Walford: No Place Like Home
By Michael McCarthy
Albert Square, a packet of green, surrounded by the shops and council
flats that make up an East End neighbourhood, is an oasis of seasons
come and gone, as well as promises that are yet to be.
Old faces mingle with new, fashions and cars come and go, but the
Square endures. There really is no place like home.
Try as they might, like migrating birds taking flight, its denizens
feel the pull of home and memories call them back, across London and
across the sea. Time is meaningless, only brief reminders of losses,
both personal and professional. The residents of Albert Square rise to
face yet another day, hoping for the best, preparing themselves for
the worst, and all along, taking strength from their neighbourhood.
Hearts are broken, promises fulfilled, at least for the moment, in the
ebb and flow of one season consuming another. Children are born, they
grow, make mistakes, learn, and then, too soon, they forget.
Pauline frets, Ian plots, Peggy carries on, Pat is a pair of open
arms, Barry tries the best he can, the Slaters amaze, Phil broods,
Sonia loves, Dot prays, Alfie charms, Laura plods on. Their faces age
with the traces life etches on all of us.
It may hurt for a while; hope may seem to abandon them; a winter long
blots out the sun – but as surely as love survives, spring returns.
When we hear those familiar chords and see the aerial view of the East
End glide across our television screens, we all know it, we can feel
it in our bones, yes we are finally, fully, happily home, said Jack
the lad, Bob’s your uncle, on Albert Square.
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