East of Ealing

“The half-brick?”

“Nothing less. I feel that we can forget all about ever-spi

Pooley scraped his heels in the dust.

“What have you done with the bed, Jim, and where are the sleeves of your jacket?”

“Ah,” said Jim, “ah now.”

7

Norman sat in his kitchenette, dismally regarding the slim brass wheel spi

Norman chewed upon his lip. It was a regular Frankenstein’s monster, that one. Not what he’d had in mind at all. Placid pseudo-shopkeeper he wanted, not psychotic android on the rampage. He would have to disco

At length the Memorial Library clock chimed five-thirty p.m. in the distance, and upon the Swan’s doorstep stood two bedraggled figures who, like Norman, had the drowning of their sorrows very much to the forefronts of their respective minds. Neville the part-time barman drew the polished bolts and swung open the famous door.

“By Magog!” said the pagan barkeep. “Whatever has happened to you two? Should I call an ambulance?”

Pooley shook his head. “Merely draw the ales.”

With many a backwards glance, Neville lumbered heavily away to the pumps. “But what has happened to you both? Your eye, John? And Jim, your sleeves?” Neville pushed two brimming pints across the counter towards the straining hands of his two patrons.

“We were mugged,” said Omally, who was finding it hard to come to terms with the concept of defeat at the hands of a humble shopkeeper.

“Ten of them,” Pooley added. He had once read of a mugger’s victim being carried into a pub and revived with free ale.

Neville had also read of it and took up a glass to polish. “We live in troubled times,” he said profoundly. “Ten and six please.”

Omally drew his boot away from his bruised ankle and pulled out several pound notes. Neville, who had never before seen the Irishman handling paper money in public, was anxious to see if they were the real McCoy. The wrinkled relic John handed him smelt a bit pony, but it did have a watermark. Neville rang up “No Sale” and obligingly short-changed his customer. Omally slung the pe

“Mugged then is it?” Neville almost felt guilty. “Did you best the villains?”

“Did we?” Pooley raised his scorched palm and made chopping movements. “The blackguards will think twice about molesting the folk of Brentford again I can tell you.”

“I see Norman is having his shopfront done up,” said Old Pete, who had sneaked in hard upon the heels of the two warriors.

Omally spluttered into his beer. “Is that a fact?” said he.

“Had his shopfront mugged so I hear.”

“Give that gentleman a large dark rum,” said Omally.

The ancient accepted his prize and slunk away to a side-table with much malicious chuckling. Omally grudgingly paid up and joined Pooley, who had taken to hiding in a suitably darkened corner.

“I shan’t be able to live with this,” said John, seating himself. “That old one knows already; it will be all over the parish by morning.”

“But Norman?” said Pooley. “I still can’t quite believe it. Norman wouldn’t hurt a spider, and by God his shop gives lodging to enough.”

“A lover of the insect kingdom he may be, but let humankind beware. The shopkeeper has finally lost his marbles. He took it out on me as though violence was going out of fashion.”

Jim sighed. “This is a day I should certainly choose to forget. We have both paid dearly for our greed.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose there are lessons to be learned from it. We have certainly learned ours the hard way.”

“Talking of lessons, I think your homework has just arrived.” Jim pointed over Omally’s shoulder to where Norman now stood squinting about the bar.

John sank low in his high-backed chair. “Has he seen me?” he whispered.

Pooley nodded. “I’m afraid so, he’s coming over.”

“When you hit him go for his beak, ignore the groin.”

“I’m not going to hit him, this is nothing to do with me.”

“Nothing to do with you? You started it, you and your money-making wheel…”

“Evening gents,” said Norman.

“Evening to you, old friend,” said Pooley, smiling sweetly.

Omally rummaged in his pockets and brought out a crumpled packet of cigarette papers and a somewhat banjoed half-ounce of tobacco. “I never smoked it,” he said. “You can have it back if you still want it.”

Norman held up his hand, which made Omally flinch painfully. “No, no, I have come to apologize. I really don’t know what came over me, to lose my temper like that. I have been working too hard lately, I have a lot of worries. There is no permanent damage done, I trust?”

“I am still in a state of shock.” Omally sensed possibilities. “Numb all over. I suspect a fracture here and there, though. I’ll be off work a good while I shouldn’t wonder.”

Norman nodded good-naturedly. Omally would be wanting his pound of flesh, better get it over with in one go. “Might I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“You might,” said Omally, “and we will see where it leads. If you could manage one for my companion also it would not go unappreciated.”

Norman smiled. He wondered whether or not to ask Pooley where the sleeves of his jacket were, but he presupposed the answer to be of a somewhat poignant nature, evoking images of such hardship and tragedy as to morally oblige the asker to purchase many further pints. “I’ll get the round in then,” said Norman, departing to the bar.

“One pint and one half-ounce up,” said John bleakly. “What profit the day, I ask you?”

“Perk up, John, it can only get better, surely.” Pooley now sighted Old Pete hobbling purposefully towards them. “Or possibly not.”

“Where’s my bed then?” the ancient asked, prodding Omally’s bruised shoulderblade with his stick. “I’ve brought the money.”

“Money?” John did not recall mentioning a figure. “How much did you bring?”

“Twenty quid.”

“Twenty quid.” Omally buried his face in his hands.

“It’s enough, isn’t it? You said it was an antique. I think twenty quid’s a fair price if it’s a good one. So where’s my bed?”

“What bed?” asked Norman, who was bringing up the drinks.

“Omally said he had an antique bedstead to sell me, I want to see it.”

“The muggers took it,” said Jim Pooley helpfully. Omally, who was just coming to terms with a ten pound down payment for an antique bedstead at present being refurbished by mythical upholsterers, looked up at him in horror. “Sorry,” said Jim, shrugging i