www.albiestales.co.uk part one

AS FAR AS ALBIE was concerned, at the Paston School, there was one person to be feared above all others – ‘Maggie’ Magdaleno, the Physical Training Master. Although he was a ‘hard’ man, he was fair with it, and never seemed to single out any one boy when it came to ‘doling out’ punishment – they all got it! Many was the time the sound of plimsoll on bare flesh (well, almost!) would reverberate around the gymnasium accompanied by the associated squeals of pain. Maggie intended to make men of the boys of 12 years of age or so, but perhaps it was bit over-presumptious of him. Anyway, he merely gritted his teeth in determination and had a damn good try! Little did Albie, and the rest of his form, know what they had let themselves in for – but, given time, they would soon be ‘enjoying’ the ‘delights’ of physical exercise!

ONE MORNING, dressed in his PT kit of white shirt and baggy, navy-blue shorts, Albie joined the rest his form in the gymnasium for a period of ‘physical torture’. Maggie approached, whistle at the ready.

“Running on the spot... ...begin!” came his sharp command, accompanied by a loud blast on his whistle which he always seemed to have slung around his neck. After a good ten minutes of this warming-up exercise, Maggie again blew his whistle loudly as a signal to stop.

“Now what?” moaned Albie, breathlessly, and somewhat fatigued by his over-excertions. Luckily for him, and the rest of the boys, his comments went unheard!

“Up the wall bars – Go!” shouted Maggie, again blowing his whistle until the veins in his neck stood out like gnarled tree trunks.

In unquestioning obedience, the boys climbed the horizontal wall bars. Once at the top, with the floor a good six feet below, Maggie ordered them to suspend themselves, backwards, by the hands, as if crucified. Again, they did as they were told.

Soon, thirty or more, juvenile bodies were hanging from the bars, their tightly-clenched hands already beginning to feel the strain. Legs dangling, twitching with uncontrollable muscular spasms; chests heaving in vain attempts to breath in life-giving air; knuckles whitening and fingers beginning to lose grip of the sweat-sodden, slippery wall bars. How they all longed, no, prayed a silent prayer, for deliverance from their torture.

Suddenly, they heard the shrill whistle and, as one, they fell, and collapsed utterly breathless, on the floor of the Gymnasium.

Hardly having had time to recover, the boys then learned their next fate – boxing!

Albie wasn’t at all keen to participate, as he never liked rough games and definitely not fighting with other boys, but Maggie insisted it was all part of the ‘character-forming’ process. There seemed no way out for Albie.

Magdaleno then began pairing off the boys for the contest and seemed to take wicked delight in his selection, as he took neither size nor strength into consideration and, as it turned out, Albie was in for quite a shock.

ALBIE MEETS HIS SPARRING PARTNER

Once in the ring, Albie found himself face to face with a formidable opponent, another lad from Sheringham, called Michael, who had an outstanding physique. It was obvious to all watching that the match was about to be very one sided and the outcome a forgone conclusion. But, with a desperate will to survive, Albie hatched a very cunning plan.

Michael, apart from being very well built, had other pronounced attributes: rather large ears, bigger than Albie’s in fact, and a magnificent specimen of a nose!

Albie, not wishing to get flattened, in the first five seconds of the bout by his seemingly-unconquerable opponent, had heard tell of his weakness – his oversensitive nose. Thus, his strategy was decided...

“Touch gloves and... box!” said Maggie, blowing his whistle for the first round. Albie quickly threw a punch in the general direction of his opponent’s nose. It wasn’t a lucky punch, nor was it well-aimed, but it certainly connected with the target that was so large as to be unmissable.

Poor Michael let out a bloodcurdling howl and spun around in a complete circle with blood spurting uncontrollably from his nasal passages. Albie just stood there with his gloves protecting his face in anticipation of the onslaught yet to come – but none followed.

His opponent was quickly led away clutching his badly-bloodied nose, and taken to the school sickbay where a cold compress was applied to stop the bleeding!

Albie heaved a sigh of relief. Had he had got away with it, he wondered? Well, ‘yes’, for the time being, but, there again, ‘no’ as he was to discover on the homeward train journey, later that day, when Michael was determined to finish the contest!

A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY

Early in 1953, Maggie had introduced some variety into PT by way of a series of cross country runs – as and when he felt like it! Whatever the weather, Albie and the rest of his form were subjected to a three-and-a half-mile run around the outskirts of North Walsham – but at least it meant a break from climbing wall bars, running on the spot and boxing!

One day, during the summer of that year, in morning Assembly the boys were informed of the Annual Cross Country Run, a six-mile course, to which the entire school was expected to participate. To make matters worse, it was to take place first thing after lunch, or ‘dinner’ as Albie continued to call it.

“This afternoon ,” the Headmaster declared, “we shall all enjoy a nice run in the countryside.”

To be more precise, they would run, whilst he – the Headmaster – ‘would see the field of runners off’ and be on hand to ‘welcome them back at the finish line – and ‘woe betide any slackers or malingerers’; and as for ‘enjoying’ it, this was always open to lively debate amongst the participants!

“And I shall be there as well,” warned Maggie, “and I expect to see some good times from you all – so, no slacking!”

All the boys knew Maggie was likely to be anywhere on the route, as he cycled, wherever possible, and would taunt and cajole the boys from the relative comfort of his ladies’ bicycle – complete with a basket on the front containing a single rubber plimsoll!

The morning passed all too quickly for Albie and the rest of Form IIB, with the threat of the cross country run getting closer by the minute. Soon the bell rang, heralding the start of the dinnertime break.

