Faded Glory

by David Essex

  He shortly found himself being wheeled into the Accident and Emergency Department of the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, formerly known as the Whitechapel Infirmary for the Poor. That distinctive hospital smell was unmistakable. Albert gazed up at the passing fluorescent lights on the ceiling as nurses wheeled him along to the X-ray department.

  “Head blow, is it?” said the waiting doctor.

  “A few broken bones too, Doctor, by the looks of it.”

  Albert was hurting, but didn’t show it. This was all a nuisance, but a nuisance he had to endure.

  Two hospital porters lifted him into the space-age X-ray machine.

  “Lie still for us, sir, would you? Nice and still now.”

  The machine purred into action. The pain in Albert’s head was now competing with the pain in his body, and winning.

  X-rays done, Albert was taken to the hospital ward and a waiting bed.

  The ward was full of mainly older men groaning and coughing, with a little meaningless babble from a lost soul in one corner.

  The matron bustled over as soon as Albert was settled. An attractive, portly woman with a soft West Country accent, she smoothed Albert’s pillow and folded her arms.

  “Comfortable are we, Mr Kemp? What have you been up to?”

  Albert gazed up at her no-nonsense face, her pristine uniform.

  “I had a fight with a car bonnet,” he replied.

  The matron tutted. Her manner was business-like, and she had the perfect balance of authority and caring about her.

  “Well, it looks like the car won,” she said. “Now, the doctor will study your X-rays and should be with you in a little while. I just have to fill in some details. Are you all right to answer some questions?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Albert weakly.

  “Good boy.”

  With Albert feeling like a helpless kid, “good boy” seemed about right.

  “So,” said the matron, consulting her notes. “Your name is Albert Charles Kemp, we know that. Date of birth?”

  Albert’s head was pounding. It was difficult to think. “Ninth of November, eighteen ninety-eight.”

  “So you are aged sixty-eight?”

  Albert felt faintly astonished. Was he really that old?

  “Apparently,” he said.

  “Blood group?”

  “I don’t bloody know,” Albert quipped, feeling irritated now.

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Matron. “Next of kin?”

  Albert felt hollow, thinking of Vera and Tommy. The only other person he could think of was Lenny, but Lenny was not a relation.

  “No next of kin,” he said.

  He’d never thought about himself like that before, all alone in the world. It made him feel sad and empty. He wondered if anyone knew what had happened, or where he was.

  Matron gently took his hand. “Thank you, Mr Kemp. The doctor will be with you in a minute.”

  Albert felt anxious. He had arranged with Lenny that Lenny would telephone the Live and Let Live with an update after Danny’s fight tomorrow night, but here he was, marooned in a hospital bed. It was a poxy nuisance, that’s what it was.

  The white-coated doctor sported a polka-dot bow tie. “How are you feeling, Mr Kemp?” he asked. “You’ve had quite an accident. Having studied your X-rays, I’m pleased to say that your head injuries are superficial and the cuts and bruises will heal in time. Not such good news on the rest of you, though. I’m sorry to tell you that you have broken your left leg in two places, fractured your right wrist and broken two of your ribs.”

  “But apart from that I’m fine,” said Albert, trying to lighten the diagnosis.

  The doctor looked back at his notes. “The nurses will arrange to put a plaster cast on your leg and wrist. I’m afraid we can’t do much about the broken ribs, but they too will heal in time. I’ll prescribe some painkillers for you.”

  The seriousness of his predicament was beginning to dawn on Albert.

  “So when can I go home?”

  “As soon as you’re well enough,” said the doctor. “Now just rest.”

  The groans and delirium of some of his fellow patients rattled in Albert’s aching head. He hated the situation he was in. He felt imprisoned, and he didn’t like it.

  A pretty nurse materialised at the end of his bed.

  “Hello Mr Kemp,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve got some tablets for you. Here, take two now and I’ll come back in a couple of hours so you can take some more.”

  Albert obediently swallowed the painkillers.

  “Well done,” said the nurse, patting his hand.

