Young Chips barked at his master.
‘Well, if you really think so,’ said Old Pete. ‘We’ll give them another week,’ and he topped up his watering can. ‘And if there is no monkey business by then, I’ll dig them into the compost heap.’
Young Chips growled and shook his head.
‘We’ll see,’ said Old Pete. ‘We will wait and see.’
Now it would have been noticed, by those who would notice such things, that the oldster was not sporting his new hearing aid.
It was in his possession now, though, tucked into the pocket of his rotten old coat. For Norman had realigned the ear-pieces and dropped it around to his house. But Old Pete wasn’t wearing it, because it looked absurd.
And so the curious sounds that he would certainly have heard had he been wearing the brass-bound contrivance were presently lost to Old Pete.
Sounds that Young Chips heard well enough but did not comment upon. Sounds were these of a gibbering nature, that only monkeys make.
So the Brentford day passed on and Old Pete sought refreshment at the Swan. Jim Pooley eschewed a lunchtime drink and slouched back to his rooms. Where he discovered that Omally had not only availed himself of Jim’s only suit, but also his bestest shirt with the dicky-bow tie.
Norman managed to find another box of raffle ticket books and so the day went by very well with him.
Neville served up many many pints of Quasimodo and when he called time in the evening, he did so with a certain slur to his voice.
The full moon lit the night-time sky.
A shooting star went singing by.
And peace there was within the town of Brentford.
Which did at least mean that the folk therein managed to get their heads down for a decent night’s sleep.
Which although they did not know it, they were really going to need. Considering what awaited them on the morrow.
12
The good folk of Brentford awoke to a day that was unlike any other. If pressed to describe what the difference was, most agreed that it was hard to explain.
When they woke from their beds they felt it and when they flung wide their curtains it swept in upon them. But what it was they did not know, but it was very nice.
There was something about the colour of the sky, the blue was somehow bluer. The tree leaves shone a greener shade of green. And it was not just the colour of things, it was the essence of the things themselves.
The sky was more sky-y, the leaves more leaf-y, the grass more grass-y than before. To those who possessed the more modern of portable telephones, it was as if the beauty setting had been set on full.
The beauty setting of life.
Folk issued from their houses, gasping and pointing. Noticing beauty in the tiniest detail. A door that was more door-y than it had been, a garden gnome more gnome-y than before.
And folk gazed at one another, were the people not more people-y? A neighbour more neighbour-y?
Yes, it was hard to explain.
But it was there and all who felt it, felt it very deeply.
The Goodwill Giant stood in Professor Slocombe’s garden. ‘Is it the air?’ he asked the snow-capped scholar. ‘The air seems somehow purer than before.’
‘More air-y?’ asked the professor.
The giant took in great big breaths. ‘There is something in the air,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ said the professor, ‘tell me what it is you feel.’
‘Joy,’ said the giant, ‘that is what I feel. There is joy in the air. The air is joyous, yes.’
And that was what the people felt. That everything was joyous and much more so than before.
Omally pedalled Marchant along the car-less High Street. All alone upon a road that somehow seemed more road-y than it ever had. Omally breathed the joyous air and smiled a joyous smile, today he felt was going to be most special. He had spent some of the previous night up West in the big city, where he had successfully negotiated for not one, but two glamorous female celebrities to pull the winning ticket of the very first Brentford Lottery this evening.
John halted Marchant before the area that would soon be known as John Omally Square. Even though upon this seemingly magical day it did seem to be a bit more square-y than it had been, it did not appear altogether much to look at. Just an area of tarmac before the town hall where officials parked their cars. An odd choice for the man of Eire perhaps.
Omally smiled a secretive smile; it would look a whole lot more impressive when the statues went up. Those stately and imposing statues of himself.
When it came to the subject of statues, one particular fellow had forthright views upon them. He had forthright views upon most things as it happened and took comfort in the knowledge that as they were his views, then they were bound to be right.
