Marie and Neville walked through the Eastbridge gardens, the grass well manicured and the flower beds in full bloom. The squirrels scratched at the beds of needles below the pine trees, cautiously approaching those walking past hoping for an easier meal. Shoppers, seeking a rest after a morning touring the stores, or office workers, with sandwiches and a book enjoying the warmth of the sun during their lunch hour, occupied the park benches at the sides of the paths.
There was no sign of Albert, but an enquiry of a scruffy looking youth with a hoe rather aimlessly poking at the earth at the side of a bed of roses, revealed that he was probably taking lunch in a hut near what was referred to as the wild garden. He pointed the direction with his hoe before continuing to break up a piece of earth that was already the consistency of fine sand.
The hut, which was larger than they expected, was hidden between some trees and not obvious from the public path. The doors of the hut were wide open revealing some pieces of garden machinery and hand tools inside, at the entrance sat Albert, his plastic lunchbox and thermos flask on a makeshift table. Seeing Neville in a different environment, together with a young woman, Albert did not recognize him as he approached the hut. It was only when Neville shouted and waved did a smile appear on Albert’s face and he waved back. He produced two wooden stools and invited them to sit down after brushing some potting compost off the seats with a piece of an old sack.
Marie warmed to Albert immediately, sat there in front of an old shed, trying to clean his hands on a piece of oily cloth that only made them dirtier, he was the epitome of a loving grandfather. She imagined him surrounded by small grandchildren listening enthralled to his old stories, some true, some not so true, but it did not matter, the loving look in their eyes made everything real. Then she remembered he did not have any grandchildren, he did not even have a family and felt sad at the waste.
Neville explained that he had received Albert’s message at the office and felt there had been some misunderstanding about not meeting at the Station Inn. Albert confirmed the message was correct but he would explain that later, he first wanted to tell them about the events of last week and his meeting with A.J. Waterson. As the story unfolded, without interruption, the two listeners were like the grandchildren in Marie’s imagination, their eyes and mouths growing wider with each new revelation.
Albert concluded his story; describing how he said goodbye to the man he now knew to be his brother, A.J. Waterson. After a period of silent reflective thought, Neville finally said, as if to confirm what he thought he had heard, “So your real name is George Waterson?”
“Yes, the real Albert Hughes died in France; the authorities gave me his name and identity. I didn’t know any different, in the state I was in I could have been convinced I was Howard Hughes the millionaire.”
The three of them laughed before falling silent once again in thought. Something occurred to Neville and whilst he was deciding whether to say something Marie asked Albert what he was going to do.
“What do you mean?” Albert replied.
Marie wasn’t sure what she meant and after a couple of shrugs of her shoulders said,
“Well, your name for example, what are you going to call yourself, should we now call you George?”
“I’ve been thinking about that and I’m still not sure. I don’t feel like a George, do I look like a George? I’ve always seen myself as Albert and I guess everyone else has, except those that knew me before. I think I’ve decided what I’m going to do but I need to discuss it with Calder, remember I mentioned him, he’s A.J.’s solicitor and offered to help me. I’ll have a word with him before I announce myself to the world.” He gave his arms a wave like a Shakespearian actor and raised another laugh from his audience.
“Remember at our second meeting upstairs at the Station Inn,” Neville started rather sheepishly, “I told you that Albert Hughes should have been best man at a wedding, it was during the war and his leave was cancelled and he could not attend. We assumed it was you who was to be best man, but you were the groom, it was George Waterson who was getting married to Jane Wheatley’s sister. Your wedding didn’t take place, but you were engaged to be married. You should have married Sarah Wheatley but your leave was cancelled.”
