Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  Willy, above all his friends, was the one for whom Fred had the greatest respect. His mind flashed back to times at school, and often since, when Willy had talked things through with him, advised him and even saved him from unintended trouble spots. ‘Thank you, Willy, it might help.’ They walked on quietly for a few paces. ‘You see I had quite an argument with mother last evening. I know she gets tired, but what she said was really too much. I hate arguments,’ added the gentle Fred.

  Willy’s mind turned to the amiable and hard-working Liz Smith, wondering what she could have said that had caused an argument between normally loving mother and son; it must have been something exceptional.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult to explain really,’ Fred said, his cheeks colouring up a little. ‘As you know, except for me, mother and gran have always been on their own. I think I have an Auntie Mary, my mum’s sister, but I’ve never met her and I don’t even know where she lives. I know mum and gran moved from London before I was born, but no one ever mentions anything about my dad. Well, some time ago I did ask mother and she just smiled and let it pass. I’ve pressed her more, even asked gran, but she just went quiet. The most I ever got was: “Well, that can wait until you’re a bit older.” As I’ve got older I’ve really wanted to know. You see, I’ve always remembered a story that Miss Picton told us at school.’

  Willy thought he would gently interrupt. ‘She was a great storyteller, but which story do you mean, Fred?’

  ‘Well, it was one she told us about a family that lived in a wood and how they woke up one morning to find a baby on their doorstep. It was supposed to have been left by a fairy and it all ended happily, but I think I may have been left on my mother’s doorstep when she lived in London and she thinks it better that I don’t know, because that would mean she isn’t really my mother. But I love her very much, and gran too; I just want to know the truth, Willy.’

  After a few minutes Willy, as deep thinking as he was tactful and kind, spoke: ‘Fred, I don’t know, but I do understand why you want to know about your father. It’s hard for me to say anything, but I can only suggest you tell your mother how much you love her, that you don’t want to quarrel, but you hope she will tell you about your father – one day. Do you remember Copper?’

  ‘I do, he was about the best full back the school team ever had. Poor old Copper!’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Willy. ‘He had a mother and father who were always knocking him about, arguing with each other. I remember how Copper and his little sister, Louise, often came to school in tears and sometimes came round to our house late in the evening because their parents were in The Queens Head. They were awful to Copper, no wonder he went off to London as soon as he left school. What I do know is that Copper and Louise had no one to love them, except each other.’

  He found Fred gently nodding. ‘I suppose if you look at it like that I’m lucky, at least compared to poor Copper. Thanks Willy. I knew you would help.’

  By now they had moved beyond the main crowds and could see the two charabancs waiting. Some were already clambering aboard and in five minutes all were ready to move on. Passengers were drawn more away from conversations as they came to the built-up areas showing signs to Romford, Ilford and Leyton; on through part of the city of London where the road went past magnificent buildings, then squalid streets of desperately poor homes. The juxtaposition of wealth and poverty caused Eleanor to turn to Arthur, gently raise her eyebrows and sigh. Arthur knew her thoughts and could only agree about such an unequal society. Into the old King’s Road with its elegant shops, an open area of grass and trees which had survived the general rush to build, and then a first sight of Stamford Bridge. ‘Is this impressive stadium where Abraham is really going to race?’ Grace wondered.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Monday, 5 August

  As Abraham and Jack entered the turning off Kings Road and saw the high wall carrying a large sign announcing “Stamford Bridge Stadium”, the young athlete felt his anxiety twisting into a tight knot in his stomach. Jack’s presence was a tremendous support, his natural optimism and sense of humour proving a timely antidote to Abraham’s anxiety.

  It had been a great help staying in Ealing with his running friend, James Bagshott, who had told Abraham that his own running days were past. ‘Abraham, you’ve got huge potential and you’re so young. You must do everything you can to succeed on the track.’

