Faded Glory (2 page)

But although most people knew Albert, he had always been a man of few friends. Some old mates had passed on, others had moved away to greener pastures in Essex and Kent: an exodus that would become the norm, as Londoners looked to better themselves and bring up their children in fresher and cleaner air. New towns were being planned to house them, towns like Harlow and Stevenage, but as far as Albert was concerned, he was East End born and bred and that was where he was staying.

At the bar of the busy pub, sat Black Lenny, Albert’s closest friend. Lenny had come over from Jamaica actually on a banana boat, landing at Southampton with the first influx of immigrants from the Caribbean, bound for the National Health Service, public transport and a new hopeful beginning. After working initially as a hospital porter, Lenny had scrimped and saved and was now the proud owner of a car repair shop, situated locally under the railway arches.

“Did you get that motor going yet, Len?” asked Albert.

“Yes Albert, the old banger is running sweet now, ticking over.”

“A bit like me then Lenny, an old banger ticking over.”

The men, although from different worlds, got on like a house on fire. Albert endured endless ribbing from Lenny about the West Indies’ recent cricket victories over England, with “Ramadhin should be made the king of the Caribbean” being Lenny’s constant observation. Albert enjoyed the stories Lenny would tell him of a distant world that he would never visit, of golden beaches and a sun-drenched Jamaica, while Lenny would love hearing stories and memories from Albert about his glory days and the boxing world. Albert was often reluctant to go down memory lane with its many dark shadows and painful yesterdays, but if Lenny pushed hard enough, the effort was worth it. After all, Albert was a man with an impressive past and stories to tell.

“Last orders!”

The ring of the bar bell finally came, followed again by a more determined “Last orders please!”

Albert rounded up the glasses, helped to wash up, collected his wages and with a “Night all”, headed for home. The rain outside seemed to sparkle on the cobblestones, softly lit by street lamps that did their best to penetrate the misty night and the damp air. The remnants of the earlier street parties were now few and far between, just a few folks persevering by the dying embers of a celebratory bonfire, talking and laughing.

Back inside the flat, Albert put another shilling in the hungry meter, lit the blue-flamed gas fire and turned on his precious gramophone. He owned a large collection of classical records (this new “rock ’n’ roll jungle music” wasn’t for him), and after choosing Elgar’s Cello Concerto, he sat down to reflect on the day.

The Coronation celebrations reminded him of the celebrations when the war had ended and Britain danced in the streets. He and Vera hadn’t danced. Instead they had looked to the sky as if searching for Tommy, hoping he could see that his sacrifice was not in vain. Tonight, with patriotism on every street corner, Albert thought about his son, killed in action just weeks after joining the fight for freedom. How full of life he looked in the photograph, sitting there on Albert’s sideboard. There in his uniform, so proud to fight for King and Country.

Although not a sentimental man, past adventures, good and bad, would sometimes engulf Albert. This was one of those times. Memories of the women and children he had tried to save as part of the home guard – their screams, tears and desperation – still cut like it was yesterday. He had been too old to enlist, turned away by the army, but had done all he could at home in the burning streets of London. Sometimes it hadn’t felt like enough.

Broken from his thoughts by the clock striking twelve and Rocky’s twittering, Albert decided it was time to clear his head of the dark shadows that often seemed insurmountable in the wee small hours. Covering up the budgie’s cage for the night and turning off the gas fire and gramophone, his usual late cup of Ovaltine in hand, Albert went to bed.

*

The next morning, awoken by the foghorns of the ships gliding through the foggy dockyards, Albert rose, had a cup of tea, a wash and brush-up and then, as usual, set off for what had become his morning ritual: a walk round the park, feed the ducks, then back home for breakfast or, if he had money, to the local cafe for a full English.

Albert cherished this oasis, where the birds of London did their best to sing as the sun broke through the late-morning fog. As he walked his usual path armed with a paper bag filled with stale bread, the dark memories of the night before melted away in the morning light.

Crossing the small bridge that led down to the lake, he saw a gang of five or six likely lads having a kick-about. He smiled to himself as he watched their antics. Their lack of footballing prowess was amusing, a toe punt here and a sliding tackle there and many wayward passes. “Not much of a career in football there,” he thought.

