Neville stood with Pippa and Loz in the cellar of The Flying Swan. “I don’t want anything to go wrong, it’s very important to me,” said the part-time barman.
“Nothing will go wrong, Nevvy.” Loz stroked Neville’s cheek. “And you’ll only be away for a few hours and most of Brentford will be at the match with you. There won’t be much custom anyway.”
“But I’ve never done anything like this before,” said Neville.
“What, been to a football match?”
“Actually, no. But I mean I’ve never missed a lunchtime session.”
“You go and enjoy yourself,” said Loz. “Cheer the team on.”
“It’s something I just don’t want to miss,” said Neville. “Brentford haven’t played at Wembley since nineteen twenty-eight, when Jack Lane, who now runs The Four Horsemen, led them to victory. I doubt it will ever happen again.”
“You go,” said Pippa. “Have a good time. Bring us back some candyfloss or something.”
“Thank you,” said Neville, and he put his arms about the shoulders of Pippa and Loz and kissed each one in turn upon the cheek. “Keep the champagne on ice,” he said. “I think this is going to be a day that all of us will remember.”
“Now remember, Jim,” said Omally as he and Pooley munched their breakfast in The Plume Café, “you must show no sign of your nerves to the team. They’ll be nervous enough as it is. You must display supreme confidence, spur them on to victory.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Jim, forking a sausage into his gob.
“Oh, and this is for you. I picked it up from your doormat when we left your place.” Omally delved into his pocket and brought out an envelope, which he handed to Jim.
Jim looked the envelope over. “The professor’s handwriting,” he said. “‘For the attention of James Pooley. Not to be opened until five minutes before the match.’ It will be the tactics for the game. Should I open it now, do you think?”
“Go on, then,” said John. “Let’s have a look.”
Pooley dug his thumbs into the corner of the envelope’s flap and sought to tear it open, but the envelope remained intact. “That’s odd,” said Jim, applying further force. Jim wrestled with the envelope, but only succeeded in nearly taking a thumbnail off.
“Use your knife,” said John.
“But it’s all eggy.”
“Use your knife.”
Jim now dug at the envelope with his eggy knife and attempted to slit it, but the knife merely skidded away and nearly took off his other thumbnail.
“Give it here,” said Omally. “You’re like an old woman, you.”
Jim sucked upon his wounded thumbs. “It won’t be opened,” said he.
“Of course it will.” John took the envelope between both hands, put it across his knee and tried to tear it in half, after the manner of those fellows who do the trick with telephone directories (although not so much these days, as the practice seems to have gone out of fashion. Like the Yo-Yo, or the Scooby Doo. Not to mention the Rubic’s Cube.)
Nobody mentioned the Rubic’s Cube.
“It’s giving,” said John. But it wasn’t.
“I almost have it,” said John, the veins on his neck standing out.
But he didn’t.
John Omally took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and made an all-out assault on the envelope. He bit at it and ripped at it, he went down on his knees and he wrestled with it. But the envelope remained adamant. The envelope wouldn’t open.
Lil leaned over her counter top. “Is he having an epileptic fit?” she asked.
“Trying to open the mail,” said Jim.
“Shrink-wrapped, is it?” said Lil. “I have certain lady’s things that arrive in the post, shrink-wrapped. I generally give them a little toasting over the hob to soften them up. Not that I want them soft, if you know what I mean.”
Jim didn’t.
Omally was now jumping up and down on the envelope.
Jim Pooley watched him at it and Jim began to laugh.
“It’s no laughing matter,” said John. “I won’t be defeated by a damned envelope.”
“You will,” said Jim. “You will, don’t you see?”
John turned a sweaty face towards Jim. “See what?” he asked.
“The professor,” said Jim. “He knew we’d try to open it, and he knew what frame of mind I’d be in. It’s his magic, John. It won’t be possible to open the envelope until five minutes before the match. He did this to show us his power, John, and, in turn, to boost our confidence.”
“And you came to this conclusion all on your own?”
“I suppose I did,” said Jim. “I suggest that we finish our breakfasts and head off to Griffin Park.”
John picked up the envelope from the floor. For all of his stompings, it wasn’t even besmutted.
John handed the envelope to Jim. “Ready for the challenge, then?” he asked.
“Brentford for the Cup,” said Jim. “Brentford for the Cup.”
And Brentford looked festive upon this May morn. Bunting hung between lampposts all the way up the high street, union flags fluttered from upper storeys and colour photographs of Jim’s grinning face, taken from the centrefold of the day’s Brentford Mercury Special FA Cup Final Edition, were displayed in many shop windows. The sun beamed its blessings down upon the borough and it was as if the storm and the horrible doings of the night before had never occurred at all. A crowd had already gathered outside Griffin Park, and this crowd, which seemed for the most part composed of fellows wearing reproduction team kaftans and young girlies wearing fetching versions of Jim’s lucky suit, cheered loudly as John and Jim approached.
“Big warm welcome,” whispered John. “Smiles all round and lots of confidence.”
Jim Pooley beamed smiles all around, had his picture taken and signed autographs.
“Can you tell us anything about the tactics you mean to employ?” asked Scoop Molloy.
“No,” said Jim. “Strictly confidential, but I’ll tell you this.” And Jim whispered words into Scoop’s small-and-shell-like: “Stay away from Norman’s wife,” whispered Jim, “or I’ll have the whole team come around to your house and use you for a practice ball.”
“Thank you very much, Mr Pooley,” said Scoop. “And very good luck today.”
The crowd cheered on. Jim signed more autographs and then he and John entered the ground. The Campbell locked the gates behind them.
“Are the both of ye well?” he asked.
“We are,” said Omally.
Jim Pooley nodded. “About last night,” said he.
“Speak no more about it,” said the Campbell. “Press on with what must be done.”
“Are the players all here?” Omally asked.
“Players?” said the Campbell. “I suppose so, if you care to call them that.”
John and Jim entered The Stripes Bar and beheld the players, who were starting the day with a swift pint to get themselves going.
“Now, now,” said Jim, “you shouldn’t be drinking. Remember The Slaughtered Lamb?” Those who had been there remembered, those who hadn’t did not. “Just the one, then,” said Jim. “And plenty of crisps for protein. Where is Ernest Muffler?”
Barry Bustard puffed in Jim’s direction. “He’s not here and nor is Dave Quimsby.”
“So where are they?”
“No one knows. Big Bob called to pick them up, but they’d gone.”
“Bottle job,” said Omally. “Just like the rest of them.”
Jim Pooley made the face of alarm. “We don’t have a full team, then,” said Jim.
“We do,” said Barry. “Meet Bobo and Zippy.”
Bobo and Zippy presented themselves.
Jim shook hands with Bobo and Zippy. “A clown,” said Jim, “and a pinhead. We’re d—”
“Delighted,” said John. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. Thank you for stepping into the breach at the last moment.”