www.albiestales.co.uk part two

ROZ WAS ALMOST CERTAIN Albie was up to something. Why had he disappeared, so suddenly, with hardly a word? Where had he gone and why had it seemed so important to him? Perhaps he’d an inkling regarding her recent one-off dalliance, she thought, as, at the Norwich School of Art, it was impossible for even the most minor peccadillo to remain a secret for long. What had she been thinking about, she asked herself, as she recalled her night of unbridled passion beside the sea. Perhaps Albie was seeking his revenge behind Blackfriars’ Hall with that buxom blonde from the Boot and Shoe department. But if only she knew the truth...

WAITING PATIENTLY in the little red telephone box next to St Andrew’s Church for his call to be answered, Albie began planning what he was going to say to the people at Jarrold Printing. However, when they answered his mouth had dried up and his pre-planned ‘speech’, with all its carefully-chosen words, was all but forgotten.

“Hello? Hello? ” said the lady in the Personnel office, “are you still there? – may I help you?”

Giving a loud cough, to clear his throat, Albie eventually blurted out one continuous sentence, until his breath ran out: “Yes – please – I’m an Art student an’ I think you may be lookin’ for one to help you out during the summer – well if you are could I please be given a chance to ... aahh...”

“Hold on, hold on, not so fast,” laughed the lady on the other end of the telephone.“I’m Miss McReynolds, the Personnel Officer at Jarrold’s – just take your time, young man. First, tell me your name and then I’ll see what I can do.”

Taking a very deep breath, Albie began again. “I’m Albie Gray... from Sheringham,” he replied, keeping as calm as he could although his heart was beating fit to burst, “and, please, Miss McReynolds, I’ve just heard at the Art School that you may have a job for an artist, like me, in your Printing Works.”

“Hmm, well, I’m not too sure,” she replied, “but – don’t go away and I’ll check with the manager of our Design department.”

“Thank you so much,” Albie replied politely, crossing his fingers behind his back for luck. Then, it suddenly dawned upon him that this was probably all part of some silly game Roz was playing, merely to wind him up, and he began to descend into the doldrums of despair once more.

“Roz’s right, of course,” he said to himself, cupping a hand over the telephone mouthpiece, “I’m nothing but a loser, me – why, I couldn’t even add up a few numbers for that Mr Kingdom, could I? He was right, an’orl – I’m useless – who’d ever want to give me a job?”

Just then Miss McReynolds returned and picked up the telephone: “Hello, Albie? Are you still there?”

“Hello, yes, I’m here,” he replied, not daring to ask if there was a job or not.

“Well, Albie, I’ve had a word with our Mr Oliver,” she told him, “and I’m pleased to say there is a job in our Design department – could you possibly come to see me right away – oh, and could you bring some examples of your work with you?”

“Oh, yes – of course – and, thank you, Miss McReynolds,” Albie replied, his voice choking with emotion, “ – I’ll be there... as quickly as I can...!”

Then, with eyes filled with tears of relief and joy, he quickly fled from the telephone box in the shadow of St Andrew’s and ran back to the Art School to pick up his sketchbooks, before heading for Jarrold Printing in Cowgate Street – and the chance of a lifetime!

ALBIE ARRIVES AT THE YARN MILL

With his books of pen and ink sketches tucked safely under his arm, Albie ran down the back stairs of the Norwich School of Art – hoping to avoid bumping into Roz! Once out of the back door, which opened into Monastery Court, he gingerly made his way across the corner of mediaeval Elm Hill – its road paved with uneven cobble stones – and ducked under the overhanging branches of the Elm tree from whence it got its name.

Halfway along narrow Waggon and Horses Lane, the sound of gramophone music was blaring from the School of Dance where Roz had learned the ‘art’ of ballroom dancing.

Albie knew the tune and singer well – Blue Skies by Bing Crosby. “Well, tha’s a rummun,” he said to himself, pausing for a moment to listen, “never saw the sun shinin’ so bright – never saw things goin’ so right!” That was an omen, he was almost sure of it, and things were about to go right for him and Roz at long last – he could feel it in his bones!

“No, dahlings, not like that...” a high-pitched, sing-song voice called out as Albie passed the open doorway. “– let’s take it again from the top, and, sweetie, do try to use both feet this time!”