The colour drained from Albert’s face, his hands began to shake. Neville asked if he was OK but there was no answer. Albert looked ahead but instead of the path winding its way through the bushes and trees of the garden he saw the altar of a church with a priest in his robes holding an open bible supported by his two hands. He felt the presence of people standing at his side, turning he looked down the aisle of the church to see the open arched doorway and the figure of a beautiful girl dressed in white silhouetted against the morning sun beyond. There was music that appeared to come from the roof of the church and the veiled girl walked towards him in time to the music. The scene changed to a country meadow of tall grass with yellow, white and red flowers, he was holding the hand of a beautiful girl. Was this the girl in the church? Did he recognise this face, these features, as she laid down in the grass and flowers with her hands outstretched to the cloudless summer sky? He was lying beside her and the only sound was the song of a skylark. “I wish the skylark could sing at our wedding”, the girl said. He was back at the church pushing open the door of the church to reveal an altar at which stood a woman in white, she was older than the girl in the meadow, she stood alone, there was no music. He heard the voices of children playing outside the church, the voices faded and the more he tried to concentrate on the voices the more they drifted away until they were only a whisper on the wind, or was it the wind he had heard moaning around the gravestones. He could hear a man’s voice close by, it was his own, “Who was this girl,” the voice asked, “did I know her, did she know me, know my thoughts, my plans, my hopes, my dreams? How did they meet, was it love at first sight, or did we grow to love each other? Where is she now, is she happy, I hope she is happy with a husband, children, and grandchildren?”
Neville’s arm was around Albert’s shoulder, “I’m sorry Albert, this must have come as a bit of a shock.” Marie held Albert’s hand, tenderly caressing it with her own.
“What did you say her name was?” Albert asked as he gradually recovered his composure.
“Her name was Sarah,” Neville replied, returning to sit on his stool, whilst Marie continued to stroke the back of Albert’s hand.
Neville realised that at their meeting at the Inn he had only mentioned the wedding but had not described the conversation with Jane Wheatley and how she informed them of the double wedding that should have included the marriage of George Waterson and Sarah Wheatley. Marie was not exactly sure what Albert had learned at the previous meetings, so whilst she continued to comfort him, she carefully described their meeting with Jane Wheatley and the marriage that should have taken place.
“Your leave was cancelled,” she explained, “that’s the reason why you couldn’t be there, there’s no suggestion that you abandoned her, don’t even let that thought enter your head.”
She wasn’t sure if that thought had entered his head but it seemed to have the desired effect as Albert appeared to be calmed by that reassurance.
“I never saw myself as a married man,” Albert said rather shyly not used to verbally expressing his emotions. “I did take a shine to a woman one time, it was some years ago before I moved to Eastbridge, I was so unsure of myself at that time, not sure I could take care of myself never mind a wife, I just let it drift and she went off with another bloke. She didn’t stay very long with him either so I thought myself lucky I didn’t get too close, too involved, so I just kept myself to myself after that. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked out with this girl Sarah, she’s probably better off with some other chap.”
Albert’s mood was on a downward spiral when a voice, asking about weeding flowerbeds, interrupted the scene.
“I’ve finished the rose beds Mr Hughes, what do you want me to do now?” It was the scruffy looking youth with a hoe in his hand.
“Are there any roses left?” Albert replied in a rather sarcastic voice.
“Oh yes, you only asked me to take out the weeds.”
“Get back to the formal beds, I’ll come and see you in a minute,” Albert tutted, shook his head and turning to Neville and Marie added, “see what I have to put up with, this is what they send me, youth of today.”
Albert locked the shed and the three of them walked back along the path to find the scruffy youth and his hoe. As they walked, Albert explained about his parting with John Turner at the Station Inn, and why he preferred not to meet there.
“They do say that it was his drinking that finished his footballing career, rather than the injuries,” Neville suggested.
“I’d heard that as well,” Albert confirmed, “but I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe his explanation about the injured leg.”
“Do you still have my phone number?” Neville asked.
Albert thought for a moment and recalled throwing Neville’s note into the fire in A.J.’s office in Waterson House.
“Never mind if you don’t,” Neville continued, “here’s my card with the newspaper office number, on the back I’ll write my home number if you want to call me sometime.”
The three parted, Albert to supervise the scruffy youth, Marie to continue her shopping and Neville to visit a local home furnishing business to discuss a full page advert for their summer sale. Neville and Marie agreed a time and place to meet later before driving her to the station for her journey home. Albert and Neville did not arrange to meet again and Neville wondered if this were to be their final meeting; would he ever hear from Albert again? Albert had held up Neville’s card and said, “I’ll call you sometime,” but this seemed to be just another way of saying goodbye. With Neville’s help, Albert had discovered his family, his past and his real name. The quest had brought them together, their lives entwined for a few brief weeks, but the points on the track had been switched again and they were now to follow diverging routes, unless another actor, in this theatre of life, still had a part to play.
