Knees Up Mother Earth (26 page)

“What am I going to do?” Neville took up his pillow and hugged it to his own bosom. “What am I going to do?”

And then something caught the part-time barman’s good eye. Something that had been under his pillow. Something that he had all but forgotten about. He’d put it there for safekeeping. And because, in its plastic bag, it had looked very suspicious behind the bar amongst the Spanish souvenirs. It had looked, in fact, like drugs.

Which somehow, in a way, was what it was: the bag of Mandragora given to him by Old Pete.

Neville took up the bag, opened it and sniffed at its contents suspiciously. What had that old villain said?
That stuff will make you a god-damn sexual tyrannosaurus. Just like me
. Neville quite liked the smell. It smelt fruity. But what,
exactly
, did it really do? Did it really prolong active life, increase virility, put a spring in your step and lead in your pencil?

What if it did?

Neville took a deep breath through his mouth and blew it out of his unblocked nostril. It might be just what he needed – a bit of a sexual pick-me-up, or at least something that would lift his spirits, take the edge off his blind terror, simply give him confidence. What would be the harm in taking it? Old Pete wouldn’t poison him, that was unlikely.

Although.

Neville held the packet at arm’s length. The oldster had a wicked sense of humour. This fruity-smelling herbal something might prove to be a powerful laxative.

“No,” said Neville, drawing it near to himself once more and giving it another sniff. “He prides himself on his horticultural knowledge. If he says that this stuff does what he says it does, then it will do what he says it does.”

And with that said, Neville emptied a small quantity into his false-teeth-glass-if-he-wore-false-teeth-which-he-didn’t. And topped the glass up with whisky.

“Tell you what,” said Neville, steeling himself and tipping in at least half the remaining contents of the bag. “In for a penny, in for a pound. There’s no point in going off half-cocked, is there?”

Norman felt remarkably chipper.

Which was odd, considering.

Considering the punishment he’d taken when the floor of the executive box had given way.

Norman distinctly remembered falling through. And coming into contact with the concrete of the stand below. And then the other shopkeepers coming into contact with
him
, as they, too, plummeted downwards. And Norman also remembered the sounds, those terrible sounds of his own bones breaking – his wrist bones and his ribcage, and his jaw, as well.

He could remember all this. And then things went a bit hazy.

Norman stood behind the counter of Peg’s Paper Shop and felt at himself. Gingerly. He wasn’t even bruised. How could that be? By all accounts he should surely be dead, but he wasn’t. How
could
that be?

Norman scratched at his wig and sought an answer. There was something, he was sure of it. He did have some recollections. A face swam into Norman’s thoughts, if faces could but swim. And this face was the face of Archroy.

Archroy.

“Yes,” whispered Norman. “I think I do recall, after all.”

He could see the face of Archroy gazing down at him. It was a face displaying an expression of concern. And a voice, too – Archroy’s voice. And the voice said, “Don’t worry, old chap, you’ll be all right. You’re not going to die.”

“Die?” whispered Norman. “I
was
going to die.”

And the shopkeeper remembered something else, amongst all the chaos and the screaming and the people running in all directions (well, one direction each). Something Archroy had put over him. Something woolly and warm and golden and twinkling.

And then that was it.

And Norman had woken up in his bed with not a bruise or a bit of his person broken.

And Peg had actually let him sleep late, until nearly half-past ten. Which was decidedly odd in itself. Beyond odd, in fact. Little less than unnerving.

“Odd,” whispered Norman. “Most odd. I will have to speak to Archroy of this. I’ve heard that he’s definitely back in the borough.”

“What are you whispering about?” boomed the voice of Peg.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing. In fact, I’m just popping out for a moment. I won’t be more than five minutes.”

“You’d better not be.”

Norman slipped off his shopkeeper’s coat and slipped from the shop. He crossed the road and entered the phone box (a red K2 designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott) and from here he phoned the offices of Mr Richard Gray, Solicitor of Law.

Ms Yola Bennett answered the phone.

“It’s me,” said Norman.

“Norman,” said Yola. “My love, how are you?”

“How are
you
?” Norman asked. “I woke up in my bed this morning, but I don’t remember getting home. Things are a bit confused. Were you injured?”

“I wasn’t in the box when the floor fell through, I was downstairs in the bar. I couldn’t find you in all the confusion. They said you were taken to the hospital, but you weren’t. I’ve been so worried.”

“Well, I’m fine,” said Norman. “Not even a chafing. Would you care for a lunchtime shag, I mean drink?”

“I can’t get away this lunchtime. We’ve got a lot of bandaged-up town councillors here, all intent on suing the club for compensation.”

“Oh,” said Norman. “Well, perhaps tonight? I’ll call you later.”

“E-mail me,” said Yola. “You do have a computer, don’t you, Norman?”

