21

THE BIG ANSWER

‘THE GREATEST DARTS PLAYER I EVER MET WAS GEORGE BERNARD Shaw.’ This extravagant claim emerged from the not-particularly-extravagant lips of John Vincent Omally, The Flying Swan’s Liar in Residence.

‘Old George and I once fought for the love of a good woman, said Gimlet Martin from The Shrunken Head. ‘I won, he came second.’

‘I only met him on a single occasion.’ The voice belonged to Derby Phil Wainscot of The New Inn. ‘And that was in a former incarnation.’

And that earned Derby Phil the point and he took that round clear. The scores now stood at ten apiece, but Omally was warming up nicely.

‘George Bernard, or Podger, as he liked me to call him, was a great man for the hang-gliding. Not a lot of people know that.’

‘I knew it,’ said Gimlet Martin.

‘Me too,’ said Derby Phil. ‘Went gliding with Podger many a time.’

‘So,’ continued John, unabashed, ‘we were up one day at about two thousand feet and Podger said to me, well he sort of called to me, “John,” he called, “John, you and I have a lot in common. We both enjoy a game of darts, the company of rough-looking women and the study of interplanetary communications.”‘

‘I hope Omally knows what he’s doing,’ said Neville the part-time barman. ‘We could really do with a win this year.’

For this was The Flying Swan’s fifth annual All Brentford Open Lying Competition and out of the original one hundred and fifty contestants for the much coveted Silver Tongue Trophy and the even more coveted fifty-pound prize, three alone had survived to the final.

The crowd that remained to witness this event was of that discerning variety one observes mostly at darts matches and road traffic accidents. Little was spoken, but for the occasional appreciative gasp, depreciating exhalation or whispered order for drinks. There was fifteen minutes left on the clock and all was even on the scoreboard.

Gimlet Martin took up Omally’s challenge. ‘The study of interplanetary communications has for me always been an interest second only to that of viewing women’s legs on escalators. But as I have an uncle who is married to a Venusian woman with very long legs, I am able to combine my interests.’

‘What’s your uncle’s name?’ enquired Derby Phil. ‘Perhaps my Cousin Stubby, the Martian ambassador knows him.’

‘If it’s his Uncle Barry,’ said Omally. ‘Then we all know that old deviant well enough and if he’s married a Venusian, then I will eat the hat Orson Welles once gave me. The one he wore in The Third Man.’

‘Get your knife and fork out then, Omally,’ said Gimlet Martin.

‘Did your uncle marry a south Venusian or a north Venusian?’ asked Derby Phil, as if it really mattered.

‘South, from the D-Zm lake region.’

‘I know the place well,’ said Derby Phil. ‘I was there last week with my Cousin Stubby. We went to a movie, Roswell Alien Autopsy: The Director’s Cut[27].’

‘The place has gone down since the tourists have moved in,’ said Gimlet Martin. ‘But the beer’s good.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Phil agreed. ‘Good beer.’

And this turn in the conversation found the three finalists studying their now empty glasses.

‘Your round, Phil,’ said Omally. ‘A pint of Large, please.’

‘Certainly,’ said Phil and rising purposely, began to pat his pockets. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘you’ll never guess what.’

But by the rarest of coincidences both John Omally and Gimlet Martin did guess. Correctly.

‘Surely,’ said Gimlet, ‘I am right in assuming that you’re next up in line for getting them in, Omally.’

John Omally grinned. ‘If only such were the case, I would gladly oblige. But I know for a fact that the lot falls to you, and I have no wish to insult us both by muscling in.’

‘Your nicety is a thing to inspire us all,’ said Gimlet. ‘But you see Phil here was carrying my money also. Why not then lend him the cash and he will get the round in.’

Omally turned up his hands. ‘If only I could, but on the way here I was accosted by two Jehovah’s Muggers.’

Neville called for a time out and the three finalists repaired to separate tables for refreshment, and some scholarly advice from their trainers.

Jim Pooley spoke close at Omally’s ear. ‘Don’t keep changing the subject,’ was what he had to say. ‘You started well on George Bernard Shaw but within a couple of minutes the talk had turned to beer on Venus. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

Omally sucked upon his orange. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ said he, ‘and I’m moving in for the kill.’

The battered Guinness clock above the bar struck nine silent strokes, which meant it was ten o’clock. Something to do with British Summer Time ending and nobody getting around to climbing up and altering it. Or possibly, as has been mooted, it was a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

The finalists returned to the competition table.

‘I was having a word with God the other night,’ said Gimlet Martin.

‘Which one?’ asked John Omally.

‘How many are there?’ came the rhetorical reply.

‘Six to my knowledge,’ said John. ‘Although I’m only on first-name terms with three of them, myself.’

‘Which three do you mean?’ enquired Derby Phil. ‘Only another of my uncles happens to be the Dalai Lama and he’s not just on first-name terms with the gods, he has them round to tea on Thursdays.’

