Knees Up Mother Earth (25 page)

“And that would be, Sponge?”

“It’s an Armenian folk dance that my nana taught me when I was a child.”

“I thought your Nan was a Jamaican Rastafarian?”

“Still is, Terry Babylon, still is. Ai.”

Now, to cut a long and what might otherwise become tedious story short, and to avoid further references having to be made to
Roget’s Thesaurus
and
The Complete History of Dance
by P.P. Penrose—

The Brentford Bees went for the Border morris dance, possibly because the Morris Minor has always been the vehicle of choice amongst Brentonians, or possibly for certain esoteric reasons known only to Professor Slocombe. But the
Brentford Mercury
of the following morn told the whole story of the team’s second glorious victory beneath the banner headline:

BERTIE’S BOOGIE BEES

10-2 VICTORY DANCE

Scoop Molloy dictated this piece from his bed in Brentford Cottage Hospital. He concentrated upon the details of the match specifically, rather than dwelling for
too
long upon the confusion and chaos that had ensued when the floor of the executive box fell through, disgorging its exclusive load on to the cheap seats below. Or even on the police assault that was made upon the ground by the Special Forces Unit, dispatched to arrest the Voices of Free Radio Brentford, who had disrupted all telecommunications and broadcasting networks over a five-mile radius, bringing minicabs and emergency services to a standstill.

Scoop never even mentioned the rioting because he was already in hospital by then. The rioting had been started by the Orton Goldhay supporters and they had eventually been brought to book by the far greater numbers of Brentford supporters.

Although, unfortunately, not before they had smashed every shop window in Brentford High Street and engaged in frenzied looting.

No, Scoop stuck to the details of the match, and Brentford’s second glorious victory – which took them one step closer to winning the FA Cup.

Neville the part-time barman retrieved the morning’s copy of the
Brentford Mercury
from one of the hanging baskets of Babylon that prettified The Swan’s front wall.

He growled towards the receding figure of Zorro the paperboy as he pedalled away on his bike, tucked the paper beneath his arm and stood for a moment drawing healthy draughts of Brentford air up the unbunged nostril of his hooter.

And then, turning on a carpet-slippered heel, Neville returned to the saloon bar, where he drew himself a measure of breakfast and perused the day’s front-page news.

Much of it wasn’t news to Neville. He hadn’t attended the match himself, his bar-keeping duties having prohibited this. Not that it would have hurt if he had gone – The Swan had known little business that evening. And what Neville hadn’t seen, he’d heard. The match, for instance, had been broadcast to him through the jukebox. The rest he’d just
heard
: the police-car sirens, the ambulance bells, the sounds of breaking glass and mob rule; the words of the riot act being read by Inspectre Sherringford Hovis through the police bullhorn; the sounds of the tear-gas shells being fired. And so on and so forth and such like.

Neville couldn’t help but manage a small grin.

He wasn’t a vindictive man, far from it; he was a good man, pure and simple, but this was all getting somewhat out of hand. Football in Brentford had never been quite like
this
before.

Neville gave the front page further perusal. He’d wondered what the big crash had been. The floor of the executive box collapsing into the stand below, that was it, eh? Neville shook his noble head. Pooley and Omally would soon have the entire stadium down and save the Consortium the cost of a bulldozer.

Neville grinned a bit more. And it wouldn’t be
his
fault. He’d appointed Pooley manager, certainly, but that was as far as it went. And if the walls did come tumbling down, well, it couldn’t be helped. And Neville
would
get his shares from the Consortium, so he
could
purchase The Flying Swan and run it entirely
his
way.

Which would certainly please the patrons.

So no harm done. Really.

Neville further perused. There was a great deal of detail regarding the extraordinary tactics employed by the home team to achieve their decisive victory.

“The cancan,” Neville read. “The floppy-boot stomp.”

The part-time barman gave his head further shakings.

Where was this all going to end?

What possibly could happen next?

“Mr Neville, is it?”

Neville jumped back. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the bar.

“Oh, Mr Neville, I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

Neville focused his good eye upon—

And Neville let out a gasp.

Before him stood possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and shapely, with long auburn hair and the most remarkable emerald eyes. Her facial features seemed delicately carved, as from ivory; her mouth was wide and upturned at the edges into a comely smile. She wore a pink T-shirt, the shortest of skirts and undoubtedly the highest of heels, which probably accounted for her height. And she had …

“By the Gods.” Neville raised his hands to his face and peeped through his fingers.

She had a truly stunning pair of breasts.

“She’s always creeping up on people.”

Neville’s mouth fell open. The woman’s mouth hadn’t moved when she spoke these words.

