按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Omally scratched his head with a wooden tee and eyed Pooley with some suspicion。 'I don't recall that bit at the end； Jim；' said he。 'May I venture to ask whether the rule applies to runner beans； possibly of the variety which you uprooted from my plot yesterday whilst attempting that trick shot of yours on to the fourth？'
Pooley made a thoughtful face。 'Beans are not specifically mentioned；' he said； carefully examining the note he had so hastily scribbled。 'But if you are making an official request to have them included in the handbook then I think we might stretch a point and pencil them in。'
At this moment the two golfers suddenly threw themselves down mando…fashion into a clump of long grass。 An explanation for this extraordinary behaviour was almost immediately forthing as the distinctive tuneless whistling of Small Dave signalled the approach of that midget as he took his regular morning short cut through to the Butts Estate。
Allotment Golf had not yet caught the eye either of the allotment holders or the general public； and both Pooley and Omally wished to keep it that way。 They would have greatly preferred to golf upon one of the municipal courses but circumstances had decreed that their photographs now appeared upon every persona…non…grata board throughout the county。
It had all appeared so trivial at the time； the small disagreements； the occasional bout of fisticuffs； hardly police matters one would have thought。 Golfers； however； are a clannish bunch with rather a conservative attitude towards sport。 The two Brentonians' extraordinary conception of the game had not been appreciated。 Their constant rule…bending and wild club…swinging； their numerous bogus claims to the course record； achieved for the most part by omitting to play the more difficult holes； their total disregard for other players' safety； refusing to shout 'Fore'； before what Omally described as 'heavy putting'； had been too much to bear。 The secretary of one course had shown moments of rare tolerance： he had respected Pooley's request to play the holes in reverse order； he had suffered Omally playing in cycling cape and fisherman's waders one particularly wet day； but when Pooley relocated all the tee markers （in order to make the game more interesting） and Omally had dug a second hole upon the third green in order to sink a birdy four； stern measures had been taken。 The two potential Ryder Cup winners had been given what the French refer to as 'La Rush de la Bum'。
Thus in a moment of rare inspiration； necessity being； like Frank Zappa； the mother of invention and Jim Pooley being a man of infinite resource when cornered； Allotment Golf had been born。
It had much to remend it。 There was no queuing up to be done； no green fees to pay； no teeing off in front of cynical observers to be suffered； above all； they could invent their own rules as the fancy took them。 As originator； Jim took sole charge of the exercise book until every detail was clarified。 This； he told Omally； was what is called 'a divine right'。 A certain amount of subterfuge was called for； of course； they had no wish to alert any of the other allotment holders to the sport for fear that it might catch on。 It had been a moment of rare inspiration indeed on Pooley's part； but one which was to play its part in changing the face of Brentford as we know it for good and all。
'Fore！' Small Dave had departed upon his round and John Omally set to it once more to shift his ball from Pooley's radish patch and belt it heartily towards the fourth hole； which lay cunningly concealed between Old Pete's wheelbarrow and his battered watering…can。
3
Norman was one of those early birds which catch the proverbial worm。 Running the down…at…heel corner…tobacconist's at anything remotely resembling a profit was pretty much a full…time occupation。 Norman went about it； as he did with everything else； with a will。 'One must remain constantly in the field if one wishes to ladle off the cream which is one's bread and butter；' he constantly explained to his customers。 This remark generally met with enough thoughtful head…nodding to offer the shopkeeper the encouragement he needed。
Norman had been up since six； sorting through and numbering up the day's papers。 It was Wednesday and the first crop of specialist journals had arrived。 There was the Psychic News for Lily at the Plume Cafe。 This Norman numbered in large red figures as the new paperboy had the irritating habit of confusing it with Cycling News and delivering it to Father Moity at St Joan's。 There was the regular welter of sporting mags for Bob the bookie； and a selection of Danish glossies for Uncle Ted the greengrocer。 Norman folded a copy of Muscle Boys into the widow Cartwright's Daily Telegraph and hummed softly to himself。 There was a busy day ahead and he intended to take advantage of its each and every minute。
