“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Jim. “What does it mean?”

“It means that by the end of this year Brentford has eight hundred and thirty days owing to it. That’s over two years, Jim.”

“Do pardon me for missing the point here, John. But so what?”

“Jim, what is going to happen on December the thirty-first 1999?”

“A very big party.”

“Correct. The millennial celebrations. The biggest, most expensive, most heavily funded bash in history.”

“So?”

Omally threw up his hands. “So the people of Brentford are actually entitled to celebrate the millennium two years earlier than the rest of the world, by special decree of Pope Gregory. He reorientated the calendar and what he decreed goes.”

Jim opened his mouth to say “So?” once more, but he said “Come again?” instead.

“You’re catching on, aren’t you, Jim? The Millennium Fund. Millions and millions of pounds, set aside for all kinds of projects and schemes. And the people of Brentford are actually entitled to grab it two years before anybody else.”

“You have got to be jesting.”

“All the details are in this book of yours. All we have to do is to quietly check whether the Pope’s decree was ever revoked, which I’m certain it never was. And then we put in our absolutely genuine and pukka claim for millions.”

“The Millennium Fund blokes will never swallow it.”

“They’ll have no choice, Jim.” Omally pulled a crumpled piece of foolscap from his pocket. “Now I’ve drawn up a bit of an itinerary here. Obviously as co-directors of the Brentford Millennium Committee we will require salaries suitable to our status. How does this figure seem to you?”

Pooley perused the figure. “Stingy,” said he. “Stick another nought on the end.”

“I’ll stick on two, to be on the safe side. So, we’ll want a big parade and a beauty contest…”

“Belles of Brentford,” said Jim.

“Belles of Brentford. I like that.” Omally made a note.

“And a beer festival,” said Jim.

“Let’s have two,” said John, “again to be on the safe side.”

“Let’s have two beauty contests. Three, in fact. We’d be on the panel of judges, naturally.”

“Naturally. And I thought we should build something. How about a new library?”

“What’s wrong with the old one?”

“The heating’s pretty poor in the winter.”

“Right. Tear down the library, build a new one.”

“OK,” said Omally, making a tick. “That’s the John Omally Millennial Library taken care of.”

“The what?”

“Well, it will have to have a new name, won’t it?”

“I suppose so, but if you’re having a library named after you I want something too.”

“Have whatever you like, my friend.”

Pooley thought. “I’ll have the Jim Pooley,” said he.

“The Jim Pooley what?”

“No, just the Jim Pooley. It’s a public house.”

“Nice one. I’ll join you there for a pint. Do you think we should tear all the flatblocks down and build some nice mock-Georgian terraces, or should we…”

“John?” asked Jim.

“Jim?” asked John.

“John, about these Brentford Scrolls. The papal decree that papally decrees all this. Where exactly are the scrolls now?”

“Ah,” said John.

“And what exactly does ‘Ah’ mean?”

“‘Ah’ means that when the monk got murdered, the scrolls disappeared. No one has actually seen them in over four hundred years.”

Jim Pooley swung his fist once more at John Omally.

And this time he didn’t miss.

“Twenty of us in a ditch with just a bit of torn tarpaulin to keep the weather out.” Old Pete slumped back in his chair, then, gaining strength from the reaction of his audience, after-office types who had popped into the Swan for a swift half, he gestured meaningfully with the spittle end of his pipe. “That’s what I call hard times. None of this namby-pamby stuff about pyjamas and nightlights.”

Old Pete had certainly known hard times. For after all, hadn’t he grubbed in the fields for roots to feed his four younger brothers? And didn’t he once live for three months inside a barrel, until his beard was long enough to hide the shame that he could afford no shirt to be married in? And when his uncle died in a freak indecent exposure / hedge trimmer accident, hadn’t it been Old Pete who gathered up the pieces and dug the grave himself?

Old Pete had seen real poverty. His tales of one jam sandwich between six and four to a cup never failed to bring a tear to the eye of the listener and a free drink or two to himself.

“How come,” asked Omally, who had heard it all before, “that out of the twenty of you down the ditch, not one had the nous to earn the price of a dosshouse bed for the night?”

“There is always some cynical bugger,” said Old Pete, “prepared to spoil a good tale well told.”

Omally led Jim up to the bar.

“Good evening, Neville,” he said. “Two pints of Large, please, and an unshared jam sandwich for Jim, who has missed his tea.”

Jim made a scowling face as Neville went about his business.

“So,” said the part-time barman, presenting his patrons with pints. “Allow me to hazard a guess. My first thought was Caught in a cattle stampede, but this I feel is unlikely. So I am going to plump for Taking a course of training with the SAS.”

“Whatever are you on about?” Jim asked.

“You two,” said Neville, “standing here utterly dishevelled, hair all over the place, cuts and bruises, bits of bramble hanging off your suits and a black eye apiece.”

“I’d rather we didn’t discuss it,” said Jim.

“Quite so. Then tell me, John, have you come up with any sensational disclosures in Jim’s book yet?”

Omally opened his mouth to speak.

Jim said, “No he hasn’t.”

“Shame,” said Neville. “I had hoped that it might bring a few pennies more across the bar. The goddess knows, times are as ever against the poor publican.”

“The sufferings of the poor publican are well known,” said John. “You are an example to us all, Neville.”

“Hm,” said Neville and went on his way to polish glasses.

“Let’s go and sit over there,” said John, indicating a discreet corner. Jim followed him across, placed his ale and jammy sandwich on the table and sat down.

“I’m drinking this and eating this and then I’m going home to bed,” said Jim. “This is one day I do not wish to prolong any further.”

“Come on, Jim. You can’t quit the game when there’s so much to play for.”

“There are no cards on the table to play with, John. The scrolls have probably gone to dust a hundred years ago. The whole idea is absurd. Why don’t you just admit it?”

“Stuff and nonsense. Look upon this as a holy quest. Like Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Although it has been remarked that I do bear a striking resemblance to Harrison Ford, I have no wish to waste my time on any such foolish venture. Now allow me to eat and drink and go my way.”

“You have a wicked sense of humour, Mr Pooley. So how do you feel we should best go about this? Hire a couple of metal detectors, bring in a dowser…”

“No.” Jim shook his head, wiped breadcrumbs from his chin, finished his ale and rose to his feet. “I am not interested, John. I want nothing to do with it. I am going home. Goodnight.” And he turned away and left the Flying Swan.

“Then I woke up,” Old Pete was heard to say, “and my big toe was missing. There was just this little note stuck into the stump which said, ‘Gone to market’.”

John Omally had another pint, then he too left the Flying Swan. Whatever was the matter with that Jim Pooley? he wondered as he wandered aimlessly down the Brentford streets. Had he lost all his spirit? Or was he simply getting on in years?

Omally came to a sudden halt. Why had that thought entered his head? Getting on in years? He and Jim were the same age. And they were only Omally stroked his chin. It was hardly only any more, was it? It was, well, as much as.