“I’m over here.”

Neville turned his head and all but fainted from the shock. There was another one of them, identical to the first. Neville’s brain flip-flopped about in his skull. Two of them. Identical. There had to be an obvious explanation for this. Clones, that’s what they were, grown in some secret government research laboratory beneath Mornington Crescent Underground Station.

That had to be it.

“We’re the new bar staff,” said the first clone.

“I’m Pippa,” said the second clone.

“And I’m Loz,” said the first.

“Bar staff,” whispered Neville.

“Bobby from the brewery sent us,” said Pippa.

“To pep the place up.” Loz looked all around and about. “It’s a bit of a dump, innit?”

“It serves,” said Neville, straightening his shoulders and his clip-on bow tie. “It’s a traditional hostelry.”

“We’ll soon liven it up,” said Pippa. “Do you want to show us how those beer-pump thingies work?”

Neville groaned, internally. He was no misogynist, was Neville, he wasn’t anti-women or anything. Nor was he one of those fellows who avowed that “a woman’s place is in the home”. Oh no, Neville had always considered that women should be treated as equals. They should be allowed to go out and work. Nay, they should be encouraged to do so. Let them pull their weight and do their fair share of the graft, rather than loafing about at home watching daytime TV and breeding babies. Let them work if they so wished.

But not in a bar.

And certainly not in
his
bar.

And then there was that other thing. That other thing that Neville never spoke about. That personal thing. That private thing. That thing about
him
and women. That thing about his problem with women.

That, pure and simply, they terrified him.

Neville had never been a ladies’ man. He lacked the confidence, he feared rejection, he feared for his performance, sex-wise, feared, that he might be scorned and laughed at. So he kept his distance. He worked in an environment where he was safe, where there was a sturdy counter between him and the world of women. And where the world of women did not encroach too freely.

Certainly women drank in The Swan, but they were far outnumbered by men. And it was usually men who bought the women drinks, so Neville could remain uninvolved.

“Hello,” said Loz. “Anybody home? You seem to have drifted off somewhere, Mr Neville.”

“No,” said Neville, doing further straightenings. “I’m fine. A lot on my mind. A very responsible job, keeping bar. A lot of technical details.”

“I’m sure we’ll soon figure it all out,” said Pippa and she leaned forward across the bar counter, her breasts provocatively caressing the polished bar top. And Loz did likewise and Neville took a big step back.

Colliding with the optics.

“Have you worked in a bar before?” he enquired, clinging to his dignity as a drowning man will cling to the matchstick of proverb.
[32]

Loz shook her beautiful head. “Not
behind
one,” she said, “but we’ve danced in lots. We’re pole-dancers.”

“You don’t look Polish,” said Neville.

Loz looked at Pippa.

And Pippa looked at Loz.

And both laughed coquettishly.

Neville clutched at his heart.

“So do you want to show us how these pump thingies work?” Pippa asked once more.

“And should we take our tops off now, so we can all get the feel of things for the lunchtime session? Mr Neville? Are you all right? Wake up, Mr Neville.”

“Are you all right, John?” asked Jim Pooley, looking up from his office desk, upon which rested the morning’s copy of the
Brentford Mercury
and tapping the ash from his smoking Dadarillo into the ashtray shaped like a football boot. A cup of tea steamed at his elbow and a smile shone out from his face.

“I’ve just come from the Cottage Hospital.” John sat himself down in the visitor’s chair before Jim’s desk and availed himself of Jim’s cuppa. “I think I’ve managed to talk them out of suing, although those town councillors were pretty surly. But no one seems too badly hurt, except for Mr Ratter, who fell on to a casual observer in the crowd.”

“Didn’t that cushion his fall?” Jim took back his tea and sipped at it.

“The casual observer blacked Mr Ratter’s eye.” John re-availed himself of Jim’s tea.

“Harsh,” said Jim. “But you’re all right?”

“I wasn’t in the box when it collapsed. I was being interviewed by constables Mild and Meek, who were making enquiries regarding the Voices of Free Radio Brentford.”

“You denied all knowledge, of course.”

“Of course. They said they’ll be coming back later to speak to you about it.”

“You didn’t put
me
in the frame?”

“Of course I didn’t. I think we can expect a visit from the Health and Safety people also. I’ll do my best to keep them at arm’s length.”

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” said Jim, but he said it with a certain brightness in his voice, with a certain unfailing cheerfulness. He took his teacup from John’s fingers, but found it was now empty.

“Still,” said John, turning the newspaper towards himself and running an eye across it, “you seem perky enough. ‘Bertie’s Boogie Bees’, eh – you’re making a name for yourself.”

