by David Essex
“The World Cup!” said Nurse Madeline. “Didn’t you know, England is in the final?”
“No,” Albert exclaimed. “Blimey, who they playing?”
“Germany, I think,” said the nurse.
Albert’s personal feelings about Germany still ran pretty high, even now in nineteen sixty-six. World War Two and the Blitz on East London had left scars, and a World Cup Final against the old enemy would feel like a re-run of the war.
Albert couldn’t wait.
Lenny arrived, looking sharp in his cream suit and wearing a red carnation in his lapel.
“About time too,” said Albert. “What you done up like an ice cream for?”
Lenny beamed at Nurse Madeline. “Nothing but the best for my Kingston girl,” he said with his very best smile. “You’re looking good, Nurse Madeline. I bet you’re pleased to get rid of him.”
The penny dropped. Lenny’s suit was nothing to do with Albert’s homecoming, and all to do with “the angel from home” as Lenny called her.
“No, we’re gonna miss him,” said Nurse Madeline. “I understand that nobody likes to be in hospital, though.”
“Are we going or what?” said Albert, growing impatient with Lenny’s flirting.
“Just give me a second,” said Lenny as he guided Madeline out of Albert’s earshot. A couple of minutes later he was back, a massive smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
“Right, champ,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
At the car, Lenny, the good Samaritan, tried to help Albert into the passenger seat, with limited success thanks to his unbendable leg in plaster.
“You’re hurting me, you silly sod! Stick me in the back seat, there’s more room, and put the passenger seat forward.”
“Hey Albert,” chuckled Lenny. “This is like one of those Laurel and Hardy films.”
“Yeah, and I know who’s getting a slap!” Albert retorted.
“Where to? Your flat?” Lenny asked as they finally set off.
“Did you feed Rocky this morning?”
“Yes I did. I did the ducks yesterday too.”
Albert eased up on him. “Good man, I appreciate it,” he said. “It’s the World Cup match today, ain’t it? The final, between us and the Jerries. Wembley would be good, but let’s go to the pub and watch it on telly.”
“The Live and Let Live it is.”
It was about two-thirty when they reached the pub. After a few grunts and contortions Albert emerged from the back seat. Greeted like the returning prodigal son in the saloon bar, he acknowledged the warmth of the welcome with a wave of his good arm and did his best to avoid the fuss and concern.
Lenny grabbed a couple of seats from the willing locals and they sat down to watch the match.
Very few of the folks that packed the pub had televisions, so the pub’s TV was a magnet: the next best thing to being at the game. There was palpable pride in the house as the traditional Abide with Me was sung by the packed stadium.
“A great occasion,” said Albert.
“Yes indeed,” agreed Lenny, even though it wasn’t cricket.
They watched the teams line up for the respective National Anthems. Albert struggled to his feet and sang God Save the Queen at the top of his voice. Like most East Enders he was fiercely patriotic.
“Look at that, Lenny,” said Albert as the camera panned across the teams. “Three West Ham players! Come on, you Irons!”
With the preliminaries done and dusted, the match kicked off with shouts of “Come on England!” from everyone in the pub. Wembley was jam-packed from the look of things, ninety-six thousand spectators roaring their teams on.
Too soon, English hearts were broken as in the twelfth minute Germany scored. It took the wind out of the sails of both the English supporters and the folks in the pub. But with so much time to go in the match, all was not lost.
“Plenty of time yet,” said Albert optimistically.
In the seventeenth minute England struck back. A free kick was taken by West Ham and England captain Bobby Moore, a beautifully weighted ball into the German penalty area. West Ham’s Geoff Hurst managed to get on the end of it and powered in a fantastic header. One all.
As the ball hit the net, Albert shot to his feet, as did most of England. He would have gone flat on his face, hampered by the plaster cast, if it hadn’t been for Lenny’s quick reaction, grabbing him before he hit the deck. Albert recovered his balance and led a chorus of I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles to celebrate the goal made by West Ham.