He was a man who held opinions on numerous subjects and preferred them not to be challenged.
His name was Charles and he was the Prince of Wales.
Jennifer Naylor had dedicated an entire chapter of her thesis to the Prince of Wales. For although he was not by definition a “bloke of Brentford”, she felt that he deserved a chapter simply for being what he was.
And what a very great many things he was.
A world-class polo player and downhill skier, organic farmer, philanthropist, author, member of the Magic Circle, salmon angler, water colourist, climate change activist, founder of numerous charities, patron of the arts, environmentalist and advocate of complementary medicine.
Many asked whether there was anything this royal polymath could not do. Charles reassured them that there was not.
Today, as he awaited the helicopter that would whisk him off to Brentford, the princely personage did what he did for most days now, tinkered about in his Highgrove garden whilst chatting with his special advisors.
There had been a time when his calendar had been filled with numerous official engagements, mostly of the “opening” persuasion, although he had been asked to speak on many subjects that were close to his heart.
But times and tastes change endlessly and he was not as young as he used to be. And where folk used to respectfully hang upon his every word and nod their bowed heads in agreement, there were actually people around today (ignorant plebeians though they were) that took issue with his words of wisdom and questioned what he said.
The Prince of Wales shivered at the thought.
Gimlet, his advisor on medical matters, looked up at the prince and shook his old grey head. ‘You shouldn’t have come out without your scarf,’ said Gimlet. ‘You’ll catch your death and then where will the country be?’
‘One is wearing one’s thermal vest,’ said Charles. ‘And one’s organic socks, woven from responsibly-sourced seaweed.’
‘And you could do with a new suit,’ said Dandy Den, the prince’s style guru and Chooser of the Tweed.
‘Actually this one is the pater’s,’ said Charles. ‘As he’s given up public appearances and only wears his Spongebob Squarepants onesy nowadays, I have the pick of his wardrobe.’
‘You look very, very smart,’ said Mr Knobbly, rising once more to the occasion, in his official capacity as Guardian of the Prince’s Ego. ‘And you have your script, of course. Those words of princely erudition that will bring enlightenment to all who have the honour to hear them.’
‘It took one half the night,’ said Charles. ‘One nearly wore one’s thumbs out flicking back and forwards through Roget’s Thesaurus, The Wit and Wisdom of Laurens van der Post and My Bookie Wook. But it’s all written down now. In best. In Parker pen.’
‘I’m so excited,’ sang Mr Knobbly. ‘And I just can’t hide it.’
‘One too,’ said the prince. ‘And what a wonderful place to visit. Did you know that not only were J.B. Priestley and Frederick Delius born there? But also David Hockney and the Brontë sisters?’
‘Well, I never did,’ said Mr Knobbly.
‘School dinners were invented there too,’ said the prince. ‘And the Jowett Javeli
n motor-car. But I’m most looking forward to popping into The National Media Museum again.’
‘So much to see in Brentford,’ said Mr Knobbly.
‘Where?’ asked the prince.
‘Brentford,’ said the Guardian of the Prince’s Ego. ‘Where we are going today.’
‘Bradford,’ said Prince Charles. ‘We’re going to Bradford.’
The guardian shook his old grey head.
The Chooser of the Tweed said, ‘would sir prefer the donkey jacket or the duffle coat?’
John was surprised to find that there were donkey rides to be had in what would soon be John Omally Square. Also many of those stalls that seem to pop up from nowhere whenever there is an outdoor event.
Gewgaws and fripperies were in plentiful supply. As were baubles, knick-knacks, trinkets and trumpery.
A fellow dressed as a clown claimed the ability to twist dogs into the shape of balloons and another in a shiny suit was professionally mis-selling P.P.I.
The joyous air gained added redolence from the bouquets of burgers, bagels and beer-battered bangers, popcorn, pizzas and pan-fried pink potatoes.
For those of more refined and epicurean tastes, there was lentil tabbouleh, griddled asparagus, roasted aubergine, bok choy with garlic and pickled quails eggs. Not to mention sautéed gourd and melon in a basket.