“My name isn’t Bertie, but I know what you mean. I’m really beginning to enjoy this, John. It’s a great old game, this football lark.”

“The shopkeeping victims of the executive-box catastrophe might not agree with you, what with them also having had their shop windows broken and their premises looted and everything.”

“These things happen,” said Jim, puffing contentedly on his Dadarillo. “There’s nothing new about football hooliganism.”

“There is in Brentford.”

“Then it’s a cross we’ll have to bear. You could suggest to them that they get shutters for their windows.”

Omally made a face.

“You already made the suggestion?” said Jim.

“The club is paying for these security improvements,” said John. “I had no choice. But don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll sue us for compensation or anything. It was an accident, wasn’t it? And accidents
will
happen. And I did warn them not to stamp their feet. I’m sure it won’t cost too much to cobble together a few window shutters.”

Jim Pooley ground out his cigarette. “And where are we going to find the money?”

“Perhaps we could get an advance from Norman.”

“I’m not going to be put off,” said Jim, “no matter what. After all the chaos and bloodshed last night I know I should be, but I’m not. We won again, John – ten-two. We’re heading for the record books here. The only way is up.”

“If I wore a hat,” said John, “I’d take it off to you.”

“We’re going to win this thing, John. I feel it in my fingers.”

“Do you feel it in your toes?”

“I do. So you’ll probably want to start making some more calls on your portable phone.”

“Will I?” John asked. “And is there any more tea?”

“You will,” said Jim, “and there isn’t. Firstly you must get on to Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s master builders, and have them come and fix the executive box’s floor. And the other thing.”

“Other thing?” John asked.

“We need a new right-winger,” said Jim, “what with Billy Kurton upping sticks and having it away on his toes.”

“Buy a new player?” John all but fell backwards from his chair. “Have you gone insane? We don’t have the money for that.”

“Then you’ll have to find some. Those Siamese twins looked pretty puffed after the match. I don’t think they can take much more.”

“But …” said John. “But—”

“But me no buts,” said Jim. “We’re a team, aren’t we? You said so yourself. Together we will triumph. Here, take a look at this.” Jim rose from his chair and drew John’s attention to a large chart pinned to the wall.

“Nice,” said John. “It covers that damp patch well.”

“It’s a fixtures chart,” Jim explained. “FA Cup fixtures. The team will have to play a lot more than seven games this season, but it’s only the Cup-qualifying games that matter. It works like this.” And Jim proceeded to explain to John
exactly
how it worked.

Now, if anyone has ever tried to explain to you the rules of backgammon, or bridge, it’s the same kind of thing. It’s even more complicated than the offside rule.

“Ah,” said John, when Jim had done with his explaining. “It all makes perfect sense. It’s quite simple, really.”

Jim cast John that
old-fashioned
look.

“What?” said John.

“Never mind,” said Jim. “But as you can see, there’s a lot of away games and we must be prepared.”

“Right,” said John.

“Right,” said Jim.

“Anything else you can think of?” John asked.

“Not really,” said Jim.

“Right,” said John once again.

“Right indeed,” said Jim.

There was a pause. A moment of silence.

John perused his wristlet watch. “The bar’s open,” he said.

The saloon bar door of The Flying Swan wasn’t open, even though it was now five past eleven.

The door of Neville’s bedroom wasn’t open, either. It was similarly locked. Neville sat upon his bed and Neville had a big sweat on. Downstairs, he knew, downstairs in
his
saloon bar, were two young women. Two beautiful young women. Two beautiful young women who were stripped to the waist.

Neville shuddered. His fingers trembled. These trembling fingers poured a trembling but substantial measure of his private stock of whisky into a glass that would have held his false teeth, had he worn any. Which he didn’t, for his teeth were all his own. Neville upended the glass into his mouth and gulped back the contents. What was he going to do? He couldn’t go down there and stand at the bar,
his
bar, with
those things
bobbing away on either side of him. He’d faint again. He knew he would. Well, faint again
again
. Because he had re-fainted after the first time, when Pippa and Loz had loomed over him trying to bring him round by fanning him with the T-shirts they’d removed.

“What am I going to do?” cried Neville.

But answer came there none.

“I could run.” Neville’s good eye turned towards his wardrobe and the battered suitcase that gathered dust upon its top. Slip out, over the back wall, make a run for it.

Neville shook his head. Fiercely. No, that wouldn’t do. The Swan was his life. He wouldn’t be driven from it by two pairs of breasts. It was unthinkable.

Sadly it wasn’t unthinkable, because Neville was thinking it.