Faded Glory (11 page)

At long last, a reasonable fit was found, identical to Danny’s. It had to be said, Albert looked transformed and rather dapper. Mission accomplished, Danny put a deposit down. The now giggling pair left a bemused Cyril in his top-hat-and-tails world.

*

“So Danny,” said Albert. “You want a stag night? It’s only right. Last night of freedom and all that.”

Danny, with a little trepidation, agreed.

“You leave the arrangements in the almost safe hands of me and Lenny,” Albert said soothingly. “Next Friday night? Seven o’clock kick-off at the Live and Let Live.” And he mock-punched Danny’s jaw.

Walking to work at the pub that evening, Albert started to think about the entertainment for Danny’s stag night. A traditional stripper, maybe a night up the West End, perhaps a flutter in a casino.

At the bar of the Live and Let Live, Lenny was knocking back a Guinness laced with a dash of Jamaican rum.

“How about we organise a Caribbean night?” he suggested when Albert asked him for ideas. “You know, with straw hats, colourful shirts and plenty of rum chasers. We can have a limbo contest, you know: how low can you go. I’m a natural, years of practice, man.”

“Yeah,” agreed Albert. “We could get one of those steel bands.” Ironically – Lenny hated steel bands: “They sound like a scrap yard.”

Several others joined in the discussion. Ideas bounced off each other with a fury, some ridiculous like a bouncy castle in the pub, others quite inspired, like rum punch on tap. In the end, Albert suggested that they should give Danny a wedding present of fifty pounds and a trip to a casino in the West End.

“Danny can have a little flutter,” he said. “And so can we.”

So it was settled. Calypso, cash and a casino it would be.

*

“Did the outfit look nice then, was everything all right?” asked Wendy.

“I think we looked the part,” Danny replied. “Even Albert looked dapper.”

“Good,” said Wendy. “Now Dad’s checked and almost all of the invites have been answered and everyone’s coming.”

“Cohen and Costa?”

“Yes, they’re coming too.”

As Wendy rattled on about bouquets, chicken or lamb and wedding gifts, Danny was silent. The realisation that Cohen and Costa were actually coming filled him with nervous misgivings. Only a short time ago, he’d been with his best man, laughing and joking at poor Cyril’s expense. Danny was now concerned that having Cohen and Costa at his wedding would upset Albert again, just when things had warmed up between them.

“Are you listening, Danny? It’s like talking to myself sometimes.”

Danny did his best to seem interested.

“It will be a day to remember,” Wendy went on, full of optimism. “The best wedding of nineteen sixty. Probably in the
whole
of the nineteen sixties.”

And maybe it would, thought Danny. Maybe it would.

DANNY wondered what lay in store that evening as he put on his best white shirt and navy-blue suit. The last time he’d worn it was for his Aunt Olive’s funeral three years ago, and since then, the bulking up that came with his training had made the suit just a little too tight for comfort.

Combing his hair in the mirror downstairs, he heard a key in the lock. It was his mum, home from her usual after-work trip to the pub.

“Ooh, don’t you look smart!” said Rosie. “Where you off to, somewhere nice?”

Danny was used to Rosie’s lack of interest in his affairs.

“It’s my stag night Mum, remember? I’m getting married.”

Rosie advanced and took Danny’s face in her hands. “Ah, my little boy, married,” she cooed, as tears filled her eyes with tipsy sentimentality.

This was not what Danny needed. He did a quick swerve and a half-kiss and escaped into the evening air.

It was September, and even the docklands had an autumnal smell, with the coloured leaves and the last remnants of flowers all now looking to winter. Whether it was the balmy atmosphere, or being on the brink of one of the biggest days of his life, Danny started to think about growing up as a child in this colourful and emotive area. He thought about his schooldays, when all he’d looked forward to was football practice on Fridays and matches on Saturday mornings. He thought about meeting Wendy and playing kiss chase, sticking up for her when the kids were calling her strawberry-blonde hair ginger. He thought about what was to come: a wife and baby. He wished his dad could have been there, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, to witness the wedding and to see and hold his grandchild when it arrived.

At the Live and Let Live, all seemed strangely quiet. Filled with apprehension, Danny opened the public bar door.

Nobody was inside.

Danny was confused. Had they forgotten?

