Return

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œA lifetime,’’ Edwin thought to himself as he stepped off the airliner at Heathrow into the cat-walk which would take him to the main building.’ A man in his late sixties, he was small and of slight stature, his grey hair still showing some of the black it used to be.’ ‘ ‘œAlmost forty five years to the day,’ he continued his thought,’ his camera, overcoat and hand- luggage making his walk look a little like a waddle.
‘ ‘ ‘ As he moved along the narrow corridor with the throng of passengers jostling and nudging, he got a glimpse of the outside from time to time through the windows.’ He smiled at the light November drizzle; the overcast sky and wet tarmac he saw below him that was so typical of the season.’ ‘
‘ ‘ ‘ In his excitement he increased his pace just a little even though he knew that the clouds and rain would be waiting for him no matter how long it took.’ Nevertheless the sight of the English weather brought back’ happy memories. Memories collected during his first eighteen years of living in London.’ He refused to let his mind dwell yet on the four years following.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œMind where you’™re going mate!’ A taxi-man’™s cockney injunction to a clumsy porter was music to Edwin’™s ears.’ He stood happily in the drizzle, allowing a little to settle into his overcoat.’ He looked about him with a sigh of contentment and decided that he would go by underground instead of taxi in spite of the need of lugging his suitcase.’ He longed to hear again the sounds of the train. Smell the electric smells he had known so well.’
‘ ‘ ‘ In the roar of the tunnel and shaking of the carriage,’ Edwin became aware of some of the changes that had taken place during his long absence.’ The carriage was not as elegant as then.’ It was shabby, creaky and far less comfortable than before the war.’ The war.’ He recalled just how much time he, his sister and mother had spent on the platforms of the White-Chappel underground when the bombs had rained down.’ Those thoughts now crashed down upon him just as the’ walls of London had crashed down in the great blitz.’ The bombs that blew both London and Edwin’™s dreams to smithereens.’
‘ ‘ ‘ Finishing high school, he was drafted’ with three of his buddies.’ ‘œKids that’™s all we were,’ he thought now, except that they thought then that they were men.’ Briefly he recalled D day; the crossing and the landings on the beeches of Normandy.’ D day. As far as he was concerned that day had been Disaster Day.’ The thought brought a twinge to his brain as he recalled the awesome events of those times.’ He never did know how he came through the barrage of bullets, bombs and shells. So thick, he felt that even a cat would not get through alive.
‘ ‘ ‘ That day took from him two of his best friends. Bert and Alfred – his third, Bill, declared missing. Bill, that strong, wonderful hulk of humanity.’ The four had had their good times all right and the thought sent a passing smile to his lips.
‘ ‘ ‘ After the war, no effort had been too great in his search of any news concerning Bill.’ At the Home Office he had scrutinised the registers of those missing in action;’ pleaded to’ his member of Parliament.’ But all to no avail. He had even prayed – a thing he had never given a moment’™s attention to before but now was his only consolation and hope. ‘œBill… Bill.’’
‘ ‘ ‘ It had been the loss of those buddies and the sight of ravaged London that had made him turn his back on the city of his birth with an oath that he would never return; had set him on a boat as a steward to Cape Town.’ There he met’ and married Laura. They had made a good life together, Laura and he, and travelled not a little.’ But he kept his oath that he would never return to the city of his birth.’ ‘œNow, with Laura gone…,’ he left the thought unfinished.
‘ ‘ ‘ At Leicester Square he got a porter to help him with his suit case.’ ‘œHow long you been in London?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œBorn ‘˜ere.’ The cockney accent didn’™t fit the appearance.’ ‘œMy dad’™s from Jamaica.’ Mum’™s English,’ the porter continued with a friendly smile.’ Edwin thought just how much catching up he was going to have to do for the changes that had come upon the city he had once known so well.
‘ ‘ ‘ The people rushing to and fro on the busy street seemed all foreign.’ The shop attendants, all strangers.’ ‘œWasn’™t it Napoleon,’ he thought,’ ‘œwho called the British a nation of shopkeepers? Well, so far it seems that foreigners are now the shop keepers.’’ He was almost shocked when the taxi driver turned out to be a’ turbaned Sikh.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œDocklands please,’ was Edwin’™s brief Instruction,’ ‘œThe Docks Hotel.’ Been in England long?’’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œBorn ‘˜ere,’ said the Sikh echoing the cockney of the porter and just as a Londoner would.’ Edwin, taken quite a-back,’ began to wonder if there were still Englishmen still to be found in London.’ He settled back into the seat and watched a London that was only vaguely recognisable pass before his eyes.’
‘ ‘ ‘ The old and almost disused dock area was being converted into a grand new show case for Londoners and tourists alike.’ Docklands was bustling.’ There were shops with still new and glistening frames to their show windows; restaurants, hotels cinemas and the inevitable English pubs in place of the heavy cranes of yesteryear.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œSlow down a bit, chum, I’™d like to get a bit of a look at the place,’ he asked and the driver smilingly obliged. ‘œChanged a bit – ain’™t it?,’ he continued to the driver, his cockney coming back to him again. Edwin had been told about the changes in the dock area only when he booked his flight at the travel office.’ It was on these very wharves that the four of them had played football on Sundays.