“I certainly do.”

“Then take down my e-mail address and e-mail me.”

“Right,” said Norman, and he took out a sharpened pencil and a bit of old till receipt that he had been saving for a rainy day and took down Yola’s e-mail address. “Got it,” said Norman, when he had done so.

“Lovely,” said Yola. “And Norman.”

“Yes?”

“Love you.”

“Mmm,” went Norman, replacing the receiver.

Norman stood before the phone box, taking in the sunshine and the healthy Brentford air. He really should go straight back to the shop. That would be the best thing to do.

But then, as chance would have it, if such a thing there really is as chance, Norman chanced to see a distinctive form marching up the Baling Road. Decked out in pith helmet and safari suit and jungle boots, this distinctive form was none other than Archroy himself.

“Archroy himself,” said Norman, as he watched the distinctive form vanish into the saloon bar of The Flying Swan. “A five-minute conversation with that lad wouldn’t hurt.”

But then Norman’s eyes strayed once more towards Peg’s Paper Shop.

But then Norman shrugged. “If wishes were butter cakes, beggars would bite,” said Norman.

It was nearing twelve of the midday clock now and The Swan hadn’t, as yet, got into its lunchtime trade.

As Norman entered the bar, his eyes adjusting to the transition from bright sunlight to “ambient bar glow”, he did not espy all too many patrons.

At the bar counter sat Bob the Bookie, Old Pete, Councillor Doveston (who had not been up in the executive box as he wasn’t too good with stairs) and Archroy. And that was it, for the saloon bar was otherwise deserted.

“Good morning, each,” called Norman, making his way towards the bar.

But no head turned and no greetings were returned to him.

“Please yourselves, then,” said Norman, climbing on to the barstool next to Archroy. “A pint of Large, please, Neville.
Oh my God!
”

They were there. Before him. Beyond the bar counter and before him. Breasts. Big breasts. Big
bare
breasts. Two matching pairs of Big Bare Breasts. Norman stared at these big bare breasts. He gawped at these big bare breasts. These big bare breasts consumed all of Norman’s vision, as they similarly did the vision of the other patrons who sat transfixed before the bar counter.

“Boo-boos,” said Norman. “Big boo-boos.”

“Pint of Large was it, my luv?” asked Pippa. “My name’s Pippa, by the way.”

“Norman,” said Norman, breathlessly. “Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.”

“Pleased to meet you, Norman. Is this the Large?” Pippa ran her hand up and down the enamel pump handle in manner suggestive of …

“Yes,” gasped Norman. “That’s the one.”

Pippa took up a dazzling pint pot, held it beneath the Large pump and cranked out foam and bubbles. “There’s something wrong with this pump,” she said, and she wiggled her bare bosoms about. Wiggled
bare bosoms
, right there, behind the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan!

“I’m hallucinating,” said Norman. “I must have concussion from the fall I took. Or possibly I’ve developed X-ray vision. Yes, that might be it.”

“They’re real,” said Archroy, turning a grin towards Norman. “They’re the Real McCoy. And good day to you, old chap. No ill effects from last night, I trust?”

“No,” said Norman. “And welcome back, Archroy. And I have to talk to you about that.”

“Later, old chap. But for now, why not just sit back and enjoy the view.”

“The view?” said Norman.

“The view,” said Archroy. “And believe me, I speak as one who has seen views. I have seen views and I have seen
views
. The sunrise over Kathmandu reflected in the sacred Ganges. The mists upon the peak of Kanchenjunga, rolling down towards Nepal. The glories of fair Atlantis and also the glories of Rome (which are of another day, of course). But I have to say that, but for the bare-naked lady-boys of Bangkok, this is an unparalleled view.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Norman. “But where’s Neville?”

Pippa presented Norman with a pint of froth. “It’s got a bit of a head,” said she, “but it will settle down.”

“I hope it will soon,” said Norman, plucking at his trouser front.

“Naughty boy,” purred Pippa.

“But where’s Neville?”

“He hasn’t come down from his bedroom yet. He was taken a bit poorly earlier. Loz and I had to open up for him.”

“But Neville would never be late in opening up,” said Norman.

“Well, he was today. How much is Large? Do ya know?”

Considering his pint of froth, Norman named a figure that was well below the actual asking price and paid with the exact coinage.

Pippa rang up “no sale” on the cash register and pocketed Norman’s pennies. Then she wiped herself down with a bar cloth, much to the joy of her beholders.

“Good day, each.”

The eyes of the beholders drew away from the beauty that was being beheld by them and beheld … Neville.

And the eyes of the beholders blinked and did the now legendary double take. Neville appeared somewhat …

Different.

He was not in his regular barman’s apparel – the slacks, the button-collared shirt and dicky bow. This was a new and hitherto unseen Neville. Although always smartly turned out, this was something more.

