Part 27 (2/2)

The happy bus had reached Brentford. It was parked down by the Grand Union Ca.n.a.l. Opposite Leo Felix's used-car emporium. The natty-dreader had left his business empire in the hands of his brother-in-law, him working full time for the prince and everything.

Cornelius stretched out on a whole lot of cus.h.i.+ons and viewed the stars.

'It's funny to be home, but not really to be home,' he said.

'I suppose it must be.' Tuppe made himself comfy.

Cornelius yawned. 'It's going to be a big day tomorrow.

'And then some. If you can pull this off, you'll change the whole world.'

'And the whole world will never know about it. That's the beauty of the thing, Tuppe. Kobold's bunch will be forced to surrender, due to the sheer weight of numbers. And afterwards, who would believe anything the travellers said anyway?'

'Inspired,' said Tuppe.

'Thank you,' said Cornelius.

And they both settled down to sleep. Each secure in the knowledge that the other believed whole-heartedly in the plan.

Which, naturally, they did not.

It would have slipped past many people, probably because it has not been mentioned before, that the following day was The Queen's Unofficial Birthday. She had her real birthday, of course. And her Official birthday. But this was something new. Her special People's birthday.

It was an innovation, conceived by certain advisers and publicity people at the palace. These folks studied a lot of history and recalled the time, chronicled in The Book of Ultimate Truths, of a pre-warperiod, when the King's coronation was broadcast 'live', three times in a single year, as a morale booster. And morale boosters such as that, the world could always do with.

And hence, these palace people had had big meet-ings with certain bigwigs in the TV industry. And a live nationwide broadcast had been given the big thumbs up.

There wasn't going to be much to it. All the Queen had to do was come out on the balcony, read a small prepared speech and wave at everybody.

It had been scheduled for eleven in the morning. But now the bigwigs were having a bit of a rethink.

There was this Gandhi's Hairdryer gig, you see. The big free festival. It had been eating up a lot of headlines and was also going out live, as a worldcast. If the Queen's balcony wave could be made to coincide with this, perhaps during a break between numbers, while the Gandhi's were off-stage laying groupies, or something, it made sound financial sense. Two for the price of one. And word had reached the bigwigs' ears, via a certain Rastafarian equerry, that Prince Charles had agreed to host the Gandhi's gig.

However, the question did arise as to how the change of schedule might be 'sold' to the Queen. Her Majesty not being a personage that is lightly messed around with.

And so three bigwigs sat about a boardroom table in one of those Modernist carbuncles, thras.h.i.+ng the matter out.

'Right,' said the first. 'Selling the proposition to HRH. Ideas anyone?'

'Tell her the whole world will be watching,' said the second. 'After all, it will.'

'Won't impress her,' said the third.

'Tell her it's for the good of her people,' said the second.

'Who do we know that could tell her that and keep a straight face?' asked the first.

'Not me,' said the second.

'Tell her it's for her own good then,' said the third. 'Which it is.'

'Perhaps if you took her a bunch of flowers when you told her,' the first suggested.

'And some chocolates,' the second added.

The third man shook his head and whistled the Harry Lime theme.

'I say, guys,' said a fourth man, who had entered without knocking, 'I think I have the solution.'

The three men turned to view this unannounced arrival. He was a dubious-looking cove, with a camera strung about his neck. A camera with a big long lens.

'Phone up her son Charlie and get him to ask her,' said this fellow. 'Tell him that I have certain photographs of him in my possession. Photographs of him and a certain Polly Gotting, taken from a bedroom window across the street from her house. Mention the words 'tea' and 'parson', that should swing it.'

23.

The Brentford sun rose from behind the water tower at the old pumping station and brought a golden dawn to the borough. Birdies gossiped on the rooftops. Roses yawned in the memorial park. p.u.s.s.y-cats stretched themselves and annelid worms of the cla.s.s Polychaeta manipulated the bristles on their paired parapodia.

Norman at the corner-shop numbered up his newspapers and pa.s.sed the bag through the hatchway of the security grille to Zorro the paper-boy. 'Go with G.o.d,' said Norman.

A milk float jingled to a halt before one of the flat blocks and Mr Marsuple freighted a crate of Gold Top towards the lift. He was whistling. Moments later he would return to find that the remaining twenty-three crates had been stolen.

For, although this was a golden dawn that promised a day of likewise hue, it was a day that the folk of Brentford would long remember.

It was the day the travellers came to town.

Cornelius awoke to the smell of frying bacon. Three streets away, at The Wife's Legs Cafe. He chivvied Tuppe into wakefulness.

'Gate for a serious fly-up?' he asked.

'We don't have any money.

'Leave that to me. Let's go.'

They left the happy-busers to sleep on and wan-dered out into the day. Cornelius stretched his long legs and Tuppe stretched his short ones.

'It's good to be back.' Cornelius made futile attempts to bat down his hair.

They walked up from the ca.n.a.l, through the historic b.u.t.ts Estate, along Albany Road and around the corner to The Wife's Legs.

It was a bit of a mess.

The windows had been boarded over and curious man-shaped outlines had been chalked on the bullet pocked pavement outside.

'What is all this?' Tuppe asked.

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