Knees Up Mother Earth (31 page)

“Right,” said the ref. “I’ll toss the coin and if your centre forward doesn’t get up and call, then win or lose I’ll give Burnley the kickoff.”

“Do your worst,” shouted Omally. “We’re not afraid.”

“We’re not?” Jim couldn’t manage another shout.

The ref stalked away to the centre of the pitch and flung his coin into the air. The crowd momentarily stilled as the dazzling disc spiralled up and spiralled down again to fall upon the snoring face of Ernest Muffler. The ref looked down at the snoring face, shrugged his shoulders and awarded the toss to Burnley.

The Burnley supporters screamed their approval. The Burnley centre forward took the kickoff.

High up in the commentary box, John the ex-
Blue Peter
boy spoke into his mic. “And it’s Burne-Jones to Morris and Morris has chipped it to Rossetti and Rossetti has passed it back to Burne-Jones and the Brentford team are just lying there, there’s no defence, no attack, no nothing at all. It’s Burne-Jones over on the wing to Holman Hunt and Millais is inside the box and he
scores
! Oh, yes.
He scores
! And the crowd are on their feet once more. One-nil to Burnley.”

The ref blew his whistle. “Offside,” he said.

“There,” said Omally. “Cunning tactics, eh?”

Pooley squinted. “You mean they can’t score?” he said.

“Yeah, well, they can – they won’t go so far into the box next time.”

And they didn’t.

“One-nil!” announced the ref.

Jim Pooley buried his head in his hands. “We’re doomed,” he blubbered. “Doomed.”

“Three-nil,” said John (the John in the commentary box). “And this is really absurd. Burnley are just walking the ball around now. They’re having a laugh. Oh look, they’re heading it backwards and forwards now. The crowd are loving it.”

“It’s not fair,” said Sam. “The ref should stop it. Look at poor Bertie, he’s all downcast.”

“Give me a pistol, John,” Jim shouted into John Omally’s ear, “or a sword that I might fall upon. I have had enough of life. This is all too much.”

“I have to confess,” John shouted back, “that things look rather discouraging. I’m afraid, my friend, that only a miracle can save us now.”

“Four-nil,” shouted the John in the commentary box.

“A miracle,” said Jim. “It’s going to take more than a miracle.”

“
More
than a miracle?” John took out his mobile phone.

“Of course, that’s it,” said Jim. “Zap them with microwaves.”

“Give me a moment.” John tapped out digits and put his free hand over his phone-free ear. And then John began to shout into his mobile phone.

“What is the score, Jim?”

“It’s six-nil, Professor. We’re doomed.”

“Never say die, Jim.”

Jim’s eyes did sudden startings from their sockets. His mouth did droppings open and his voice did stumbled speakings.

“
Professor
?” said Jim, turning on the bench towards the ancient scholar. “Professor, you’re
here
.”

“I’m sorry I’m a little late. I got a bit held up.” The professor spoke softly, but his words were clear to Jim even above the howlings of the crowd.

“They’re killing us, Professor. This fiend of a barkeep got the team drunk. Look at them out on the pitch.”

Professor Slocombe scratched at his ancient chin. “A difficult situation, I agree,” said he. “And oh dear me, they are approaching the Brentford goal once again.”

And they were. And they were laughing with it. Burne-Jones passed the ball to Ford Maddox Brown (the Burnley striker and five-times winner of the Freshest Whippet on the Block Competition (Northern Chapter)). Ford Maddox Brown took a lazy kick at the goal.

And up from the turf rose Loup-Gary Thompson, professional wolf-boy (and eater of whippets), up from the turf and into furious action. He stopped the ball dead and then took a monumental kick.

The ball soared high into the air. Incredibly high. Fantastically high. It soared and it soared and then it fell downwards, downwards, onward and onward. And straight into the Burnley goal.

Which was undefended, as the goalie was reading a newspaper.

The crowd did not erupt into applause. The crowd became silent and still.

“That was a goal, wasn’t it?” said Professor Slocombe. “Would you care to join me, Jim, in a Mexican wave?”

“Well
this is
new,” said the John in the commentary box. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. There never seems to be more than one Brentford player standing at any one time. One jumps up, kicks the ball, then flops back to the turf. And then another one jumps up, passes the ball then
he
slumps back down. And, oh my lord, it’s another one for Brentford. That’s—”

“It’s six-all,” said Sam. “Impossible comeback and the ref is blowing his whistle for half-time.”

The Burnley team sat in their top-notch changing room, sucking their oranges and playing their mandolins. Merridew Fairweather waddled up and down before them.

“You clowns,” he shouted, “we could have been thirty goals ahead by now, fiddle-de, fiddle-dum, but you took them for granted. You can’t take these Southern nutters for granted.”

“But the fix was in, Boss,” said John Roddam Spencer Stanhope, the goalie and three-times winner of the Flattest Flat Cap Competition (Northern Chapter). “I thought your brother at The Slaughtered Lamb had taken care of them, as he has done with all the other teams we’ve thrashed at home this season.”

“Hush your loquacity,” counselled Merridew. “We need this win. You go out there and do whatever you have to do – if you get my meaning.”

“What about the ref?”

“He is our referee in residence,” said Merridew. “And he
is
my other brother.”

The Brentford team did not repair to the changing room come half-time. They apparently chose to remain resting on the pitch.

Jim Pooley downed another pint of water. Some degree of sobriety was returning to him.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it, Professor,” said Jim, “but please just keep on doing whatever you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Jim.” The professor made the face of mock-wounding. “The team are trying their best and playing their hearts out.”

“I particularly liked the way that the English twins managed to kick in that last goal without having any of their feet actually touching the turf,” said John. “The way they just sort of hovered above the ground.”

“Skilful players,” said the professor. “Very light on their feet.”

The folk who watch Sky TV – those toffs in aeroplanes, perhaps – no doubt enjoyed the second half of the match.

Assuming, of course, that they were
not
Burnley Town supporters.

Those toffs probably enjoyed all the news that followed also. It was
Sky News
and it was very thorough. The reporter “on the ground” who covered the carnage was an ex-BBC topical news quiz presenter who had just lost his job at the BBC after getting into a spot of bother involving cocaine and hookers. His name was Angus
[45]
and he had to wear his special
Sky News
protective helmet and flak jacket. The mass rioting that followed the Brentford victory and culminated in the burning down of, amongst other things, the Stadium of Earthly Delights (which happily resulted in no actual loss of life, although many were hospitalised) made for excellent television.

At three a.m., martial law was declared and a squadron of Challenger tanks escorted the Brentford big bus to a safe point well beyond the city limits.

The moon shone down upon John and Jim, who lazed upon the open upper deck, gazing over their shoulders towards the orange glow in the sky that had up until so recently been the town of Burnley.

“I think we can chalk that one up as another success,” said John.

“Do you want to wake the team and tell them?” Pooley asked.

“Nah, let them sleep. It will be a nice surprise for them in the morning.”

“Where did the professor vanish away to?” Jim asked.

Omally tapped at his nose.

“And what does
that
mean?”

Omally grinned and his mobile phone began to ring. Words were exchanged and Omally tucked the thing away into his pocket.

“Who was
that
?” Jim now asked.

“Sky TV,” said John. “They’re offering sponsorship. They want to put their logo on our kaftans.”

Norman numbered-up the Monday morning
Mercury
s. 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.”