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flicking without conviction at the dust-filled corners and blowing the falling residue from the faded coverings of the out-of-date chocolate boxes which lined his shelves.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 riled 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 component 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 successful. In fact he had become something of a figure of fun because of them. But this time he was sure he had cracked it. The people of Brentford would certainly sit up and take notice of this one. If his calculations, combined with those of a certain Germanic physicist not altogether unknown for his theory of relativity, proved to be correct, then things were going to be very different indeed hereabouts.
Norman patted the tiny brown package. If all was present and correct he would begin the first practical working tests this very early-closing day, then we would see what we would see.
The shop bell rang in a customer. It was Old Pete with his half-terrier Chips as ever upon his heels. “Morning, Norman,” said the ancient, cheerily, “a half-ounce of Ships if you will.”
“Grmmph mmmph,” the shopkeeper replied, for the first time becoming aware that the Captain Laser Astrogum had suddenly set hard in his mouth, welding his upper plate to his lower set.
“Grmmph mmmph?” queried Old Pete, scratching at his snowy head. “Now what would it be this time? Let me guess? Experimenting with some advanced form of Esperanto is it? Or having a try at ventriloquism?”
Norman clutched at his jaw and grew red about the jowls, his eyes began to roll.
“Ah,” said Old Pete, tapping at his nose. “I think I am beginning to get the measure of it. Something in mime, isn’t it? Now let’s have a go, I’m quite good at this, give me a clue now, how many words in the title?”
Norman tore at his welded teeth and bashed at the counter-top with a clenched fist.
“Five words,” said Old Pete. “No, six, seven? Is it a film or a book?”
Norman lurched from the counter in a most grotesque fashion, grunting and snorting. Old Pete stepped nimbly aside as he blundered past, while Young Chips sought a safe hideyhole.
“It’s a poser,” said the Old One, as Norman threw himself about the shop, toppling the magazine stand and spilling out its contents. “I have it, I have it!” he cried suddenly. “It is the now legendary Charles Laughton in his famous portrayal of Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
In hearty congratulations for Norman’s excellent impersonation the old man, who still retained a considerable amount of strength in his right arm despite his advancing years, slapped Norman upon the back. The blow loosened the cemented teeth, which flew from the shopkeeper’s mouth, tumbled noisily across the linoleum, and finally came to rest in an impenetrable place beneath the counter, where they lay in the darkness grinning ruefully.
“Sanks yous,” spluttered Norman, “sanks yous, Petes.”
“Credit where credit is due,” the elder replied. “My tobacco now, if you please.”
Norman staggered to the counter and tore out a one-ounce packet from the tin. “Ons a houses,” he whistled through his naked gums. “Ons a houses.”
Old Pete, who was never a man to look a gift impersonator in the mouth, accepted his reward with a hasty display of gratitude and departed the shop at speed. Halfway up the Ealing Road Young Chips unearthed a pristine copy of Bra-Busting Beauties from its secret hiding place beneath a beer crate outside the Swan.
“This has all the makings of being a most profitable day,” said the ancient to his furry companion. Young Chips woofed noncommittally. Being naturally clairvoyant he sensed something rather to the contrary and therefore wished to reserve judgement for the present.
4
The allotment golfers had come to something of a critical stage in their game. They had by now reached the eighteenth “green” and Omally had but to sink a nine-foot putt across Reg Watling’s furrowed spinach patch to take the match. Betting had been growing steadily during the morning’s play and with each increase in financial risk the two men had grown ever more tight-lipped, eagle-eyed, and alert to the slightest infringement of the rules.
Omally spat on his palms and rubbed them together. He stalked slowly about his ball and viewed it from a multiplicity of angles. He scrutinized the lie of the land, tossed a few straws into the air and nodded thoughtfully as they drifted to earth. He licked his finger and held it skyward, he threw himself to the ground and squinted along his putter sniper fashion. “Right then,” said the broth of a boy. “It looks like child’s play.”
Pooley, who was employing what he referred to as “the psychology”, shook his head slowly. “That would be at least a three to the sinking I would believe.”
Omally gestured over his shoulder to the water-butt wherein lay Pooley’s ball. “You would be phoning for Jacques Cousteau and his lads, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Pooley shrugged. “That is an easy shot compared to this.”
Omally sniggered. “Keep your eye on the ball, Jim,” he advised.
Omally’s putting technique bore an uncanny resemblance to that practised by seasoned Yorkshire batsmen at the Oval. The putter had a tendency to dig well in on such occasions, sometimes to a depth of some three inches or more, and once beyond digging range. There was generally a fair amount of lift on the ball, although the Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf suggested that any balls putted above shoulder height should be considered as drives and the player penalized accordingly.