The contest went on, accompanied by quite a lot of nail-biting and a few choice swear words. The match was pretty even, but Germany were looking dangerous. Half-time came and drinks were replenished in preparation for the second half.
“It’s crazy!” said Maria as she helped pull the pints. “Italy should have been in the final.”
The second half was tense and the folk in the bar were reasonably quiet as they were drawn deeper into the drama. Then, in the seventy-eighth minute, Geoff Hurst took a shot at goal which was partially blocked by a German defender, only to fall at the feet of another West Ham player. Martin Peters took the chance and walloped the ball into the German goal. Two one to England.
Delirium followed. The cheers of happiness rang out the length and breadth of England and beyond. The locals were hugging each other in the bar. Stranger or friend, it didn’t matter. England were winning with just twelve more nerve-racking minutes to go.
In the ninetieth minute, just as the match was coming to an end and the Jules Verne World Cup trophy was practically in England’s hands, Wolfgang Weber from Germany scored a heartbreaking, scrappy goal.
“That was hand ball!” came the verdict from the pub.
“Typical Germans, lucky bastards,” muttered Albert.
Two goals each at full time meant extra time was to be played. If, after thirty minutes, the scores were still even, a penalty shoot-out would decide it.
No one wanted it to go to penalties. Not against the Germans.
The players and spectators were exhausted after ninety minutes of high-energy drama. Drinks were taken by the teams and everyone in the pub several times over, and thirty more minutes of extra time kicked off.
“This could go either way,” said Lenny as silence fell across the pub.
“Yeah,” Albert agreed, biting his nails. “As long as it goes our way.”
The Germans kept coming. Then, in the ninety-eighth minute of the match, high drama and controversy. Alan Ball, England’s tireless winger, crossed the ball from the right to Geoff Hurst. With all the power Hurst could muster, he headed the ball goalwards, where the ball crashed off the crossbar and down past the German keeper.
“Goal!” Albert shouted.
“Goal!” bellowed the rest of the pub.
The English players and most of England appealed. Time seemed to stand still as the referee went to the Russian linesman for a decision.
England held its breath.
The linesman ruled that the ball had indeed crossed the line.
Three two to England!
Watching the jubilation of the England supporters on TV, Albert felt proud and patriotic. Men, women and children, united in the collective happiness. Even Her Majesty was on her feet and applauding. Another rendition of Bubbles rang out in the pub.
The second half of extra time kicked off. Just fifteen minutes till the final whistle and an England victory. The German team threw everything they could at the tired but resolute English players. Minute by minute the clock ticked on, and it seemed like every minute was an hour as the nation waited for that final whistle.
The final minute. His chest almost bursting with his last effort of the game, Geoff Hurst received the ball in the German half just as some of the crowd thought that time was up and started celebrating. A few had already invaded the pitch.
“They think it’s all over,” remarked the commentator as the pub held its breath.
Hurst, exhausted and with
his last ounce of energy, hammered the ball into the roof of the German net.
“It is now,” said the commentator as the pub erupted.
They were words that would become part of English football history and folklore. The famous hat trick from Geoff Hurst, the only man in history to score three goals in a World Cup final, joined them. Four two to England and the celebrations of the nation were unleashed.
In the Live and Let Live, there were people dancing up on tables and hugging strangers. Everyone felt part of a history-making victory. It felt good to be English that day.
Albert was a bit tipsy as he made his way ecstatically from the pub to his flat, having told Lenny he could make it by himself. Strangers in the streets were united in their joy. Albert couldn’t help feeling that the celebrations were not unlike that other victory against the same opposition, twenty-one years earlier.
He was looking forward to finally getting home. With just a few bumps and groans, he made the staircase and opened the door to his flat. The task was made a little more tricky as he was carrying the bag of home comforts Lenny had brought him, but he made it, and on a night to remember. All was reasonably right with Albert’s world.
