m selling them for is most competitive.”

The ringing of the shop doorbell brought a sudden end to Norman’s reverie.

“FIND THE BIG FIGURE,” mouthed Norman.

“What are you saying?” asked Mr H.G. Wells.

Norman stared into the face of the Victorian time-traveller. “Oh,” said Norman, “Mr Wells. Good morning. What are you doing here?”

“I have come,” said Mr Wells, “to enquire as to your progress. I have been here for months now and although Madame Loretta Rune provides basic amenities and I have made many acquaintanceships in The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar and have become an active supporter of Brentford United Football Club.” Mr H.G. Wells raised a fist and cried, “Brentford for the Cup!” before regaining his composure and his gravity and concluding, “I wish to return to my own time and the comfort of my own house in Wimpole Street, W. One.”

“It’s still there, you know,” said Norman. “There’s a blue plaque outside with your name on it.”

“I have pressing business.” Mr Wells raised his voice once more.

Norman shushed him into silence. “Peg is in the kitchen,” he said. “She’s still rather upset about the back wall. I’ve been meaning to fix it, but I’m spending all my spare time trying to fix your machine.”

“Pressing business,” Mr Wells said once more. “Time is of the essence.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Norman distractedly numbered-up several papers. “I mean to say that it doesn’t really matter how long you stay in this time, does it? Because you can always return to the very minute you left your own, if you want to.”

Mr Wells leaned forward over the counter top and glared hard at Norman. Norman smiled back at Mr Wells.

And Norman did a little sniffing, too.

The smell of Mr Wells fascinated Norman. He smelled like, well, a Victorian – the smell of the macassar oil that he put upon his hair, and the moustache wax, and the fabric of his clothing. Although …

Mr Wells wasn’t smelling all that savoury now. He’d been wearing the same set of clothes since his arrival.

“My problem regarding time does not concern the past,” said Mr Wells, whose breath was none too savoury either. “My problem with time concerns the present.”

“I don’t understand,” Norman said. “Do you think you could lean a little further back?”

“The present,” said Mr Wells, “and what might occur in the very near future if I have somehow erred in my sacred mission. If the destruction of the computer you acquired and the program that was running on it has not forestalled the rise to power of the King of Darkness.”

“Let’s not be pessimistic,” Norman said. “I’m sure it has.”

“But if it hasn’t?” Mr Wells made fists with both his hands. “I do not wish to be here when the Apocalypse occurs. I must be back in the past, preparing to make another assault. I do not wish to be here to watch humanity crushed and millions die, for I might well become one of those millions.”

A terrible shiver ran up Norman’s spine. “There’s something I think I ought to tell you,” said Norman.

“What?” asked Mr Wells.

“Well—”

“Norman!” boomed the voice of Peg, putting the wind up Norman and also up Mr Wells. “Norman, come in here. My toenails need a cut.”

“I’ll speak to you later,” said Norman. “How about lunchtime, up the road in The Flying Swan?”

“The Flying Swan,” said Mr Wells. “My favourite drinking house.”

“Mine, too,” Norman said. But he said no more, as Peg boomed his name again with greatly renewed vigour.

“And what is your name, lad?” asked Old Pete.

The elder sat upon Jim Pooley’s favourite bench before the Memorial Library. He leaned upon his stick and looked up at the ragged youth that stood before him.

“Winston, gov’nor,” said the lad, chewing upon one of Norman’s gobstoppers.

Old Pete smiled wanly at the lad – his younger self. It was a most uncanny sensation.

“And why are you not at school?” the ancient asked.

“Never been to school, gov’nor. Schools is for toffs, Gawd dance upon me dangler if they ain’t.”

Old Pete gazed with rheumy eyes at the face of his younger self and he scratched at his antiquated head, for herein lay a mystery. Old Pete could remember well when, as young Winston, he had broken into Mr Wells’ house and hitched a ride upon his Time Machine into the future.

The future that was now the here and now. And he remembered his arrival in Norman’s kitchen and Norman shipping the Time Machine to his allotment lock-up. There was no doubt he’d remembered that, which was why he’d gone as Old Pete to the allotment to witness it, to prove to himself that it had been true.

