Faded Glory Page 2

  “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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  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.

  “Lovely,” said Albert. “I’ll make a start on the writing they did.”

  “Yeah,” said Lenny. He scratched his head. “I thought ‘Wog’ was short for ‘Western Oriental Gentleman’ and here I am from Jamaica. ‘Go back to Africa’? I ain’t ever been.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Len,” said Albert. “We can get you a loin-cloth and a couple of spears and you can sort ’em out.”

  Len smiled. “Yeah man, put me down for some poison darts and a big cooking pot!”

  The two men set about getting rid of the offensive graffiti with brushes, soap and water. As they scrubbed, a bicycle flew by, ridden by a boy with a girl perched on the crossbar. It was the boy that had pulled Albert from the water in the park. Danny.

  “Oi son, can I have a word?” Albert shouted.

  The boy ignored him and rode on by, as the girl on the crossbar giggled in defiance.

  “You know that kid?” said Lenny with an enquiring look.

  Albert pictured the boy the night before, under the arches with the rest of the gang at the scene of the crime.

  “I just thought he might know the idiots who did this,” he said aloud.

  Why wasn’t he telling Lenny the boy had been part of the gang? Part of Albert hoped the boy was an outsider who had just fallen in with bad company. Perhaps he deserved a second chance. After all, he had helped Albert when he was dumped in the lake, and Albert had seen compassion in his eyes.

  He straightened up from the clean and dripping wall. “Job done clean as a whistle, Len,” he said. “I’m off to the park.”

  “Them ducks must be getting fat,” said Lenny. “Thanks for your help, Albert. I’ll see you later.”

  *

  As Albert walked home, he felt in two minds. Maybe he shouldn’t have protected this boy Danny, but he felt there was good in him somehow. He only looked about sixteen, younger than the others. No doubt the older yobs were a bad influence.

  Getting back to his flat, he picked up some old bread and headed out to the park. If the yobs were there again, he would confront them and give them a piece of his mind. Straighten them up. And feed the ducks of course.

  It was good to get some fresher air and exercise. Albert loved to hear the birds sing in the welcome oasis of the park, a sanctuary away from the busy and dirty streets. He enjoyed monitoring the growth and progress of the flowers and trees. He knew the names of some of the flowers and a few of the trees: his favourites were a stately weeping willow that seemed to reach down and almost touch the lakes and a scented rose garden, full of colour and sweet-smelling scent. He felt closer to nature and its wonder in this place where worries and trials floated away, where Mother Nature reassured and healed.

  Today, thankfully, was much less eventful than yesterday. The ducks and their ducklings were either pleased to see Albert, or pleased to have an easy lunch. Albert was their friend and they would regularly take bread from his hand, as if they knew he was on their side. Pigeons and sparrows would come and join in the feast too. Albert had a special liking for a brave robin with his red breast, pride and impressive courage.

  Things felt more normal after Albert had fed his feathered friends. But he still didn’t know why he hadn’t let on to Lenny that the boy Danny was a part of the crew that damaged his garage, and he felt a little guilty that he had not been honest.

  “The boy must have some good in him,” he reassured himself as he walked back home for a late breakfast. “Just in with the wrong crowd.”

  After a swift bowl of porridge, Albert fed the hungry Rocky with a stick of millet. He’d named his budgie Rocky in honour of the legendary boxer Rocky Marciano; only to find out later from his military neighbour Simon, a bird fancier (with and without feathers), that Rocky was actually a girl.

  “A lady,” Lenny had chuckled when he found out. “I’ll call her Marion, just to annoy you, Albert.”

  It was time to get to work for the early shift workers and lunch-time drinkers. As Albert walked across the wasteland that had once been a terrace of Victorian houses now flattened by the Blitz, he saw a boy with his bike turned upside-down, trying to fix it. Albert stopped. It was Danny.

  The boy’s head was bent over the bicycle chain as Albert walked up behind him and whispered a little menacingly: “Hello son. Remember me?”

  Danny looked startled and wary, but said nothing.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Albert let the question hang in the air. Danny stared at him with wide eyes.

  “I don’t think what they did last night was right,” Danny blurted.

  Maybe there really was some good in the boy after all, thought Albert. There was something in the boy’s eyes too, something that reminded him of Tommy. Although he had been intending to give the boy what for, he softened.

  “So,” he said. “Looks like your bike’s broke.”

  The boy nodded. “The chain’s broke or something.”

  “Yeah, well I know who can fix it,” said Albert. “Follow me.”

  And not waiting for an answer, he put the bike on his shoulder and marched off.

  *

  Danny followed reluctantly, weighing up the pros and cons. It was important to get the bike fixed because he cherished the freedom it gave him. Perhaps this old fella could actually fix it.

