“Sorry,” he said, raising his finger and examining it with distaste, “again I have blotted my copybook.”
Neville was about to reach for his knobkerry when the friendly and reassuringly familiar figure of Jim Pooley appeared through the bar door whistling a tuneless lament and tapping his right knee with his racing paper. Jim mounted his very favourite bar stool with time-worn ease and addressed Neville with a cheery “Mine will be a pint of Large please, Neville, and good morning.”
The part-time barman dragged his gaze from the unsightly tramp and drew Jim Pooley a fine glass of the true water.
“Ah,” said Jim, having drained half in a single draught, “the first one is always the finest.” Pushing the exact amount across the bar top for fear that prices might have risen overnight, he sought anew the inspiration, his by divine right, that had so recently been denied him in the Memorial Library.
“I feel a winner coming on,” he said softly. This was occasionally a means of getting a free top-up at this hour of the day.
Neville made no reply.
“I think this might well be the big one,” continued Jim. Neville maintained a stony silence. He did not appear to be breathing.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if…” At this point Jim Pooley looked up from his paper and caught sight of the part-time barman’s ghastly aspect. “Whatever’s up, Neville?”
Neville clutched at his breath. “Did you see him leave?” he stuttered.
“Who leave? I didn’t see anybody.”
“He…” Neville peered over the bar top at the brass rim. It shone as unsullied and pristine as it had done when he had polished it not fifteen minutes previous.
“A tramp.”
“What tramp?”
Neville decanted himself another large scotch and threw it down his throat.
“Well I never noticed any tramp,” said Jim Pooley, “although, and you’ll think this ridiculous when I tell you.”
“What?” said Neville shakily.
“Well, when I came in here just now I felt the strangest of compunctions, I felt as if I wanted to cross myself.”
Neville did not reply.
A scratch of the bell, a screech of brakes, a rattle of front wheel against kerb and a hearty “Hi-O-Silver” and John Omally had arrived at the Flying Swan. “You stay here and enjoy the sun, I’ll be out later,” he told his bike, and with a jovial “God save all here and mine’s a pint of Large please, Neville” he entered the bar.
Neville watched his approach closely, and noted to his satisfaction that Omally showed no inclination whatever towards crossing himself. Neville pulled the Irishman a pint and smiled contentedly to himself as Omally pushed the exact amount of change across the counter.
“How’s yourself then, Jim?” said Omally.
“I feel a winner coming on,” Pooley confided loudly.
“Now is that a fact, then it’s lucky you are to be sure.” Omally accepted his pint and drained half in three gulps.
“You are late today,” said Pooley by way of conversation.
“I had a bit of bike trouble over on the allotment, Marchant and I were not seeing eye to eye.”
Pooley nodded. “Your bike Marchant would be all the better for the occasional squirt of Three-in-One and possibly a visit to a specialist once in a while.”
“Certainly the old lad is not what he was. I had to threaten him with premature burial before I could get it out that he needed new front brake blocks and a patch on his back tyre.”
“Bikes are not what they were,” said Jim. He finished his pint. “This one’s done for,” he said sadly.
“Seems so,” said John Omally.
“Whose shout is it?” said Jim.
“Whose was it last time?” said John.
Jim Pooley scratched his head. “There you have me,” said himself.
“I think you were both buying your own,” said Neville, who had heard such discussions as these go on for upwards of an hour before one of these stalwarts cracked under the pressure.
“Lend me a pound John,” said Jim Pooley.
“Away into the night boy,” the other replied.
“We’ll call it ten bob then.”
“We’ll call it a good try and forget about it.”
Jim Pooley grudgingly patted his pockets, to the amazement of all present including himself he withdrew a pound note. Neville pulled Jim Pooley another pint and taking the pound note with both hands he carried it reverently to the till where he laid it as a corpse to rest. Jim Pooley counted and recounted his change. The terrible knowledge that Jim had the price of two more pints within his very pockets made Omally more companionable than ever.
“So how’s tricks, then, Jim?” asked the Irishman, although his eyes were unable to tear themselves away from Pooley’s waistcoat pocket.
“I have been experiencing a slight cash flow problem,” said Pooley. “In fact, I am on my way now to pay several important and pressing debts which if payment was deferred by even minutes might spell doom to certain widely known political figures.”
“Ah, you were always a man of strong social conscience, Jim.”
Pooley nodded sagely. “You yourself are a man of extraordinary perception at times, John.”
“I know how to call a spade,” said John Omally.
“That you do.”
Whilst this fascinating conversation was in progress Neville, who had now become convinced that the ill-favoured tramp had never left the Flying Swan but was hiding somewhere within awaiting closing time to rifle the till, was bobbing to and fro about the bar squinting into dark and obscure corners and straining his eyes about the upper portions of the room. He suddenly became aware that he was being observed.
“I’ll just go and check the pumps,” he muttered, and vanished down the cellar steps.
Pooley and Omally drank a moment in silence. “He has been having visions,” said Jim.
“Has he?” said John. “An uncle of mine used to have visions. Said that a gigantic pig called Black Tony used to creep up on him and jog his arm when he was filling in his betting slips – blamed that pig for many a poor day’s sport, did my uncle.”
“It’s tramps with Neville,” Jim confided.
“What, nudging his arm and that?”
“No, just appearing like.”
“Oh.”
The two prepared to drink again in silence but found their glasses empty. With perplexity they faced each other.