Omally mentioned neither, only cursed at his lack of foresight in not marking out rentable pitches the night before.
But on such a day as this it hardly mattered.
The matter of whether the ring road, with its circumference of approximately six miles, had actually been completed within the timely confines of a single night, was one that played on the minds of many people.
Those that owned properties near to its route, especially.
There had been protests of course, because there are always protests. Swampy the famous anti-roadster had even been rumoured to be making an appearance, chained to a tree or something. There had been petitions, because there are always petitions. Online petitions are very popular nowadays because you can make your feelings felt and occupy the moral high ground without ever having to actually leave your home. Letters had been penned by concerned citizens. A question was to be asked in The House. But whether it had been or not was anyone’s guess. It was all most concerning, but also it all seemed too mad to ever be true. Six miles of road laid down in a single night? Most unlikely. The stuff of dreams and fantasy.
There were folk who were determined to see whether anything was actually going to happen. These folk held all-night vigils, wrapped in blankets and comforted by the contents of their thermos flasks. They sat and they shivered and eventually at dawn they all went home. Because they had heard and seen absolutely nothing, so it was quite clear to them that the entire business was just some kind of a joke.
But there it was in the morning. Two lanes of black tarmacadam, linked to this road and the next. Pristine, unsullied and ready to go. And not a single soul had seen it built.
Whatever is seen cannot be unseen, someone who had seen something once said. Jim Pooley had not spent a peaceful night. He had not slept at all well, had Jim. Ghosties and Ghoulies and long-legged beasties poked their heads from shop doorways to frighten the dreaming Jim. Keening, wailing banshees pursued him through the streets. Jim dreamed of the Goodwill Giant but these dreams lacked for good will. The giant boomed ‘fe-fi-fo-fum’ and wanted Jim for dinner.
Jim snatched a peaceful hour near dawn, but then birdsong awoke him.
Jim rubbed his eyes and rooted in his ears. That birdsong seemed terribly loud. Although perhaps loud was not the word. Terribly birdsong-y perhaps. And when peering out of his bedroom window it came as a surprise to Jim that the singing birds seemed far more bird-y than they normally did.
The day indeed was far more day-y and having dressed in a shirt of now exquisite shirt-yness and trousers of a similar persuasion, Jim took himself off to the Plume where he consumed the most breakfast-y breakfast that he had ever enjoyed.
And as he did so and drank that oh-so-tea-y tea, Jim’s thoughts of wailing banshees seemed but silliness at best. For such a day as this was not for beastliness. And Jim, feeling more Jim-y that he could ever have conceived possible, began to feel at peace with everything.
Banshees indeed? What nonsense. And what if John had borrowed his best suit and shirt without permission? And what if P.P. Penrose had written books about Brentonians without asking their permission? Did any of these things matter on a day such as this?
A day such as this in Brentford?
‘Brentford?’ said Prince Charles. ‘Brentford, are you sure?’
‘It is there on the calendar, sir,’ said Mr Knobbly. ‘Beside the entry for the muesli harvesting.’
‘I never quite understood about that,’ said Prince Charles. ‘But Brentford, I mean, well one means, it’s a ghastly place isn’t it? Famous for what, one wonders? Nylons, one supposes. And oh yes, one recalls, the birthplace of the novelist P.P. Penrose, who had the temerity to put myself into one of his dreadful pot-boilers.’
‘He did cast you in a somewhat “blokey” light,’ said Dandy Den. ‘But you did have a lot of ….. you know.’
‘Muesli?’ asked the prince.
‘Sex,’ said Dandy Den. ‘Some involving muesli, I recall.’
‘Let us drop muesli from the conversation,’ said the prince. ‘It is neither funny nor clever.’
‘Unlike yourself,’ said Mr Knobbly.