As Albert reached the lake, the ducks seemed to recognise him as their friend and, in a quacking frenzy, came swimming to greet him as fast as their webbed feet would carry them. Albert found their attention and reliance on his morning visits something he enjoyed. It felt good to be needed. He had not gone as far as naming each one, but he recognised them individually and did his best to see that each one at least got a share of the bread.

He was lost in his duck duty when a mis-hit shot from the gang of boys flew like a cannon ball, hitting Albert in the back, scattering the ducks and causing the wayward football to land in the lake.

“Oi, Grandad! Can we have our ball back?” cried one of the gang.

“Why don’t you watch what you’re doing,” Albert muttered.

“What’s the matter Pop, did we scare your ducks?”

The youths started making quacking noises. From out of nowhere, Albert felt the threat of violence. He could smell it in the air as the boys closed in on him.

“Whoever touched the ball last has to fetch it, Duck Man,” one said. “That was you Pops, wasn’t it? So in you go,” threatened another.

Albert was past his best as a fighter, but giving in to these yobs was something he certainly wasn’t going to do. Then he recognised a flashing glint in the morning sun. A flick knife.

Albert’s reflexes kicked in. Swiftly knocking the knife from the boy’s hand, he followed up with a crashing left hook that not only floored the boy, but caused three or four of the gang to retaliate.

Albert’s unexpected fight back had raised the stakes and hostility.

Giving as good as he got, but overpowered by their numbers, Albert lost his footing and was manhandled into the lake, much to the amusement of the gang.

“Push him under!”

“Swim Grandad, go on! swim like a duck!”

As Albert went under, his life flashed before his eyes. He saw his Championship-winning boxing match, his son’s face before he went to war and never came back, a bright white light. His body was going limp, the light now fading...

Then, as if to break through the underwater nightmare, two hands lifted him out of the water and pulled him to the lakeside. Coming round, belching and coughing, Albert looked up to see one of the boys standing over him. They looked silently at each other. Somewhere in the boy’s eyes, Albert saw a hint of compassion.

“Danny, just leave the old git! We’re going!”

With one last look, the boy left Albert on the bank and caught up with the others now waiting at the park gates, still quacking and laughing.

When they had gone, Albert shakily got to his feet. His pride was hurt, but apart from a few aches and bruises, he was in pretty good shape. Soaking wet and smelling like a duck pond, he sat on a park bench, the same one he always sat on, thinking over what had just happened. His thoughts first went to the boy that helped him, then to the other boys and their lack of respect. They had seen him as old, past it. When had that happened? Albert’s generation had respected and learned from their elders. Now, it seemed they were just there to ridicule, ignore and take advantage of.

“Things are not changing for the better,” Albert thought grimly as he squelched his way back towards home.

Suffering some pretty strange looks from passers-by, bedraggled and damp, he made it home and lit the gas fire. Shakily putting on his bath robe, he washed the pond-soaked clothes in a tin bath usually reserved for bath nights. Putting the wet clothes on a wooden clothes horse by the glowing blue gas fire, his eyes went to the photo of his son. He took the photo from the sideboard and lost himself in it for a while. How different Tommy had been to the yobs in the park. He’d had respect.

Putting the cherished photograph back in its place, Albert picked up his boxing belt and wondered about the vivid pictures he had seen underwater. Had he been drowning? Dying?

One thing was for sure. Come rain or shine, he would not be intimidated. He would be back in the park tomorrow.

“No gang of idiots are going to stop me,” he thought. “Besides, the ducks will be hungry.”

RECOVERED from his ordeal and ready for work, Albert made his way to the Live and Let Live. There were a couple of amateur fights that night in Patsy’s gym to look forward to, and Albert liked to take an interest. You never know; Patsy and him might one day unearth a contender.

He was looking forward to meeting up with Black Lenny too. Len liked a bit of boxing, perhaps not as much as his passion for cricket, but he enjoyed sharing Albert’s passion for the game.

