“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.