  Albert could understand why people sometimes fell in love with nurses. This one’s angel-like presence was really quite special.

  “Next, we will have to put a plaster cast on that leg of yours and...” She stopped to look at Albert’s notes. “And your right wrist. You have been in the wars, Mr Kemp, haven’t you?”

  Albert lay back, resigned to fate’s cruel blow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  UP in Manchester, Danny and Patsy had found their way to the hotel and checked in. Lenny had gone for a cheaper bed-and-breakfast option in nearby Salford.

  Marvelling at the luxury of the hotel and his comfortable double room, Danny took a couple of vitamins, lay back on the bed and looked over the room service menu. He couldn’t believe how expensive everything was. Throwing caution to the wind, he rang down and ordered steak and chips, before settling down for a quiet night watching the big TV in his swanky room. Wendy and Ruby floated into his thoughts but he did his best to erase them. They hurt too much.

  His phone rang early the next morning.

  “Meet me for breakfast,” Patsy barked. “Most important meal of the day.”

  Heading downstairs, Danny was pleased to see Lenny in reception.

  “Got tired of slumming it,” Lenny said, tearing his eyes from the chandelier hanging overhead. “Thought I’d see how the other half live.”

  Danny slapped him on the back. “Good to see you Lenny,” he said. “Come and have some breakfast.”

  In the dining room, Patsy was already tucking into a full English breakfast. Danny and Lenny ordered tea and headed for the buffet.

  “They got some stuff here,” said Lenny, going for the scrambled egg and bacon. “Look at that, smoked salmon! Who eats that for breakfast?”

  Danny opted for corn flakes and a couple of bananas.

  At the table, the talk soon turned to the big fight.

  “Good night’s sleep, Danny?” Patsy asked.

  Danny thought of his comfortable bed with its crisp white sheets. He was already starting to feel edgy. “Slept like a log Patsy, thanks for asking,” he said. “What time are we going to the hall?”

  “There are a couple of fights before you, and the fight is scheduled for around nine. I reckon if we leave about seven, it will give you time to ready yourself.”

  Danny’s palms were already sweating. “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready,” he said.

  “I got a call from Cohen this morning,” Patsy went on, oblivious to Danny’s nerves. “Every ticket has gone. He reckons they could’ve sold hundreds more.”

  “You’re a popular boy, Danny,” Lenny said through a mouthful of bacon. “You know, I think I’ll try that smoked salmon after all.”

  *

  The ward noises of pain and discomfort hadn’t let up all night, and on just an hour or two’s sleep, Albert wasn’t happy.

  “I reckon the food in prison is better than this muck,” he grumbled to the genial West Indian lady that delivered his porridge. Forcing himself to eat a couple of spoonfuls, he zoned in on the tea and a piece of toast.

  The ward grew even louder after breakfast. Albert reached for the ear plugs for the radio, desperate to get away from the sounds of suffering. As the nondescript hospital muzak numbed him to his surroundings, he let his thoughts drift to Danny and his trial to come.

  Lenny had said he would phone the Live
and Let Live after the fight to let Albert know how it went. Albert realised the Live and Let Live didn’t yet know he was in this nuthouse.

  He waved to a nearby nurse.

  “What is it, love? Do you need a bed pan?”

  Albert winced. “No,” he said firmly. “Can I make a phone call?”

  The nurse looked relieved that the bed pan was not on top of Albert’s list. “I’ll get a porter up,” she said. “He’ll take you to the phone at reception.”

  Albert hadn’t really thought about his lack of mobility until a miserable-looking porter arrived with a wheelchair, bundling him into it like a heavily bandaged sack of potatoes. Had it really come to this?

  Down in reception, he dialled the pub. After a few rings, Maria answered the phone.

  “Maria? It’s Albert.”

  “Where the bloody ’ell are you?”

  “In hospital, with me leg in a poxy plaster.”

  Maria’s tone of voice didn’t change much. “Why the bloody ’ell you do that?”

  “An accident, I was trying to save a kid,” said Albert. “I just wanted to let you know why I’m not at work and where I am.”