  Albert walked on like the Pied Piper with Danny following behind. But when they arrived at Lenny’s garage, Danny stopped in his tracks.

  “Where we going?” he said uneasily. “Give me my bike back.”

  “He won’t eat you, son,” said Albert. “He hasn’t got a big enough cooking pot.”

  Danny froze like a statue. But a persuasive arm round the shoulder and a gentle nudge from Albert moved them both into Lenny’s archway workshop.

  Underneath a white Triumph Mayflower car, amidst grunts and groans, protruded two legs clad in Lenny’s usual dark blue and greasy overalls. Lenny slid out.

  “Nice motor,” he said. “Running sweet as a nut.” He clocked Danny standing nervously behind Albert. “Albert man, who’s your friend?”

  “This is Danny, Len,” said Albert. “His chain’s broke.”

  Lenny made that noise he always made when confronted with a job, a kind of hissing noise through his teeth. “Let me take a look,” he said.

  “I ain’t got any money,” Danny said, feeling very uncomfortable.

  “Well, maybe if you’re a friend of Albert, we can do you a favour.”

  Lenny was one of those people that seemed to have everything somewhere: nuts, bolts, bits of engines. If he didn’t have exactly what he needed, he could adapt something to fix the problem.

  “I need to find a link,” he said after studying the broken chain, and made off into the vast amount of precious clutter hoarded in the back room.

  Through the open door, Danny could see some of Lenny’s prized personal possessions: a signed cricket bat, photos of family back in Jamaica. One photograph in particular caught Danny’s eye, a photo of a younger Lenny proudly posing in an army uniform with medals shining on his chest.

  Danny couldn’t fight back his surprise.

  “I never knew that black people fought in the war,” he said as Lenny returned from the back room. “Were you a soldier? Like, in the war?”

  “Yeah, for all the good it did me,” Lenny replied with a grunt and a hiss as he attempted to fix the chain back on the bike.

  “My dad was a soldier too, but he got killed,” said Danny. “He never came home.”

  There was a silence, broken only by the sound of a train rumbling overhead.

  “I’m sorry, son,” said Albert. “A lot of ’em never came back.”

  “Got you!” Lenny exclaimed as the chain slid sweetly back into positi
on. Danny couldn’t help a smile of relief.

  “Do you think your dad would approve of you hanging out with those troublemakers?” Albert asked.

  Danny shook his head in a moment of remorse. “But there’s nothing to do round here,” he added, back on the offensive.

  “What about sport or something? Football, or boxing?” Albert suggested. “There’s a boxing gym at the Live and Let Live.”

  “Yes,” said Lenny. “Back in his day Albert here was a champion boxer – you don’t wanna mess with him boy. Or try cricket, a proper game, that’s the way to go.”

  “Not for me,” said Danny, taking his bike, and with a nod of thanks he rode away.

  Riding slowly through the streets, Danny thought about Lenny and Albert. Sure, they were still a pair of old tossers, but he respected the things they had done in their lives. Lenny could fix things and had been a soldier. Albert was a champion boxer. That was pretty impressive.

  Danny regretted being a part of the gang that had attacked Albert and vandalised Lenny’s garage. Albert’s advice began to resonate the closer he got to home. Maybe that boxing suggestion could be a goer. A way to earn both money and respect, a purpose.

  Many of the streets round here had been flattened in the war, leaving wasteland to serve as an adventure playground for the local kids. A bomb crater here, a derelict half-house there, an awful reminder of the not-too-distant past; thankfully now filled with laughter and games.

  One large piece of wasteland doubled as a street market. Blankets were laid out with stuff to sell by folks trying to make a few bob, alongside stalls full of fruit and veg and all manner of things. The market was well patronised by the locals and the sailors off the berthed ships waiting dormant in the docks; ships unloaded with goods from faraway places and reloaded with goods “Made in England”. Chinamen, Indians and men from all corners of the world mingled with the locals without any resentment or strange looks. It was as if they all knew that this part of London had a history of welcoming people and immigrants from far-off shores.

  Danny and his mum had been evacuated in the war to escape the bombing, like many of the city’s women and children, and sent to live with a nice lady called Mrs Packham and her grumpy husband in Burton on Trent. Danny could not remember much about the adventure except for the train journey, which he’d loved. There’d been something magical about the steam-belching engine clickety-clacking through pastures new. He remembered an annoying little girl, the Packhams’ daughter, who always tried to mimic Danny’s London accent. Most of the local people who lost their homes after the war had been housed in pre-fabs that resembled Nissen huts, or in hasty, half-built blocks of flats. Danny’s mum, as a single parent and wife of a lost soldier, had been housed in a Victorian terrace house, two up, two down, which had miraculously survived the bombs.