|
 ALBIE
HAD BEEN QUITE POORLY over
Easter. His mother put it all down to gluttony, as he’d gorged
far too many hot cross buns and chocolate eggs, and was now paying
the price for his foolhardiness, she scolded. The lad was off his
food, which was most unusual for him, with even his favourite –
beans on toast – being left untouched on his plate. But, returning
to the Paston School after the Easter holidays, Albie knew the real
reason for his queasiness – the forthcoming GCE examinations!
ONE
WEEK INTO THE SUMMER TERM and with the exams to end
all exams looming ever-closer, Albie was beginning to panic. He
knew, all too well, what was expected of him and didn’t want
to let anyone down, least of all his parents, but he had to admit
he was far from being an academic. When
he paused to consider the most basic subjects – English, Maths
and History – and although he was a borderline case he thought
he might possibly just squeeze through – there were
other subjects that really bothered him, such as French – which
he spoke with a Norfolk accent – and Geography and the Sciences.
The list was endless it seemed, and the thought of ‘failure’
made him feel sick to his stomach.
One
day, Mr Read, the woodwork master, called all the boys together,
with the intention of testing them in the art of making dovetail
joints!
ALBIE
FEELS QUEASY!
“You’ll
work in pairs,” he said, fiddling with his greying moustache,
“so, find yourself a workbench and make a start!”
 “A
dovetail joint?”
moaned Albie to the boy working with him, “I can’t even
cut a piece of wood straight, let alone make a joint!”
“You’ll
have to do better than that, Albie,” complained his woodwork
master, looking at his first effort, “that piece of wood is
cut all on the ‘sosh’!”
“And
it’s the wrong size!” he continued, “Now what
did I tell you? Measure twice and cut once!”
The
more Albie tried, the more he worried, and the more concerned he
became, the more nauseous he began to feel.
“Please,
Sir!” exclaimed his concerned workbench companion, “Albie
doesn’t look at all well!”
That
was certainly an understatement, as Albie’s face matched the
shade of his white woodwork apron.
“Outside,
immediately,” shouted Mr Read with a degree of utmost
urgency, with Albie now totally devoid of colour. “You’ll
feel much better after a breath of fresh air!”
Then,
as an afterthought, which did nothing to dispel Albie’s anguish,
nor settle his heaving stomach: “We don’t want you spewing
up in here, do we now?”
Once
outside, Albie began to feel a bit better and the colour returned
to his cheeks. He was just on the point of going back to his woodwork
class when Mrs Marshall, the Headmaster’s wife, appeared with
a basket full of delicacies from Rackstraws, the Grocers, in the
town.
“Just
what are you doing there, boy?” she demanding in her
usual ‘wife-of-the-head’ sort of way.
Albie
explained he had felt unwell and had been instructed by his woodwork
master to ‘get some fresh air’.
“Nonsense!”
she retorted, angrily, “I don’t believe a word
of it!”
“But
it’s true, Ma’am,” replied a pasty-looking
Albie, feeling his nausea making an unwelcome return.
“Don’t
you lie to me,” declared Mrs Marshall, grabbing the
boy’s arm, “you’ve been misbehaving – that’s
why you’ve been sent out!”
Albie
was fighting a losing battle and, unknown to him, matters were about
to take a sinister turn for the worse.
“Come
with me, this instant,” she bellowed, “I’m
taking you to see the Headmaster!”
A
VISIT TO THE HEADMASTER
Grabbing
Albie by his ear, Mrs Marshall frog-marched the lad to the Office,
where Miss Joan Pratt, the school secretary, was pounding away on
her ancient typewriter.
“Trouble,
Mrs Marshall?” she enquired, as Albie was led into the room,
protesting vociferously.
“This
ruffian needs to be put in his place, Miss Pratt,” replied
the Headmaster’s wife, keeping a tight grip on the lad. “Says
he’s sick – but don’t you believe a
word of it!”
Lieut.
