The Antipope Read Free Page B

“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.
    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