Nick； the big…nosed paperboy； sidled into the shop； chewing gum and smoking what the lads at the Yard refer to as the certain substances。 'Kudos； Norm；' he said。
Norman looked up from his doings and eyed the youth with evident distaste。 'Good morning； Nicholas；' he said； giving his watch minute scrutiny and rattling it against his ear。 'Can that be the time already； or is the old Vacheron Constantine running fast again？'
The paperboy flicked idly through a copy of Bra…Busting Beauties。 'Look at those charlies；' he said； salivating about the gums； 'you'd think you'd gone deaf； eh？'
Norman thrust the bundle of folded papers into the worn canvas bag and pushed it across the worm…eaten counter。 'Away on your toes； lad；' he grunted。 'Time heals all wounds and absence makes the heart grow fonder。'
'Oh； it do；' the lad replied； sweeping up the bag in an eczema…coated fist and bearing it away through the door like the standard of a captured enemy。 'It do that！'
Norman watched him depart in sorrow。 There was something decidedly shifty about that boy； but he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what。 The shopkeeper crossed the mottled linoleum floor and turned the closed sign to open。 Soon they would arrive； he thought； as he peered through the grimy door…glass： the office girls for their cigarettes and chocolate bars； the revellers of the previous night for their aspirins； the school lads for their ics and penny toffees； the old dears for the pints of milk Reg the Milkman had neglected to leave upon their steps； Old Pete for his half…ounce of tobacco； Pooley and Omally for five Woodbines on their weekly accounts。 The same old regular morning faces。
Norman shook his head thoughtfully。 It wasn't a bad old life if you didn't weaken； was it？ And a trouble shared was definitely a trouble halved； and you had to laugh didn't you？
Retracing his steps to the counter he selected one of the newer brands of bubblegum that the local rep had persuaded him into stocking。 Stripping away the wrapper from the stick of Captain Laser Astrogum he thrust the gaudy piece of synthetic sweetmeat into his mouth。
Chewing distractedly he drifted about his shop； flicking without conviction at the dust…filled corners and blowing the falling residue from the faded coverings of the out…of…date chocolate boxes which lined his shelves。 Here was the Queen smiling sweetly； if somewhat faintly； at her Coronation。 Here two stuffed…looking Scotties peered through the rust from a shortbread biscuit tin； and here was the Pickwickian character still grinning idiotically at that uneatable coughsweet。
Norman drew a bespittled finger across the old tin's surface in an attempt to bring up the brand…name。 Did people still eat sweeties like this？ he wondered。 Or had they ever？ He couldn't recall ever having sold any。 Out of sudden interest he picked up the old tin and gave it a shake。 It was empty； of course。 Probably evaporated； he thought。
Norman shrugged once more； he really ought to sling them all out； they served little purpose and could hardly be described as decorative。 But he knew he would never part with them。 They gave his shop character and were always good for inspiring conversation from the lonely pensioners who happened by； upon some pretext or another； only really wanting a bit of a chat。
Norman thrust his one…feather duster back into its appointed niche and flexed his shoulders as if in an attempt to free himself from the strange melancholia which rilled him this morning。 Things were going to change in Brentford and there was little good in crying over spilt milk or whistling down the wind。
Upon the counter lay the small brown package which Small Dave had delivered。 Norman knew exactly what it contained； the American stamps and spidery Gothic lettering told him well enough。 This was the last ponent he required； the final tiny missing piece of the jigsaw。
This was the make or break。 Several years of planning and many many months of hard and exacting work had gone into this； not to mention the small fortune spent upon research； preparation and final construction。 This experiment was indeed 'The Big One'。 It was a Nobel Prize job this time； and no mistake。 Norman had named it 'The Ultimate Quest'； and it was indeed a goody。
Certainly； in the past； Norman's little scientific diversions had not been altogether suc