Knees Up Mother Earth (11 page)

“I never knew,” said Neville, “in all these years, that you—”

“I keep my own business to myself, Neville, whereas your Masonic cufflinks are something of a giveaway. But I can trust you. Brothers upon the square, as it were.”

“And under the arch.”

“Quite so.”

“So what is it that you wish to tell me? In complete confidence, of course.”

“How old do you think I am, Neville?”

Neville shrugged.

“I was born in eighteen eighty-five, right here in Brentford.”

“Eighteen eighty-five?” Neville counted on his fingers. “Why, that makes you—”

“Old enough. Now, you might not believe what I’m going to tell you, but I swear to you it’s true. I’ve spent most of my life trying to convince myself otherwise, but I know what I know. I saw it all with my own two eyes.”

“Go on, then,” said Neville.

“Victorian society,” said Old Pete. “It wasn’t how it’s written up in the history books. It was nothing like it’s written up in the history books, it was completely different.”

“How?” Neville asked. “Smellier, more violent? What?”

“Technology,” said Old Pete. “There was technology back then that nobody knows about now, technology that simply ceased to exist and of which no record survives today.”

“What kind of technology?” Neville asked.

“Electric technology. Have you ever heard of Nikola Tesla?”

Neville shook his head.

“He invented alternating current,” said Old Pete. “It wasn’t Edison who invented that – that’s false history. Tesla worked with Charles Babbage, inventor of the computer.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Neville. “He invented the computer but it was never taken up in Victorian society. He died in poverty. There was a programme about him on the television a while back.”

“He never died in poverty – he was knighted by Her Majesty Queen Victoria in eighteen sixty for his services to the British Empire. With the help of Babbage’s computer, Nikola Tesla created a system of towers across the country that broadcast electricity on a radio frequency, no wires. There were flying hansom cabs, electric airships, a space programme. A rocket was going to the moon, but it was sabotaged.”

“You’re making this up,” said Neville.

Old Pete glared at him. “It’s true, it’s all true. Most houses had electric lighting long before nineteen hundred. And computers. And there were robots, too, powered by broadcast electricity, working as doormen and cabbies, and soldiers as well. The British Empire had conquered almost all of the globe by the eighteen nineties. America had been won back and was a British colony again.”

“This can’t be true,” said Neville. “It would be in history books.”

“It isn’t,” said Old Pete, “because everything changed at the stroke of midnight with the coming of the year nineteen hundred, as far as I can make out. I owned a digital watch, Neville – my father gave it to me when I was ten.”

Neville the part-time barman shook his doubtful head. “But if this were true, then there’d be some trace of it, surely. What happened to all this amazing Victorian technology?”

“Vanished,” said Old Pete, “as if it had never existed, at the stroke of midnight with the coming of the year nineteen hundred.”

“But how?” Neville asked.

“Through witchcraft,” said Old Pete, “as far as I can figure it out. There were rumours that a cabal of witches sought to destroy all Victorian technology. I don’t know how, or why, but they wiped it all out.”

“Witches,” said Neville, who was not unacquainted with several local practitioners of the Craft. “Witches wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s what I heard, I can’t prove it. I can’t prove anything. But I’ll tell you this: all that stuff in Victorian science fiction books, H.G. Wells and Jules Verne and so on – it’s all true, it was all real. All of it.”

“What?” said Neville. “Like the invisible man?”

“That was H.G. Wells himself. He was a scientist, not a fiction writer, and I know that for a fact.”

“But this stuff would have been in the newspapers. And newspaper offices have archives.”

“All records vanished with the technology, as if none of it had ever happened, at twelve midnight, coming of the year nineteen hundred. And Norman is in great danger.”

“Norman?” said Neville. “How does he fit into this?”

“He’s come into possession of Victorian computer parts. Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series computer parts.”

“Then surely these computer parts prove your story. You should be pleased that he’s found them. Will you be writing a book? A rewrite of history?”

“Neville, you’re a fool. You don’t understand.”

“I can’t understand if you don’t tell me. What’s the problem with these computer parts?”

“The computers were part of it. The magic was in the computers, programmed into them. It’s evil stuff, Neville.”

“I really don’t understand,” said the part-time barman, “but this is a most extraordinary story. And it’s clearly troubling you.”

“It is,” said Old Pete. “To be frank, it’s scaring the very life out of me.”

