www.albiestales.co.uk part two

MONEY, MONEY, MONEY
(ABBA)

I work all night, I work all day,
to pay the bills I have to pay,
Ain't it sad?
And still there never seems to be, A single penny left for me,
That's too bad.
In my dreams I have a plan,
If I got me a wealthy man,
I wouldn't have to work at all
I'd fool around and have a ball.

Money, money, money,
Must be funny,
In the rich man's world.
Money, money, money,
Always sunny,
In the rich man's world.
Aha-ahaaa,
All the things I could do,
If I had a little money,
It's a rich man's world.

A man like that is hard to find,
But I can't get him off my mind,
Ain't it sad?
And if he happens to be free,
I bet he wouldn't fancy me,
That's too bad.
So I must leave, I'll have to go,
To Las Vegas or Monaco,
And win a fortune in a game,
my life will never be the same.

Money, money, money,
Must be funny,
In the rich man's world.
Money, money, money,
Always sunny,
In the rich man's world.
Aha-ahaaa,
All the things I could do,
If I had a little money,
It's a rich man's world.

Money, money, money,
Must be funny,
In the rich man's world.
Money, money, money,
Always sunny,
In the rich man's world.
Aha-ahaaa,
All the things I could do,
If I had a little money,
It's a rich man's world.

FOLLOWING THE WEDDING of her cousin, Roz began to make plans for the future – her’s and Albie’s together. It all started quite innocently of course, with the merest hint of taking their relationship a step further, but soon moved up a gear with an endless round of window gazing. Jewellery of some distinction was drooled over in Dipple’s of Swan Lane, Bridal ensembles of the purest white satins were paraded before full-length mirrors in Annette’s of Castle Meadow, and ‘glass slippers’ – the height of fashion, with heels to match – by Edwards & Holmes were teetered in, and discarded, before the clock struck twelve noon! Albie, being short of a sandwich, was propelled – protesting vociferously as usual – towards the welcoming doorway of Austin Reed’s in London Street, where they have everything for men. But it didn’t end there, of course – even Norwich Cathedral was given the ‘once over’!

BY MID-JUNE 1960, Albie had fallen into the deepest depths of despair. It would cost money – lots and lots of money – to bring their plans to fruition and, turning out his pockets and searching his Post Office account, the truth was he had none! He was distraught with worry, just what had he got himself into?

“You worry so!” Roz told him as they emerged from Loose’s of Magdalen Street, having examined their entire range of silver-plated napkin rings. “We mustn’t let a mere trifle like money get in our way, must we? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

With this remark, she dragged him into Jarrold’s Store in London Street, where she worked as a Saturday girl in the Art Department. This kept her in clothes, shoes and make up – but nowhere near enough to pay for what she had in mind.

“You could do as I have done,” she told him, as they began scouring the pots and pans for a set with Teak handles, “and get a job – after all, money doesn’t grow on trees, you know!” That, thought Albie, was just what he had been trying to tell her!

In his third year at the Norwich School of Art, Albie had hoped to continue his studies to gain a National Diploma in Design, but that would mean yet another year without money. If it meant getting a job to please Roz, then getting one he would – but what could he do, he asked himself? Later that day, he made up his mind to visit the Labour Exchange in Colegate to see just what jobs they had on offer.

THE LABOUR EXCHANGE

The cold, foreboding building housing the Labour Exchange, in Colegate, was only a few hundred yards around the corner from the Art School, but as soon as Albie put a foot inside he realised what a dreadful place it was!

All four walls were daubed in a melancholy shade of grey-green distemper, well-trodden and flattened cigarette ends littered the concrete floor, and the sickening stench of disinfectant clung nauseously to his every intake of breath.

“Dear God,” Albie muttered to himself, eyes half closed in silent prayer, “I really don’t want to be here – oh, what have I done?”