There was no sign of Albert, but an enquiry of a scruffy looking youth with a hoe rather aimlessly poking at the earth at the side of a bed of roses, revealed that he was probably taking lunch in a hut near what was referred to as the wild garden. He pointed the direction with his hoe before continuing to break up a piece of earth that was already the consistency of fine sand.
The hut, which was larger than they expected, was hidden between some trees and not obvious from the public path. The doors of the hut were wide open revealing some pieces of garden machinery and hand tools inside, at the entrance sat Albert, his plastic lunchbox and thermos flask on a makeshift table. Seeing Neville in a different environment, together with a young woman, Albert did not recognize him as he approached the hut. It was only when Neville shouted and waved did a smile appear on Albert’s face and he waved back. He produced two wooden stools and invited them to sit down after brushing some potting compost off the seats with a piece of an old sack.
Marie warmed to Albert immediately, sat there in front of an old shed, trying to clean his hands on a piece of oily cloth that only made them dirtier, he was the epitome of a loving grandfather. She imagined him surrounded by small grandchildren listening enthralled to his old stories, some true, some not so true, but it did not matter, the loving look in their eyes made everything real. Then she remembered he did not have any grandchildren, he did not even have a family and felt sad at the waste.
Neville explained that he had received Albert’s message at the office and felt there had been some misunderstanding about not meeting at the Station Inn. Albert confirmed the message was correct but he would explain that later, he first wanted to tell them about the events of last week and his meeting with A.J. Waterson. As the story unfolded, without interruption, the two listeners were like the grandchildren in Marie’s imagination, their eyes and mouths growing wider with each new revelation.
Albert concluded his story; describing how he said goodbye to the man he now knew to be his brother, A.J. Waterson. After a period of silent reflective thought, Neville finally said, as if to confirm what he thought he had heard, “So your real name is George Waterson?”
“Yes, the real Albert Hughes died in France; the authorities gave me his name and identity. I didn’t know any different, in the state I was in I could have been convinced I was Howard Hughes the millionaire.”
The three of them laughed before falling silent once again in thought. Something occurred to Neville and whilst he was deciding whether to say something Marie asked Albert what he was going to do.
“What do you mean?” Albert replied.
Marie wasn’t sure what she meant and after a couple of shrugs of her shoulders said,
“Well, your name for example, what are you going to call yourself, should we now call you George?”
“I’ve been thinking about that and I’m still not sure. I don’t feel like a George, do I look like a George? I’ve always seen myself as Albert and I guess everyone else has, except those that knew me before. I think I’ve decided what I’m going to do but I need to discuss it with Calder, remember I mentioned him, he’s A.J.’s solicitor and offered to help me. I’ll have a word with him before I announce myself to the world.” He gave his arms a wave like a Shakespearian actor and raised another laugh from his audience.
“Remember at our second meeting upstairs at the Station Inn,” Neville started rather sheepishly, “I told you that Albert Hughes should have been best man at a wedding, it was during the war and his leave was cancelled and he could not attend. We assumed it was you who was to be best man, but you were the groom, it was George Waterson who was getting married to Jane Wheatley’s sister. Your wedding didn’t take place, but you were engaged to be married. You should have married Sarah Wheatley but your leave was cancelled.”
