"Robert Rankin - Brentford 02 - The Brentford Triangle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Pooley being a man of infinite resource when cornered, Allotment Golf had been born.
It had much to recommend it. There was no queuing up to be done, no green fees to pay, no teeing off in
front of cynical observers to be suffered; above all, they could invent their own rules as the fancy took them.
As originator, Jim took sole charge of the exercise book until every detail was clarified. This, he told
Omally, was what is called 'a divine right'. A certain amount of




subterfuge was called for, of course; they had no wish to alert any of the other allotment holders to the sport for
fear that it might catch on. It had been a moment of rare inspiration indeed on Pooley's part, but one which was
to play its part in changing the face of Brentford as we know it for good and all.
'Fore!' Small Dave had departed upon his round and John Omally set to it once more to shift his ball from
Pooley's radish patch and belt it heartily towards the fourth hole, which lay cunningly concealed between Old
Pete's wheelbarrow and his battered watering-can.




3


Norman was one of those early birds which catch the proverbial worm. Running the down-at-heel corner-tobacconist's
at anything remotely resembling a profit was pretty much a full-time occupation. Norman went about it, as he did
with everything else, with a will. 'One must remain constantly in the field if one wishes to ladle off the cream
which is one's bread and butter,' he constantly explained to his customers. This remark generally met with enough
thoughtful head-nodding to offer the shopkeeper the encouragement he needed.
Norman had been up since six, sorting through and numbering up the day's papers. It was Wednesday
and the first crop of specialist journals had arrived. There was the Psychic News for Lily at the Plume Cafe. This
Norman numbered in large red figures as the new paperboy had the irritating habit of confusing it with Cycling
News and delivering it to Father Moity at St Joan's. There was the regular welter of sporting mags for Bob the
bookie, and a selection of Danish glossies for Uncle Ted the greengrocer. Norman folded a copy of Muscle
Boys into the widow Cartwright's Daily Telegraph and hummed softly to himself. There was a busy day ahead
and he intended to take advantage of its each and every minute.
Nick, the big-nosed paperboy, sidled into the shop, chewing gum and smoking what the lads at the Yard
refer to as the certain substances. 'Kudos, Norm,' he said.
Norman looked up from his doings and eyed the youth
with evident distaste. 'Good morning, Nicholas,' he said, giving his watch minute scrutiny and rattling it
against his ear. 'Can that be the time already, or is the old Vacheron Constantine running fast again?'
The paperboy flicked idly through a copy of Bra-Busting Beauties. 'Look at those charlies,' he said,
salivating about the gums, 'you'd think you'd gone deaf, eh?'
Norman thrust the bundle of folded papers into the worn canvas bag and pushed it across the worm-eaten
counter. 'Away on your toes, lad,' he grunted. 'Time heals all wounds and absence makes the heart grow
fonder.'
'Oh, it do,' the lad replied, sweeping up the bag in an eczema-coated fist and bearing it away through
the door like the standard of a captured enemy. 'It do that!'
Norman watched him depart in sorrow. There was something decidedly shifty about that boy, but he
couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what. The shopkeeper crossed the mottled linoleum floor and turned
the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Soon they would arrive, he thought, as he peered through the grimy door-glass:
the office girls for their cigarettes and chocolate bars, the revellers of the previous night for their aspirins,