But he had no recollection of this – he did not recall that as a young lad he had met this old man in a park in the future. Why couldn’t he remember that?

“Can you spare us a penny?” asked Young Pete/Winston. “Me mum’s dying of consumption and I need it to buy ’er a new ’ot water bottle.”

“That isn’t the truth,” said Old Pete, “and you know it.”

“Nah,” said Young Pete/Winston. “It’s for meself, to pay for a poultice to put on me bum. It’s covered in workhouse sores.”

“How old are you?” asked Old Pete.

“I’m as old as me nose, and a little older than me teeth, two of which need pulling – could you make it a threepenny bit to pay the quack?”

Old Pete dug into his waistcoat pocket, and then he hesitated. He recalled a video he’d rented from Norman. Time Cop, it was called. He hadn’t actually meant to rent Time Cop. He’d meant to rent Strap-On Sally’s Sex Salon, but Norman had put the wrong video in the case.

But regarding Time Cop, it had starred this fellow that wasn’t David Warner but looked a bit like him. And this fellow had travelled through time and met himself. And the two had touched, with disastrous consequences. Something to do with the same self being unable to occupy the same place in two separate time periods. Something to do with the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter, or something.

Old Pete did not wish to touch his younger self.

Just in case.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Old Pete, “I won’t give you a threepenny bit, but I will give you something much, much more valuable. Have you ever heard of the Ford Motor Company?”

Young Pete/Winston shrugged his shoulders, sucked upon his gobstopper and gave his ill-washed head a shake.

“Get yourself a job and invest in shares,” said Old Pete, “the moment the company sets up. Do you think you can remember that? Try very, very hard to remember that.”

His younger self shrugged once more. “The Ford Motor Company,” he said.

“And hang on to all your shares when the Wall Street Crash comes in nineteen twenty-nine. And buy land in Florida then, too.”

His younger self eyed his older self queerly. “Nineteen twenty-nine?” he said. “What’s your game, gov’nor?”

“I’m thinking of my future, your future, I mean. You must try to remember what I’ve told you. It will make you rich.”

“Big oak trees from little acorns grow,” said Young Pete/Winston.

Bloody Norman, thought Old Pete. “But you will try to remember?”

“I remember asking you for a threepenny bit.”

Old Pete drew same from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it towards his younger self. “I didn’t think it would work,” he said dismally.

“What’s that, gov’nor?”

“The Ford Motor Company! The Ford Motor Company!”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Invest what I earn.”

“Exactly,” said Old Pete.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the threepenny bit, gov’nor. And good day to you.”

“Good day,” said Old Pete. “And good luck with your life.”

Winston turned away and ambled off down the road. Silly old duffer, thought he.

“I think the books will balance for a while,” said John Omally. “I thought they wouldn’t, but with the sponsorship money from Sky TV coming in, I think I might treat myself to a new suit, just like your lucky one.”

Jim Pooley sat at his desk in his office and puffed upon a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King. “And what about buying new players to replace our rapidly diminishing stock?” he suggested.

“Do you think really it matters?” John Omally asked.

“Matters?” said Jim. “We have the FA Cup to win.”

“Yes, I know that, but we have the substitutes. And let’s face it, Jim, the team are only winning through the professor’s intervention. You saw what happened on Saturday.”

“I was going to ask you all about that.”

“Oh no, you were not. The professor used some kind of magic to animate the team – you know it and I know it. So it doesn’t really matter who plays as long as he is there pulling the magical strings.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Then we’re stuffed,” said John. “The ground is lost and the Apocalypse and the End Times begin. Personally, I do not find that prospect appealing. Hence I have faith in the professor’s magical skills and favour the Brentford-winning-the-cup scenario, along with the attendant prosperity that it will bring to our good selves.”

“Should Bob the Bookie pay up on the bet. Which, frankly, I think he will not do.”

“Oh, he’ll pay up, Jim, or we’ll drag him through the courts. That man has taken many pennies from you in the past. It’s only just that you get a few back in return. And even if he doesn’t pay up, you will be the manager of an FA Cup-winning side. There’s a fortune in that. Trust me—”

“I know,” said Jim, “you are a PA.”