Col. Marshall wasn’t at all amused when his ‘nearest and
dearest’ burst in, pushing the protesting pupil in front of
her.
“Headmaster,”
she declared, pointing to a shaking Albie, “This young fellow
has been sent out of Mr Read’s class for misbehaviour!”
The
Headmaster drew himself up to his full height and, with a swirl
of his black gown, glowered down upon ashen-faced Albie.
“Well,
boy?” he said, reaching for his cane, “What do
you have to say for yourself? Are these accusations true?”
“Please,
Sir,” replied an almost tearful Albie, “I did feel sick,
an’ I still do, an’ tha’s why I wuz sent out.”
The
lad continued to protest his innocence, and that ‘feeling unwell’
was the only reason for his dismissal from the classroom, which
seemed to cause a mellowing of attitude in the Headmaster.
“If
you really feel that ill,” announced Lieut. Col.
Marshall, remembering that he had much better things to do with
his time, “you shouldn’t be here at all, so I suggest
you had better return to your home – immediately!”
Albie
nodded, in subservient agreement. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,”
he gulped and quickly made for the door.
“And
I do not expect to see you in my study ever again,”
warned the Headmaster sternly, “Is that understood?”
Albie
gulped loudly, apologised hoarsely, and fled the room.
ALBIE
GETS SENT HOME
On
the train to Sheringham, the guard took one look at Albie’s
colourless face and insisted he sat on the floor in the guard’s
van next to an open window ‘just in case’! The rolling
motion of the carriage did nothing to dispel Albie’s nausea
and, by the time the train had reached West Runton, the boy just
had to get off. He would walk the rest of the way, he told the guard.
Leaving
Albie alone on West Runton station platform, the train started to
move off again. “Cheerio, boy,” shouted the guard, leaning
out of the guard’s van window, “I do hope you’ll
feel better soon!”
With
that the train puffed away, quickly disappearing under the railway
bridge and round the bend on its way to Sheringham, leaving a pale-faced
Albie on the start of a two-mile walk across the fields to Sheringham.
 Soon,
he passed West Runton church, which was set back from the main road.
Then he headed along the overgrown footpath beside the railway line,
eventually emerging next to All Saints’ church, in Beeston
Regis, with views of the sea and Beeston Bump in the distance.
With
a pale-golden sun shining down from a clear blue sky, Albie paused
for a while to watch the sea birds wheeling and calling near the
clifftops.
The
lad sat on a steep grassy bank, beside the old pond he knew as Organ
Beck, and watched as the gossamer-winged damselflies skimmed across
its silvery surface pausing, every now and again, to rest on floating
vegetation.
Taking
an exercise book and pencil out of his satchel, Albie began to doodle
on one of the pages – quite aimlessly at first.
After
a while, his doodling began to resemble the idyllic scene set before
him, and he paused from his efforts to admire his work of art. Suddenly,
all feelings of sickness had miraculously disappeared and he began
to feel much better in himself.
“Gosh,”
Albie laughed to himself, “this wholly beats woodwork!”
ALBIE
DISCOVERS HIS HIDDEN TALENT!
Then
he began to romanticise about the sheer beauty of the landscape
unfolding before him. It was as if he’d opened his eyes for
the very first time. Looking down at his drawing – only a rough
sketch at this stage – he suddenly became aware that he did
possess some talent after all!
 “Well,
I’ll be blowed,” he said to himself, gazing at
his sketch of Organ Beck, “tha’s a pretty darned good
drawing, even if I do say so myself!”
Unknown
to Albie, the seeds of an artistic temperament were sown within
his subconscious mind that day, awakening a passion for self-expression:
drawing and painting – and seeds that would germinate and continue
to grow over the years that lay ahead.
Now,
at last, he knew there was something he was really
good at, and something, he hoped, would, one day, make his parents
really proud of him – only time would tell.
NEXT:
Albie leaves the Paston School
– but what does the future hold for the lad from Sheringham?
Please sign Albie’s guestbook as I would love to hear your
comments –
or email:
|