  “Well that’s a bloody nuisance,” she said. “It means I’ll ’ave to do everything myself.”

  Maria’s word for the day was obviously “bloody”, Albert thought.

  “Lenny is going to call me at the pub tonight. Can you let him know I’m in hospital in Whitechapel?”

  Maria sniffed. “If I get time. When are you coming back?”

  “Could be a while.”

  “Bloody ’ell.” There was that word again. “I’ll let Lenny know.”

  *

  While painkillers pumped through Albert’s veins, adrenalin pumped through Danny’s as the hired limo and driver drove him, Lenny and Patsy to the Free Trade Hall. They were greeted at the side door by security, Costa carrying an umbrella to shield Danny from the persistent Manchester rain.

  “All right Danny?” said Costa with all the care and concern of a mother hen. “Looking good, champ.”

  Lenny knew this time was for Danny to prepare and made himself scarce. Patsy knew Danny and his moods, and set about going through some warm-ups to help relax him and prepare.

  As Danny hit some pads, he could hear the crowd in the hall echoing along the corridor as they cheered and booed the earlier fighters. He tried to concentrate on his pre-fight routine, but it wasn’t easy. After a spell with a skipping rope, he went to his travel bag to fetch his dad’s bravery medal.

  “Patsy,” he said, feeling awkward. “Can you bring this to the corner for me?”

  “You bet,” said Patsy. “You know your dad is looking down on ya, don’t you Danny?”

  Danny swallowed as he handed over the medal. His mouth felt dry. “Yeah, Patsy,” he said. “I know he is.”

  They heard the end of the previous fight, a mix of cheers and boos for the winner floating down the corridor like a distant fog. Danny’s head felt like it was about to explode. He wanted more pills, but he’d taken three today already.

  Patsy helped Danny on with his dressing gown. Danny still wore the colours of the West Ham Boxing Club where he started: a claret-coloured gown, and shorts with edging of sky blue.

  Danny’s blood felt sluggish in his veins.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready, Patsy,” he blurted in panic, almost pleading. “I don’t feel right.”

  Patsy became brisk. “You’re going to be fine. Courage now, Danny. Do it for your da.”

  There was a knock on the door. Cohen and Costa stood in the corridor flanked by five or six beefy security guards.

  “Time to get it done,” said Cohen. “You ready for it?”

  Danny’s head was banging like a drum. He looked vacantly at Cohen.

  “He’s ready, Jack,” said Patsy, gripping Danny by the shoulder. “Let’s get out there.”

  They walked to the auditorium, flanked by security. Danny felt like he was being smothered. He didn’t want to be fussed over and treated like royalty. He just wanted that bell to go and to get this over with.

  The crowd were on their feet to greet them, pushing and shouting as Danny was led to his corner. To take the edge off his nerves, Danny shadow-boxed around the ring like a pre-programmed robot.

  More fanfares and searchlights heralded the local hero’s entrance.

  The noise was incredible. Livermore was a local boy made good, and the partisan crowd appreciated it.

  “Billy! Billy! Billy!”

  Danny stood in his corner, feeling nothing. Waiting.

  *

  Albert was suffering from more than just the pain and bruises. One of the ward residents, two beds along, was delirious. His moans and cries reminded Albert of the poor souls he had tried to rescue in the Blitz, a truly terrible time in London’s history that was etched into Albert’s memory.

  He tried to focus on Danny and his big fight. How was the boy doing? Was he nervous? Did he have his father’s medal? He tossed and turned in his bed, trying and failing to get comfortable. When would Lenny ring? Had Maria let him know where Albert was?

  He looked around at the hospital ward, bare and surgical with its smell of disinfectant and cleanliness. He hated being laid up like an invalid. He wanted to be at work. He wanted to be in his own flat. If and when Lenny got in contact, he’d ask him to go to his flat and feed Rocky.

  Making the best of it, Albert drifted in and out of a twilight sleep.

  *

  “I want a good clean fight,” the referee told Danny and Livermore as they stood face to face. “No holding, and when I say break, you break.”

