50

To say there was celebrating in the streets of Brentford would be to underegg the pudding of proverb. The borough had never known such celebrations.

Well, at least not since the last time that Brentford had won the FA Cup, way back in 1928.

Big Bob Charker, having listened to the second half of the match upon his cab radio, returned to Wembley with haste after dropping off the desolate circus performers. And now he proudly drove his big bus through the bunting-hung and all-gone-mad streets of Brentford, with Brentford’s winning team waving from the open top deck.

And Jim Pooley clinging to the cup.

“They did it,” called Jim to John. “They did it. Without magic and with little help from me.”

“You played your part, Jim. You did your bit.”

“But Brentford won the cup, John. Brentford won the cup.”

The Flying Swan was packed beyond capacity, but Neville served each and all with speed and professional pride. Omally elbowed his way to the counter.

“Where are your lovely ladies tonight?” John asked.

“Gone,” said Neville, smiling hugely. “Happily gone.”

“Happily gone?” said Omally.

“Young Master Robert came by an hour ago and took them away. Apparently he found out that they and I were, well, you know.”

“And you’re not sorry to see them go?”

“Somewhat relieved,” said Neville. “It wasn’t really me, that kind of behaviour. It was all the work of Old Pete’s Mandragora. I’m done with that. I liked things the way they were, as they were and as they should be now and hopefully will be ever to come – do you know what I mean, John?”

“I do,” said Omally. “You’re a good man, Neville. Three pints of Large, if you will.”

Norman was squeezed into a corner with Mr H.G. Wells. “Thank you very much for the loan of your Time Machine,” said Norman. “And it is still in working condition. Do you want me to take the nineteen twenty-eight team back to their own year now, before you depart yourself?”

“I think they should be allowed to enjoy their latest victory,” said Mr Wells. “Tomorrow will do. There’s always plenty of time.”

“Ho, Norman,” said Jim Pooley, detaching himself from the loving arms of young and female fans. “I owe you a very big thank you. We all do. All of Brentford. All the world. You have no idea what you have done.”

“I think I do,” said Norman.

“And your millions?” Pooley asked. “The professor told me you won’t be getting them now. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Norman. “There’s always tomorrow. I’ll come up with something. All’s well that ends well and tomorrow is another day, you know.”

“I do indeed,” said Jim.

“But surely you’re a rich man yourself now, Jim. Your bet with Bob the Bookie, it’s no secret. Bob’s been whinging about it for months.”

Jim proffered a bundle of money notes. “He emptied his cash register for me,” he said. “Said he would owe me the rest. I shall be calling by at his establishment as regularly as ever I did. However, I shall be making withdrawals rather than investments in the future.”

“Here’s to you, then,” said Norman, raising his glass.

“And to you,” said Jim, raising his. “And to you, sir, Mr Wells.”

The Victorian scientist raised his glass. “I really enjoyed the match,” said he. “And I’ll know who to bet on in nineteen twenty-seven and twenty-eight.”

Jim turned away to find Professor Slocombe smiling at him. “Cheers, Jim,” said the professor.

“Cheers to you,” said Jim.

“Are you feeling all right, in yourself?” asked the professor.

“Never better. This has been a remarkable adventure. Very scary, but remarkable. And everything worked out in the end, although it’s terrible what happened to the Campbell.”

“He is free,” said Professor Slocombe. “He played his part and he is free now. But what of you, Jim? What does the future hold?”

“I am a man of means now,” said Jim. “Well, for a while. I don’t know how much more money I can squeeze out of Bob the Bookie, but it will be fun trying for as long as it lasts.”

“You don’t think you will continue as Brentford United’s manager, then?”

“Brentford United no longer has a team,” said Jim. “Exactly what will happen next season is anyone’s guess. We’d need a millionaire to step in and put up the money. You’re not friends with that Liberace chap by any chance, are you?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “You might think of having a word or two with Old Pete,” he suggested. “He’s just received a telegram. It seems that certain investments that he made in the past, in the Ford Motor Company and land in Florida, investments that he had somehow forgotten that he’d made, have been building up in his bank account. He’s a very wealthy man now. Very wealthy.”

“Good for Old Pete,” said Jim. “But I am done with football now.”

“What a pity, Jim. I would truly have liked to have seen …”

“Seen what, Professor?”

“Well, Jim, do you remember me telling you about the research that I have been doing for my book The Complete and Absolute History of Brentford?”

“Vaguely,” said Jim. “But that seems a long time ago now.”

“Something about the possibility that Brentford was indeed an independent state – indeed, an independent country.”

“Ah yes,” said Jim. “I remember that.”

“Well, it is, Jim. Brentford is an independent country.”

“Good old Brentford,” said Jim.

“Good old Brentford,” said Professor Slocombe. “Which makes it such a shame that you no longer wish to be the team’s manager.”

“Why?”

“Because the World Cup Qualifiers will be coming up this year. Don’t you think it might be a challenge to lead Brentford on to win not only the FA Cup, but the World Cup also?”

Jim Pooley looked warily towards the professor. “Would there be monsters involved?” Jim asked.

“No monsters,” said the old man. “Merely sport. With a team put together and paid for by Old Pete’s many millions. I am certain that if I spoke nicely with him he would be eager to oblige.”

“Only sport?” said Jim.

“Only sport,” said the professor. “A challenge for an entrepreneur and a man who likes a bet.”

Jim Pooley smiled at Professor Slocombe and called across the overcrowded bar to his best friend, John Omally.

“John,” called Jim, “come over here. I’ve something that might just interest you.”

And the May moon shone down upon Brentford.

And the celebrations lasted long into the night.

It was a regular knees-up, Mother Earth!