Neville made a thoughtful face. “Just one thing,” he said. “How come only you know about this? If history changed on the stroke of midnight with the coming of the year nineteen hundred, how come no one else who was alive during that period has ever mentioned it?”

“Because all their memories of it were erased. History was changed and it was as if it never ever happened. All the electric technology, all of it, just disappeared and all memory of it, too.”

“So how come
you
remember it?”

“Because I wasn’t there when the change came, Neville. I came back afterwards, an hour later, a boy of fifteen, to find my entire world changed – as if everything that had happened had never happened.”

“So where were
you
?” Neville asked.

“I was right here,” said Old Pete. “Right here, but not right here right now. I was right here several months from now, in Mr H.G. Wells’ time machine. I—”

“Have to stop you there,” said Neville. “Kindly leave my pub, Old Pete, and consider yourself barred for a week.”

“What?” said Old Pete.

And Neville reached for his knobkerrie.

Norman hadn’t slept at all the previous night. He couldn’t – he was far too excited. He just had to put the computer together. Peg had stomped off to the marital bed and she hadn’t called down for Norman to join her for a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Which had gladdened Norman, as he’d gone off all that messy stuff many years before.

Norman had been left to his own devices, which were devices of a constructional nature. And the construction details contained within the
Babbage 1900 Series Computer Assembly Manual
were most explicit and exact. They weren’t written in pidgin English, as were most of their ilk nowadays. These were written in good old Victorian down-to-Earth straightforwardness. They informed the constructor exactly where to stick each valve and screw on each big fat wire and locate every machined brass bolt, and how to glue and joint each section of the mahogany cabinet that housed the computer screen.

Just so.

And when dawn came up and the bundled newspapers were flung on to his doorstep, Norman was all but finished.

“It’s all in the numbers,” said the scientific shopkeeper, who knew what he was all about and what his quest was all about. “And if the numbers can be found through this, then I’ll find them.”

“And if you don’t number-up those newspapers, I’ll give you the smacking of your life,” said Peg, filling the kitchenette and bringing woe unto Norman.

And then of course there’d been the morning. And Norman had been weary. He’d wondered why Jim and John had not called in to purchase papers and cigarettes. And then he’d recalled how they had both been hospitalised. And he’d sold a box of chocolates to Bob the Bookie, who, at the mention of Jim’s incapacitation, had burst into paroxysms of laughter and purchased several cigars.

And he’d served this chap and the other and he’d really been dying to get back to his computer.

And then at last it was lunchtime.

And Norman turned once more the “open” sign to its “closed” side and took himself off to his kitchenette.

And plugged in his Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series computer.

Then yawned and fell fast asleep.

And as Peg was out, he slept right through the afternoon.

“Ya canna sleep,” said Mahatma Campbell. “Ya haf ta up an’ awa’ wi’ th’ lads.”

“Ooh, ah, wah!” said Jim Pooley. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock in the evening. Ya drank ya sel’ to oblivion an’ on the firs’ day on the job. Y’ haf the makins of a firs’-class football manager.”

“I was resting my eyes,” said Jim, a-blinking them.

“Me too,” said John, a-rubbing at his.

“Ya drunken bastards.”

“That’s no way to speak to your employer.” Jim rose unsteadily from his seat. Before him, the table spoke of many beers. It spoke in the manner of many empty glasses.

“Did we get through all these?” Jim asked John.

“The barman helped, if I recall,” said John.

“Where is he?” the Campbell asked.

“Gone a-golfing,” said John.

Mahatma Campbell shook his turbaned head. “You tak’ yer shoes off when ya walk on m’ pitch,” he told Jim.

“I have no wish to walk upon your pitch,” said Jim.

“You’d better – it’s training night. The lads are oot there waiting fer instructions from their new manager.”

“Tell them to take the evening off,” said Jim. “In fact, tell them to join us in here for a drink.”

“I dinna think so.” Mahatma Campbell handed Jim an envelope.

“What’s this?” Jim asked.

“It’s for ya, yer name’s upon it.”

“It’s been opened,” said Jim, observing this fact.

“Correct. I opened it.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Because I’m nosy. It’s instructions from Professor Slocombe. You’d best be following them, I’m thinking.”
[9]

“Ah,” said Jim. And, “Yes.”

“Let’s have a look.” Omally acquainted himself with the envelope, drew out a missive penned upon parchment and read it aloud.

And when he had finished with his reading, Jim said, “My golly.”

