‘I’m sure you will all agree,’ concluded the mayor, ‘that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,’ said the mayor, turning towards Mrs Webber, ‘that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.
After several other dignitaries had said a few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.
Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.
By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they retired to bed.
The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, ‘Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth together.’
‘I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,’ she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.
Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life-threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.
When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s Rolls-Royce.
The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front page of the local paper.
When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.
‘Don’t fuss, Albert,’ Betty insisted. ‘Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.’
But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit. However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.
Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.
That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.
After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.
‘Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?’
‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.
There was a slight hesitation, but the operator finally said, ‘One moment please.’
Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.
‘Can you please repeat that?’ asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. ‘Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. ‘Thank you,’ he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialled the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, ‘Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?’
‘I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Mr Albert Webber.’
‘Hold the line please, Mr Webber.’
This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.
‘Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.’
The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’
‘I certainly will if I can, Mr Webber,’ replied the courtier.
‘Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.
‘Many congratulations,’ said Cranshaw.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Albert, ‘but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram, which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.’
‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Webber.’
‘But I wondered,’ said Albert, gaining in confidence, ‘if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?’
‘She most certainly does,’ replied Cranshaw. ‘I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, despite the fact that so many more people now attain that magnificent milestone.’
‘Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr Cranshaw,’ said Albert, ‘because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a telegram from the Queen.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Webber,’ said the courtier. ‘It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full name?’
‘Elizabeth Violet Webber, née Braithwaite,’ said Albert with pride.
‘Just give me a moment, Mr Webber,’ said Cranshaw, ‘while I check our records.’
This time Albert had to wait a little longer before Mr Cranshaw came back on the line. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Webber, but you’ll be pleased to learn that we have traced your wife’s telegram.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Albert. ‘May I ask when she can expect to receive it?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before the courtier said, ‘Her Majesty sent a telegram to your wife to congratulate her on reaching her hundredth birthday some five years ago.’
Albert heard a car door slam, and moments later a key turned in the lock. He quickly put the phone down, and smiled.
3. High Heels*
I was at Lord’s for the first day of the Second Test against Australia when Alan Penfold sat down beside me and introduced himself.
‘How many people tell you they’ve got a story in them?’ he asked.