With growing reluctance, he joined the seemingly-endless plague of unemployed men and boys, of all ages, in three distinct rows, as they crept slowly towards a group of grey-painted desks where sat three official-looking, though obviously visually-impaired bureaucrats, as they displayed no sign of making eye contact with the jobseekers, or, indeed, showing any feeling whatsoever.

“Next!” one of them shouted, without the merest glance at the person before them who was, to all intents, just a number, another wastrel seeking a dole-out from the public coffers. An unfortunate at the head of the queue stepped forward.

“Take this!” shouted the bureaucrat in the smart suit, waving a piece of paper. “Next!”

Soon it was Albie’s turn at the front of the demoralised queue of men shuffling forward to seek work – any work – by now no-one was unduly bothered, they just wanted to work.

“Next! – Come on, get a move on – I haven’t got all day!” shouted a hard-faced woman, her hair done up in a bun and wearing round, wire-rimmed spectacles. Half closing his eyes, Albie could almost imagine her as a female Regimental Sergeant-Major, especially when she snapped: “Name?”

In fact, he paused for a moment before answering, but no ‘rank’ or ‘number’ followed!

“Speak up, boy!” she rasped impatiently, “I said, what-is-your-name?”

Forgetting himself for a moment, Albie snapped smartly to attention and answered: “Gray, Albie, Sar’nt – sorry – Ma-am.”

“Address?” she spat, with such venom that Albie took a step back. “Where do you come from, boy?”

“Regis Place, Sheringham – please, Ma-am,” he replied, close to tears.

The woman, barely listening to his reply, began flicking idly through a rotary-card index file. “What do you do?”

“Well... nothin’... at present,” Albie replied naively, misunderstanding her line of interrogation.

“You must do something!” screeched the unsympathetic woman, snapping her pencil in half, “Just what are you good at?”

“Drawing,” Albie replied, “I’m good at drawing, as I’m an Artist at the Norwich School of ...”

Stopping him in mid-sentence with a brush of her hand, she retorted: “Good for nothing then...” and began exploring the contents of the rotary-card index file once more.

“This will do,” she eventually declared, satisfied with her choice, and began scribbling some almost indecipherable notes on a little card.

“Take this!” she ordered, thrusting it into Albie’s quivering hand. “And go to that address – immediately!”

With that, she brusquely waved him away.

“Next! Come on get a move on... I haven’t all day...”

ARTIST OR CLERK?

Following the instructions on the little card in his hand, Albie found himself standing outside an address in the Upper Close of Norwich Cathedral – near the Erpingham gate – almost within the shadow of the ecclesiastical building itself.

Opening the outer door to the premises of Kingdom, Anderson & Kingdom, Commissioners For Oaths and Deeds – as inscribed on a brass nameplate in flowing copperplate script – Albie went inside, only to be confronted with another door with a sign that said ’Knock and Wait’!

Plucking up courage, he gave a polite knock on the door as indicated and began waiting patiently.

“Enter!” shouted a woman in the inner office. Opening the door, he stepped into the dark and musty, oak-panelled room where sat the lady, of advancing years, hammering away at the keys of an equally-antiquated upright typewriter.

“Yes?” she enquired, in a rather officious manner, tapping the carriage return and continuing to hit the keys as if there was to be no tomorrow, “and just what do you want, young man?”

“I’ve come about this here job,” replied Albie, handing her the slip of paper. “The Labour Exchange sent me.”

“Wait here, will you!” she ordered, with a noticeable impatience at having to stop typing. “And – do try not to touch anything!”

Looking around the dingy room, he noticed all four walls were lined with shelves, each heaving under the weight of rows and rows of ancient books and ledgers; whilst piles of papers – all tightly bound by coloured ribbons – were stacked, higgledy-piggledy on the floor, hardly leaving room to walk. On the desk, just vacated by the lady-with-the-typewriter, apart from the machine itself, were several sticks of bright-red sealing wax, an assortment of pens and pencils, a large packet of brass fasteners and an old embossing press complete with a series of dies for stamping official documents.

