True, there were none who had ever known him to miss a session, or take a holiday, or even a day off. And Neville lived in, above the bar, in the humble but adequate accommodation. But part-time barman was his job description; it was the job he had applied for and the job he had been given. And it was the job he did, and the job he did well.

And the job he loved.

Yes, loved. For Neville loved Brentford. The borough, and its people, and this pub. His pub. Not that it really was his pub, it wasn’t; it was the brewery’s pub, and every so often the brewery let Neville know it, in manners that lacked for subtlety and finesse. They organised things for Neville to do. Theme nights. Promotions. Pub quizzes. Neville weathered these storms. He pressed on, and persevered. He knew how things should be, and how things should be done. Things should be as ever they had been, and things should be done to keep things that way.

Neville tended the beers: eight hand-drawn ales upon draught, the finest in Brentford. And the finest of the finest being Large.

Neville tended the bar, an elegant Victorian bar with a knackered dartboard and disabled jukebox, a row of Britannia pub tables, a mismatched variety of comfy seating and stools at the polished counter for regular stalwarts. There were Spanish souvenirs behind the bar. Ancient pictures of indeterminate things upon walls of faded paperings. A carpet that had known better days, but appreciated those of the present, which weren’t too bad at all.

And the whole and the all and the everything that made a real pub a real pub caused a pause in the step of those who entered The Flying Swan for the very first time, who breathed in its air, soaked up its ambience and said, as many before had said and many yet to come would do:

“This is a pub.”

Neville tossed back his golden breakfast and shrugged away the shudder that the Campbell’s daily passing always brought him. Today was a new day, another day; hopefully, it would be much as the old day that it had replaced had been, a pleasant and samey prelude to the one that lay beyond.

And so on and so forth, so to speak.

Although it did have to be said that today was going to be slightly different for Neville the part-time barman.

Hence the shoes.

Hence the shoes? one might ask. What meanith this?

What meanith this is this: the shoes were an anomaly. Bright and shiny, yes, as was the norm for these shoes, but not at this time of the day. At this time of the day, Neville was normally a carpet-slipper man. Monogrammed were Neville’s carpet slippers, his own initials woven in cloth-of-gold upon a brown felt surround, with soft India rubber soles. The pair a present from the mother who loved him. But he was not wearing these today. Today Neville wore the classic Oxfords, those brogues that, in their unassuming, understated way, had helped to forge the British Empire. The creation of Lord Oxford, who is now remembered solely for his shoes.[2]

Not that Neville was wearing the actual pair that had helped to forge the British Empire. But his were of a similar design.

And they were upon his feet at this time of the morning.

So, why?

Because Neville had an appointment this morning. One that he did not wish to keep, but one he knew that he must keep. It was an official appointment. Not one of brewery business, but of other business. It was a matter of duty that Neville keep this appointment. And Neville was a man of duty.

The classic brogues pinched Neville’s toes; the certain spring that was normally to be found in his step had today deserted him. Neville limped from the saloon bar of The Flying Swan and returned to his humble yet adequate accommodation above.

Mahatma Campbell limped on. And on he limped until he reached the football ground, Griffin Park. And here he ceased to limp, for here he stopped and, bending low, removed his seven-league boot and shook from it a stone. And then he replaced the boot upon his best-foot-forward.

And then he reached into his ample sporran and withdrew a ring of keys. Selecting one of these, he presented it to the padlock that secured the gates of the football ground, unlocked same and swung open these gates.

And then, a-singing and a-whistling the portions of the song that he could not remember, Mahatma Campbell entered Brentford Football Ground.

And the sun rose higher in the heavens. And the birdies sang and the folk of Brentford slowly stirred from their beds and, as is very often the way, things began to happen.

James Arbuthnot Pooley, Jim to his friends and all else besides, awoke from his bed to a day where things were already beginning to happen.

Jim’s awakenings, for indeed these were in the plural, had about them a deliberate quality, a certain restraint, a cautiousness, a subtlety. These were not the sudden springings into consciousness of those dragged into the world of work by the clarion call of the alarm clock. Jim had long ago discarded his. These were more the gentle easings into wakefulness associated chiefly with the idle rich. Although it must be said that the idle rich are generally introduced to the new day by the butler drawing the curtains, or by a young woman skilled in those arts which amuse men doing pleasant things to them beneath the silken sheets.

Jim was not one of the idle rich.

Jim was one of the idle poor.

Although to Jim’s credit, he was rarely ever idle. Jim was of that order known collectively and depreciatingly as “the ranks of the unemployed”, which is to say that he did not hold any regular employment. Jim was not, however, a “dole-queue scrounger”. Queueing for anything was not in Jim’s nature and the local labour exchange had long ago given up on Jim and withdrawn his dole cheque accordingly.

Jim would, if asked, have described himself as an entrepreneur. Which was a good word and covered, as many other good words do, a multitude of sins. Not that Jim would ever have considered himself a sinner. For he had so very few vices.

He was basically honest, loyal to his friends and lies sprang but rarely to his lips. He was a “chancer” and a “bit of a lad” and a “rough diamond” and many other things besides, but he was not a bad man. Jim was a good man.

A good unemployed man and one with a stinking hangover.

Jim did plaintive mewings and some groanings, too, for good measure. Sunlight of the day where things were already beginning to happen elbowed its way with difficulty into Jim’s bedroom, negotiating the unwashed windows, the unwashed nets and the whoever-washes-them-anyway bedroom curtains. The light that triumphed over these difficult negotiations fell in a wan pool upon the face of Jim Pooley.

A good face, a basically honest face, a young and, some might say, a handsome face. A face with clear blue eyes, an aquiline nose, a merry mouth loaded with fine white teeth, a decent pair of cheekbones and a chin that, if it lacked for a certain determination, amply made up for it with an abundance of pre-shave stubble. The hair of Jim was dark and brown, and his limbs were long and lean.

The eyes of Jim did squintings and focusings and takings in of the new day and then the mouth of Jim did smilings. Another day, another challenge, another chance to succeed. The hangover would soon depart with the coming of breakfast and Pooley, unfailingly cheerful, would get stuck into the day.

Of Jim’s rooms, what might be said? Well, mostly they were dry. They were sparsely furnished in a manner not to Jim’s taste, but as these were rented rooms of the furnished persuasion, there was little he could do about it. These rooms were not so clean as they might have been, which is to say as clean as they might have been, if Jim had chosen to clean them. These were unkempt rooms, small and unkempt rooms: a bedroom, a kitchenette and something that loosely resembled a bathroom, if you didn’t look too closely at it.