Read The Sprouts of Wrath for Free Online Page B

been very thorough indeed.”
    Julian smiled broadly and bowed slightly. “Anything else, was there?”
    “Just one thing.” Clyde Ffog stroked at his chin. By a bizarre twist of fate his One Moment was just about to occur and he wanted to savour it. “I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “whether you’d got planning permission?”
    Julian and Lucas looked at one another. They had not got planning permission.
“Ah,”
said Julian.
“Ah,”
said Lucas.
“Ah,”
said the councillors, although theirs was an entirely different kind of
ah. “Ah, indeed,”
said Clyde Ffog, smiling broadly.
    If
The Guinness Book of Records
was ever to include a section for “The Largest Backhander Ever Taken By a District Surveyor” it would appear above the name of Clyde Merridew Ffog, formerly of Brentford and now domiciled in the Seychelles. “Would you gentlemen care to step into my office?” asked this most exalted amongst men.
    Amidst gasps of horror, murmurs of disbelief and the sound of tomahawks being drawn, Clyde Ffog ushered the two young oiks hurriedly from the chamber.

8
    At precisely eleven o’clock Neville sheepishly opened the saloon-bar door, upon the safety chain. Lowering his pomander he took a delicate peck at the air. It smelt like fish. “It smells like fish,” said the puzzled barkeep.
    “That’s because it is fish.” John Omally grinned through the crack. “Open up there, Neville.”
    “Sorry, John.” The part-time barman slipped the chain and flip-flopped back across the bar. Omally followed him, a bulging bin-liner slung across his shoulder. “By the saints, Neville,” said he as the barman placed the pomander upon the bar counter and himself behind it, “you smell like the proverbial tart’s handbag!”
    “Again, sorry.” Neville held a shining glass beneath the spout of the beer engine and drew off a pint of the very best. He held it to the light. It was clear as an author’s conscience. “The drains must be up,” he tapped at his sensitive nostrils with a free finger, “or something.”
    “I understand.” Omally settled himself on to his favourite stool. He had no intention of being drawn into another discourse on the barman’s ENP. “I’ve two beauties here,” he said, depositing his load on to the bar counter. “Fresh river trout,” he explained. He placed his glass to his lips and took the first sip of the day. Neville paused a moment, his day was won or lost upon the outcome of this single sip. “Magic,” said John, smacking his lips together and taking another draught. “Magic.”
    Neville relaxed. “Still ten bob a pound, I trust?”
    “The very same, a couple of six pounders here.” Neville gave Omally the old fish-eye and took out his pocket scales. “Well, fives at the very least, hand-fed on hempseed and mealworms.”
    “Not hand fed upon spanners like those other two you sold me?”
    Omally smiled his winning smile and sipped his ale. “You will have your little joke,” said he between sippings.
    “And you yours, but not at my expense.” Neville weighed up the fish, cashed up NO SALE on the publican’s piano and drew out five crisp one pound notes. “Shall I take for your pint now?” he asked.
    “That’s a bit previous,” said John. “Jim will be here at any moment.”
    Neville offered Omally a sociable smile and hauled the day’s catch away to the pub freezer.
    Old Pete, Brentford’s horticultural elder statesman, entered the Flying Swan, his half-terrier Chips hard as ever upon his down-at-heels.
    “Morning, John,” said he, joining Omally at the bar.
    “Morning, Pete,” himself replied. “Morning, Chips.”
    The dog sniffed quizzically at the air. His antiquated master did likewise. “Now there’s a thing,” said Old Pete.
    Omally plucked a copy of the
Brentford Mercury
from the bar counter and began to fan nonchalantly at the air. “What’s that?” he enquired.
    “Funny how a particular smell can stir a particular