David Essex - Faded Glory

“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?”