John sat down upon Jim’s desk and helped himself to Jim’s mug of tea. “So who are we up against next?” he asked. “We’re in the quarterfinals. Three more games and we’re there.”

“A team called Arsenal,” said Jim. “Ever heard of them?”

Omally shook his head. “They’re not Up North, I hope.”

“London team,” said Jim. “Quite popular, it seems. They’re amongst the favourites to take the cup. Top-division side.” Jim grinned foolishly at John. “Apparently,” he said, “Arsenal have a manager whose name is Arse.”

“I’ll give them a call on my mobile,” said John. “Perhaps after we’ve given the team a sound thrashing they might care to purchase space on our kaftans to advertise for a new manager.”

“I can manage,” said Neville as the brewery drayman rolled an eighty-eight-pint cask of Large down the chute between the open pavement doors and into The Flying Swan’s cellar.

Neville caught the weighty cask, lifted it with ease and stacked it on top of the rest.

The drayman peered down from the sun-bright street above into the shadowy regions below. “Are you all right down there?” he called.

“Fine,” called Neville. “You can drop them in two at a time, if you want.”

The sweating drayman shook his head. He was wearing an Arsenal T-shirt. “I don’t know what you’re on, mate, but if it’s on the National Health, I want some, too.”

Neville did not reply, but awaited further incomings of ale.

He was on something and he knew it. Something that added a string to his bow, put lead in his pencil and even hairs on his chest. And he was loving every minute of it. He’d never felt so alive before, so full of vim and vigour. He was fit as a fiddle and bright as a butcher’s bull terrier.

But his stocks of Mandragora were running dangerously low and Old Pete’s prices were now running dangerously high. That old villain had Neville by the short and curlies (which were now rather long and curly) and Neville knew it.

But he was having the time of his life and he really didn’t want it to stop.

“Neville,” a voice called down to him, but not from the pavement doors. “Neville, Pippa and I are getting lonely up here in the bar.”

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Neville called back. And to the drayman, “Three at a time now, if you will, I’ve business upstairs that will not wait.”

“Down to the business at hand,” said Professor Slocombe. “You know why I have summoned you here, gentlemen.”

Three men sat in the professor’s sunlit study, tasting whisky. One of these men was not a man, but something else entirely. His name was Mahatma Campbell and what he was was well known to the professor.

The other two were men indeed, young men and as full, in their ways, of vigour as was Neville.

“We are your men,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers, raising his glass.

“Your acolytes,” said the Second Sponge Boy, raising his in a likewise fashion.

Professor Slocombe toasted his guests. “I hope that I have taught you well,” said he.

“You have, Master.” Terrence drained his glass. “You have schooled us in astral projection and the reading of men’s auras through the opening of our third eyes.”

“Positively Rampa,” said the Second Sponge Boy.

“And you will need all these skills when we meet our adversary.” Professor Slocombe lowered his fragile frame into the chair behind his desk. “The time grows closer. We must be well prepared.”

“Can we not just smash them now?” asked the Campbell. “Put a torch to the Consortium building and burn the blighters out?”

“I have tested their defences.” The scholar moved a pencil about. Without the aid of his hands. “They will not be caught off-guard again.”

“Then when, sir?” The Campbell took possession of the Scotch decanter and poured himself another.

“The day of the Cup Final, that is when.”

“But that is the day,” the Campbell said. “The Day of the Apocalypse – if we do not succeed.”

“We will succeed.” The professor’s pencil rose into the air and spelled out the word “SUCCEED”.

“Regarding the business at hand,” said Terrence, wrestling, with difficulty, the Scotch decanter from the Campbell’s fingers. “What exactly would this business be?”

“It is my understanding,” said Professor Slocombe, “that the tentacles of the Dread Cthulhu and the influence of the being that has raised him from R’leah, our enemy William Starling, are spreading slowly and inexorably across the borough of Brentford. You must be vigilant and watchful – there is no telling who might become consumed and overtaken by the evil.”

“And that is the business in hand?” asked Terrence.

“It is part of it.”

“And the other part?”

