“On my way,” answered Lenny. “Tell that pretty Kingston girl Nurse Madeline that lover boy will be there soon.”
“Tell her yourself, Casanova,” Albert said. “Just bloody hurry up.”
Danny had threatened to hold a little homecoming party for Albert at his house in Chigwell if Wendy agreed but, thankful as he was to be welcomed by his new family, Albert didn’t need the fuss and told Danny not to bother. He was going home and that was that.
With a little help from Nurse Madeline, he packed his bits and pieces into his holdall and sat waiting for Lenny on the end of the bed, thinking about how things might have changed since he’d been away. Lenny had assured him he’d been feeding both Rocky and the ducks in the park, so that was one less thing to worry about. Danny, on the other hand… Danny, with his mood swings and temper, was a worry, that much was certain.
Albert was a lousy patient and had detested being immobile. The pain from the broken ribs he could cope with, but the plaster cast on his leg had to go. He had borrowed a knitting needle from a lady patient to scratch the itchy bits he couldn’t reach, a valuable piece of kit that he made sure he packed in his bag. He thought about going back to work at the Live and Let Live, and about managing the stairs to his flat. He had been practising up and down some stairs in the hospital and had developed a nifty sideways action using the crutch as a lever, not unlike Long John Silver and with the same gusto. It was all going to be fine.
“You’ll be home in time for the football,” smiled Nurse Madeline, packing his final bits and pieces.
Albert was puzzled. He had been cut off from the outside world for weeks and had no idea what the nurse was talking about. “What football?” he said.
“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.