“What other Norman Hartnell?” queried John Omally, whose only claim to fashion consciousness was tucking his shirt in all the way round even when wearing a jacket. There was still no word from Norman, and Omally even took to phoning the offices of the Brentford Mercury daily for news. He was not a man to be cheated of his pennies, and the more time passed the more he became convinced that whatever plans were hatching in Norman’s obtuse cranium, he, Omally, was due at least part of any income deriving from their fruition. “It was me reading about the Channel swimming that started it all, was it not?” he asked. Those present at the bar nodded gravely.
“You have a moral right,” said Neville.
“You should get a contract drawn up,” said Jim Pooley.
“He owes you,” said Archroy.
That Saturday the Brentford Mercury, which had for some days been refusing to accept John Omally’s reverse-charge calls, announced in large and impressive type: BRENTFORD CHANNEL WADER NAMES THE DAY. Omally read this startling headline over the shoulder of the paper’s owner and gasped in disbelief. “He’s naming the day and he still hasn’t brought me in on it.”
“Pardon?” said the stranger.
“Fares please,” said the bus conductor.
Omally, who had in his palm a number of pennies exactly equal either to his bus fare or to the price of a copy of the Brentford Mercury, shouted, “Stop that dog,” and leapt off the bus at the next set of traffic lights.
On the well-worn bench afront the Memorial Library he studied the newspaper. There were the headlines, below them a photograph of Norman smiling hideously with the caption: “All roads lead to Rome, says plucky Brentonian.”
Omally read paragraph after paragraph, desperately trying to pluck out something substantial enough to merit legal action. Yes, the plucky Brentonian had been working for some months now upon certain marine apparatus suitable to his requirements. He had made several unsuccessful tests with these (Omally raised his eyebrows at this intelligence). He had gauged his exact course through careful study of coastal topography and undersea mappings loaned to him by the Royal Maritime Museum. He had allowed for spring tides, onshore drift, wind variations and even shoals of fish that might be encountered en route. He was certain of success. He had been given the go-ahead by the Royal Navy, who had agreed to escort him with helicopter and motor torpedo boat and keep in contact with him by certain sophisticated pieces of top-secret equipment which Norman had kindly agreed to test for them during the walk over.
It was believed that this crossing would herald a new era in international travel. A veritable golden age was about to dawn, and without a doubt the patent holder of this aquatic legware was sitting on (or more rightly in) a proverbial goldmine, not to mention a piece of history. Omally groaned. “Proverbial goldmine, he’ll love that.” The more he read, the less he liked what he read and the less he liked it the more cheated he felt and the more furious he became. The cross-Channel walk was scheduled for the following Saturday; it was to be covered by both channels and shown live on World of Sport. Norman was to appear that very evening on the Russell Harty Show.
Omally tore the newspaper to ribbons and flung the pieces to the four winds.
It is not a long walk from the library to Peg’s paper shop, one simply turns right down Braemar Road, right at the bottom past the football ground, left into Mafeking Avenue and left again up Albany Road into Ealing Road. John Omally covered this distance in a time that would have made Roger Bannister hang up his spikes in defeat. Panting, he stood in the doorway attempting to compose himself.
Two pensioners came out of the shop. “Proverbial goldmine,” said one. “Place in history,” said the other.
Omally made an attempt to enter, but found to his amazement that the usually empty and dust-hung place of business bore a sprightly and jubilant appearance, and was going great guns in the customer stakes. Bunting hung about the door and “Good Luck Norman”, emblazoned upon lengths of coloured toilet-roll, festooned the front window – which suddenly bereft of its timeless Woodbine display now blazed with photographs of Royal Navy cruisers and postcards of Captain Webb. “Souvenir Channel Trews on Sale Now” said a card. “Bottled Channel Water” said another. Below this was a display of seashells and a number of jam jars apparently filled with seawater “Bottled by the Wader Himself” and priced at a quid a time.
Omally made another attempt to enter but again found his way barred, this time by a number of schoolgirls wearing “Norman Wades OK” T-shirts.
“What is the meaning of all this?” muttered the Irishman as he edged his way forward. Over the heads of the crowd he could see that Peg had taken on two extra salesgirls. Peg’s gargantuan frame, sporting a “Norman Wades OK” t-shirt the size of a bell tent, could be made out swinging bundles of the Brentford Mercury on to the counter and dispensing souvenir windmills and flags to all comers. The cash register was ringing like a fire alarm. Of Norman, however, there was no sign. Omally edged his way nearer to the counter and made some attempt to draw Peg’s attention.
“The Norman action dolls are four pounds, love,” he heard her say. “Yes, that’s right, three for a tenner.”
Omally clutched at the counter for support. “Peg,” he stammered, “Peg I say.” Peg finally caught sight of the swaying Irishman. “Hold on John love, and I’ll be with you,” she said. “Yes love, the Bottled Channel Water can be made available for bulk export purchase.”
The proverbial light at the end of the dark corridor, to which no doubt Norman had previously alluded in some moment of irrelevance, was beginning to appear before Omally’s bloodshot eyes. “Could I have a word with Norman, please Peg?” he asked.
“He’s at present in conference with members of the press prior to an enforced period of lamaic meditation necessary for him to attune himself to the correct cosmic state of awareness required for his walk,” said the suddenly lucid Peg.
Omally nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt then he will neither reveal himself nor the now legendary legwear prior to the great event.”
“It’s unlikely, love,” said Peg, then, “Excuse me a moment. Yes, I can do you a gross of the ‘Wade Against the Nazis’ beany hats at cost if you are willing to do a deal on the film rights.”
Omally slid quietly away from the shop and along the road to the Flying Swan. He ignored the “Wade for Britain” banner which hung above the bar, and also the Disabled War Wounded Waders Fund tin that Pooley rattled beneath his nose. He ordered a pint of Large. “I have been cheated of my place in history,” he told Neville.
“Do you want a regular Large or Wader’s Jubilee Ale?” asked the part-time barman. “Only the brewery seem to have overestimated demand and I’ve got rather a lot going begging as it were.” One look at Omally’s fearful countenance set Neville straight. He drew Omally a pint of the usual and drew the Irishman’s attention to a figure in a white coat who was tampering with the antique jukebox. “The brewery sent him down too, said we needed a few topical tunes to set the scene as it were, said that with all the extra trade the pub would be attracting some attempt on our part to join in the festivities would be appreciated.”