“You weren’t?” said Jim. “That’s not what you were thinking?”

“It was a thought,” said John. “A thought, no more.”

“And that’s why we came here?”

Omally shook his head. “There’s more,” he explained. “The club can be saved – in theory. Neville got it written into the contracts. A company known as the Consortium has taken over the club’s debts, but if Brentford can win the FA Cup this season, then the debts will be cancelled and the club saved.”

“Brentford win the FA Cup?”

Omally nodded.

There was a brief moment of silence and then Professor Slocombe exploded into laughter. His frangible frame rocked and great tears welled in his dew-blue eyes. He clasped the desk with his delicate fingers and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Jim Pooley shivered. “Now I know how Neville felt,” he said. “It’s horrible when you see someone else do it.”

Omally crossed himself. “Holy Mary, mother of God, have mercy upon us,” he prayed.

At length, Professor Slocombe ceased his frantic hilarity. He sucked draughts of air into his narrow chest, mopped his eyes with an oversized red gingham handkerchief and repositioned his pince-nez on to his nose. “You will indeed be the death of me,” he gasped.

“But it is possible,” said Omally.

“John,” said Professor Slocombe, “many things are possible – but just because something is possible does not imply that it can or will be.”

“But it is possible,” Omally protested. “Brentford could in theory win the FA Cup.”

“Could it?” Jim asked.

“Certainly,” said John, “and in as little as eight games. Don’t you know anything about football, Jim?”

“I remember Stanley Matthews,” said Pooley. “Didn’t he marry one of the Beverley Sisters?”

“That was Billy Fury,” said John.

“Wright,” said Professor Slocombe. “Billy Wright.”

“They were brothers,” said Jim. “They invented the jet plane.”

“Whittle,” said John.

Jim whistled.

“Not whistle, Whittle, Frank Whittle.”

“What team did he play for?” Jim asked.

“He didn’t play for any team and he didn’t marry one of the Beverley Sisters,” said John.

“Then you’ve got the wrong fellow,” said Jim, “which goes to show how much you know.”

Professor Slocombe raised his hand once more. “Stop it now,” he said, “or I might be forced to give you both a smack.”

“I don’t know much about football,” said Jim, “but I know what I like.”

“Which is?” said John.

“Half-time,” said Jim. “They give you an orange to suck, or is it a lime?”

“Limes are the navy,” said John. “To stave off scurvy.”

“Scurvy?” Jim asked. “Which team does he play for?”

“Enough,” said the professor. And he meant it.

“What I’m saying,” said John, “is that it is possible for Brentford to win the FA Cup. And in eight games. It doesn’t matter that they’ve lost every game they’ve played so far this season. Those weren’t FA Cup qualifying games. Those are the only ones they need to win. It works out at eight games, if they get eight straight wins.”

“Well,” said Jim, “that seems relatively simple. How come the team’s never thought of doing that?”

John almost gave Jim a smack, but he restrained himself. “I’m quite sure the team have thought of it. Many times. At the beginning of every season. The problem is that the team is not a particularly talented team. It is a team that lacks for the vital spark which—”

“What John is trying to say,” said Professor Slocombe, “is that Brentford United are, I believe the word is, crap.”

“Ah,” said Jim, and he tapped at his nose. “I see.”

John Omally rolled his eyes.

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Exactly what do you want from me, John?” he enquired. “Since financial support is out of the question, what is it that I can offer you?”

“Ah.” John Omally now tapped at his nose. “Well, here’s the thing. The Consortium have granted Neville the opportunity to appoint a new manager for the club.”

“Ah, I see.” Professor Slocombe now tapped at his nose.

“There’s an awful lot of nose-tapping going on,” said Jim. “Is it a Masonic thing?”

“I understand you,” said the professor to John. “You are thinking that I might use my connections to secure a new manager for the club, one who might take them on to glory.”

Omally nodded enthusiastically.

Professor Slocombe tugged open a desk drawer. “I’ll have a look in my address book,” said he. “I think I have Sven Goran Erickson’s telephone number.”

“You do?” said John.

Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow and slammed his desk drawer shut. “No,” said he, “of course I don’t.”

“Oh,” said John.

“Should I laugh at that?” asked Jim. “It was quite funny.”

“Do so and I strike you,” said Omally.

“Sorry,” said the professor.

John shrugged. “It isn’t what I was going to ask you anyway. What I was going to ask you was this. It is possible for a team with little talent to beat a team with a lot of talent if the team with the little talent is led by a manager skilled in the art of tactics. Tactics win games. Life is all about tactics, in my humble opinion.”

“Your life certainly is,” said Jim. “Especially when these tactics are being employed to win the affections of married women.”

“Sssh,” said John. “Such indiscreet remarks are not worthy of you. What I’m asking you, Professor, is could you formulate a set of tactics whereby Brentford might once, for this season alone, actually win?”

Professor Slocombe stroked his chin. “Hm,” went he. “An interesting challenge. And one, I have to say, not without a certain charm. I agree with you that although improbable, it is certainly possible for Brentford to win through. But my days are full; I would not have the time in them to manage a football team.”

“I’m not suggesting that you manage the team,” said John.

“I felt that you were about to.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I was. Certainly your presence alone on the pitch would inspire the team. But surely you, a man of such erudite learning and with such a love for the borough—”

“John,” said the professor, “with the possible exception of certain members of the town council, you would be hard-pressed to find a Brentonian who does not love the borough.”

“Touché,” said John. “But if you could formulate the tactics, it wouldn’t really matter who the manager was. His job would simply be to pass on these tactics to the team.”

“In principle,” said the professor, “but you mentioned the word ‘inspire’. A football manager must be able to inspire. He must have charisma.”

Omally threw up his hands. “It was worth a try,” said he. “The salary Brentford United can afford to pay a manager is now but a pittance. No professional manager would ever take over the position anyway. The team is doomed, the ground is doomed.” Omally rose to take his leave. “I’m sorry,” said he, “but Jim was right, I have wasted your time.”

Professor Slocombe nodded his head from side to side. “Not so fast, John,” he said. “And allow it to be said that I admire your tactics here. You know full well that if I could do anything to save the club, I would. And I agree with you that it is possible. And I would certainly be prepared to put my mind to the matter of tactics. In fact, to employ, shall we say, certain methods of my own to aid the team’s advancement—”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked at Jim.

Then both of them looked back towards the professor.

“Tactics,” said Professor Slocombe. “Tactics, certain other methods and a charismatic manager.” His head bobbed once more from side to side. “That would be the winning formula.”

“It would,” Omally agreed.

Professor Slocombe gazed thoughtfully upon his uninvited guests. “It is always a pleasure to engage the two of you in conversation,” he said. “The two of you are, how shall I put this, alive. Yes, that’s the word. You live. On your wits the two of you live and not entirely to the dictates of the establishment. But you are most certainly alive.” The professor noted well the twin expressions of bewilderment that had now appeared upon the faces of his guests.