On the one remaining space left on the wall by the door, hung a large oil painting – a portrait– in a gilt-edged frame. Being an artist, this was the only thing of interest in the room for Albie, so he just had to have a closer look.

“Is this Kingdom, Anderson or, maybe, the other Kingdom?” he wondered, gazing up at the portrait of a Victorian-looking gentleman, staring back at him from out of the painting. “Wun’t watta meet him on a dark night...”

Just then, the lady returned accompanied by a corpulent, ruddy-faced man – having the look of one who had seen far too many years of ‘la dolce vita’ – who cast his eyes, as if in judgement, upon Albie.

“Mr Kingdom,” said the woman, pointing to Albie with a hand dripping with expensive jewellery, “this young man claims to have been sent us by the people in Colegate...”

“So this is all they can spare these days!” complained Mr Kingdom the Younger, taking a cursory glance in Albie’s direction. “Well, I suppose he’ll have to do – better than nothing, I suppose. Though I just cannot think what Mr Anderson will say and, as for our Mr Kingdom – rest his soul’ – he’ll be turning in his grave, I shouldn’t wonder! ”

Without warning he turned on Albie. “Sit down, boy,” he commanded, “and we’ll see what you can do!”

Albie quickly drew up the chair tucked under the typist-cum-secretary’s desk. “No, not that one!” she screeched, pulling it away from him. “In the corner, if you will, and be quick about it – I’ve got work to do! ”

Sitting down on a rickety chair, behind a dusty table with an inkwell that wobbled, Albie waited patiently whilst young Mr Kingdom removed a large ledger from a bulging shelf. After blowing years of accumulated dust off the heavy, leather-bound volume he slammed it down on the table in front of Albie.

Suddenly, Albie has a terrible premonition of what was to follow – and he was not to be disappointed!

“Add all these figures in the left-hand column,” demanded Mr Kingdom, indicating an endless column of numbers with a podgy, over-fed finger. “And see if they balance with the total on the right – and be sharp about it!”

PYTHAGORAS OR PICASSO?

Before his very eyes, the rows and rows of numbers began swirling around like dirty bathwater escaping down the whirlpool of a plug hole – and, once again, his mathematical failings caught up with him.

He made a valiant effort, of course, and, having a theory that his fingers might help with his additional problems, began a careful summing up with his digits – but, in the end, the lad had to face up to a resounding defeat!

“Sorry, Sir,” he said, most apologetically, “but that wun’t never part o’ my plan to be a math-muh-tishan...”

“You useless boy,” Mr Kingdom complained, as he slammed shut the large book and stuffed it back on the groaning shelf, “I just do not know what the youth of today are coming to – are you good at anything, I wonder?”

“B-but,” stuttered Albie, almost in tears, “I’m only an artist!”

“Where on earth did they abstract you from, then?” fumed Mr Kingdom, seemingly ready to burst a blood vessel. “Go, now – or do I have to paint you a picture?” he continued, showing him the door.

Albie tried to apologize, but the man would have none of it.

“Get back to your blessèd art school!” ordered young Mr Kingdom, Senior Partner with Kingdom, Hardiment & Kingdom, Solicitors For Oaths and Deeds. “And do whatever you beatniks do!”

MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING

“Well?” asked Roz, on Albie’s return to the Art School, “did you get the job?”

“Hmmm... not in some many words,” he replied, deciding some subtle diplomacy was required, “they said I should go back when I was a bit older...”

“Huh – that’s typical of you, what a lame excuse!” she retorted, disappointed by his lack of success on the road to providing the kind of lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed – and intended having! “You’re useless, you! I just don’t know why I bother!”