“Your golly?” asked the Campbell.

“Everybody’s golly,” said Jim. “How can I be expected to ask the team to do
that
?”

“I know not,” said the Campbell, “but for the love of myself, I’m really looking forward to seeing you try.”

The floodlights were on in Griffin Park. The Campbell had switched them on. And it does have to be said that there is a certain magic about a floodlit football pitch. In fact, more than just a certain magic. A floodlit football pitch is BIG MAGIC. Even if you have no liking for the beautiful game.

“Would you look at the size of that,” said John Omally.

“It’s grown,” said Jim. “It was never as big as this at lunchtime.”

“Here,” said John, nudging Pooley’s elbow. “There’s the team over there. Would you like me to give you the big build-up?”

“The big what?” Pooley scratched at his head and squinted into the floodlights. “I think I’ve gone blind,” he added.

“I’ll give you an introductory speech. You’d better take this,” and John handed the professor’s missive to the blinking Jim and strode off to address the team.

The team sat on “the benches”, which is where they sit when they’re not doing anything – if they’re substitutes, or reserves, or injured players, or whatever. They sit in other places, too, of course, such as the locker room, where they receive their half-time tellings off and their oranges to give them vitamin C. And they also sit in that terrible, Hellish, scary place known as the communal shower (or tub), which it is better not even to think about.

Unless you are of a particular persuasion.
[10]

John Omally strode over the pitch and approached the sitters on the benches. The sitters on the benches watched Omally’s approach with guarded gazes. One of them spat on to the pitch. Two others stubbed out their cigarettes.

“Brentford United,” said John Omally, bowing low before the sitters. “I greet you.”

“And who are you, mister?” asked one of Brentford United. The one with the goatee beard.

“I am Mr Pooley’s personal assistant,” said John, returning his head to the vertical plane. “Mr Pooley is your new manager.”

“Oh,” said one of Brentford United. The one with the many tattoos. And he shrugged towards his goateed team-mate, who shrugged right back at him. “Well, I’ve never heard of
him
.”

So much the better
, thought John. “Then you are all in for a wonderful surprise,” he continued. “Mr Pooley is the man who is going to take you on to victory this season. To whit, the winning of the FA Cup.”

There was a moment of silence.

This moment was followed by—

“Stop!” shouted John, but his shout was lost amidst the laughter that echoed across the empty pitch, throughout the empty stands and onwards up to Heaven, so it seemed.

Pooley chewed upon his bottom lip and considered having it away upon his toes.

“Stop!” commanded John. “Cease this frivolity. It is possible for you to win the cup in a mere eight games.”

Between the gales of laughter, the words, “We all know that, but it’s not going to happen,” came from this mouth and that.

“Silence please,” shouted John. Eventually the team came to some semblance of silence. The two smokers took out their fags and lit up once again.

“Wouldn’t you like to win the FA Cup?” John asked.

Heads went down and shoulders sagged. “Every player in every team would
love
that,” said one of Brentford United. The one with the waggly tail.
[11]
“But we know we’re beaten. We haven’t won a match in two seasons. Our contracts run out at the end of this one and those of us who can’t get into other teams will be quitting the game for good.”

“I’m thinking of opening a sports shop,” said one of these fellows. The one with a nose like an engineer’s elbow.

“I’m hoping to do some crisp commercials,” said another with very large ears.

John Omally smiled upon the sorrowful, dejected team. “Imagine,” said he, “just imagine what would happen if you
did
win the FA Cup. Imagine big cash bonuses. Imagine transfer fees and lucrative merchandising deals, imagine celebrity status, appearing on TV chat shows, opening supermarkets. Imagine those beautiful blonde-haired women who really go for successful professional footballers.”

“I prefer brunettes,” said the one who preferred brunettes, who also happened to be the one with the goatee beard.

“Fame and fortune await you,” said John. “And bear this in mind – you have nothing whatsoever to lose.”

“Except the next match.”

“Who said that?” John asked.

“I did,” said the one who did.

“Sorry,” said John. “I didn’t see you there.”

“People rarely do,” said the player known as Alan Berkshire, brother to David Berkshire, who served on Brentford Borough Council.

“You are not going to lose the next match,” John informed them. “Nor the one after that, nor even the one after that. This season you are going to win every FA Cup qualifying game you play. This season you
will
win the FA Cup.”

