And Thereby Hangs a Tale

He blinked, looked round at the expectant crowd, paused, and said, “Thank you very much.”

Once the assembled gathering realized that was all he was going to say, someone began to sing “Happy Birthday,” and within moments everyone was joining in. Albert managed to blow out seven of the hundred candles before the younger members of the family came to his rescue, which was greeted by even more laughter and clapping.

Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown, and cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

“My fellow citizens,” he began, “we are gathered together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert Webber, a much-loved member of our community. Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent his working life at C. and J. Clark’s, our local shoe factory. In fact,” he continued, “Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light Infantry. When the war ended in 1945, Albert was discharged from the army and returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark’s. At the age of sixty, he retired as Deputy Floor Manager. But you can’t get rid of Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman, a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth birthday.”

The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. “From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the town’s pub championship.

“I’m sure you will all agree,” concluded the mayor, “that Alber

t has led a colorful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,” said the mayor, turning toward Mrs. Webber, “that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.”

“Hear, hear,” said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

After several other dignitaries had said a few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr. and Mrs. Webber home.

Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they retired to bed.

The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, “Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth together.”

“I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,” she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life-threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.

When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s Rolls-Royce.

The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front page of the local paper.

When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters, and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.

“Don’t fuss, Albert,” Betty insisted. “Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.”

But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit. However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.

Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.

That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared round the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.

After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.

“Directory Inquiries. What number do you require?”

“Buckingham Palace,” said Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.

There was a slight hesitation, but the operator finally said, “One moment please.”

Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

“Can you please repeat that?” asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. “Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. Thank you,” he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialed the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, “Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,” said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Mr. Albert Webber.”