Hurrying on his way, he crossed the road into Tombland, passing almost under the shadow of the most imposing of all the City’s ecclesiastical buildings, Norwich Cathedral, with its majestic spire standing sentinel over the bustling Close, over 300 feet below.

Nearby, Nurse Cavell – that famous lady who made the ultimate sacrifice for her Country in the Great War – seemed to glance in his direction from her lofty plinth in the centre of the road as he passed by.

A few minutes later, arriving at St Martin-at-Palace Plain, Albie paused for a well-deserved breather – then wished he hadn’t, as sulphurous smoke and fumes spewed, unrestrained, out of the tall brick chimneys of the nearby Victorian Gasworks, cloaking his lungs with their bitter, metallic taste. The sickening stench of bad eggs hung heavily in the air, forcing him to clutch his mouth as he started to gag uncontrollably. It was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno – how could anyone work in such an environment, he wondered?

Then he noticed Whitefriars’ Bridge where, under its wide and graceful arch, meandered the slow-moving River Wensum as it continued on its quest to converge, at Trowse, with its smaller companion, the River Yare.

Crossing the bridge, he arrived in Cowgate Street, paved, as it was, in sett-stones and lined on both sides with a motley collection of ancient dwelling-houses and tumbledown hostelries – the Yarn Factory, the Black Chequers, the Ship Tavern – now all long-closed of course, having served their last pint many years early, and now in an advanced state of decay.

“But what’s this, I wonder?” said Albie, as he stood beside a ruined archway. “Looks a bit like some old priory, wha’s seen betta days!”

There stood the only remains of the Carmelite Monastery, founded by Philip de Cowgate in 1256, with little else to be seen apart from the old archway at the entrance to Jarrold & Sons’ Printing Works.

Stopping in his tracks, Albie stood gazing in awe at the magnificent red-brick building in front of him, with its round tower capped by a burnished-copper dome. There, fixed to the very top of the tower was a sign, declaring it to have been built for The Norwich Yarn Company in 1839, but it was now the home to the world-famous Jarrold & Sons Ltd, Colour Printers of Norwich.

Albie suddenly realised, he’d arrived at last!

ALBIE MAKES A GOOD IMPRESSION

“Gosh, what a building!” he exclaimed to himself, thinking he was alone in his thoughts. However, he had not noticed the Vespa scooter tootling up the drive behind him – ‘beep, beep’ it went and squealed to a halt next to the Yarn Mill.

“New boy, eh?” laughed the gaberdine-coated figure getting off the scooter. “First day, is it? If so, you’re hooly learte, you are, an’orl!”

“No,” replied Albie, “ I en’t new – well, s’poose I am in a sorta way – I’m here for a job.”

“Ha-ha,” continued the scooter-man, introducing himself as Charlie Baker, the Works’ Messenger, and never to be seen without a cigarette drooping from his mouth! “I thought as much, an’ I bet you’re from that there School o’ Art – if yar purple shirt is anythin’ to go by!”

“Actually, it’s lilac, Mr Baker!” Albie corrected him, “but, yes, I am an Art student, an’ I’ve come t’see Miss McReynolds.”

“Go in that door there,” Charlie nodded, indicating a doorway at the base of the Mill’s imposing tower. “You’ll find Miss McReynolds in a room on the right – an’, don’t keep her waiting, young-fella-me-lad!”

Taking Charlie’s advice, Albie quickly went through the doorway, past an antiquated lift with concertina doors, and stopped in front of a door with a sign announcing: ‘Personnel – Please Knock and Enter’!

Giving a couple of polite ‘taps’ on the heavy wooden door, he entered, and was greeted by a friendly-looking lady standing by a row of grey and green filing cabinets.

“Good morning,” he said politely, “I have an appointment with Miss McReynolds...”

“Oh, good,” she replied, with a kindly smile, “I am she – and you must be... Albie?”

“Yes,” he replied, holding out his hand, which she shook quite firmly, “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

With that, Miss McReynolds led him to her private office in a corner of the Personnel department and closed the door behind them. Sitting down behind a well-polished wooden desk, she looked at Albie in a most reassuring way. For once in his life he felt quite at ease with the situation and, glancing around her office, he just knew he was going to like it at Jarrolds – that’s if they offered him the job,of course!

“Now, Albie,” she said, leaning back in her comfortable leather chair and folding her arms in front of her, “do tell me all about yourself – where you live, where you were educated and then you can show me some of your work. I take it you did bring some with you?”

