Brentford 02 The Brentford Triangle by Robert Rankin

Author:Robert Rankin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Robert Rankin
Published: 2010-05-29T13:17:36+00:00

Neville remembered the advert in the Brentford Mercury: Tart-time barman required, hours and salary negotiable, apply in person. Flying Swan.'

Now in his late twenties and making a career out of unemployment, Neville had jettisoned the camphor bags and forced himself into his one suit, given his brothel creepers a coat of Kiwi, and wandered down to the Swan to present himself. The acting part-time barman, who shortly afterwards absconded with a month's takings and several cases of scotch, had given him the summary once-over. He asked if he thought he could pull a pint, then hired him on the spot.

As to who the actual tenant of the Flying Swan was, Neville had not the slightest idea. The paint had flaked off the licensee plate outside, and those who swore they knew the man like a brother gave conflicting accounts as to his appearance. Neville had been handed the keys, told to take his wages from the disabled cash register, and left to get on with it. It had been a rare challenge but he had risen to it. He had no knowledge of running a pub but he had learned fast, and the ever-alert locals had only ever caught him the once on any particular dodge. He had single-handedly turned the Swan from a down-at-heel spit and gob saloon to a down-at-heel success. He had organized the trophy-winning darts team, who had now held the local shield for a record five consecutive years. He had supervised the numerous raffles and alehouse events, acted as oracle and confessor to local drunks, and strangely and happily had evolved into an accepted part of the Brentford landscape.

He was at home and he was happy.

Neville's smile broadened slightly, but a grim thought took off its edges. The brewery. Although they had no objection whatsoever to his residency, him being basically honest and the pub now running at a handsome profit, the brewery gave him no rest. They were forever suggesting special

events, talking of modernization, and installing things . . . His eyes strayed involuntarily towards the bulky contours of the humming monster which he had now covered with a dust sheet tightly secured with baling wire.

Neville tossed back his scotch and looked up at the Guinness clock; nearly five-thirty, nearly opening time. He squared up his scholar's stoop and took another deep breath. He would just have to pull himself together. Embark upon a course of positive activism. Be polite to his patrons, tolerant of their foibles, and indulgent towards their eccentricities. He would smile and think good thoughts, peace on earth, good will towards men. That kind of thing. He was certain that if he tried very very hard the horrid odour would waft itself away, to be replaced by the honeysuckle fragrance of spring.

From not far away the library clock struck the half-hour, and Neville the part-time barman flicked on the lights, took himself over to the door, and opened up. On the doorstep stood two bearded men.

'Good evening, barlord,' said Jim Pooley.

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