Omally shook his head. ‘These gods are strictly pagan,’ said he. ‘Your Lamaic uncle wouldn’t know these lads.’

Derby Phil nodded sagely.

Gimlet Martin wondered what he’d got himself into. ‘Which gods are you talking about, exactly?’ he asked.

Omally raised his eyebrows. ‘The six tertiary gods, of course:

Goth, Mebob, Kalil, Narfax, Bah-Reah and little Wilf. The three to which I reverently refer, and before whose images I prostrate myself three times every day, are Goth, Mebob and Bah-Reah, born of the dreamtime world BLISH, apprentices to the big jobber Zematod, who plumbed in the universe after the great flood.’

‘I have an uncle who chats with a dead red Indian via the medium of a golden megaphone,’ said Phil, ‘although the communications seem strangely one-sided to me.’

‘An uncle of mine died once,’ said Gimlet Martin. ‘My aunty says he’s gone to see God.’

‘As I was saying,’ Omally continued, ‘Goth, Mebob and BahReah, apprentices to the celestial plumber who guards the big stop-cock, which if turned would see the entire universe vanish down a great plug hole.’

‘Black hole,’ said Gimlet Martin.

‘Plug hole,’ said John. ‘And I don’t just speak to them, they speak to me also.’

‘Perhaps you might ask them to say something to you now,’ said Phil.

There was a long pause.

‘We are all blessed,’ said Omally. ‘Fancy them saying that.’

‘I didn’t quite catch it,’ said Phil.

‘I did,’ said Gimlet Martin. ‘It was something about you having the price of a round hidden in your boot, wasn’t it, Omally?’

‘Not even close,’ said John. ‘It was, in fact, the Big Answer.’

‘The Big Answer,’ said Phil. ‘I’ve had that from the wife. It’s “no” mostly.’

‘It’s bigger than that,’ said Omally. ‘This is the Big Answer.’

‘It’s “yes” then,’ said Gimlet Martin. ‘No answer could be bigger than “yes”. Although some could be a lot more complicated.’

‘This one is very straightforward,’ said Omally, ‘although it may take a little time to interpret correctly.’

‘Oh, one of those, is it?’ said Phil. ‘Then it will probably turn out to be the instructions for the erection of flat-pack kitchen units. An uncle of mine had a go at those once, he ended up eating his own foot. I don’t think that was in the instructions. I think he just went—’

‘To Margate?’ asked Gimlet Martin. ‘I was told that Margate was good for arthritis, so I went there and I got it.’

‘The Big Answer,’ went Omally in a big voice, ‘from he who speaks behind the eyes, between the ears, beneath the tongue—’

‘Under the clock?’ Phil suggested.

‘All around my hat?’ said Gimlet.

Omally raised a glass which had been refilled during time-out. ‘To Goth and Mebob, and to Bah-Reah,’ he toasted, ‘and to the Big Answer.’

‘And to Arsenal Football Club,’ said Phil.

‘And Ruby Keeler,’ said Gimlet. ‘Whose legs went all the way up to her bum.’

The three drank.

‘I feel that the gods will be favouring me shortly,’ said Omally.

‘Crocks of gold, or a touch of immortality?’ Phil asked.

‘Or possibly three wishes of the Aladdin persuasion,’ said Gimlet. ‘An Irish uncle of mine was offered three wishes by a Genie he freed from a Persian matchbox. He asked for a bottle of Guinness which would never run dry, much after the manner of the now legendary cornucopia. After taking a couple of swigs and seeing that the Guinness had not gone down at all, he used up his two other wishes. “Give us two more of these wonderful bottles,” he said.’

‘Very droll,’ said Omally. ‘I am stating that my gods will be favouring me with the interpretation of the Big Answer. It is the Big Answer to all the world’s problems. It will bring peace and love and happiness to every man, woman and child on the planet.’

‘Will they be favouring you before closing time?’ asked Gimlet Martin. ‘As you may care to get a round in to celebrate.’

Omally shook his head. ‘Not nearly so soon, I’m afraid. We are now in the year 1966. I suspect that it will take at least thirty years for me to correctly interpret the Big Answer.

‘Well that is a Big surprise,’ said Gimlet Martin.

‘Talking of Big,’ said Derby Phil, ‘I had an uncle who lived in India. He used to circumcise elephants for a living. The pay wasn’t too good, but the tips were enormous.

Omally rose from his chair. ‘Enough,’ he cried. ‘Enough of such trivial talk.’ And his eyes flashed fire and his face shone like burnished bronze. ‘Something is occurring. Something phenomenal. A great change will come over the earth. There will be signs and wonders in the heavens, there will be peace and joy and love.’

His two fellow finalists looked up at John in some awe.

‘I am puffing out of this contest,’ said Omally. ‘I have no use for a trophy and a fifty-pound prize. I must dedicate myself instead to the Big Answer.

And that was the particular lie that won John Omally the much coveted Silver Tongue Trophy and the even more coveted fifty pound prize.

But what if he wasn’t lying?