  James lived in a large house in Blondin Avenue where his parents, Judith and Grenville Bagshott, were delighted to host the two Rusfield men. The whole family which included Patricia, James’ sister, had decided that they would go to watch the athletics. Jack was delighted to know that eighteen-year-old Patricia would be there; she was certainly a very pretty auburn-haired young lady.

  The journey from Rusfield had taken nearly three hours, as trains on a Sunday were not plentiful, but it had been fun. Then a short walk took them to the row of substantial late-Victorian semi-detached houses. Having settled into a high-ceilinged upstairs bedroom, Abraham and Jack joined the family for a most pleasant evening meal. Talk, not surprisingly, was much about the forthcoming race, but when she noticed Abraham’s rather tense look, Judith Bagshott lightly kicked her husband’s ankle and diverted the conversation.

  ‘I don’t expect you know why this is called Blondin Avenue do you?’ she asked.

  Both Rusfield lads shook their heads although a smile came on to Jack’s face. ‘Well, no I don’t, but I do remember once reading a book about great feats and there was a man called Blondin. Didn’t he walk across Niagara Falls?’

  ‘Well done, Jack,’ she replied. Carefully bringing her daughter into the conversation she added, ‘Patricia will tell you all about him and why our avenue got its name.’ She encouraged her with a delightful smile.

  ‘Well, I do know quite a lot about the man, but I don’t want to bore you. There was this Frenchman who became known as Charles Blondin who went to America and did some amazing trapeze and other acrobatic feats. Anyway, he had this idea of walking across Niagara Falls on a tightrope which was around 350 yards long. Can you imagine that? Oh, it makes me feel funny just to think about it.’

  ‘That’s just amazing: thank you,’ uttered Jack as enthusiastic as he was well-mannered. ‘That’s just hard to believe. But why is your avenue named after him?’

  ‘Well,’ cut in Grenville Bagshott, ‘a few years ago this road like other newly built ones needed a name and apparently Blondin came to England and lived and died in Ealing, although I don’t think this avenue is where he lived. The next road is called Niagara Avenue.’

  ‘But Patricia, how did you know all about this?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Well,’ replied this slightly blushing daughter of the house, ‘at school we all had to find out about the street where we lived and I was just lucky to live in one that turned out to have such an interesting name.’

  That night Abraham slept well and the whole household was thrilled to see a brilliant sky with penetrating sunshine when they shared breakfast together. With promises of meeting up after the race, James walked as far as Northfields and Little Ealing station with them. Jack’s small bag contrasted with Abraham’s much larger one carrying all his athletics gear which he guarded with great care. Six stations took them to Earls Court where they changed to go the few stops to Walham Green; then a short walk to the athletics stadium, which they knew was also used by a football team. Families carrying bags, the occasional policeman, a newspaper vendor and group of smart infantry soldiers all added to the increasing bustle. Not quite knowing what to do, unusual for the normally calm Abraham, Jack took over. He spotted an open gate with, just beyond, a green metal turnstile by which a straw-hatted official stood next to a sign: “Officials and Competitors”. They made towards this.

  ‘Official or competitor?’

  ‘Competitor,’ replied Abraham.

  ‘And trainer,’ added the ever-smiling Jack.

  Once inside, the size of the stadium was even more impressive. Th
e centre area was clearly a football pitch whilst round it ran the red-coloured cinder track. Abraham stopped. ‘Do you see that, Jack? The track’s marked in lanes.’ Jack could immediately see what had caught his friend’s attention.

  ‘But why?’ asked the puzzled Jack.

  ‘Because it makes it fairer. You have to run in the lane you’re given which means you can’t cut in front of each other, much fairer. And you can see the short lines going the other way in the lanes; well that’s so we start in what is called a stagger and then everyone runs the same distance. I wonder if we can go and have a close look. I see a couple of runners are already practising on the bends.’

