The Antipope

Archroy pocketed his beans. “Clear off!” he said, climbing to his feet. The tramp raised his right hand and made a strange gesture. Archroy slumped back on to his orange-box, suddenly weak at the knees.

“Those beans,” said the tramp. Archroy felt about in his pocket and handed the tramp the five magic beans.

“Ah.” The tramp held one between thumb and forefinger. “As I thought, most interesting. You say that your wife received them in payment for your old Morris Minor?”

Archroy didn’t remember saying anything of the kind but he nodded bleakly.

“They are beans of great singularity,” said the tramp. “I have seen beans and I have seen beans.” He returned the articles to Archroy’s still-extended hand. “These are beans indeed!”

“But, magic?” said Archroy.

The tramp stroked the stubble of his chin with an ill-washed knuckle. “Ah,” he said, “magic is it? Well that is a question. Let us say that they have certain outre qualities.”

“Oh,” said Archroy. He felt a little better about the beans now, the loss of his trusty Morris Minor seemed less important than possessing something with outre qualities, whatever outre might mean. “What are you doing on my allotment?” Archroy asked in a polite tone.

The tramp described a runic symbol in the dust at Archroy’s feet with the toecap of his sorry right shoe. “You might say that I am here to meet someone,” he said, “and there again you might not, if you were to say here is a man upon a mission you would be correct, but also at the same time you would be mistaken. There is much about my presence here that is anomalous, much that is straightforward, much that…”

“I must be on my way now,” said Archroy, attempting to rise and feeling at his knees. They offered him no support. “I am incapacitated,” he announced.

“… Much that will be known, much that will remain unexplained,” continued the tramp.

Archroy wondered if he had eaten something untoward, toadstools in his hotpot, or slug pellets in his thermos flask. He had read of strange distillations from the Amazon which administered upon the head of a pin could paralyse a bull elephant. There were also forms of nerve gas that might find their way into the sucking section of a fellow’s briar.

The tramp meanwhile had ceased speaking. Now he stared about the allotment in an interested fashion. “And you say that Omally won one of those plots from Peg’s husband at the paper shop?”

Archroy was certain he had not. “The one over in the corner with the chimney,” he said. “That one there is the property of old Pete, it has been in his family for three generations and he has made an arrangement with the council to be buried there upon his demise. Blot the Schoolkeeper runs the one to the west backing on to the girls’ school, it is better not to ask what goes on in his shed.”

Archroy rose to point out the plot but to his amazement discovered that the old tramp had gone. “Well I never,” said Archroy, crossing himself, “well I never did.”

3

No-one could ever accuse Peg’s husband from the paper shop of being dull. His wife, when enquired of by customers as to her husband’s latest venture, would cup her hands upon her outlandish hips and say, “There’s never a dull moment is there?” This rhetorical question left most in doubt as to a reply, so the kindly soul would add, “You’ve got to laugh haven’t you?” which occasionally got a response, or “It’s a great old life if you don’t weaken”, which didn’t.

Her husband, however, shunned such platitudes and preferred, during moments of acute brain activity, to deal exclusively in the proverb. On the occasion of his bike going missing for the thirteenth time from its appointed rack at the Rubber Factory he was heard to mutter, “Time is a great healer.” And during that particularly hot summer when someone set fire to his runner beans, “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

Norman’s proverbs never quite matched up to the situation to which they were applied, yet seemed in some bizarre way to aid him to the solution of extremely obtuse problems. This lent him the air of a mystic, which made him regularly sought after by drunks in need of advice. His “ventures”, as they were termed, were never devoid of interest. “Wading to France”, for example, which began, as so many tales have a tendency to do, one lunchtime in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan.

“There is much talk lately of these Channel swimmers,” John Omally had said by way of conversation as he perused his copy of the Brentford Mercury. “They do say that the dear fellows lose the better part of three stone from the swimming.” There was an informed nodding as Omally continued, “There’s a king’s ransom to be had in that game if a fellow has the way of it.”

Norman, who had been listening and was currently between ventures, felt a sudden surge of regret that he had never learned to swim. “It never rains but it pours,” he said, which gave most to suspect that he was having an idea.

“You don’t swim at all do you, Norman?” asked the astute Omally, sensing money in the air.

“Sadly no,” said Norman, “but I wade.” With these portentous words he left the saloon bar.

Little was heard of Norman for some weeks and his wife answered Omally’s repeated enquiries with the encouraging “You certainly see some sights” and “It takes all sorts to make a world doesn’t it?”

The Irishman was pretty much at his wits’ end when his eye caught a tiny paragraph on an inside page of the Brentford Mercury: “Local Man to Wade Channel.” Omally read the short paragraph once, then again slowly; then, thinking that he must have misread it, he gave the thing a careful word-for-word scrutiny.

Norman Hartnell, local Rubberware Foreman (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell) stated yesterday in an exclusive interview with the Mercury that it was his intention within the forseeable future to have constructed certain marine apparatus which will make it possible for him to become the first man to wade to France from England. Mr Hartnell (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell) told the Mercury in this exclusive interview when asked his reason for this attempt that “Kind words butter no parsnips.” Mr Hartnell is 43.

“What other Norman Hartnell?” queried John Omally, whose only claim to fashion consciousness was tucking his shirt in all the way round even when wearing a jacket. There was still no word from Norman, and Omally even took to phoning the offices of the Brentford Mercury daily for news. He was not a man to be cheated of his pennies, and the more time passed the more he became convinced that whatever plans were hatching in Norman’s obtuse cranium, he, Omally, was due at least part of any income deriving from their fruition. “It was me reading about the Channel swimming that started it all, was it not?” he asked. Those present at the bar nodded gravely.

“You have a moral right,” said Neville.

“You should get a contract drawn up,” said Jim Pooley.

“He owes you,” said Archroy.

That Saturday the Brentford Mercury, which had for some days been refusing to accept John Omally’s reverse-charge calls, announced in large and impressive type: BRENTFORD CHANNEL WADER NAMES THE DAY. Omally read this startling headline over the shoulder of the paper’s owner and gasped in disbelief. “He’s naming the day and he still hasn’t brought me in on it.”

“Pardon?” said the stranger.

“Fares please,” said the bus conductor.

Omally, who had in his palm a number of pennies exactly equal either to his bus fare or to the price of a copy of the Brentford Mercury, shouted, “Stop that dog,” and leapt off the bus at the next set of traffic lights.