"Robert Rankin - Brentford 05 - The Brentford Chainstore Mas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

'John Omally?'
'Certainly. I've often heard John complain about how dull his forebears were. This kind of notoriety
would be right up his street.'
Mr Compton-Cummings raised an eyebrow. 'But that would be to hoodwink and deceive the common
man.'
'It is the lot of the common man to be hoodwinked and deceived,' said Jim. 'Believe me, I speak, from long
experience.'
'Out of the question. I have my reputation to think of.'

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'And I mine, such as it is. Listen, if this gets out I will be the laughing stock of the borough.'
'I sympathize, of course. But it is my bounden duty as scholar, researcher, writer and gentleman to do
all within my power to ensure absolute accuracy in the book I am compiling. Such is the standard I have
set for myself - a standard which, were you to view it from a more objective viewpoint, you would find
admirable and worthy of emulation.'
'I doubt that,' said Jim, making a grumpy face.
Mr Compton-Cummings turned up his pink palms.
What more can I say? After all, it was you who answered my advertisement in the Brentford Mercury for
local people, who felt that they might have had ancestors who played a part in the making of this fine
town, to come forward and have their ancestry traced, for free. You who plied me with talk of blue blood
coursing through your veins. You who swore upon your mother's life that it was a Pooley who had won
the land upon which Brentford now stands in an I-spy-with-my-little-eye competition with Richard the
Lionheart. You-'
'Enough,' cried Jim, waving his hands. 'My motives were entirely altruistic.'
'Then we are kindred spirits.'
Jim once more took up the computer print-out and perused its dismal details. Back they went, an
unbroken chain of Pooleys, marching through time. Well, hardly marching, slouching was more like it,
with their heads down, probably to mask their evil

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breath. Peons and peasants, sanitary engineers and shovellers of sh-
'Ah, here's the tea,' said Mr Compton-Cummings.
The secretary held Jim's towards him at arm's length. Her face was turned away.
'Thanks very much,' said Jim.
'Look on the bright side,' smiled the genealogist, sipping at his Earl Grey. 'My book will be a very
expensive affair, pandering to an elite minority. The scholastic fraternity, Fellows of the Royal Society, the
intelligentsia. Hardly the class of folk to be found flinging darts in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan. The
chances are that your rowdy drinking chums will never even see a copy, let alone purchase and read it.
The secret of your malodorous predecessor will most likely remain just that.'
Jim sipped at his own tea. The cup smelled strongly of Dettol. Mr Compton-Cummings was probably
right. John Omally rarely read anything heavier than the Morris Minor Handbook. Archroy was a Zane Grey
man and Neville the part-time barman subscribed to SFX Magazine; Old Pete stuck to the People's Friend
and Norman of the corner shop to the Meccano Modeller. Though wise words were often spoken within the
Flying Swan, those words derived not from books but rather from personal insight gained through the
observation and intuitive understanding of natural lore. He was safe. Of course he was.
'Well, thus and so,' said Jim. 'You are no doubt right, I'm sure.'

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The genealogist offered Pooley one fat smile for luck, the two shook hands and Jim took his leave.
As he trudged up Moby Dick Terrace towards the Baling Road and the Flying Swan, Jim sighed a great