‘ ‘ ‘ At the Docklands Hotel, a magnificent structure of glass, steel and stone he was shown to a comfortable, very modern if small room overlooking the Thames.’ Memories swam in Edwin’™s head.’ He remembered the great barge he worked on for a time to get some pocket money for the flicks and parties.
‘ ‘ ‘ It was these and other memories that prevented him taking a short rest after the journey. He felt he just had to go down and walk.’ Not having even removed his overcoat he was soon strolling along a narrow street at right angles to the river.’
‘ ‘ ‘ Here were typical shops for travellers and tourists.’ Twilight was settling in and the drizzle was as steady as ever.’ Shops with gleaming cameras,’ watches, electronic equipment, even a pub didn’™t stopped him in his saunter.’ It was an antique shop that stopped him.’ In the window’ his eye caught sight of an old pocket watch and chain. ‘˜Still going strong’™ a small sign said.’ There were trinkets of all kinds. A doll’™s house with exquisitely made miniature furniture in antique style; a grand father clock, its pendulum impressively moving from side to side.’ On impulse, Edwin checked the time.’ He stepped inside.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œEvenin’™ sir.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œAt last, he thought, ‘œan Englishman. The greeting was not only from an Englishman, it was his kind of cockney English, typical of the area.’ The man was about Edwin’™s own age but large and with a warm welcoming smile.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œEvenin’™,’ Edwin’™s smile was’ warm in return. ‘œJust look’™n at that pocket watch.’ My dad had one just like that.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œNice piece, isn’™t it, ‘œ answered the shop keeper and Edwin recognised so well the accent he once used.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œBorn around ‘˜ere?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œYea.’ In fact not far from ‘˜ere.’ It was that what gave me certain privileges from the Council for this place.’ You from around ‘˜ere too,’ ain’™tcha?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œYea.’ Long time ago though.’ Been away for mor’™n for’™y years.’’ Edwin enjoyed the use of the dialect he had not used for so very, very long. ‘œWhat’™s your name?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œBill.’ What’™s yours.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œEdwin.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œEdwin.’’ The shopkeeper echoed.’ ‘œUnusual name, Edwin.’ I know of an Edwin.’ Long time ago ‘˜at was.’
‘ ‘ ‘ Edwin looked closely at Bill.’ But there was nothing about the man that matched.’ Nothing at all.’ But it was Bill that kept looking at Edwin in an intense way – scrutinising each detail.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œEdwin Justin?’ His eyes were now bright.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œThe same!’ How come you know the name?’’ Edwin’™s tone showed he had caught something of the shop-keeper’™s enthusiasm.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œ ‘˜Ee keeps talkin’™ about you ‘¦ something about the war. Wounded ‘¦ no ID … unconscious – about six months ‘¦then amnesia ‘¦ France it was.’ The shop-keeper was talking more to himself than to Edwin as if in some reverie, the words coming in spurts. ‘œKeeps mentioning you,’ he repeated. ‘œMany don’™t understand.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œWho? What bar? What are you talking about?’, forgetting his cockney in his excitement.’ ‘ But Edwin knew. Knew that the man was talking about another Bill.’ A Bill that had been to Edwin more than a brother.’ ‘œWhere?’’ He grabbed the shop keeper by his upper arms and in a quavering voice, peering earnestly into the man’™s eyes repeated. ‘œWhere?’ For God’™s sake, where?’
‘ ‘ ‘ But Bill had taken Edwin by the hand and stepped with him outside without a word, his face serious.’ He locked the door and almost dragged Edwin after him.’ Edwin found himself retracing the steps he had taken a little while before to a pub he had passed some three blocks back.’ The double swing door opened at a push.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œAy! ‘¦ Bill!’’ The antique-shop keeper’™s sonorous call as he entered the crowded room caused a strange silence to fall upon the warm atmosphere in the pub.’ ‘œFella here to see you!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œWhat the hell’™s the racket?,’ asked a gruff voice from somewhere deep behind the bar.’ ‘œThat you, Bill?’
‘ ‘ ‘ The voice from below now stood.’ He was a bear of a man his friendly eyes questioningly on the man from up the road.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘œRecognise this guy?’, said the shop keeper and Edwin felt himself being pulled from behind the man’™s back and then almost shoved to face the man behind the bar.
‘ ‘ ‘ In that exchange of looks Edwin felt the years slipping away – also the boards from beneath his feet.’ He felt he was falling but a pair of hands and arms the strength of which he remembered well from his youth, held him as if he were just a child.’ ‘ Lifted him, too, clear up and over the bar as the man might have a crate of beer, settling him gently to the floor on the other side.’
‘ ‘ ‘ The occupants of the bar, many with smiles on their faces, looked on in wonder while the two, wordless, tears streaming shamelessly down their faces, embraced long and silently.