The Brentford Triangle by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online

drew off a single for which he accepted double price. Small Dave tossed it back in one gulp as Neville had calculated and ordered another. “C-C-Camels,” he continued.
    Neville drew off a large one this time as a crowd was beginning to gather. “So, Posty,” he said, pushing the glass across the counter towards the postman’s straining hand, “how goes the day for you then?”
    Small Dave made pointing motions towards the general direction of the allotments. His lower lip quivered and he danced about in a state of obvious and acute agitation.
    “No more postcards then?” Neville asked.
    “C-C-Camels!” howled the midget.
    Neville turned to Omally, who had dragged himself up to the bar counter. “Do you think our postman is trying to tell us something, John?” he asked.
    “He is saying camels,” said Jim Pooley helpfully.
    “Ah, that is what it is, camels, eh?”
    “C-C-Camels!”
    “Yes, it is camels for certain,” said Omally.
    “He has a lovely way with words,” said Neville, suddenly feeling quite cheerful, “and a good eye for a picture postcard.”
    “For God’s sake! Camels, don’t you understand?” Small Dave was growing increasingly purple and his voice was reaching a dangerous, champagne-glass-splitting kind of a pitch.
    “Is he buying or selling, do you think?”
    “I hadn’t thought to enquire.” Neville squinted down at the postman, who was now down on all fours beating at the carpet. “He is impersonating, I think.”
    Old Pete hobbled up. He had experienced some luck recently over impersonating and wasn’t going to miss out on a good thing. “That’s not the way of a camel,” he said authoritatively. “That’s more like a gerbil.”
    Small Dave fainted, arms and legs spread flat out on the floor.
    “That’s a polar bear skin,” said Old Pete, “and a very good one too!”
    Small Dave was unceremoniously hauled up into a waiting chair. A small green bottle was grudgingly taken down from its haunt amongst the Spanish souvenirs behind the bar, uncorked and waggled beneath the midget’s upturned nose.
    “C-C-Camels!” went Small Dave, coming once more to what there were left of his senses.
    “I find that his conversation has become a trifle dull of late,” said Neville.
    “I think it might pay to hear him out.” Pooley thrust his way through the throng with a glass of water. The postman spied out his approach. “What’s that for?” he snapped. “Going to give me a blanket bath, are you?”
    Jim coughed politely. “You are feeling a little better then? I thought perhaps you might like to discuss whatever is troubling you.”
    “I should enjoy another scotch to steady myself.”
    The crowd departed as one man; they had seen all this kind of stuff many many times before. The ruses and stratagems employed in the cause of the free drink were as numerous as they were varied. The cry of “Camels”, although unique in itself, did not seem particularly meritorious.
    “But I saw them, I did, I did,” wailed Small Dave, as he watched the patrons’ hurried departure. “I swear.” He crossed himself above the heart. “See this wet, see this dry. Come back fellas, come back.”
    No-one had noticed John Omally quietly slipping away. He had become a man sorely tried of late, what with vanishing Council men and everything. The idea of camels upon the allotment was not one which appealed to him in the slightest. He could almost hear the clicking of tourists’ Box Brownies and the flip-flopping of their beach-sandalled feet as they trampled over the golf course. It didn’t bear thinking about. If there were rogue camels wandering around the allotment, Omally determined that they should be removed as quickly as possible.
    John jogged down Moby Dick Terrace and up towards the allotment gates. Here he halted. All seemed quiet enough. A soft wind gently wrinkled the long grass at the boundary fence. A starling or two pecked away at somebody’s recently sown seed and a small