Laying his sketchbooks down on the table in front of her, he told the Personnel Officer he was a Sheringham lad – born and bred – and had received his early schooling in the town.

“But I was most privileged to complete my studies,” he continued, with his chest swelling with pride, “as a scholar at the Paston School in North Walsham!”

Then he began to talk, at some length, of his ‘hero’ – Horatio Nelson – ending with: “For he was our proudest boast”.

“That was fascinating!” Miss McReynolds declared, giving him a look of instant approval, “so you are an Old Pastonian, then? Please, do tell me, what were your achievements in the examination room?”

Oh dear, thought Albie, rather caught off guard by this line of questioning. However, he quickly regained his composure and replied: “Art – of course!”

“Of course,” replied Miss McReynolds, smiling at him. “ I rather gathered that – but what of Mathematics... English... History? You did take those as well, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes – of course,” he replied, gaining confidence by the minute, although not exactly ready to reveal his dismal results.

“And the Sciences as well,” he continued, hoping that the Personnel Officer had been fooled into believing he’d actually passed all the subjects he’d mentioned. However, she seemed more interested in seeing the contents of his sketchbooks.

“I really think it’s far more important to see some of your drawings,” she said, reaching out over her desk to pick up one his sketchbooks, “after all, we’re not expecting you to work in the Wages department, are we?”

Thank goodness for small mercies, thought Albie!

Thumbing through the pages of his sketchbook, Miss McReynolds seemed quite impressed by what she saw – although on one or two occasions raising her eyebrows at a few of the more risqué drawings!

Handing the book back to him, she picked up the telephone on her desk. “Will you excuse me, please,” she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, “perhaps you’d wait outside for a moment, then I’ll take you to the Design department.”

Albie went outside and waited in the corridor next to the lift.

“Hello, could I speak to Mr Oliver, please?” Miss McReynolds asked the Jarrold switchboard operator.

“Oh, Mr Oliver,” continued the Personnel Officer, as the Design manager answered his telephone, “I’ve just seen Albie Gray from the Art School – and I’m most impressed by the lad! Shall I bring him to see you now?”

FRIENDLY DESIGNERS

Having finished her conversation with the manager of Design, Miss McReynolds stepped out of her office and joined Albie waiting patiently in the corridor.

“If you would like to follow me,” she said, leading the way up a flight of stone steps ascending the round tower in the Yarn Mill, “I’ll take you to meet the people in our Design department.”

On the first floor, she opened a door leading into the general office, where scores of people – men, women and young girls alike – were busying themselves, going about their everyday tasks. This, it seemed to Albie, was the hub of Jarrolds – like a vast centre of operations where plans were made and put into motion on a day-to-day basis.

People, everywhere, were making telephone calls. Some were receiving orders from customers who wished to have books, calendars and postcards printed, whilst others were ordering vast of supplies of paper and ink to satisfy the hunger of the printing presses. Elsewhere, girls were hammering away on typewriters and adding machines, or working on colossal boards planning the progress of various jobs as they were printed, bound and made ready for dispatch to the far corners of the World.

To Albie, the scene before him was absolutely breathtaking – and he was eager to become part of it!

“This is our Mr Oliver, the manager of Design,” Miss McReynolds told Albie, as they approached a distinguished-looking man sitting at a large desk in the department. “He’ll tell you more about the job on offer, then show you around, no doubt.”

“Um – hello, Albie, sit down will you,” said Mr Oliver, looking up from his work and dragging out a chair for the lad. “Miss McReynolds has told me all about you, so let’s get on by having a look at some of your work, shall we?”

Flicking through the pages of Albie’s sketchbooks, the Design manager seemed to be quite impressed, nodding his head in approval although sometimes raising his eyebrows at some of the more outrageous studies of ‘ladies’ in various states of undress!

“Good – quite good!” he declared, getting up from his chair, “come with me Albie, and I’ll introduce you to our team – but there may be a few faces you already recognize, of course!”

Indeed there were, thought Albie, as two past students from the Norwich School of Art began waving to him.

“What are you doing here, boy Albie?” asked John Newland, another ex-student from the Norwich School of Art. “I thought you still had another year to go?”

“Don’t take any notice of him,” laughed Tony Mullins, who had left the Art School only the year before having gained the much-coveted National Diploma of Design, “best you come and join us – I can teach you a thing or two, boy!”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Mr Oliver, taking Albie to meet the other designers, “he’ll lead you astray, giving half a chance!”