The part-time barman sported, and that
was
the word, a brightly checked sports jacket and a dashing red silk cravat. And his hair was all quaffed up at the front and he wore a pair of—

“Sunspecs,” said Norman. “You are wearing sunspecs.”

“They’re Ray Bans,” said Neville. “I generally wear them when I’m driving.”

“But you don’t have a car.”

“Anyone waiting to be served? Here, my dear.” Neville took a glass from Pippa’s hand and applied a practised hand of his own to the beer pump. “Yours, Norman?”

Norman considered the pint of froth that stood before him, pushed it aside and said, “Mine.”

“Are you all right?” asked Old Pete.

“Never better,” said Neville, and he lifted his sunspecs and winked his good eye at the ancient. “Never better. Does anyone else need serving?”

“Me,” said Bob the Bookie.

“And me too, old chap,” said Archroy.

“Archroy,” said Neville, “they told me you were back in town. I’m most pleased to see you.”

“And me, you,” said Archroy. “And your new bar staff also.”

“Yes,” Neville grinned. “Lovely ladies. Lovely ladies.”

And Old Pete and Councillor Doveston and Bob the Bookie and Norman and Archroy looked on in horror as Neville stepped between his new bar staff and smacked each of them on the bottom.

During the lunchtime session, Norman spoke unto Archroy regarding what had occurred upon the previous evening and received in return an explanation that he considered truly fantastic – an explanation which involved the now legendary Golden Fleece.

At two-thirty, Neville called “time”, much to the further horror of his patrons.

“Important business regrettably forbids me from continuing this session,” Neville told them.

“Then you bugger off to it and leave the girls to serve us,” countered Old Pete.

“This important business involves the lovely ladies,” said Neville. And he raised his Ray Bans and winked his good eye once more.

“To The Stripes Bar, lads,” said Old Pete.

And that was that.

And Norman returned to Peg’s Paper Shop.

“And where have you been?” Peg demanded to be told.

“Some important business came up,” said Norman.

Peg waggled a forbidding digit towards her errant spouse. “Well, you can stay here now,” she told him, “because I’m going out. It’s Townswomen’s Guild afternoon again.”

“Time certainly flies,” said Norman, “but heals all wounds as it does so.”

“Moron,” said Peg in a voice so loud that it rattled the humbugs in their jars. “I’ll be home about midnight.” And she left in a huff
[33]
, slamming the shop door behind her.

“Midnight,” said Norman. And he stroked at his chin. “Perhaps I will invite the vivacious Yola here for the evening. In fact, I definitely will.” And he took out the e-mail address that he had scribbled down earlier in the telephone box.

Norman looked at it thoughtfully.

“E-mail,” said Norman, and there was some degree of doubt in the tone of his voice. “I know of it, naturally. And my computer
is
wired into the telephone socket.”

Norman considered his fingers. The electrical burns had all but healed up now. “There shouldn’t be much to this e-mail business.”

Norman turned the “open” sign to its “closed” side, bolted the shop door and then sneaked away to his kitchenette-cum-computer-workstation area. The machine was still humming away. He’d never got around to switching it off.

“But that’s good for computers,” said the shopkeeper, seating himself before the screen. “Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.” He reached forward to tap at the keyboard and then took to howling in pain.

The keyboard was very hot indeed.

Norman left his seat and returned at length in the company of a pair of gardening gloves, which he donned.

“To continue,” he said, and he tapped at the keyboard.

A logo appeared upon the screen, a gorgeous sepia-coloured Victorian-style logo, all noble heroic figures in Grecian garb and British Bulldogs and lions and scenes of industry and Queen Victoria’s head. And the words “BABBAGE NINETEEN-HUNDRED SERIES” in Times Roman lettering. And lots of those little icons and tool-bar jobbies all around the edge of the screen.

Norman moved the brass mouse about and a little arrow moved upon the screen in time to his movings. Norman clicked upon a random icon. The Babbage logo disappeared and Norman found himself confronting a big list of items, which appeared to be that of the computer’s potentialities.

“Hmm,” went Norman, “interesting. But where would the e-mailing bit be?” And he did the scrolling thing he’d learned when going through the Babbage plans. The list moved up the screen, on and on and on it went. Norman stopped at intervals, read things aloud, scratched at his wig in wonder and scrolled on.

“If I didn’t know better,” said Norman, when much further scrolling had been done and the list showed no signs whatsoever of coming to an end, “I would say that this is all some kind of formula. And not just any formula, but some kind of magical formula. Most odd. Although …” Norman cocked his head upon one side. “No,” said he, “this is too absurd even to contemplate.” He cocked his head upon the other side. “It couldn’t be. It surely couldn’t be.”

Norman did a bit of scrolling back. A lot of scrolling back. “They are,” he said. “They really are.”