  They turned away from the track and spotted a door for competitors. Jack said, with a broad smile, that he would temporarily abandon his duties as trainer and find a drink and somewhere to sit. ‘You just get ready although I’m sure it’s too early for that yet. The programme the official gave us says your race is at a quarter to two. So plenty of time.’ He gave Abraham a shoulder pat and wished him every success. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you want. I’ll keep an eye open for you: just wave.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a large green flag being waved and caught the sound of shouts which he suddenly realised were intended for him. Turning, he spotted Boney and Jammy waving and calling to him, so he trotted towards the holders of the green and white banner: not only Boney and Jammy, but a great crowd from Rusfield. So they had arrived safely.

  When Abraham passed through the competitors’ door he was surprised to see so many people around, the majority of who were obviously athletes. He knew the stadium had been built some thirty years earlier and it certainly contrasted with some of the places he had previously raced. In the early days he had often changed in no more than a wooden hut, occasionally in the open. He knew the running track was reputed to be the best in the land and his friend James, who had raced here twice, told him it was the fastest track he had known.

  The large wall clock and each area had its own, showed half past twelve. The first race, the one mile, was scheduled for one o’clock so those athletes would already be changed and warming up. Abraham was determined to run faster than he had ever managed before and prove that the track was the best in the country, but he knew he should try to relax. Too early to change, so having checked all was ready, he sat, closed his eyes, not in prayer, although that may have been a good idea, but to relax. He took in deep breaths and found that he was already losing some of his early anxiety.

  He opened his eyes and found he was looking up at a tall, military figure smiling down at him. ‘You must be Abraham Richards,’ grinned the newcomer, some ten years older than the Rusfield runner. He shook Abraham’s hand and introduced himself. ‘I’m Wyndham Halswelle. I see we are drawn next to each other on the inside lanes. I heard how you won at Crystal Palace, so I’ll need to watch out.’

  Abraham was thrilled, although that feeling was mixed with a return of some anxiety. He knew about Lieutenant Wyndham Halswelle who had won the quarter mile in the Olympics four years previously.

  ‘Sir,’ said the ever-polite, but never obsequious Abraham. ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘Most of which,’ responded the dark-haired and heavily-moustached athlete, ‘will have been of some time back. I thought I had stopped serious running in 1908, but decided to make a final effort this year. Oh, and please call me Wyndham. Perhaps not a Christian name I would have chosen, but we can’t always be responsible for our parents’ choices,’ he added in an engaging tone. ‘But, have you ever run in lanes before?’ The young runner was quick to say that this would be something new.

  ‘Well, you do have to get used to it, although it’s not as difficult as you might think, you must stay in your own lane and that needs care when you go round the bends. Look, bring your spikes and we’ll go to have a look and practise a little on one of the bends, just so you get used to it.’

  Together, having picked up their spikes, they returned the way they had come in and walked through a small picket gate which abutted the track. Abraham followed as he was led to the nearest bend. Donning their spikes, they jogged along the straight leading into a bend, a second time picking up the speed. ‘Look Abraham, I’ll stand on this bend and watch you don’t step over the tramline. You know you are running on the inside which is, of course, the sharpest bend.’

  When Abraham had walked back from the bend by some ten yards, Wyndham gave a shout. Abraham broke into a fast stride so that by the bend he was almost at maximum speed. Three more test runs and he felt confident.

  ‘That was well done, Abraham. It’s not as hard as it seems, is it? You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Thank you so much, I’m really grateful. I know I would have been really worried without that practice; you are most kind.’ They walked back towards the changing room. Abraham hardly able to believe he was chatting with an Olympic champion; his wildest dreams were coming true. ‘But Wyndham,’ he started with some hesitation, ‘why didn’t you run in Stockholm? Britain could certainly have done with you.’

