On the well-worn bench afront the Memorial Library he studied the newspaper. There were the headlines, below them a photograph of Norman smiling hideously with the caption: “All roads lead to Rome, says plucky Brentonian.”
Omally read paragraph after paragraph, desperately trying to pluck out something substantial enough to merit legal action. Yes, the plucky Brentonian had been working for some months now upon certain marine apparatus suitable to his requirements. He had made several unsuccessful tests with these (Omally raised his eyebrows at this intelligence). He had gauged his exact course through careful study of coastal topography and undersea mappings loaned to him by the Royal Maritime Museum. He had allowed for spring tides, onshore drift, wind variations and even shoals of fish that might be encountered en route. He was certain of success. He had been given the go-ahead by the Royal Navy, who had agreed to escort him with helicopter and motor torpedo boat and keep in contact with him by certain sophisticated pieces of top-secret equipment which Norman had kindly agreed to test for them during the walk over.
It was believed that this crossing would herald a new era in international travel. A veritable golden age was about to dawn, and without a doubt the patent holder of this aquatic legware was sitting on (or more rightly in) a proverbial goldmine, not to mention a piece of history. Omally groaned. “Proverbial goldmine, he’ll love that.” The more he read, the less he liked what he read and the less he liked it the more cheated he felt and the more furious he became. The cross-Channel walk was scheduled for the following Saturday; it was to be covered by both channels and shown live on
Omally tore the newspaper to ribbons and flung the pieces to the four winds.
It is not a long walk from the library to Peg’s paper shop, one simply turns right down Braemar Road, right at the bottom past the football ground, left into Mafeking Avenue and left again up Albany Road into Ealing Road. John Omally covered this distance in a time that would have made Roger Bannister hang up his spikes in defeat. Panting, he stood in the doorway attempting to compose himself.
Two pensioners came out of the shop. “Proverbial goldmine,” said one. “Place in history,” said the other.
Omally made an attempt to enter, but found to his amazement that the usually empty and dust-hung place of business bore a sprightly and jubilant appearance, and was going great guns in the customer stakes. Bunting hung about the door and “Good Luck Norman”, emblazoned upon lengths of coloured toilet-roll, festooned the front window – which suddenly bereft of its timeless Woodbine display now blazed with photographs of Royal Navy cruisers and postcards of Captain Webb. “Souvenir Channel Trews on Sale Now” said a card. “Bottled Channel Water” said another. Below this was a display of seashells and a number of jam jars apparently filled with seawater “Bottled by the Wader Himself” and priced at a quid a time.
Omally made another attempt to enter but again found his way barred, this time by a number of schoolgirls wearing “Norman Wades OK” T-shirts.
“What is the meaning of all this?” muttered the Irishman as he edged his way forward. Over the heads of the crowd he could see that Peg had taken on two extra salesgirls. Peg’s gargantuan frame, sporting a “Norman Wades OK” t-shirt the size of a bell tent, could be made out swinging bundles of the
“The Norman action dolls are four pounds, love,” he heard her say. “Yes, that’s right, three for a tenner.”
Omally clutched at the counter for support. “Peg,” he stammered, “Peg I say.” Peg finally caught sight of the swaying Irishman. “Hold on John love, and I’ll be with you,” she said. “Yes love, the Bottled Channel Water can be made available for bulk export purchase.”
The proverbial light at the end of the dark corridor, to which no doubt Norman had previously alluded in some moment of irrelevance, was beginning to appear before Omally’s bloodshot eyes. “Could I have a word with Norman, please Peg?” he asked.
“He’s at present in conference with members of the press prior to an enforced period of lamaic meditation necessary for him to attune himself to the correct cosmic state of awareness required for his walk,” said the suddenly lucid Peg.
Omally nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt then he will neither reveal himself nor the now legendary legwear prior to the great event.”
“It’s unlikely, love,” said Peg, then, “Excuse me a moment. Yes, I can do you a gross of the ‘Wade Against the Nazis’ beany hats at cost if you are willing to do a deal on the film rights.”
Omally slid quietly away from the shop and along the road to the Flying Swan. He ignored the “Wade for Britain” banner which hung above the bar, and also the Disabled War Wounded Waders Fund tin that Pooley rattled beneath his nose. He ordered a pint of Large. “I have been cheated of my place in history,” he told Neville.
“Do you want a regular Large or Wader’s Jubilee Ale?” asked the part-time barman. “Only the brewery seem to have overestimated demand and I’ve got rather a lot going begging as it were.” One look at Omally’s fearful countenance set Neville straight. He drew Omally a pint of the usual and drew the Irishman’s attention to a figure in a white coat who was tampering with the antique jukebox. “The brewery sent him down too, said we needed a few topical tunes to set the scene as it were, said that with all the extra trade the pub would be attracting some attempt on our part to join in the festivities would be appreciated.”
Omally cocked a quizzical eyebrow at the aged machine.
“You mean that it actually works. I thought it was broken beyond repair.”
“I suspect that it will not take him long to discover that it is only lacking a fuse in its plug.”
Omally’s face took on a strangely guilty expression.
“I have seen the selection he proposes to substitute,” said Neville gravely. “And I fear that it is even grimmer than the one you have for so long protected our ears against.”
“It has a nautical feel to it, I suspect.”
“There is more than a hint of the shanty.”
“HMS Pinafore?”
“And that.”
“I suppose,” said Omally, hardly wishing to continue the conversation, or possibly even to draw breath, “that there would not be a number or two upon the jukebox by the Norman Hartnell Singers or Norm and the Waders?”
“You are certainly given to moments of rare psychic presentiment,” said the part-time barman.
At this point there occurred an event of surpassing unreality, still talked of at the Flying Swan. John Omally, resident drinker at that establishment for fifteen long years, rose from his stool and left undrunk an entire pint of the brewery’s finest, bought and paid for by himself. Not a mere drip in the bottom you understand, nor an unfortunate, cigar-filled, post darts-match casualty, but an entire complete, untouched, pristine one-pint glass of that wholesome and lifegiving beverage, so beloved of the inebriate throughout five counties.
Some say that during the following month John Omally joined an order of Trappist monks, others that he swore temporary allegiance to the Foreign Legion. Others still hint that the Irishman had learned through the agency of previous generations a form of suspended animation, much favoured by the ancients for purposes of imposed hibernation in times of famine. Whatever the case may be, Mr Omally vanished from Brentford, leaving a vacuum that nobody could fill. His loss was a sorry thing to behold within the portals of the Flying Swan, time seemed to stand still within those walls. Pooley took on the look of a gargoyle standing alone at the bar, drinking in silence, his only movements those born of necessity.
But what of Norman Hartnell (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell)? Certainly Norman’s ventures had, as has been noted, tended to verge upon the weird. This one in particular had transcended bounds of normality. When Peg made grandiose statements about her husband’s press conferences and tendencies towards lamaic meditation it may be said without fear of contradiction that the fat woman was shooting a line through her metaphorical titfer. Norman, who by nature was a harmless, if verbally extravagant, eccentric, had
