The Sprouts of Wrath

21

Neville drew the bolts upon the saloon bar door but did not bother to take the air. Drizzle depressed him. His carpet-slippered feet flip-flopped across the knackered Axminster and carried him over to the whisky optic and the large buff-coloured envelope that had arrived by hand this very morning.

Neville drew a double and tossed it down his throat. His right forefinger traced the parameters of the envelope and came to rest upon the brewery’s coat of arms. A cockatrice rampant above the motto “Ecce Cerevisia” — “Behold the Beer”. Neville chewed upon his bottom lip and made nervous sniffing sounds with his sensitive nostrils. Those possessed of the “third eye” would have noticed that the part-time barman’s aura was surmounted by a small black cloud on which the words “Gloom and Desolation” were written in Gothic type. Neville lived in dread of these missives which were inevitably the work of the brewery owner’s beloved son, whose entire being seemed solely dedicated to making life miserable for the part-time barman.

Those envelopes which arrived through the post, Neville instantly destroyed and denied all knowledge of, but young Master Robert, as the little parvenu described himself, had got wise to this and now they came by hand, to be signed for. Neville tapped at the envelope; he was going to have to open it, no matter what. With a dismal resignation he took up the wicked messenger and tore it apart. He emptied the contents on to the bar counter and prodded them disdainfully. There were a set of plans, a number of crude felt-tip drawings (or visualizations as the Young Master called them), several pages of typing, some samples of material and a beer mat.

“Oh dear,” said Neville the part-time barman. This had the look of what the legendary Busby Berkeley would have referred to as “A Big Production Number”. He picked up the beer mat and turned it on his palm. On the one side was the ubiquitous brewery coat of arms and on the other the Olympic rings etched in gold above the words … THE PENTATHLON BAR (formerly the Flying Swan). “Oh no,” said Neville, “oh no, no, no!”

He was still oh-noing a full half-hour later when a rain-sodden Pooley and Omally entered the bar.

“Watchamate, Neville,” said Jim.

“God save all here,” said John.

Neville nodded a thin greeting and drew off two pints of Large.

“Problems, Neville?” Omally enquired as he accepted his pint.

“The brewery.”

“Oh, those lads. And what is it this time, another cowboy night or more video-games machines?”

Neville laughed. It was a ghastly hollow sound and it quite put the wind up the soggy pair. He displayed the beer mat.

“Blessed be,” said Jim.

“Holy Mother,” said John.

“Exactly,” said the part-time barman. “The little bastard wants to do a full conversion on the whole pub. Do it up like a bloody gymnasium or somesuch.”

“Iconoclast,” Omally declared. “We shall storm the brewery.”

“Burn him at the stake,” Pooley said.

“An auto-da-fé,” Omally suggested.

“Yes,” agreed Jim. “We’ll burn his car too.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Neville, “we’ll show him, eh?”

“We will,” said Omally, “although not right at this moment as Jim and I have a rather pressing bit of business to discuss.”

“A man of words and not of deeds,” said the part-time barman, “is like a garden full of weeds.”

“As to that I have no doubt,” said Omally, steering Jim away towards a side table, “no doubt at all.”

“And so?” said Pooley, once the two were seated. “And so?”

“And so, Jim, I have been giving this matter some careful thought and it is my considered opinion that if you alone perform these few short weeks of labour then the Professor will be under a moral obligation to return your betting slip. It is in your name alone after all.”

Jim shook his head. “Such has already occurred to him, he mentioned to me upon leaving that he considers the betting slip, as in fact you do, joint property. If needs be, he said, he would return my half alone.”

Omally glowered into his beer. “Bob will not pay out on a torn ticket, this much is well known. I can see nothing for it, there is only one solution.”

“You will take honest work then?”

Omally crossed himself. “How can I be expected to work if I am incapacitated?”

“You are ill then, John?”

“Not yet, but suppose I had an accident. Say I tripped over a garden fork that you had carelessly discarded during the course of an enjoyable day in the Professor’s garden. Why, I might be laid up for weeks, months even. Remember The Man Who Came to Dinner?”

“A bit before my time, John, but you would be bound to be discovered. The Professor would know.”

“How would he?”

“Because I would tell him, John, that is how.”

“A fine friend you are,” sighed Omally, “it was only a thought.”