From that day onwards, Roz and Albie’s friendship began to wane. It was certainly not what he’d expected – nor wanted – but their relationship was definitely entering the Third Ice Age! What could he do, he asked himself? There seemed nothing for it but to place their ‘nuptial plans’ on indefinite hold – which didn’t bode well for either of them. So he decided a ‘cooling-off’ period was called for, especially with the important Intermediate Examination in Arts and Crafts about to start.

“I really must pass the Intermediate this time,” Albie told Roz, one day near the end of June, “so, I've bin thinkin’, while we can still see each other at Art School, perhaps we oughta study a bit more at weekends – if tha’s awright with you, that is?”

His girlfriend, though not over keen on the idea, agreed as she had plans of her own!

“I shall be quite busy, too,” she told him, being slightly conservative with the truth, “ as there’s my hair to do, then helping Mum with the ironing and the housework, cutting the lawn for Dad – and studying for the exams as well, of course. Oh, I just don’t know how I shall fit everything in!”

“I’m so glad you agree,” replied Albie, relieved that she felt the same although rather astonished that she’d so readily agreed for them to remain apart at weekends. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, he told himself, so, once the exams were over it would be life as normal and all would be well again – or would it?

Roz, however, thought it prudent not to mention her planned visit to Cromer, to attend a night-time performance of Summer Fun and Frolics, the End of the Pier Show, accompanied by another Art student – having decided instead to leave Albie in blissful ignorance, after all, she thought, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him – yet!

So, on Saturday night, while Albie was safely tucked up in bed, following an evening spent practising the art of wood engraving in preparation for his forthcoming examination, Roz was ‘lauding it up’ with Howard, a Michael Bentine lookalike from Mundesley.

“Oh, this is the life, Howie,” she laughed, enjoying an ice cream as they promenaded, arm in arm, together. “How I’d like to see Albie’s face now – but still, what the eye can’t see, the heart can’t grieve over, can it?”

“Too true, old bean,” replied Howard, as they headed for the seclusion of Happy Valley!

THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME!

One weekend, whilst working part-time in the Art Department at Jarrold’s London Street Store, Roz discovered they also had a printing works, which was in desperate need of a graphic designer for the summer months and, in keeping with Company policy, the position was to be offered to a suitable candidate from the Norwich School of Art.

Unable to keep it to herself for long, the following Monday morning at the Art School she told Albie of her plans.

“I’ve decided to apply for a job at Jarrold Printing,” she said – which was to prove a serious error of judgement on her part. “Besides, it will pay much better than working in the shop, so tomorrow I thought I would give them a ring – what do you think, Albie?”

“Sounds quite a good idea,” he replied, but secretly thinking it sounded like the answer to all his prayers. “But, do you think you’ll like workin’ amongst all those great big printin’ machines?”

The more he thought about it, the more determined he became to apply for the job himself, as, having old-fashioned notions that the man-of-the-house should be the breadwinner, if he applied and got the job he could make her happy again and keep her in the lifestyle she desired so much.

The dreams they had shared together, the plans that they had both made, could be made to happen – at last – if he got the job.

“Shan’t be long,” he told Roz, heading for the door opening into St George’s Street, “I just need to go somewhere...!”

Once out of the Norwich School of Art, Albie sprinted up the street towards St Andrew’s church, passing the Red Lion and Nundy’s Cars – with its lines of rusty, unroadworthy, secondhand vehicles. Crossing the road next to the Festival House pub, where a great many students enjoyed their liquid lunches, he opened the door to the telephone box, nestling next to the church, determined to make the call which was certain to change his life forever, he hoped!

“Roz will be pleased with me,” he said, as he inserted tuppence in the slot and dialled 2-5-2-6-1.

“Jarrold Printing, Norwich,” answered a voice at the other end of the line, “may I help you, Caller?”

“You most certainly may,” replied Albie, full of confidence in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing at last – and how pleased Roz was going to be with him!

At least, that’s what he thought!

FINALLY: Albie goes for an interview, but what will Roz think and will he get the job?

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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