Rocky was so excited to see Albert she started doing back flips. Talking soothingly to her, Albert put the kettle on and unpacked his bag. As he took out Tommy’s photograph, he reflected on finding his grandson and his new family. The photograph had been shrouded in sadness for so many years, but now it had a much happier tinge to it.
“Who would have thought, eh, Tommy boy?” Albert asked the photo as he placed it back on the sideboard. With a cup of tea and Rocky on his shoulder, he looked around. “It’s good to be home,” he said.
Rocky decided to relieve herself on Albert’s shoulder.
“Thanks for the homecoming present, Rocky,” said Albert with a smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WITHIN weeks the plaster casts were off and Albert was able to walk with just a stick.
Danny had picked him up and driven him over to the new house in Chigwell once or twice. Wendy was reasonably accommodating as far as Albert was concerned, because Ruby liked to see her new great-grandfather. Albert made Ruby laugh, and there was obviously a bond between them. Wendy had prepared the odd dinner with Albert’s culinary favourite, a Sunday roast, which he was more than happy to have any day of the week.
Albert observed that Danny was still very much the outsider in the family. He wasn’t living back in the house yet, and there was clearly work for him to do if Wendy was to take him back. Albert knew something was still very wrong, but as yet couldn’t fathom what. He wished with all his heart that Danny could be back with Wendy and a father to Ruby.
For his part, Danny blew hot and cold. Albert grew used to a different Danny turning up almost every time he saw him. Talk of boxing and training had become almost taboo after the nightmare of the Livermore fight, and although Albert regretted Danny’s lack of commitment and interest, he thought it best to let time pass. Danny’s wounded pride might recover in time. Nothing had been heard from Costa and Cohen since the fight, and it seemed that Danny’s future was on hold.
After the recent wonderful revelations, Danny made a lifelong wish for Albert come true. He organised a trip to France to visit Tommy’s grave.
Albert was speechless when Danny surprised him with the tickets.
“I don’t know how to thank you Dan,” he stuttered. “This is a dream come true.”
“For me too, Grandad,” said Danny.
The trip to France was an adventure. Armed with their brand-new passports, Danny and Albert caught a ferry, then a train, to the small town of Broay. Danny liked France, finding it different, foreign and new. Although Albert was excited to be with his grandson and on the verge of making the journey to his beloved son’s grave, he wasn’t so keen on the place, and had packed some tea-bags just in case.
“The Frogs drink coffee,” he told Danny darkly.
Unable to come to terms with the French francs, he let Danny deal with any money transactions. It seemed easy to be a millionaire here, with so many francs to a pound.
Getting into a taxi from the station, they were driven three or four miles to the cemetery. At the gates, Danny negotiated the francs and paid the rather bored-looking driver. Their emotions were raw as they walked through the gates and into the cemetery.
“So many graves,” Danny said quietly as they looked at the endless rows of plain white headstones. “Hundreds.”
“I’ve got the grave number here,” said Albert. “I think it’s near the chapel.”
Checking names and numbers of the fallen, they searched for grave 229.
“There,” said Albert, stopping. “Tommy’s there.”
They stood silent and looked at the headstone, two rows away. Slowly, they walked to the grave.
At the graveside Albert pointed to the headstone.
“They put Thomas Kemp,” he said. “He hated the name Thomas. He was... he was Tommy.”
Struggling to get the last words out, Albert fell to his knees, sobbing, as years of loss and emotion welled up and out. Danny rested his hand on Albert’s shoulder, to try comfort him.
After a moment, Albert put out his hand to Danny to help him up. The two men hugged each other. Seeing Tommy’s grave, both Albert and Danny felt at peace. Albert, because he thought he would never be able to see his son’s grave again. Danny, because his thread to the red and silver box felt more complete.
Neither of them had yet talked about Costa and Cohen or Danny’s future fight plans. It was as if they both sensed that it was still an open sore.