Albie knew exactly what the manager meant, as he had already heard of Tony’s reputation as somewhat of a ladies’ man!

There were so many faces looking up at the new boy from behind their drawing boards.

“This is Janet,” Albie heard Mr Oliver say, then: “and Jill... Ivan... Mildred... Barry... and, over there, in the corner is Felix, our very best artist...” So many designers, thought Albie, and far too many names for him to remember!

Glancing towards the far corner of the room – with its tall, multi-paned windows looking out onto the Gas Works, Albie began watching Felix hard at work, spraying paint all over a photograph, and, every now and again, treadling away on a foot pedal attached to a compressor that kept hissing and spluttering to itself.

“... Felix is retouching a photograph using an airbrush,” Mr Oliver told him.

“Would you like to have a go, young man?” joked Felix, handing Albie the airbrush. “It’s quite easy, y’know.”

What friendly people they were, thought Albie, and he felt quite at home.

WILL FATE INTERVENE?

Mr Oliver then told Albie about the various work they did in the Design department: designing and putting together art books, school books, holiday guide books; then there were postcards and calendars, seed and bulb catalogues for gardeners, and... a book for someone called Patrick Moore, all about the stars at night.

“We could really do with someone like you to help us on that one,” he said, “when we make a start with Patrick’s book in a week or two’s time!”

Albie’s ears pricked up; was that an offer of work, had he got the job?

Then remembered his examination – the Intermediate in Arts and Crafts – which he was due to take the following week. “I’m afraid I couldn’t start work until the summer holidays,” he told Mr Oliver, assuming he’d just been offered the job. “I’m really quite busy with exams an’ that, at the moment...”

Just then, the telephone began to ring on the manager’s desk.

“Excuse me for a moment, Albie,” said Mr Oliver, picking up the telephone, “I’d better answer that – Hello?”

“Oh, yes, Miss McReynolds,” he said, turning his back on Albie, “why yes – he’s still with me, but we’ve almost finished... oh, dear, is that so... well, yes. I suppose I’d better tell him!”

“I’m sorry, Albie,” he continued, “but, I understand we’ve just had another applicant for the job...”

Until that moment, Albie had been on a ‘high’, almost convinced he’d been offered the job – and how he was looking forward to becoming part of the team at Jarrolds – but now it seemed, Fate had conspired against him once more and his short dream of working at Jarrolds was never to be!

Shaking Albie’s hand, Mr Oliver apologised: “I am so sorry, Albie, but we’ll just have to let you know, I’m afraid!”

So, that was that, thought Albie, no job again, and, feeling utterly dejected, he began making his way back down the stone staircase in the round tower of the Yarn Mill.

Who else could have known of the job, he asked himself? Who indeed!

As he was about to cross Whitefriars’ Bridge, on the way back to the Norwich School of Art, Albie met Roz walking towards him!

“I can guess where you’ve been,” she snapped angrily, “Jarrolds – after my job!”

Then, in a fit of pique, she ripped the ‘gold’ medallion from around his neck and tossed it into the swirling waters of the River Wensum, and, for good measure, then gave the side of his face an almighty swipe with the palm of her hand, leaving his ears ringing for the rest of the day.

“How could you?” she screamed: “You knew how badly I wanted that job – I never want to see you again!”

After that, Albie took a well-deserved break to lick his wounds and contemplate his future, such as it was. Would he make it up with Roz? Would he pass his exams, or suffer the indignity of being a failure, yet again? And just who would get the job in the Design department at Jarrolds’ Printing Works? One thing’s for sure, without his medallion, which had been his trademark for so long, he was certainly feeling down on his luck. But, hey! It could have been much worse – Roz could’ve ripped his favourite lilac shirt off his back! Thank goodness for small mercies!

NEXT: Albie receives a letter from Norwich. Is it from Roz and has she forgiven him? Will she take him back and will they live happily ever after? Find out in PART THREE: Albie and the Lion.

SOME OF ALBIE’S FAVOURITE WEBSITES A Norfolk Entertainer A Moment in Time Enjoy North Norfolk Enjoy Norwich Flint Holiday Cottages Norfolk Churches Norfolk Dialect Norfolk Village Signs Norwich City Hall and the Lions Picture Norfolk Remember Norfolk Sculthorpe Spyplanes

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