“A miracle?” said Jim. “We’re doomed.”
45
Jim Pooley returned, in the company of John, to the pitch-side Brentford bunker bench/dugout jobbie. Jim would dearly have preferred to run far, far away. And then some more. But he knew that he could not. He owed a duty to the Brentford supporters, the thousands of them who had grown from the few when the season began.
The atmosphere in the great stadium had changed somewhat since the end of the first half. Word had clearly got around regarding the Brentford team’s departure – spread, no doubt, by William Starling. The Manchester supporters were thrusting their down-pointing thumbs in the direction of the Brentford fans and chanting, “Lo-sers, Lo-sers, Los-ers.” The Brentford fans appeared to be practising Primal Scream Therapy. Jim put his hands over his ears. This had to be the very worst day of his life.
Professor Slocombe joined Jim and John. Jim looked up hopefully into the old man’s face, but it was a face that was drained and grey. Professor Slocombe shook his head.
Across the pitch, upon the bench of the opposing team, William Starling raised a champagne flute in mocking toast to the men he had defeated.
Upon the field, the Manchester United players made victory signs, did walking-that-line swankings and turned the occasional somersault. With no Brentford team to play the second half, they would clearly win by default.
Up on high in the commentator’s box, Mr Merkin hollered into his oxygen-mask microphone. “Well, I told you that this was likely to be an FA Cup Final unlike any other,” he bawled, “and given that most remarkable first half, I think you’ll agree that so far it has been. But now there have been even more remarkable developments. Word has reached me that the entire Brentford team has quit the match and left the ground. The referee is on the pitch now, and yes, he’s signalling. He’s giving the Brentford team one minute to come on to the pitch or they will forfeit the game.”
“Professor!” shouted Jim, trying to make himself heard above the mad cacophony. And hunching his shoulders, too, as beer cans and toilet rolls began to rain down upon him. “What can we do?”
“Nothing, Jim. I’m sorry.”
“Should I go and speak to the ref?”
“If you think it might help.”
“I’ll do anything,” shouted Jim. “All these supporters – everything we’ve been through – we can’t just let everybody down now.”
Jim rose from the bench. The Brentford supporters catcalled and hurled abuse and the Man U fans did likewise. Amidst a hailstorm of empty beer cans, small change and the occasional seat-back, Jim made the walk of shame across to the centre of the pitch.
The referee addressed him sternly. “Are your team returning to the field of play?” he asked. “They have thirty seconds left to do so.”
“They’ve been taken sick,” said Jim. “The lunch. Food poisoning. We suspect that it was deliberate. I request a rematch at a later date.”
The referee glared at Jim and Jim saw the darkness, the terrible darkness filling the whites of his eyes. “Twenty seconds,” he said. “No team, you forfeit the match. That is final. That is that.”
“But,” said Jim, “please. I beg you. Please.”
“Ten seconds,” said the ref. “Nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two …”
A mighty cheer suddenly went up – a mighty cheer that came from the throats of the Brentford supporters. So mighty was this cheer that it nearly had Jim off his feet.
Jim looked towards the dark, dark eyes of the referee. They were gazing widely beyond Jim towards the players’ tunnel beneath the south stand.
Jim turned and stared and Jim’s mouth fell hugely open.
Footballers were jogging on to the pitch. But they weren’t the circus performers. They were complete strangers to Jim. They were short and stocky, with short-back-and-sides haircuts and old-fashioned Brentford United strips, the shirts tucked into shorts that all but reached their ankles. They jogged forward with military precision.
Jim gawped at these footballers. “What is going on here?” he asked.
Mr Merkin bawled further words into his oxygen-mask mic. “Now this is beyond belief,” he bawled. “Brentford are apparently attempting to field an entirely new team for the second half, which is in absolute defiance of all the FA rules.
“The referee is in consultation with Mr Pooley. Officials are on the pitch. The crowd is in absolute uproar.
“Now wait, wait. Something is coming up on my monitor. I have a list of the team members and I certainly don’t recognise any of these names. Cottingham, Christie, Haigh, Gein, Denke, De Rais, Beane, Fish, Landru, Holmes and the team captain and centre forward, Jack Lane.
“And there’s more. Well, I never knew this. Apparently the FA rulebook was supplemented in nineteen twenty-eight after the last Brentford victory. It states that ‘in the unlikely situation that a team in the FA Cup Final is composed entirely of circus performers, and these performers are unable to continue into the second half, the team may be replaced by a reserve team of the manager’s choosing’. Well, that is news to me. I thought I knew all the rules of soccer, but I never knew that. And yes, there’s a footnote. Apparently the rule was added by the temporary FA Cup committee chairman – chairman for one day only, apparently – a Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.”
There was much confusion on the pitch. William Starling was on the pitch, shouting at the ref. The ref was shouting at Jim Pooley. Jim Pooley was shouting back at all and sundry. Certain officials with copies of the FA Cup Rulebook were doing shoutings of their own.
The only folk not actually shouting were the players. The Man U fellows stared at the mysterious Brentford team. The Brentford team stood about, hands in pockets, nonchalantly smoking Wild Woodbine cigarettes.
The ref’s shouting diminished as the officials with the rulebooks demanded that he begin the second half. William Starling stalked from the pitch. Jim shrugged and returned to the bench where Professor Slocombe sat.
Norman sat with the professor and John Omally and a portly fellow that Jim knew to be Norman’s Uncle Herbert.
Jim Pooley viewed Norman and Jim Pooley blinked. Norman, it seemed, had grown a moustache. Surely you couldn’t do that in just ten minutes.
Norman put his thumbs up to Jim, who slowly sat down beside him.
“Sorted,” said Norman.
Jim Pooley shook his befuddled head. “You had something to do with this? How?”
“Don’t ask,” said Norman. “But it took a great deal of effort and a great deal of time.”
“But who are they?” Jim pointed towards the Brentford side, who were now doing knee-bends and arm-stretch exercises whilst still sucking on their Wild Woodbines.
“Surely you recognise them,” said Norman. “You’ve seen their photos in The Four Horsemen often enough. Back by popular demand, you might say. It’s the nineteen twenty-eight Brentford FA Cup-winning team.”
Jim shook his head once more.
“Actually,” said Norman, “you really have my Uncle Herbert here to thank. He let me borrow his, er, conveyance. Jim Pooley, allow me to introduce to you Mr H.G. Wells.
“You see, he’s not really my Uncle Herbert,” Norman continued. “He’s really Mr H.G. Wells, inventor of the Time Machine.”
The referee blew his whistle and the second half was on.