When Len had first moved into the railway arches, Albert had been suspicious. The white working classes had resented this big influx of people that looked so different, with a different culture. Feelings had run high, there were race riots in London and a lot of resentment. But Albert, in time, had come to respect Lenny. He respected the fact that Black Lenny was brave enough to enter and become a regular in a pub, ignoring the hostile looks and misgivings of the white locals, persevering, and finally showing that he was actually just like one of them. Len was now accepted by most and had become part of the East End fabric. He even had his favourite seat next to the stairs to the boxing gym and his favoured tipple was a pint of brown and mild.

Just like clockwork, Lenny came into the public bar for his evening drink. A lean Jamaican, wearing the beret that he always wore, some kind of calypso shirt and a broad smile the moment he saw Albert.

“Did you see the Queen?” he said. “Man, she looked lovely.” Although Lenny still had a Jamaican accent which somehow conjured up golden beaches and palm trees, it was now peppered with the occasional Cockney twang. “What time do the fights start, mate?”

“We can go up now, Len. The usual?”

Albert poured Lenny’s pint and the two friends made their way upstairs. Inside the sweat-smelling gym sat an audience of twenty or so expectant punters. There were ex-fighters, likely wide boys and the odd painted lady, all mixed up with some of the fighters’ friends and families. First on the bill were two lightweights from rival boxing clubs: one from Patsy’s West Ham, the other from the Elephant and Castle.

The first of the three-round contests started, amidst a muted vocal reaction from the clientele. The Canning Town boy fighting for West Ham was a lanky ginger lad with quick hands. He seemed to be in charge, and after three scrappy rounds was given the referee’s verdict. Two more fights followed, with two wins for West Ham and one for the Elephant and Castle.

In the interval before the final fight, an eagerly anticipated heavyweight contest, Albert and Lenny decided to take a break from a cigar-smoking local businessman sitting too close for comfort. Stepping outside to get a breath of the fresher night air, they gave their verdicts on the future prospects of the fighters they had seen.

“They’re good boys Len, but nothing special,” said Albert.

Lenny was about to reply when the sound of breaking glass shattered the night air. It was coming from the direction of Lenny’s garage.

“What was that?” Albert exclaimed.

They both ran to see what was happening. In the distance, they could see a group of young men, some running, a couple on bikes, laughing and making themselves scarce outside Lenny’s archway garage.

“Go back to Africa!”

“Black bastard!”

It was the same gang that had attacked Albert in the park. Amongst them, Albert saw the boy that helped him out of the water. Danny. That had been his name.

“Bastards,” said Albert. “Bloody idiots!”

Daubed over Lenny’s garage doors was “Wogs Out” and “Nigger”. Two windows were also broken.

“Scum, Lenny! Scum!” said Albert angrily.

There was a strange quietness in the empty street as Lenny and Albert surveyed the damage. Albert lent down to pick up the broken glass.

“I can sort it out in the morning Albert,” said Lenny quietly. “Leave it now, it’s OK. Leave it.”

Albert felt ashamed that a bunch of yobs had done this to his friend. He somehow felt responsible that boys born and bred in his country, the country he loved, could do this.

“All right Len,” he said, seeing Lenny was hurt and needing some time on his own. “I’ll drop by in the morning. Sorry about this.”

Subdued and angry, with a goodnight pat on Lenny’s shoulder, Albert made the short walk back to his flat. Once inside with his usual cup of Ovaltine – a habit from when he was a little boy and an enthusiastic “Ovaltiney” – Albert sat down in his chair, his thoughts roving through the night’s events. The lack of respect worried him. It was the nineteen fifties and times were changing, youth was rebelling, mod-ern music was everywhere. This music of the young meant nothing to Albert’s generation but everything, it seemed, to these “teenagers”: the new word for kids these days. Some of these “teenagers” seemed intent on causing disruption and change with their hob-nail boots and attitude. Nothing good could come of this. Nothing at all.

In the morning, Albert decided to leave the ducks till later and see how Lenny was doing.

At the arches, Len was replacing the glass in one window and had nailed some plywood to the other.

“Almost as good as new, Albert,” said Lenny with a wry smile.