“And not one of your better ones. But see, John, a few weeks of hard work is not going to kill us. Considering the life of luxury and ease we are going to enjoy once we pick up our winnings, a bit of exercise will probably do us the world of good.”

Omally pulled at his pint. “Perhaps,” said he. “But I feel that there is a lot more to all this than meets the eye.”

“How so?”

“Well, as you know I greatly admire the old man. His whole being is dedicated to the higher truths. Lesser truths and the lack of them generally trouble him but little. Do you not therefore find his present attitude puzzling?”

“The work ethic, you mean?”

“More so the business of what we saw on the barge.”

“Hm.” Pooley had said little about that, it was something he wished only to forget. “It certainly wasn’t an ape and that’s for sure.”

“Indeed it was not. Now you and I know that and I think the Professor does too. And I think he knows a good deal more than he’s letting on to.”

“He generally does.” A lace garter of ale-foam slid seductively down Jim’s glass.

“He knows our transactions have never been one hundred per cent honest, but it’s never bothered him before. Something’s going on, Jim.”

“I have no doubt of that, but if you will take my advice. John, stay out of it, find yourself a job, nose to the cartwheel, elbow to the sprocket-set, things of that nature.”

“I’ll give the matter some thought,” said John, “I’ll give it some close thought.”

Jim Pooley shook his head. “Whose round is it?” he asked.

The Swan was filling with post-match celebrants, out to toast the charity of the home team in letting the Lords Taverners off with a mere sixteen-nil walloping. Neville was going great guns behind the pump but the grim expression had not left his face.

Omally elbowed his way to the bar. “Two of similar,” he said. Neville took the glasses. He drew off a pint of the very best and passed it to Omally. John took a thoughtful sip. “I shall miss this,” he said.

“Why, are you going away then?”

“No, I mean that with all the coming changes, the beer will be the first thing to suffer.”

“It will not,” said Neville whose pride was his beer.

“Come now.” Omally held up his glass and examined its contents. “We’ll be seeing some strange faces behind this bar counter I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You what?” exclaimed Neville.

“Well, if the brewery are in for changes, then they’ll be supplying new bar personnel I would have thought.”

Neville halted in mid-pull of Pooley’s pint. “By the gods,” said he, “do you think so?”

“Well, you haven’t had a full complement since Croughton left.”

“Left?” said Neville. “He’s now serving eighteen months, his hand was in my till up to the elbow!”

“Young Master Bobsmuck will want one or two of his lady friends in here I shouldn’t wonder.” Neville’s face contorted into a mask of horror, his good eye started in its socket. He was not by nature a misogynist, but he did not believe there was a woman alive who could pull a decent pint. “I’d cover yourself now,” continued Omally, “just to be on the safe side.”

“Yes… yes.” Neville dragged at the pump handle, filling Jim’s glass with foam. “Yes, I must.”

“There must be someone locally who knows the trade,” said John, “someone who understands good ale, respects the brewer’s art, someone who would uphold the high standards of this noble edifice, someone trustworthy, someone…”

“Someone like yourself perhaps?” said Neville.

“Me?” Omally made deprecating gestures. “Why, I’ve never…”

Neville turned the full force of his good eye upon Omally. The two men gazed at one another in silence. Along the bar dissatisfied patrons beat upon the counter with empty glasses and expressed doubts over Neville’s parentage.

“I pay a basic wage,” said Neville. “If it is acceptable to the applicant and I consider the applicant suitable to the post, all well to the good. If, however, my choice proves erroneous and the applicant chooses to rob me, then that is a matter for the magistrates’ court.”

“I seek only honest employment,” said John. “My reasons are my own. My word is my bond, I shall not rob you. I can start tomorrow.”

“All right,” said Neville, “then you are hired. Give me no cause to regret my decision, we have known one another a long time.”

“I shall not,” said Omally. “Let us consider these two pints a clincher to the deal. My thanks.”

“No,” said Neville, “we shall consider these two pints to be a physical illustration of an ever-popular maxim, and one that you will come to know and understand when you work for me. Namely, that you only get out of life what you put into it. Cough up.”

Omally coughed up. The mob closed in about Neville.

“You were a long time at the bar,” Pooley observed. “The service here is not what it used to be.”

“No,” said Omally, “but it soon will be again. For I now work here.”