The colour drained from Albert’s face, his hands began to shake. Neville asked if he was OK but there was no answer. Albert looked ahead but instead of the path winding its way through the bushes and trees of the garden he saw the altar of a church with a priest in his robes holding an open bible supported by his two hands. He felt the presence of people standing at his side, turning he looked down the aisle of the church to see the open arched doorway and the figure of a beautiful girl dressed in white silhouetted against the morning sun beyond. There was music that appeared to come from the roof of the church and the veiled girl walked towards him in time to the music. The scene changed to a country meadow of tall grass with yellow, white and red flowers, he was holding the hand of a beautiful girl. Was this the girl in the church? Did he recognise this face, these features, as she laid down in the grass and flowers with her hands outstretched to the cloudless summer sky? He was lying beside her and the only sound was the song of a skylark. “I wish the skylark could sing at our wedding”, the girl said. He was back at the church pushing open the door of the church to reveal an altar at which stood a woman in white, she was older than the girl in the meadow, she stood alone, there was no music. He heard the voices of children playing outside the church, the voices faded and the more he tried to concentrate on the voices the more they drifted away until they were only a whisper on the wind, or was it the wind he had heard moaning around the gravestones. He could hear a man’s voice close by, it was his own, “Who was this girl,” the voice asked, “did I know her, did she know me, know my thoughts, my plans, my hopes, my dreams? How did they meet, was it love at first sight, or did we grow to love each other? Where is she now, is she happy, I hope she is happy with a husband, children, and grandchildren?”
Neville’s arm was around Albert’s shoulder, “I’m sorry Albert, this must have come as a bit of a shock.” Marie held Albert’s hand, tenderly caressing it with her own.
“What did you say her name was?” Albert asked as he gradually recovered his composure.
“Her name was Sarah,” Neville replied, returning to sit on his stool, whilst Marie continued to stroke the back of Albert’s hand.
Neville realised that at their meeting at the Inn he had only mentioned the wedding but had not described the conversation with Jane Wheatley and how she informed them of the double wedding that should have included the marriage of George Waterson and Sarah Wheatley. Marie was not exactly sure what Albert had learned at the previous meetings, so whilst she continued to comfort him, she carefully described their meeting with Jane Wheatley and the marriage that should have taken place.
“Your leave was cancelled,” she explained, “that’s the reason why you couldn’t be there, there’s no suggestion that you abandoned her, don’t even let that thought enter your head.”
She wasn’t sure if that thought had entered his head but it seemed to have the desired effect as Albert appeared to be calmed by that reassurance.
“I never saw myself as a married man,” Albert said rather shyly not used to verbally expressing his emotions. “I did take a shine to a woman one time, it was some years ago before I moved to Eastbridge, I was so unsure of myself at that time, not sure I could take care of myself never mind a wife, I just let it drift and she went off with another bloke. She didn’t stay very long with him either so I thought myself lucky I didn’t get too close, too involved, so I just kept myself to myself after that. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked out with this girl Sarah, she’s probably better off with some other chap.”
Albert’s mood was on a downward spiral when a voice, asking about weeding flowerbeds, interrupted the scene.
“I’ve finished the rose beds Mr Hughes, what do you want me to do now?” It was the scruffy looking youth with a hoe in his hand.
“Are there any roses left?” Albert replied in a rather sarcastic voice.
“Oh yes, you only asked me to take out the weeds.”
“Get back to the formal beds, I’ll come and see you in a minute,” Albert tutted, shook his head and turning to Neville and Marie added, “see what I have to put up with, this is what they send me, youth of today.”
Albert locked the shed and the three of them walked back along the path to find the scruffy youth and his hoe. As they walked, Albert explained about his parting with John Turner at the Station Inn, and why he preferred not to meet there.
“They do say that it was his drinking that finished his footballing career, rather than the injuries,” Neville suggested.
“I’d heard that as well,” Albert confirmed, “but I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe his explanation about the injured leg.”
“Do you still have my phone number?” Neville asked.
Albert thought for a moment and recalled throwing Neville’s note into the fire in A.J.’s office in Waterson House.
“Never mind if you don’t,” Neville continued, “here’s my card with the newspaper office number, on the back I’ll write my home number if you want to call me sometime.”
The three parted, Albert to supervise the scruffy youth, Marie to continue her shopping and Neville to visit a local home furnishing business to discuss a full page advert for their summer sale. Neville and Marie agreed a time and place to meet later before driving her to the station for her journey home. Albert and Neville did not arrange to meet again and Neville wondered if this were to be their final meeting; would he ever hear from Albert again? Albert had held up Neville’s card and said, “I’ll call you sometime,” but this seemed to be just another way of saying goodbye. With Neville’s help, Albert had discovered his family, his past and his real name. The quest had brought them together, their lives entwined for a few brief weeks, but the points on the track had been switched again and they were now to follow diverging routes, unless another actor, in this theatre of life, still had a part to play.