flora. But beyond the walls existed a changing world for which the Professor had very little time. He trod the boundaries of the Borough each day at sunrise, attended certain local functions, principally the yearly darts tournament at the Flying Swan, and accepted his role as oracle and ornamental hermit to the folk of Brentford.
Omally’s hobnails clattered across the cobbled stones of the Butts Estate, Pooley’s blakeys offering a light accompaniment, as the two marched purposefully forward.
“No sign of the wandering camel trains then?” asked Jim.
Omally shrugged. “Something had been giving Dave’s cabbage patch quite a seeing to,” he said, “but I saw no footprints.”
“Neville put the wee lad out, shortly after you’d gone.”
“Good thing too, last thing we need is a camel hunt on the allotment.”
The two men rounded a corner and reached the Professor’s garden door. Here they paused a moment before pressing through. Neither man knew exactly why he did this; it was an unconscious action, as natural as blinking, or raising a pint glass to the lips. Omally pushed open the ever-unbolted door and he and Pooley entered the magical garden. The blooms swayed drowsily and enormous bees moved amongst them humming tunes which no man knew the words to.
The Professor turned not his head from his writing, but before his two visitors had come but a step or two towards the open French windows he called out gaily, “Good afternoon, John, Jim. You are some distance from your watering hole with yet half an hour’s drinking time left upon the Guinness clock.”
Pooley scrutinized his Piaget wristwatch, which had stopped. “We come upon business of the utmost import,” he said, knowing well the Professor’s contempt for the mundane, “and seek your counsel.”
“Enter then. You know where the decanter is.”
After a rather undignified rush and the equally tasteless spectacle of two grown men squeezing together through the open French windows Pooley and Omally availed themselves of the Professor’s hospitality. “You are looking well, sir,” said Jim, now grinning up from a brimming shot-crystal tumbler. “Are you engaged upon anything interesting in the way of research at present?”
The old man closed his book and smiled up at Pooley. “The search for the philosopher’s stone,” he said simply. “But what of you fellows? How goes the golfing?”
Omally brought his winning smile into prominence. “We pursue our sport as best we can, but the Council’s henchmen have little love for our technique.”
Professor Slocombe chuckled. “I have heard tell of your technique,” he said, “and I suspect that your chances of membership to Gleneagles are pretty slight. I myself recently followed up some reports of UFO sightings above the allotments at night and my investigation disclosed a cache of luminously painted golf balls. Although your techniques are somewhat unorthodox, your enterprise is commendable.” The old man rose from his desk and decanted himself a gold watch. “So,” he said at length, “to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Pooley made free with a little polite coughing and drew out The
Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf
which he handed to the Professor. The snow-capped ancient raised his bristling eyebrows into a Gothic arch. “If you seek an impartial judgement over some technicality of the game I will need time to study this document.”
“No, no,” said Jim, “on the back.”
Professor Slocombe turned over the dog-eared exercise book and his dazzling facial archway elevated itself by another half inch. “So,” he said, “you think to test me out, do you, Jim?”
Pooley shook his head vigorously. “No, sir,” said he, to the accompaniment of much heart crossing. “No ruse here, I assure you. The thing has us rightly perplexed and that is a fact.”
“As such it would,” said Professor Slocombe. Crossing to one of the massive bookcases, the old man ran
Omally’s hobnails clattered across the cobbled stones of the Butts Estate, Pooley’s blakeys offering a light accompaniment, as the two marched purposefully forward.
“No sign of the wandering camel trains then?” asked Jim.
Omally shrugged. “Something had been giving Dave’s cabbage patch quite a seeing to,” he said, “but I saw no footprints.”
“Neville put the wee lad out, shortly after you’d gone.”
“Good thing too, last thing we need is a camel hunt on the allotment.”
The two men rounded a corner and reached the Professor’s garden door. Here they paused a moment before pressing through. Neither man knew exactly why he did this; it was an unconscious action, as natural as blinking, or raising a pint glass to the lips. Omally pushed open the ever-unbolted door and he and Pooley entered the magical garden. The blooms swayed drowsily and enormous bees moved amongst them humming tunes which no man knew the words to.
The Professor turned not his head from his writing, but before his two visitors had come but a step or two towards the open French windows he called out gaily, “Good afternoon, John, Jim. You are some distance from your watering hole with yet half an hour’s drinking time left upon the Guinness clock.”
Pooley scrutinized his Piaget wristwatch, which had stopped. “We come upon business of the utmost import,” he said, knowing well the Professor’s contempt for the mundane, “and seek your counsel.”
“Enter then. You know where the decanter is.”
After a rather undignified rush and the equally tasteless spectacle of two grown men squeezing together through the open French windows Pooley and Omally availed themselves of the Professor’s hospitality. “You are looking well, sir,” said Jim, now grinning up from a brimming shot-crystal tumbler. “Are you engaged upon anything interesting in the way of research at present?”
The old man closed his book and smiled up at Pooley. “The search for the philosopher’s stone,” he said simply. “But what of you fellows? How goes the golfing?”
Omally brought his winning smile into prominence. “We pursue our sport as best we can, but the Council’s henchmen have little love for our technique.”
Professor Slocombe chuckled. “I have heard tell of your technique,” he said, “and I suspect that your chances of membership to Gleneagles are pretty slight. I myself recently followed up some reports of UFO sightings above the allotments at night and my investigation disclosed a cache of luminously painted golf balls. Although your techniques are somewhat unorthodox, your enterprise is commendable.” The old man rose from his desk and decanted himself a gold watch. “So,” he said at length, “to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Pooley made free with a little polite coughing and drew out The
Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf
which he handed to the Professor. The snow-capped ancient raised his bristling eyebrows into a Gothic arch. “If you seek an impartial judgement over some technicality of the game I will need time to study this document.”
“No, no,” said Jim, “on the back.”
Professor Slocombe turned over the dog-eared exercise book and his dazzling facial archway elevated itself by another half inch. “So,” he said, “you think to test me out, do you, Jim?”
Pooley shook his head vigorously. “No, sir,” said he, to the accompaniment of much heart crossing. “No ruse here, I assure you. The thing has us rightly perplexed and that is a fact.”
“As such it would,” said Professor Slocombe. Crossing to one of the massive bookcases, the old man ran
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