“Have you ever heard of a team called Arsenal?” Professor Slocombe enquired.

“All enquiries must be put through the switchboard,” said Ms Yola Bennett, “which is currently engaged. Please call back tomorrow.” She slammed the telephone receiver down and returned to doing her nails.

“Ms Bennett.” The voice of Mr Richard Gray came through the intercom. Ms Yola Bennett ignored it.

She was in a bad mood, was Yola Bennett. She hadn’t seen Norman for ages. He didn’t e-mail and he didn’t phone. And she was certain that he had recently ducked into a doorway when he’d seen her coming down the Ealing Road. Things were not going quite the way that she had planned.

“Ms Bennett!” The voice was somewhat louder now. Yola Bennett flipped the switch with an undone nail and said, “What do you want?”

“And don’t adopt that tone of voice with me, young lady.”

“What do you want, sir?” said Ms Bennett.

“A moment of your time in my office, if you please.”

Yola Bennett slouched from her seat and slouched into the office of Mr Gray. “Yes?” she said, a-lounging at the doorpost.

“Come in, please, and close the door.”

Yola Bennett did so.

“And sit down.”

She did that also.

“I will not beat about the bush,” said Mr Gray, viewing Ms Bennett across the expanse of his expansive desk and noting well the shortness of her skirt. “I feel a change of attitude is called for from yourself.”

“Oh yes?” Yola blew upon those nails that were mostly done.

“Your attitude will not do, young lady. You have been ignoring telephone calls, leaving correspondence unanswered and taking overlong lunch hours. Not to mention your record of attendance.”

“My record of attendance?”

“I told you not to mention that.[46] I feel that I may be forced to let you go.”

“Let me go?” Yola made a sudden face of horror. And outrage, also. And effrontery. It was a complex face. It quite bewildered Mr Richard Gray.

“Let you go,” said he. “If you don’t buck up your ideas, you’re out.”

“Stuff your job,” said Yola Bennett. “And stuff you, too, as it happens. All men are quite the same. And all of you are bastards.”

Mr Gray smiled, thinly. “Things not going too well for you with Mr Hartnel, then?” he said.

“What?” said Yola.

“Please don’t mess around with me. I know what you’ve been up to.”

“You know nothing and whatever you know is none of your business anyway.”

“I know what I know. And I know what you want. I want these things, too.”

“Pervert,” said Ms Yola Bennett.

“I don’t mean those things. I mean the money he has coming to him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mr Gray sighed. “Oh, well,” said he, “then I must be mistaken. It is a pity, because I think you’d make the perfect couple. And I feel absolutely certain that when Mr Hartnel receives the many millions that he will so shortly be receiving, you would be capable of enjoying your share of this wealth. Assuming, of course, that you were actually able to marry Mr Hartnel.”

“Piss off,” said Yola.

“Oh well, then.” Mr Gray leaned back in his overstuffed chair. “Forget it. Join the dole queue if that is your wish. There are plenty of other fish in the sea, as they say. Or in the fridge, as Mr Hartnel would probably say. I will take on another secretary and put my proposition to her.”

“Proposition?” said Yola.

“Proposition,” said Mr Gray. “I have been thinking long and hard about this ever since Mr Hartnel callously spurned my offer to act on his behalf.”

“That would be when you threw yourself out of the window and into the dustbins.” Yola tittered.

“You are dismissed,” said Mr Gray. “Please go and clear your desk.”

“About this proposition?” said Yola.

Mr Gray leaned forward once more. “Together,” said he, “we are going to take that wig-wearing schmuck for every penny he has.”

“Does this involve Arsenal?” asked Ms Yola Bennett.

“No,” said Mr Gray. “Why did you ask me that?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Yola. “So tell me all about this proposition.”

Mr Richard Gray smiled upon Ms Yola Bennett and he swung slowly about in his chair and gazed out through the window. And the eyes of him turned blacker than night. And the skin of him did also. And a voice murmured low in the throat of Mr Gray, in a language that was of no human tongue.

But Yola Bennett did not see or hear this fearful transformation. “Tell me what you have in mind,” she said, raising her skirt a little higher and giving her legs a cross.