‘Precisely,’ said the prince. ‘Well, we’ll just have to cancel. Make up some excuse. Say one has a headache and a corgi ate one’s homework, or something.’
Mr Knobbly made a kindly face. ‘If only we could sir,’ said he. ‘But your mummy says that you must go, because it will be really good practice for you when you are king.’
The Prince of Wales did sighings. ‘If the mater says that I must, then I must. But let’s get it over quickly and be back here in time for our lunch.’
‘Wise and noble,’ said Mr Knobbly. ‘Oh what a king you will make.’
‘What an utter buffoon,’ said Camilla, the Queen in Waiting. ‘Look at him Lily, if you will.’
Lily, Camilla’s Lady in Waiting and Keeper of the Hats and Handbags, joined her mistress at the bedroom window which overlooked the beautifully tended garden.
‘Gor, luv you, yer ladyship,’ said Lily. ‘Is ‘e down there talking to ‘is self again?’
Camilla nodded her noble head. Wise and noble too. ‘His special advisors he calls them. His invisible friends.’
‘Sad, innit!’ said Lily. ‘Still yer ladyship, once you are queen you can ‘ave ‘im locked up in the loony bin and rule on your own. Or—’ Lily winked in a loveable cockney fashion ‘—‘wiv the ‘elp of that dashing Lord Crichton, as ‘as ‘is eye on yew.’
‘Enough of your impudent banter,’ said Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall. ‘Today I shall wear the big green hat with the feather and the shoes with the pink pom-poms.’
‘Anyfink else, your ladyship?’
‘Perhaps the leather teddy, as Lord Crichton’s coming round.’
The coming of the helicopter drowned out further conversation. Which was, as the way things were going, probably all for the best.
Norman always made the best of things and today would be no exception. From the very moment he had begun the numbering up of papers (oh so paper-y as never they had been) folk had been knocking at his door demanding lottery tickets.
Norman had lost count as to just how many he had sold the day before. But now, as all the books of raffle tickets had been used up, Norman made the best of things through further improvisation, by cutting up exercise books and scrawling numbers onto them with a biro. No-one seemed to mind at all that nothing he sold was “official”. They all simply complimented him upon just how ticket-y his raffle tickets were and handed over their money.
Norman shrugged and did further numberings. He was no expert on running a lottery himself, it was somewhat beyond h
is sphere of experience, but this did seem to him to be a terribly cock-eyed way of doing business.
Surely there should be proper lottery tickets, each individually numbered in some fool-proof fashion that defeated attempts at chicanery? Surely proper records were supposed to be kept about how many tickets were sold and how much profit raised from them. The advert on the front page of yesterday’s Brentford Mercury spoke of a FIRST WEEK EXTRAVAGANZA PRIZE of five thousand pounds. Would Norman be expected to contribute anything towards this? He wasn’t keen. And what about all those other newsagents he had sold the books of raffle tickets to? Norman doubted very much that they would hand over any money, or indeed even own up that they had sold any tickets.
A very funny way to run a lottery, thought Norman. But no doubt the folk who were in charge knew just what they were doing.
‘For he who blows best,’ said Norman. ‘Bears away the horn and I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.’
A time would shortly come to pass when John and Jim would meet and during conversation speak regarding the lottery. And it can be accurately surmised that when the matter of whose job it had been to arrange the printing and distribution of the official lottery tickets, voices would become raised and blame apportioned. And there would inevitably be a degree of unpleasantness.
But that was for later and as this was now, we should not trouble ourselves with such things, but rather enjoy this marvellous morn, with Brentford being so Brentford-y and everything.
13
It is always a joy when folk rise to the occasion. No matter what the situation for which the term is employed. The people of Brentford excelled in such risings. It was second nature to them.
Whether it be a march, or a procession, or a carnival, or the opportunity to join a flash mob on the terraces of Griffin Park to fling off their clothes and sing a song about cows, or indeed participate in the riots which generally followed such an unwarranted display of flesh and vocalisation. The people of Brentford got stuck in where they could.