Raiders Of The Lost Car Park Part 27

'I don't think I have one,' said the prince.

'Gandhi's Hairdryer. You said Loincloth.'

'Did I?' asked the prince. 'That's funny, because Colin, that's the lead singer, he's a chum of mine.

Loincloth? I wonder why I said that.'

'You were looking at my legs when you said it.'

'Ah,' said the prince. 'One was, was one?'

'One was, I'm afraid. Are you going to host the gig, then?'

'I really don't know. What do you think? Would it be the done thing?'

'Would you like me to be the done thing again?' Polly asked the prince, which was pretty excruciating, but people do say things like that when the relation-s.h.i.+p is still at the hot-and-h.o.r.n.y stage.

And at least they hadn't started giving each other nauseating little pet names yet.

'Toot toot,' went the prince. 'Big Boy is coming into the tunnel-''Don't be a prat,' said Polly.

'I'll tell you what,' said Tuppe, when Cornelius had finished outlining his serious plan, 'that is a serious plan you have just finished outlining there.'

'So, what do you think?'

'Well, let me get it straight. What you are suggest-ing is, that, as Bone knows the Gandhi's drummer, 'he swings it for me to get up on stage in the middle of the gig and play the magic notes through the megawatt sound system. Then, when the portal opens, you do a sort of Pied Piper routine and lead a twenty-three-thousand-strong peace convoy through the portal and into the Forbidden Zones.'

'Exactly. Overwhelm the blighters with a single unexpected and peaceful invasion. I don't want to wipe them out, Tuppe, I just want them to leave mankind alone to get on with its own business.'

'And you really think Kobold's bunch will agree to that?'

'Well, if I suddenly found twenty-three thousand travellers in my front room, I'd agree to pretty much anything in order to get them out. Wouldn't you?'

Tuppe grinned a wicked grin. 'And I'd be prepared to reward, most handsomely, the enterprising young man who could get them out.'

Cornelius winked. 'My thoughts entirely. Arthur Kobold owes us substantial damages. We won't be taking a cheque this time. So, what do you think, a blinder of a plan, or what?'

'Well.' Tuppe screwed up his face. 'I think it's a real blinder. But, I do have to say, that if Anna were here, I have the feeling that she just might say that it was a very sad plan and possibly that it sucked. No offence meant.

'None taken, I a.s.sure you. So, do we, as they say, give it a whirl?'

'As they say, we do.'

The sun went down upon Gunnersbury Park and no lights showed from the big house, home of the Antigua-bound Lord Crawford. There were plenty of lights beyond the walls though. These were of the revolving variety and adorned police car roofs. Roofs that had those big numbers on them for helicopter recognition during riot situations.

Not that there were any riot situations on the go at present. Oh no. The police cordon that ringed the park around and about, and blocked off lots of vital roads, showed not the vaguest hint of riot.

The officers of the law lounged upon bonnets, smoking cigarettes, filling in their expense chitties and discussing the sort of thing that policemen discuss when in the company of their own kind.

The TV news teams had all departed several hours before, having got all their required footage. And the anarchic travellers, who had put- up such a violent struggle trying to break through the police cordon, now sat in cells, smoking cigarettes, filling in their expense chitties and discussing the sort of things that actors discuss when in the company of their own kind.

Of the twenty-three thousand genuine travellers, there wasn't a one.

Mickey Minns was in his shop, checking his equip-ment.

He had just returned from The Flying Swan.

The patrons of Brentford's most famous watering hole were taking their pleasures outside on the pavement this particular evening. In deckchairs. They were viewing the borough's newest arrivals: the travellers.

Now, as anyone who has ever spent any time there will tell you, Brentford is not as other towns.

Anything but. And the previously related concept, of the travellers as universal scapegoats, didn't amount to much hereabouts. In Brentford camps which were divided, stayed divided. And camps which were together, remained together.

The pubs, for instance, being the very linchpins of local culture, had long ago picked up sides regarding most things. The arrival of the travellers didn't alter much.

The Shrunken Head, whose takings had been down of late, due to a new landlord with a penchant for a pub quiz, put up the TRAVELLERS WELCOME sign immediately.Neville at The Flying Swan put it to the patrons.

'Yes or no?' he asked them.

Norman the corner-shopkeeper said 'no'. He had already put up the barricades and was preparing himself for the holocaust to come.

Old Pete was of the yes persuasion. 'They're a free-love mob, aren't they?' was his argument.

There were yes-folk and no-folk and don't-know-folk and don't-cares. And when Neville finally called for a show of hands, it was fifty-fifty.

Which left Neville with the casting vote. Some-thing Neville really did not want.

And then, out of the blue, or, as many cynical fellows were later to remark, right on cue, in walked John Omally, resident drinker at The Swan for more years now than he cared to think about and a man always ready and willing to give his all for the common good.

John thought for a moment and then came up with an inspired compromise. A vetting system, whereby he personally would undertake the responsibility of deciding who was worthy to enter the hallowed portal of The Swan and who was not.

Neville was delighted with this, because if anything went wrong, he could put all the blame on Omally.

The patrons were delighted with this also, because if anything went wrong, they could put the blame on John Omally.

And John Omally was delighted with it, because he intended that nothing would go wrong. Not with him outside, carefully vetting the potential customers. That is, selling the entry tickets.

'It is called the spirit of free enterprise,' he told his best friend Jim Pooley.

'I thought that was a car ferry which sank,' replied Jim. 'But I've got all those rolls of raffle tickets you asked me to buy this morning. Red ones and green ones.

'Jolly good. Red ones are admission to The Swan, ten bob a head. Green ones are, sorry The Swan's full up, but would you like-to buy a ticket for the festival, two pounds a head.'

'I thought it was a free festival,' said Jim.

Omally offered him that 'nothing is free in this world' look. 'You'd better start the ball rolling, Jim,'

said he. 'Do you want a ticket to get into The Swan, or what?'

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.