Neville sighed once more, but this time in company. “I need something,” he said.
“Mandragora officinarum,” said Old Pete.
“Pardon me?” said Neville.
“Mandragora officinarum,” said Old Pete once more. “It’s a powerful aphrodisiac. It used to be known as the ‘gallows plant’ because it was believed to take seed from the seminal effluvia that dripped from hanged criminals. I am currently cultivating a crop of it on my allotment patch. It’s said to have magical powers – prolongs active life, increases virility, puts a spring into your step and lead in your pencil, so to speak.”
“I’m sure it does,” said Neville wearily.
“It does too,” said Old Pete. “Do you doubt my words?”
“Oh no.” Neville gave his head further shakings. Old Pete was hailed hereabouts as a veritable fount of knowledge regarding all matters horticultural. What he didn’t know about allotment cultivation, he didn’t know because it didn’t exist.
“Well, think on,” said Old Pete.
And Neville thought on. And this thinking on further depressed him.
James Arbuthnot Pooley entered The Flying Swan.
“Watchamate, Pete, Neville,” said Jim in a cheery fashion.
Old Pete grunted and Neville nodded.
“Oh dear,” said Jim, crossing to the bar and ascending the stool next to Old Pete. “Do I sense an atmosphere of gloom upon this glorious morning?”
“It’s Neville,” said Pete. “His pecker’s playing him up and his legs are giving out. Needs a dose of Mandragora. I told him.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my pecker,” said Neville. “Pint of Large would it be, Jim?”
“It would,” said Pooley, extracting the exact change from his trouser pocket and counting it on to the counter.
Neville drew the perfect pint and presented same to his patron.
Pooley perused the perfect pint, presented same to his laughing gear, took a taste and said, “Ahhh.”
Neville managed a sort of smile. At least the ale was, as ever, superb. He rang up “no sale” on the aged cash register and deposited Pooley’s coinage therein.
Pooley placed his perfect pint upon the bar counter, took out his packet of Dadarillos, removed from it an overlong ciggie and lit up.
“God’s garden-claw,” gasped Old Pete, sniffing at the plume of smoke that wafted in his direction. “Smell’s like a tart’s laundry basket. What are you smoking there, Pooley?”
“Dadarillos,” said the lad. “An all-new smoking taste sensation. A blend of the finest long-grain tobaccos and an extra special secret ingredient that …”
“Well blow it somewhere else, you craven buffoon.”
“Quite so,” said Jim, blowing it somewhere else.
“Not at me,” said Neville, fanning the air.
“I’m sorry.”
“So,” said Old Pete as Jim blew smoke down the front of his open-necked shirt, “given your regular morning’s contribution to Bob the Bookie’s retirement fund, have you, Pooley?”
“I feel lucky today,” said Jim.
“Put your money into the soil,” saged the ancient. “Great oaks from little acorns grow and the sprout is the father to the cabbage.”
“I’ll stick with my system, thank you. It’s just a matter of time.”
Old Pete sniggered. “You craven buffoon,” said he once more.
And, “God save all here,” came the voice of John Omally as this man now entered The Flying Swan. “Morning, each.”
Jim waggled his fag-toting hand, Old Pete mumbled and Neville said, “Hello.”
John placed his bum on the bar stool next to Jim and his elbows upon the counter. “Pint of Large, please, Neville,” said he. “Jim’s in the chair.”
“I certainly am not,” said Jim.
“You will be,” said John, “for I have a lucrative business proposition to put your way.”
“Not in my bar,” said Neville. “Whatever it is.”
“It’s all above board,” said Omally, accepting his perfect pint.
“On my tab,” said Jim.
“You have no tab,” said Neville, rolling his good eye.
Jim fished into another pocket and brought from it further coinage. Neville tossed it into the knackered cash register and rang up “no sale” once again.
Omally tasted the ale and found favour with this tasting. “We will speak shortly,” he said to Jim, “but firstly we must talk of other matters. Let’s be having you, Neville.”
“Pardon me?” said Neville.
“The meeting,” said John, “that you have so recently returned from. At the town hall. Concerning the future of the football club.”
All eyes other than Neville’s turned towards Neville.
“Aha,” said Old Pete.
“Was the meeting today?” Jim asked. “Is the club saved?”
Neville chewed upon his bottom lip. His normally bar-tanned complexion was a whiter shade of pale.
“I like not the aspect of our barlord,” said Old Pete. “It bespeaketh perfidy and tergiversation.”
Neville gave his lip a further chewing. “I have to change a barrel in the cellar,” said he.
“No you don’t,” said Omally. “You have to tell us what went on.”
“I don’t,” said Neville. “I really don’t.”
“Well then,” said Old Pete, “I’m off to The Beelzepub. I’m sure that nice Mr Dhark will be pleased to offer his version of events. Coming with me, lads?”
Jim looked at John.
And John looked at Jim.
“Fair enough,” said Pooley.
“No,” said Neville, “don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”
“Then speak to us, Neville,” said John.
And Neville spake unto John and unto Jim and unto Old Pete also. And the words that Neville spake brought no gladness to those ears that received them.
Quite the reverse, in fact.
“You did what?” quoth Old Pete. “You signed away the club?”
“I was outvoted,” said Neville. “I was powerless to stop it.”
“Judas,” said Old Pete. “You have sold the borough’s birthright for a mess of porridge.”
“It’s pottage,” said Omally, who knew his scripture. “But this isn’t good, Neville.”
“Oh, come on,” said Pooley. “It wasn’t Neville’s fault. What else could he have done? It’s not as if he’s going to benefit financially from this, is it?”
Neville shook his head vigorously. He had “carelessly” neglected to mention the matter of the shares.
“You shouldn’t have signed, though, Neville,” said Jim. “If it were to come out in the local papers, there’s no telling what people might do.”
“What?” said Neville. “What do you mean?”
“I know what he means,” said Old Pete, miming the throwing of a rope over a beam.
“No,” said Neville, fingering his throat.
“It will be bye-bye to all this,” Old Pete continued. “You’ll be a social pariah, Neville. You’ll be driven out of this pub. Tarred and feathered, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“No.” The face of Neville was now a whiter shade of even whiter pale. His hands began to tremble and his knees to knock.
“Stop it,” said Jim to Old Pete. “Can’t you see that you’re frightening him? They won’t tar and feather you, Neville.”
“No?” said Neville. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Phew.”
“They’ll probably just knock you about a bit. Break your legs or something.”
“Stop!” howled Neville.
Old Pete scratched at his grizzly chin. “Horrible business, broken legs,” he said. “The bones never knit together properly; I’ve been limping since I had my right kneecap blown away at Paschendale. I’ve a spare walking stick I could let you have cheap.”