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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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,
“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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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,
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