“Oh dear,” said John, lighting up.
“And he said that the more he thought about it the more he noticed odd little changes that didn’t make sense. That things just weren’t the way they should be.”
“He had been drinking a bit,” said John.
“He owned up to that.” Jim took John’s lighter and lit his fag. “I used to have a lighter just like this,” he said.
Omally stretched and yawned.
“And come to think of it,” said Jim, “I used to have a suit like that and a pair of winklepicker boots.”
“They’re only borrowed, Jim. And if all goes well tonight I’ll buy you a dozen suits and a dozen pairs of boots.”
“Yeah, right. But I am rather worried about old Soap.”
“He’ll be fine. It’s just some temporary aberration. When I last saw him we drank a toast to Brentford and how what he liked about it best was that nothing ever changes here. I mean, look around you, can you imagine this place changing?”
Jim looked all around him. He saw the mellow-bricked library and the streets of terraced Victorian houses. He saw a crumbling wall plastered with movie posters, one of which, coincidentally, advertised Virgin Films’ latest release. Charles Manson starring as Forrest Gump. And above and beyond, the high-rise flats and the gleaming silver spires of Virgin Mega City.
“No,” said Jim. “You’re right, of course. Nothing ever changes round here.”
Terence the Thespian sat on his laurels.
People remembered his glorious years.
Bowing before the great packed auditorium.
Bowing and bowing to thousands of cheers.
Getting the knighthood and winning the Oscars.
Five nominations at least in a week.
Dodging the press at the gay dinner functions.
Opening fêtes, more or less, so to speak.
Posing for painters with R.A. credentials.
Saying “Yum yum” to the products that pay.
Dancing with debs and the wives of new statesmen.
Getting a centre-page spread every day.
Buying up mansions and landaus and sofas.
Taking the lions for walks in the park.
People say, “Oooh, he’s not like you expect him.
Thought he was lighter, or thought he was dark.”
Terence the Thespian sat on his laurels.
Counted his royalties, counted his hair.
Terence the Thespian struck down by lightning.
Just goes to show he was mortal. So there!
5
When Terence the Thespian got his comeuppance and copped the old bolt from the blue, his children were left to divvy up the spoils.
The eldest, Alexander, or Sandy to his daddy, or Master Sandy to his private tutors, or just plain jammy bastard to the rest of us, found himself in the enviable position of being a teenaged millionaire.
Now, while it is certainly true that many a man of means owes his success in life to the labours of a deceased relative, it is also often the case that wealth that is suddenly come by is wealth that is suddenly gone.
This was indeed the case with Sandy.
Sandy dispossessed himself of wealth in truly Biblical fashion. He dallied in the fleshpots of Ealing, that modern-day Babylon, where, in his gilded youth, he drank deep of iniquity’s wine and dined upon fruits forbidden.
And thusly did he squander his birthright upon many a libertine pleasure. Carousing with harlots and hedonists, sybarites and sodomites, debauchees, degenerates, wallowers and wastrels.
Very nice work if you can get it, but sadly few of us can.
And having squandered all, and somewhat more besides, Sandy was forced to flee the fleshpots and take unto his toes. And sorely did his creditors mourn for his departure. And greatly did they weep and wail and gnash their teeth and rend their raiments. Yea, verily! And many amongst them did swear mighty oaths and promise him the torments of the damned.
Sandy wandered wearily, footsore and sick at heart, a vagabond with all hope gone, a sad and sorry fellow. He walked alone for many days and covered many miles and, as you do on the road, had all kinds of exciting adventures involving Red Indians and pirates and highwaymen and knights in armour and wizards and witches and giants and goblins and beautiful princesses with long golden hair.
Because there’s a lot more to life on the road than sleeping in shop doorways and drinking aftershave. As anyone who’s been on the road will tell you.
Sandy tramped the highways and the byways for almost twenty years. Scouting for wagon trains, sailing on the seven seas and getting into all kinds of sticky situations involving the princesses with the long golden hair. But eventually he tired of it, cashed in some gold doubloons that he’d dug up on a coral island and bought the Shrunken Head.
The Shrunken Head had always been a bit of a dump. It lay at the bottom of Horseferry Lane, beside the River Thames. You couldn’t actually see the river from the Shrunken Head, but you got a feel of it during the high spring tides when the cellar filled up with water.
When Sandy purchased the place it was a “folk pub”, where men with big bellies and beards, manly men who drank only real ale, howled out those horrible unaccompanied songs that always begin with “As I walked out one morning” and end with graphic descriptions of genitalia being pierced by fish hooks.
Sandy, who had enjoyed the company of a good many long-legged women during his days in the fleshpots of Ealing, ousted the big-bellied beardies and turned the Shrunken Head into a proper music venue. One that would attract the right kind of punter. He stripped the barrels and beer engines from the cellar and opened it up as Brentford’s answer to the Cavern.
Sandy catered to all tastes, bar “folk”, because all tastes bar “folk” attract women. Good-looking women, that is.
The Shrunken Head became the place to go in Brentford, if you were looking to rock ’n’ roll. Because Sandy did the job the way it should be done.
The Cellar, as it was imaginatively called, was small and damp and airless. The beer was served in plastic tumblers, warm and flat and overpriced. The bouncers were brutal, the bands played much too loud, junkies chased the dragon in the toilets and as for the smell …
John Omally loved the place.
Jim Pooley, however, did not.
“I would rather have my genitalia pierced by fishhooks than spend an evening there,” he said, when he learned that this was to be their destination.
“Come on, Jim,” said John, nudging his friend’s elbow. “If this band is as good as they say it will be a night to remember.”
“But the place is a hellhole and as for the guvnor—”
“Sandy the sandy-haired barlord?”
“The man is a twat,” said Jim.
“He’s been about a bit, though, and tells an interesting tale.”
“I tell an interesting tale and I’ve never been anywhere.”
“But do you have a duelling scar?”
“No.”
“Or a bullet wound, or a scald on your arm where a dragon breathed on you?”
“No,” said Jim. “I don’t.”
“And do you know of any other barlord in Brentford who bears the marks of the stigmata?”
Pooley thought about this. “Not off-hand,” he said.
“Or any other bar that attracts so many long-legged women?”
Jim thought about this also. “There’s the Brown Hatter in Fudgepacker Street,” he said.
“Those aren’t women, Jim.”
They walked a while in silence.
“Look,” said John as they crossed the Kew Road. “Just come in with me and listen to the band for a couple of numbers. If they’re rubbish we’ll both head off to the Swan.”