After some hesitation, he made his way to the saloon bar. As he opened the door, he was taken aback by a loud cheer and an explosion of tropical colour. All the regulars were there: the boys from the club, Patsy, Albert cheerleading on top of the bar counter, and Lenny, who was attempting to limbo under a rigged-up washing line.

“Welcome to Jamaica,” Lenny yelled. “Limbo, limbo, how low can you go?”

A straw hat was plonked unceremoniously on Danny’s head and a glass of rum punch placed in his hand. It felt like sunshine to Danny, like coming out of the grey cloud of wedding arrangements and endless logistics.

These were his friends, his family. It was a time to forget everything you were supposed to remember.

Calypso music played to enhance the Caribbean atmosphere. Harry Belafonte on the record player was joined by Lenny in a spirited version of
Island in the Sun
, while the limbo contest got under way in earnest. Even Albert threw caution to the wind and had a go. It was a valiant effort, but he lost his balance, fell over and succeeded in tipping a glass of rum punch over his specially bought exotic Hawaiian shirt, an incident followed by a less exotic and somewhat crestfallen “Bollocks!”

Mopping himself down, Albert called for order, and rang the bar bell loudly to announce the winner of the limbo contest.

“The winner is... Jimmy Ramsbottom!”

Jimmy was another boxer from the club and part of the brotherhood. The owner of a slightly unfortunate surname, Jimmy was a flyweight and only about five foot two inches tall.

“He had an unfair advantage, he’s a short arse!” shouted Lenny. “I’m the Limbo King around here!”

Half cut and the worse off for too many rum chasers, Jimmy decided to take a swipe at Lenny. Thankfully he missed, but landed a pretty useful punch into the rock-hard stomach of Patsy.

The scene changed from raucous fun to the kind of anticipation you see in those westerns, when the gunfighters have a stand-off. Patsy eyed up little Jimmy, and little Jimmy looked very nervous. The partygoers held their breath.

In one smooth motion, Patsy grabbed a bowl of trifle made especially by the landlady Maria for the party and emptied it on little Jimmy’s head. Custard, cream, sponge, jam, the lot. The cherry, which had been carefully placed on top to enhance the presentation, stayed beautifully positioned on top of Jimmy’s nose. The little flyweight resembled a cross between a circus clown and a piece of modern art.

There was a shocked silence, and then a lot of laughter. As if on cue, the food fight began in earnest. Sausage rolls and pork pies bounced off heads, bread rolls were hurled like missiles. Lenny had an aim that was lethal thanks to his cricket experience, and could throw a pickled egg like a return throw from the boundary. In the thick of the fight, Danny was enjoying himself hugely.

Grabbing the bar bell and ringing it as loudly as possible, Albert attempted to restore order.

“Come on lads, we don’t want a full-out bar-room brawl! Calm it down. Now gentlemen, a bit of respect for a lady. May I introduce to you... Fifi Lamour!”

All eyes turned to Fifi’s entrance, with only the odd pig in a blanket or profiterole occasionally still airborne. A small flying sausage from Little Jimmy narrowly missed Fifi’s head.

“That’s about the size of yours, ain’t it Jimmy lad?” Patsy shouted, to hoots of laughter.

Fifi seemed very professional in her chosen art. Dressed in black stockings and suspenders with a mock police-woman’s shirt and tie, she was still attractive, although a little bit dumpy, with dyed blonde hair and a faraway look in her eyes.

As Danny watched her gentle gyrations, he couldn’t help wondering why a lady would do this. Perhaps she was a struggling single mother, or was forced to do it by a pimp. His thoughts were rudely interrupted by Fifi’s ample breasts, thrust in gay abandon like two soft pillows into his face.

It was difficult to know what to do in that kind of situation, so Danny did very little, in the hope that Fifi would move on to a more appreciative audience. She did, but not before straddling Danny and wiggling a lot, which brought a huge cheer from the chaps. Submission was the best bet. Danny decided to grin and bear it.

Two raunchy songs later, Fifi’s act was over. She collected her payment from Lenny and disappeared into the night. Cele-brations were starting to tire, so Albert took over once more.

“We got a coach waiting to take us all up the West End to do a spot of gambling,” he told the crowd, “just to round the evening off. Lenny?”

