Omally’s plot was always a matter for discussion and debate amongst his fellow allotment-holders. John tended to steer clear of the general run-of-the-mill, socially acceptable forms of crop and specialize rather in things with unpronounceable Latin names and heady fragrances. Sniffing moggies often emerged from his plot vacant-eyed and staggering.
Pooley stepped carefully across Omally’s bed of flowering mandrake and gestured towards a row of towering belladonna. “You have an unsavoury looking crop on at present,” he said, by way of making conversation.
“Export orders mostly,” John told him. The shed itself had a good deal of the gingerbread cottage about it, with its trelliswork of climbing wolfsbane and its poppy-filled window boxes. Omally unpadlocked the door and picked up a couple of picture postcards from the welcome mat. One of these carried upon its face a rooftop view of Brentford. Omally read this one aloud: “Encountering difficulties dismantling Ark due to petrified condition, may be forced to bring it down in one piece. Regards to all, Archroy.”
“Do you actually believe any of the stuff he writes?” Pooley asked.
Omally shrugged his broad and padded shoulders. “Who is to say? He sends these cards to Neville and one or two other prominent Brentonians. I suspect there will shortly be a request for financial assistance with the Ark’s transportation. No doubt he will wish to have the money orders forwarded to some post-office box in West Ealing.”
“You are a hard man, John.”
“I am a realist,” said the realist.
Omally’s bottles were unearthed and drinks were poured. The two lazed variously upon potato sacks, sharing a Woodbine and musing upon this and that. As the contents of the bottles dwindled, likewise did the musing upon this and that. More and more did this musing spiral inwards, its vagueness and generalities crystallizing with each inward sweep to become definites and absolutes. And thus did these definites and absolutes eventually centre upon the woes and anguishes of interrupted golf tournaments and, in particular, their own.
“It is becoming intolerable,” said Pooley, draining his enamel mug and refilling it immediately.
“Unbearable,” said Omally, doing likewise.
“Something must be done.”
“Absolutely.”
“Something drastic.”
“Quite so.”
“My bottle is empty,” said Jim.
Omally tossed him another.
“Good health to you, John.”
“And to yourself.”
Three hours and as many bottles later the matter was coming very near to being resolved. A vote was being taken and by a show of hands it was carried unanimously. It was agreed that with the aid of two long-handled shovels, each fitted with rubber handgrips as a precautionary measure, the mysterious symbols would be dug from the ground. They would be transported by wheelbarrow, similarly insulated about the handle regions, to the river and therein unceremoniously dumped. With these obstacles to play satisfactorily removed, attention would be turned towards the matter of the council spies. It had not been fully resolved as to the exact course of action to be taken over this, but it was generally agreed that the employment of stout sticks would play a part in it.
The moon had by now run a fair distance along its nightly course, and when the men emerged from Omally’s hut the allotment had about it the quality of a haunted place. There was a harsh, collars-up chill in the air and the low moon now cast long and sinister shadows across a deathly-tinted ground. The prospect of digging up a potential minefield held little if any appeal whatsoever.
“Best make a fresh start in the morning,” said Pooley, rubbing his hands briskly together. “I’m for my cosy nest, bed ways is best ways and all that.”
Omally grasped the retreating Jim firmly by his threadbare collar. “Not so fast, Pooley,” said he, “you are not going to bottle out on this now.” Jim thought to detect a lack of conviction in the Irishman’s tone. “I suggest a compromise.”
Pooley hovered on his toes. “You mean do it in shifts, you dig tonight, I tomorrow, I applaud that.”
“Hardly.” Omally tightened his grip. “I mean rather that we go round and set markers beside the symbols so we will be able to locate them. Then we both dig tomorrow.”
Pooley thought this not only sound but also far less strenuous. “That is using the old grey matter,” he told John. “Now, if you will release your grip, which is causing no little interference to my general welfare about the throat regions, I shall do my best to assist you.”
Now began the inevitable discussion upon the best method of accomplishing the task in hand. Pooley suggested the hardy sprout as a piece of vegetable matter suitable for the job. In the interests of good taste Omally put up the spud as the ideal substitute. The war then waged between bean poles loaded with tinfoil, shredded newspaper laid out in the form of pentagrams and a whole host of objects ranging from the noble and worthy to the positively obscene. Finally, after Pooley had made a suggestion so ludicrous as to bring the naturally short-tempered Irishman within a hairbreadth of killing him there and then, Omally put his foot down once and for all.
“Enough, enough,” he shouted. “We will not mark them at all, we shall merely pace around the allotment and make notes as to each location as we come upon it. That is that.”
If Pooley had worn a hat he would have taken it off to his companion and cast it into the air. “Brilliant,” he said, shaking his head in admiration. “How do you do it, John?”
“It’s a gift, I believe.”
Pooley pulled out the Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf and handed it to Omally. “Let us go,” he said. “The field is yours.”
Now, it is to be remembered that both men had imbibed considerable quantities of potato gin, a drink not noted for its sobering qualities, and that the light was extremely poor. Had it not been for these two facts it is just possible that the job might have been accomplished with some degree of success. As it was, in no time at all, the two men found themselves crossing and recrossing their tracks and scrawling illegible diagrams and unreadable locative descriptions all over the exercise book.
“We have done this one already,” said Pooley, lurching to one side of a glowing symbol. “I’m sure we’ve done this one.”
Omally shook his head, “No, no,” he said, “it is as clear as clear, look, you can see the way we came.” He tapped at the notebook and as he did so the moon crept away behind a large cloud, leaving them in total darkness. “Bugger,” said John, “I cannot seem to find my way.”
“Best call it off then,” said Pooley, “bad light stops play, nothing more to be done, bed is calling.”
“My hearing is acute,” Omally warned. “One move and I strike you down.”
“But, John.”
“But nothing.”
The two men stood a moment awaiting the return of the moon. “What is that?” Omally asked, quite without warning.
“What is what?” Pooley replied sulkily.
Omally gestured invisibly to a point not far distant, where something definitely untoward was occurring. “That there.”
Pooley peered about in the uncertain light and it did not take him long to see it. “Right,” said Jim, “that is definitely me finished. The Pooleys know when their time is up.”
“Keep your gaping gob shut,” whispered Omally hoarsely, as he leapt forward and dragged the quitter to the dust.
Coming from the direction of Soap Distant’s abandoned hut a soft red light was growing. The door of the heavily bolted shed was slowly opening, showing a ghostly red glow.
“Would you look at that?” gasped Dublin’s finest.
“I should prefer not,” said Pooley, climbing to his feet and preparing for the off.
Omally clutched at his companion, catching him by a ragged trouser cuff. “Look,” said he, “now that is a thing.”