  Danny and Livermore touched gloves and returned to their corners. The roar of anticipation from the crowd was so loud, Danny could hardly hear.

  “Seconds out!”

  Ding ding!

  “Round one!”

  It was to be a ten-round contest. Both boxers showed respect in the first round, feeling one another out, keeping their distance and throwing the odd jab.

  Patsy was in Danny’s ear at the end of round one.

  “You’re doing good, Danny. Keep your distance. Keep your powder dry, wait for the right moment. Out you go, son.”

  To the delight of the crowd, round two saw Livermore on the offensive.

  He caught Danny with some powerful hits, one straight left uppercut almost lifting Danny off his feet. When the bell rang out, Danny was shell-shocked and relieved to get back to his corner.

  Sitting Danny down on his stool, Patsy slapped Danny’s face.

  “Listen to me. You need to get fighting. Jab and move forward. Stop backing away, take the fight to him. Are you listening?”

  Danny nodded through the haze in his head.

  “Go forward,” he mumbled. “Yeah. Where’s the medal?”

  “Right here, son,” answered Patsy, holding the medal up for Danny to see.

  Livermore was first out of his corner as the bell rang. The noise of the crowd was deafening. Danny got slowly to his feet with Patsy’s words resonating in his head.

  The punches came fast and furious in this round. The lace of Danny’s glove caught Livermore just above his right eye, followed by a ferocious and lucky right hook which drew blood. A vicious body blow to the ribs from Livermore had Danny gasping for breath.

  Cheers and applause greeted both boxers as they made their way back to their corners at the end of the round. The contest had changed dramatically from the cagey first couple of rounds. The crowd was now witnessing a battle royal, and they loved it.

  Danny was feeling the effects of his recent lifestyle. This was the toughest contest he had ever been in. On the far side of the ring, Livermore was being attended to by a frantic cut man, who did his best to stem the blood dripping into Livermore’s right eye.

  “Seconds out!” shouted the referee. “Round four!”

  It was obvious that Livermore, with his vision impaired, was now going for a knock-out. Danny struggled to avoid the massive hooks and cra
shing uppercuts that his opponent was now throwing, and ended up on the ropes with a head full of stars. His head was just beginning to clear when Livermore came in for the kill.

  Livermore’s sight may have been clouded by his own blood, but his aim was true. Danny swayed like a punch bag as Livermore rained blow after blow on him. He was defenceless, lost and broken.

  “He’s blown it, Tommy!” Danny dimly heard Cohen shout. “Between you and them drugs, this is down to you, you’ve fucked him up!”

  Danny’s vision was blurred, every ounce of strength drained from his body. He felt like he was in a dream. The noise of the crowd seemed distant, almost as if it was in the next building. Everything was happening in slow motion.

  Through his exhaustion, Danny was aware of Patsy throwing in the towel, bringing the contest to an end. He let Patsy lead him back to his corner.

  The referee took Livermore’s hand as the Master of Ceremonies announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, the fight was stopped by Watson’s corner! Your appreciation for the winner and title contender, Billy Livermore!”

  With very few exceptions, the crowd rose to its feet, cheering as Billy was carried shoulder-high around the ring. Danny felt almost invisible.

  “Please show your appreciation for the brave loser, Danny Watson!” cried the Master of Ceremonies.

  A few cheers rang out, but they were drowned by boos. Overcome, Danny sank to his knees and rested his head on the canvas. He was done.

  *

  Lenny could accept Danny losing, but to lose in the fourth without putting up a fight? That was difficult to take.

  He made a quick exit from the post-mortem now taking place in Danny’s room. He needed to find a telephone and call Albert with the bad news.

  As he waited for the phone box, Lenny tried to think of ways he could soften the blow. Both Danny’s loss and the way that he lost would upset Albert.

  The minute the phone was free, Lenny checked his watch. Ten-thirty. Perfect. Albert would just be finishing his shift. He put his money in and dialled the Live and Let Live.

  “Hello?” said a voice on the other end.

  “It’s Lenny. Can I speak with Albert?”