“Well,” said Jim, “I have it on very sound authority that I will do something in the future that will affect a great many lives. And not in a good way. Can I avoid doing this?”

“Indeed,” said the mystical lady. “If you have been granted the knowledge of what the thing is, the power is yours to avoid it. Is it something that can be avoided, dear?”

“It can,” said Jim. “But it would mean me giving up my life’s ambition. My chance to be rich.”

“Then if that is the price you must pay, you must pay it. To cheat one’s fate one must pay a heavy price.”

“So I must throw away my dreams,” Jim gave out with a sorry sigh.

“The choice would seem to be yours. The two lines are there upon your palm. The choice of which you choose is yours.”

“But which line is which?” Jim asked.

“I think that will all become clear, dear. I think that will all become clear.”

“All right, then,” said Jim. “If the choice is mine, I will make it.”

“Splendid, dear, then that will be five pounds.”

Pooley left the house of Madame Crowley five pounds lighter, but with head held high. He would make the right choice, he knew that he would. He would give up betting on the horses. It was the only way and Jim knew it. If he gave up betting, he could never win The Pooley. And if he never won The Pooley, then generations of Pooleys yet to come would have no name to live down and one of them would not come back into the past and bugger it all about.

“Dealt with,” said Jim. “And sorted too.”

And off he marched into the night.

Madame Crowley padded up her stairs and knocked upon her guestroom door. “I’m off to bed now, dear,” she called. “Was there anything further you wanted?”

“No thanks,” called back the young man’s voice. “I’m off to sleep myself now. I have to be up early in the morning.”

“Tracing that ancestor of yours?”

“Precisely,” said the voice.

Madame Crowley, her ear to the door, thought she heard a clicking from within. To her it was just a clicking sound and nothing more at all.

To a munitions expert, however, one trained to recognize the distinctive sounds of weapons being cocked, it would have been quite another matter.

Had such an expert heard that click, he (or she) would have recognized it at once as the sound of an AK47 being cocked.

“As long as everything’s all right, then, dear,” called Madame Crowley.

“It will be soon,” the voice called back. “Goodnight, Mrs C.”

“Goodnight, Wingarde dear,” said Mrs C.

The green tweeds of spring, with the first cuckoo’s note.

That calls through his beak, having come up his throat.

And it’s out with the rod and the line and the boat.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

The green tweeds of summer are calling me back.

The green tweeds I share with my brother called Jack.

Who lives in a box and peers out through a crack.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

The green tweeds of autumn, the nights drawing in.

The green tweeds are putrid and make the nose ring.

So it’s down the dry-cleaner’s and Elvis is King.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

The green tweeds of winter and Yuletide and that.

With old Father Christmas, all merry and fat.

And firesides and puddings and cheerful and chat.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

Let us drink and make merry

And raise up a glass.

And laugh and shout “Good-oh” and “Yippee”.

For I’ll wear those green tweeds

As my father before me,

Cos no bugger calls me a hippy!

Mad, yes.

“Green tweeds,” said Jim to John. “You’re back to your old green tweeds, I see.”

“They mocked the zoot,” said John to Jim. “So it’s back to the old green tweeds for me.”

It was the morning of the following day and they were in Omally’s kitchen. The kitchen looked much as it had done before. Though possibly just a tad worse.

“I’d offer you coffee,” said Omally, “but, as you know, I have just the one mug and it’s grown a mite furry of late.”

“No matter,” said Jim brightly. “I had a little water from my tap and it’s only an hour until opening.”

John looked his companion up and down. “You seem very chipper this morning,” said he. “Very chipper indeed.”

“I am chipper,” said Jim. “I have made a momentous decision and I want you to be the first to hear about it.”

“I am honoured,” said John. “So what is it?”

“I’ve given up betting on horses,” said Jim.

“Well, that’s highly commendable.” John nodded thoughtfully. “Hang on there, what did you say?”

“I’ve given up betting on the horses.”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked back at John.

“Oh, very funny,” said Omally. “You really had me going there.”

“No, John, I’m deadly serious. I’ve really given up.”

“You’ve given up on The Pooley?”

Pooley’s face fell. “How did you know I called it that?” he asked.

“Because you talk in your sleep. Remember that night on the allotment when we were too drunk to walk home and we slept in my hut?”

“Not in any great detail,” said Jim.

“Well, you talked in your sleep and kept on and on and on about The Pooley.”

“Hmm,” said Jim, running his finger over the tabletop. “But that’s what I’ve done, John. Given it up for good. I have to do it, although I won’t explain why, because you’d never believe it.”

“I don’t believe it now, Jim. Betting’s in your blood. You could never give it up.”

“I can and I have,” said Jim.

“Nonsense,” said John. “You won’t last till the end of the day.”

“I bet you I will,” said Jim.

Omally shook his head. “If you’re absolutely serious,” he said, “I’ll stick by you …”

“Thank you, John, I appreciate that.”

“But you won’t tell me why you’re doing it?”

“Maybe some time. If everything sets itself aright.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Omally.

“So tell me, John. How did things go for you last night?”

“Not so well as they might have done. Did you see the Gandhis play?”

“Yes, I did.” Pooley’s finger was now glued to tabletop goo. “It was incredible, wasn’t it? Like some religious revival meeting or something. People getting cured of the clap and having their hair grow back.”

“It was that good, was it, eh?”

“It was amazing. But didn’t you watch them yourself?” Pooley struggled to release his gummed-down finger.

“I didn’t get to see or hear them.” John made a very bad face. “I followed one of the big-haired bastards into the downstairs bog and tried to tune him up about management. Do you know what he did?”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t.”

“He chinned me,” said John. “He knocked me unconscious.”

“You have to be kidding,” said Jim. “Could you give me a hand here? I seem to be glued to your table.”

John took to tugging with Jim. “That’s what happened,” he said as he tugged. “I missed the entire gig. But I’ll have my revenge. As soon as I’m managing that band. I’ll sack the big-haired bastard.”

“What, even if he’s the Stratster?”

“It wasn’t the Stratster. Stratsters don’t punch people. It was the drummer, I’m sure.”

“Sack him,” said Jim. “Get in Ringo. If things go the way I hope they will, Ringo might well be out of a job quite soon.”

“Ringo it is, then,” said John.

“But what makes you think they’ll let you manage them?”

“I have this,” said Omally, rooting in the pocket of his old green tweeds.

“And what is that, might I ask?”