“Are you that bloke off the telly?” asked one of Brentford United. The one who was having a patio built at the back of his bungalow, but was currently in dispute with the builder regarding the escalating costs.

“What bloke off the telly?” queried John.

“Britain’s favourite practical joker,” said the same one. “Does that
Game For A Laugh
show where he pretends to electrocute peoples’ cats and execute their wives, to great comic effect.”

“Jeremy Paxman,” said the one with the goatee beard.

“Jeremy Irons,” said the one with the nose like an engineer’s elbow.

“Iron Maiden,” said the one with the tattoos.

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” said John. “I’m not him.”

“You look a lot like him,” said the one who was having his patio built.

“No he doesn’t,” said the one with the tattoos. “He looks like the lead singer of Iron Maiden – Jack Nance.”

“Jack Nance was a science fiction writer,” said the one with the strange ways about him, who hadn’t spoken before. “You’re thinking of Jack the Hat McVitie.”

“No I wasn’t, I—”

“Stop!” This “stop” came not from John Omally but from Jim Pooley, who quite surprised himself with the shouting of it.

“Stop now!” shouted Jim.

And they actually stopped.

“Your new manager,” said John, bowing once more and stepping aside.

Jim cleared his throat and thrust out what he had of a chest.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “my name is James Pooley and I am your new manager. I am aware that things have not gone well for the team in the past, but these days are behind you now. There is to be a new dawn. A new era. A return to the greatness of former times. If you follow my instructions, I will lead you to victory. Have no doubts regarding this. My word is my bond. I promise that you will win the cup.”

And then further words poured from Jim’s mouth, a veritable torrent of words. Mighty words were these, words of a truly inspirational nature. Above Jim, clouds parted in the heavens and a shaft of light beamed down upon him. The words rolled on and on and all who heard these words became transfixed.

The silence that followed these wondrous words was of the variety known as stunned.

John looked from the face of Jim unto the faces of the team. The face of Jim fairly shone and those of his watchers and listeners put John in mind of a painting he had once seen in The National Gallery –
The Adoration of the Shepherds
by Guido Reni.

“Any questions?” Jim asked.

Team heads now shook and team shoulders shrugged.

“Exemplary,” said Jim. “Now that I have introduced myself to you, I would be grateful if you would reciprocate.”

Heads now nodded. Shoulders, however, still shrugged.

“I’d like to know your names,” said Jim, “your names and the positions you play.”

“Ah.” Heads now nodded enthusiastically. Looks of enlightenment appeared upon the faces of these heads.

And so Jim Pooley was introduced to the players that were Brentford United.

Ernest Muffler (goatee beard, wife being visited on Saturday afternoons by John Omally). Centre forward and captain of Brentford United.

Horace Beaverbrooke (tattoos). Left-winger.

Billy Kurton (patio). Right-winger.

Alf Snatcher (waggly tail). Centre mid-fielder.

Morris Catafelto (nose like an engineer’s elbow). Right midfielder.

Dave Quimsby (very large ears). Left mid-fielder.

Charlie Boxx (the one with the strange ways about him). Left back.

Trevor Brooking (not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking). Right back.

Alan Berkshire (brother to David Berkshire on the council). Centre half.

Sundip Mahingay (the Indian of the group). Centre half.

Ben Gash. Goalkeeper.

Substitutes:

Don and Phil English (Siamese twins). (Super-subs.)

Barry Bustard (fat bloke).

Loup-Gary Thompson (wolf-boy).

Humphrey Hampton (half-man, half-hamburger).

Jim shook each member of the team by the hand.

And Jim beheld the substitutes.

“Are you the regular substitutes?” he asked.

Don and Phil shook their heads. “We’re on loan from Count Otto Black’s
Circus Fantastique
,” they said.

“Explain?” Jim asked Ernest Muffler.

“The club’s broke,” Ernest explained. “None of us are expecting to get paid this season. We’re only playing because it would be unprofessional to do otherwise. We can’t afford any substitutes. These lads volunteered to substitute for free, for as long as the circus is in town.”

Jim managed a smile at this. “I think,” said he, “that it’s more than a matter of not wanting to be unprofessional. You all love the club. I know that you do.”

“We do,” said Billy Kurton, “but we also know a lost cause when we see one. Or,” he paused, “or, at least we
did
until now.”

“Just so,” said Jim. “Our cause is not lost. And you will all be paid this season. Full pay.”

A cheer went up from the Brentford team.