*
Danny drove Albert back after the trip. As he pulled up outside Simon’s antique shop and Albert’s flat, the evening summer rain dotted on the windscreen and twisted in the car’s headlights. He switched off the engine and stared out of the car window at the dancing raindrops on the cobbled street. He seemed quiet, preoccupied, like there was something on his mind.
“You all right Danny?” asked Albert to break the silence. “You look like you’ve got the world on your shoulders.”
“Just thinking,” said Danny.
“Come on son, spit it out,” said Albert.
Danny looked straight ahead, deep in his own world. A streak of lightning lit the dark grey sky, followed by a distant roll of thunder as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
“It’s sometimes good to talk,” Albert said. “What do they say? ‘A problem shared is a problem halved’? Something like that.” He put his hand on Danny’s to stop him tapping. “Talk to me, Danny.”
There was a pause. Then the floodgates opened.
“I had good things, right Albert? A wife, a family, I’ve even got you now. But I get these black moods. The boxing’s a mess, I’m a loser, I’ve got no money. Sometimes, I don’t know what comes over me. Wendy won’t take me back. I’m all over the place.”
“People that taste success and money can change,” said Albert after a moment. “They don’t always find happiness the way they expect. Sometimes, I reckon, if you’ve got success and money, when you find out it’s not the answer to all your worries like you thought it would be, it can leave you feeling lost and empty. Maybe you feel a bit like that. You need to show Wendy that you’re still the Danny she loved and married.”
Danny rubbed his face. “I try, Albert, I really try,” he said. “But it’s my temper. Little things get to me. Ruby is growing up and I’m missing it.”
Albert watched him absently reach for the glove compartment, then pull his hand back.
“What’s in there, son?” said Albert, looking at the glove box.
“Nothing,” said Danny. “You getting out or what?”
“What you not telling me, Danny?”
Danny slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “Nothing, all right?”
It was all the proof Albert needed. He flipped open the glove box, stared at the bag of white pills inside.
He kep
t his voice gentle. “What are these?”
Danny’s eyes darted from side to side. “Vitamins, food supplements, I dunno. Costa’s been giving them to me in training. They’re supposed to enhance your performance.”
It was worse than Albert feared. “Believe me, son,” he said quietly. “These ain’t vitamins. How long you been taking them? What else you been taking?”
Danny swallowed. “Cocaine,” he said. “Costa has loads of it.”
“Jesus,” said Albert in shock.
Danny laid his head on the steering wheel and broke down in tears. He looked like Tommy, Albert thought. The way Tommy had looked when he had hurt himself as a little boy, with tears rolling down his face.
“Oh Danny,” he said, putting his arm round the boy. “You don’t wanna do any of this stuff. If you’re tested, you will lose everything you’ve worked for. You’ll lose your reputation.”
“Reputation?” said Danny. “I already blew it, Albert. I’m a laughing stock.”
Albert struggled to process the fact that Costa and Cohen had turned Danny into a cheat and an addict. He clenched his fists. This was the boy he had nurtured. The son of his son.
Danny looked pleadingly at Albert. “I want you back in the team,” he said. “Patsy is doing OK, but he’s Costa and Cohen’s man now. I don’t think I can get through this without you.”
Danny’s face held that same look Albert had seen years before, the look that even then had reminded him of Tommy. He needed time to digest Danny’s shattering confession. There was pride to swallow, and the shady Cohen and Costa to contend with. But Albert’s desire to protect Danny was overriding these obstacles.
He decided to give Danny an ultimatum.
“Danny,” he said. “If you want me involved, you’ll have to stop taking this stuff they’ve been giving you. You go back to clean living and hard training, right? I reckon that will help heal things with Wendy too.”
Danny nodded. “I will, I promise.”
“Also, if you want me to straighten out Costa and Cohen, you will have to listen to my advice. You don’t always have to take it, but at least listen, understand?”