  ‘Truth to tell, I decided I’d had enough after the London fiasco four years ago. You know the story well I expect.’ Indeed, Abraham well knew the story: how the twenty-five-year-old Lieutenant in the Highland Infantry had been favourite for the Olympic quarter mile, but his main challengers, all Americans, appeared to have pre-planned to stop him. One of them blocked the Scot, running diagonally in front of him, forcing him to the edge of the track and using his elbow to prevent any overtaking, a tactic which was often used in America. The offender was disqualified and the race rerun two days later. When it came to the rerun, lanes were marked to prevent a repeat of these tactics, but the other American runners refused to participate and so Wyndham had been the only runner in the final.

  ‘Having a walkover in an Olympic final was nothing of which to be particularly proud, so after a couple more races I decided to quit running.’ He smiled. ‘However, as I’m based in England this year I decided to have a few last races.’

  They were soon joined by other athletes; all introducing themselves to each other. Abraham was almost overwhelmed by the other competitors. In addition to Wyndham, there was the current Scottish champion, Alastair McGrath, and Richard Rickard, the swarthy Londoner whom Abraham had beaten at Crystal Palace and, above all the six-foot American, Carroll Haff, whose Kansas drawl delighted Abraham. Abraham had had no idea that one of the recent Olympic finalists would be in his race. He could only hope that his plan for a fast start and then to closely tail the front runner until committing himself to a final all-out effort, would succeed.

  The athletes’ conversation drew to a halt as the runners for the second event, the 100 yards, were called. Abraham and his fellow competitors had already put on running shorts and vests, running spikes checked and all were ready. In a short while the official that had greeted Jack and Abraham over an hour earlier appeared and called for the runners. He checked the eight against his list and led them to the open door leading to the track. All were slightly dazzled by the brilliant sunshine and their eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, Abraham was amazed to see so many people. ‘How many people do you think there are here?’ asked Abraham.

  ‘Nearly forty thousand, I believe,’ replied the official. Abraham felt he needed to pinch himself to be certain all this was really happening. Roars from the crowd greeted the runners; prizes for the previous race having been given out. Abraham glanced around and suddenly picked out the large green and white banner being brandished from the front row of the stand nearest to the finishing line. The official spoke to them, advised them that he would lead them to their individual starting mark and give clear instructions for the start. ‘And don’t, whatever you do, start before the pistol sounds and keep in the lanes. I’m sure you gentlemen will make it a good race.’

  They had walked out to the track in lane order, Abraham leading the way. The official stopped and referring to h
is papers said: ‘Richards, this is your mark.’ Abraham watched as the other seven runners were taken to their starting marks. Running vests were all in different colours so the athletes could easily be recognised. Abraham’s green was, of course, instantly known by the Rusfield contingent.

  ‘But,’ said Fred as the athletes went to their marks, ‘it’s not fair. Abraham is last; he’s got further to run than the rest.’ Several murmured in angry agreement.

  Grace turned to Fred: ‘No Fred, it’s all fair. Although it must have been a surprise to Abraham when he found out about the lanes, he did recently explain it all to me. You see, the further you are away from the inside lane the further you would have to run, so to make it the same for everyone the runner on the outside starts in front. But don’t worry, it really is fair.’ She was not sure whether Fred and, indeed some others understood, but they nodded in sagely fashion. If a girl could understand it, then they were not going to say otherwise. Six of the eight runners used the trowels available from the trackside to make a foot grip.

  ‘Get to your marks.’ Abraham, along with the other five who had made a mark, crouched lower. He went through his much practised procedure: right spiked shoe gripping hard, into a relaxed position, shoulders given the customary loosening movement and a final wiggle of the left foot so it was just a fraction short of the starting line.

  ‘Get yourselves set,’ the official called out. Abraham couldn’t help seeing the other seven runners stretching out in front of him, something he had never experienced before; an upper body adjustment, followed by a push of his right toes into the starting hole to give greater leverage and total concentration on the track ahead. His mind focused on a fast start, the thought of when to make the final sprint to the finishing tape could be erased from his mind for the moment. The lull to the final instruction seemed endless. The huge crowd was silent. All eyes were on the runners, Abraham being the sole objective of the sixty Rusfield villagers. Their hopes hung on the next minute.