Grinning, Lenny presented Danny with his fifty-pound wedding gift.

“With this,” Albert proclaimed as Danny stammered his thanks, “you can break the casino, son. Now who’s with us?”

There was another cheer as the drunken revellers prepared to leave the food-sodden pub and board the waiting coach.

*

Maria the landlady, who had lovingly and unwittingly prepared the ammunition, was livid.

“Look at the state of this place,” she bellowed. “What are you, animals?”

“It’s all right, Maria, just a bit of fun,” Albert tried to say, but it was no use.

“Get out of my bloody pub!” Maria screamed, and gave Albert a manly shove out into the street.

The coach driver was understandably reluctant to let the motley food-covered mob on to his nice clean coach, and was arguing with Jimmy the trifle-head flyweight. Albert stepped in to defuse the situation.

“Don’t worry mate,” Albert soothed. “Any mess I’ll pay for.”

In all honesty, the little money he owned had already been spent on Danny’s party. But it was important to Albert that the celebrations went to plan.

The coach driver finally agreed to let them on. Some of the boys climbed into the coach and fell over. One or two were so legless they were unable even to manage that, so they were carried aboard. Little Jimmy was sick all over the coach driver’s shiny shoes, so the coach now smelled like a cross between a pig sty and a pub. Muttering, the coach driver started up the engine and headed up to town.

Piccadilly Circus was around five miles from the East End. There was much singing, with Danny the loudest of all. Most participants joined in, usually in different keys, with a bawdy song about Salome who apparently had hairs on her belly like the branches of a tree, while the half-spoken, half-sung rendition of
Danny Boy
from Patsy almost moved Danny, sitting in pride of place at the front of the coach, to tears.

The boys did the Hokey Cokey proud and even attempted the Conga. Finally, much to the relief of the suffering coach driver, the rabble arrived at the bright lights of Piccadilly, where they more or less fell out of the coach with hearty cheers and drunken legs.

Like most big cities, London is a place that’s hard to shock. But even with the average Londoner’s casual take on unusual behaviour, the stag party with their Caribbean garb and piggy-back races round Piccadilly’s famous fountain turned more than a few heads – particularly when little Jimmy decided to use the fountain as a washroom to remove the remnants of the trifle from his head.

“Come on, you lot!” Albert shouted, when a couple of policemen started taking notice. “Time to move on!”

He did his best to lead the party through Soho’s sleazy streets. A swift head count seemed to show that all were present and correct. He found a broken umbrella in a bin and placed his straw hat on top, tour-leader style, trying to keep the rabble in check with a constant reminder to “Follow the hat! Follow the hat, lads!”

Another head count revealed the loss of three members of the clan to other establishments en route. Circumnavigating the many strip joints and ladies of the night, keeping a firm eye on Danny as he swayed along on Lenny’s guiding shoulder, Albert eventually found a casino. The next task, of course, was to get this lot in. It wasn’t easy.

“This is a fine place you got here,” he told the anxious-looking casino receptionist. “Very classy. I got a group of hard-working lads who want to come and spend their money in your establishment in the name of harmless stag-night fun. That’s OK, isn’t it?”

The receptionist pursed her lips and adjusted her low-cut top. “I’ll have to call upstairs to the owner, sir,” she said. “If you’ll bear with me?”

Albert waited while Patsy and Lenny tried to keep the boys in check out on the street. Then his heart sank like a lead balloon. None other than Tommy Costa was coming down the stairs.

This was not the grand finale to the party that Albert had envisaged.

Costa eyed the dishevelled Albert up and down.

“Hello, old man,” he said in amusement. “What you doing in my gaff? Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

Of all the establishments in London, Costa’s place would definitely have been bottom of the list. Albert attempted to think on his feet as Costa brushed past him to see what all the noise outside was about.

*

In the lamplit street, Danny was happily riding around on someone’s shoulders. Another of the lads was climbing up a street lamp. Little Jimmy was tap dancing and the rest of the rabble were playing football with an empty beer can while Patsy and Lenny attempted to keep order.

“Hello champ,” said a smooth, familiar voice. “Having fun?”

Seeing the unlikely figure of Costa through a half-cut mist of trifle and rum punch rendered Danny almost speechless.

“It’s my stag night,” he managed to answer, swaying up high on his perch.