Knowing full well what to expect first thing after dinner, Albie joined the other boys in the canteen. There, queuing at the hatchway was fellow scholar Parke, RC, who, quite naturally, was called ‘Arsie’ by everyone!

“Wha’s for dinner?” asked Albie, standing at the serving hatch, plate in hand, hoping for a ‘light’ lunch.

“It begins with ‘R’,” said Arsie, always the one with a wry sense of humour.

“R-soles!” laughed all the other boys of IIB.

“No!” shouted the dinner-lady, sounding a trifle hurt by their outburst of vulgarity. “Rissoles an’ mash with grearvy, an’ there’s a nice steam puddin’ for afters – an’ pletty for seconds if you’re good!”

“Oh, Gawd, no,” moaned Albie, clutching his stomach, “that’ll be hooly heavy to run on!” And indeed it was too, with several boys destined to fall by the wayside, quickly followed by their helpings of spotted dick! Albie, however, was to be glad he never accepted ‘seconds’, as ‘firsts’ were to lay heavy enough!

First thing after lunch, Albie, and the rest of IIB, strolled across the drive to the changing rooms adjacent to the Gymnasium and put on their running kit.

Then they assembled next to the Form Rooms, adjacent to the School House, to await the start of, what was to be, the six-mile run.

The race would start with the Junior School, those of the first, second and third forms, followed by the Seniors – the most experienced runners – of the fourth, fifth and sixth.

The route they were to cover would be marked by several of the Form Masters and some ‘lucky’ boys, probably the possessors of ‘sick notes’, or ‘weeds’ as Albie called them!

At 2pm precisely, with all the runners assembled and ready for the‘off’, the Headmaster appeared from the direction of his study in the School House and joined the other Masters at the Starting Line.

“On your marks... get set...” he called out, to his battalion of Pastonians, and, raising his revolver to the clear blue sky he pulled the trigger. “BANG” went the gun, “Go!” he shouted, and they were off.

Albie sprinted down the tree-lined drive at a cracking pace, together with his fellow scholars of IIB. Soon they had overtaken the first-formers and, once out of the school gates, turned right along Grammar School Road where motor cars had stopped to allow them to pass, and pedestrians stood back from the kerbside to watch the unabated flood of runners streaming down the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Albie noticed Edwards’ the Bakers and Harmer & Scott’s garage as they were passed in quick succession.

“No time to look around,” he told himself, with his arms flailing and his feet pounding the roadway, “gotta stay focussed!”

It was all uphill to North Walsham’s main railway station, barely a quarter-mile from the Paston School, but, because of his cracking start, Albie suddenly felt a stitch coming on as he passed under the railway bridge. Soon he had slowed to a walking pace, finding it hard to breathe, and was quickly passed by many of the runners from the Junior school.

His friends, Charman, Read and Barry Emms, had, quite sensibly, got off to a more sedate start and, running steadily, caught up with Albie as he stood by the Victorian postbox under the railway bridge.

“C’mon, Albie, ” called out Read, striding past the lad, “better git a move on, you dun’t watta be last, do ya?”

Charman and Emms had already sprinted ahead, so Albie, taking his chum’s advice, ran after them, fully recovered from his stitch.

Reaching the Water Tower, on the Norwich Road, the little group of runners were directed by markers down a farm track and into a field high with maize, passing an old stump cross on the way.

“This here’s a-maizin’,” laughed Albie, running slowly along a narrow path through the head-high cereal crop. “You could git lorst in here, I reck’n!”

“Git a move on, Albie,” shouted Charman, jostling him in an attempt to overtake, “this here’s a race, not a Sunday School treat!”

Emerging from the field, they leapt over a style and crossed a muddy ditch, and headed towards the village of Felmingham. As the runners crossed an open field that led into Lord Anson’s Wood, Albie stopped for a moment by a gateway to give his fellow runners the benefit of his ‘knowledge’.

THE PEASANTS ARE REVOLTING

“Durin’ the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, a greart ole battle took plearce here,” he revealed, leaning on a gate whilst pausing for a breather.

“An’ what a load of revolting peasants they were, too,” laughed Barry Emms, quickly running past.

Angrily, Albie shouted after him, but, for the sake of not wishing to cause offence, his earthy expletives are unprintable here.

“It wuz orl on account o’the Pole Tax of 1380,” he went on, “and the people, who wun’t gorta pay up, rebelled against King Richard II.”

His fellow form-mates had heard it all before and decided to humour him, after all there seemed to be no point in rushing back to school, they thought, as it was a pleasant afternoon and a break from studies.

“Watt Tyler started it orf in Kent,” Albie proclaimed, “but our John Litester, from just up the rud, wanted t’ knock the King’s block orf!”

“Yeah, but the peasants got their blocks knocked off,” replied a know-it-all, bespectacled third-former as he sprinted past.

“And you’ll get your block knocked off too, if you don’t get a move on,” quipped Maggie, who had silently crept up on Albie, having hidden his lady’s bike in the hedge.

Well, to cut a long story short, although Albie had always prided himself in being an accomplished runner – though what he had based this claim to fame on is difficult to see – the six-mile Cross Country Run was beginning to take its toll. So, he would be glad when all this ‘runnin’ lark’ was over, he told himself.

Albie was overjoyed, though too tired to notice, when the school gates eventually came into view.

Quickly glancing over his shoulder, he appeared to be on his own, so he decided on an impressive sprint to the finishing line.

A SPRINT FOR THE FINISH

Turning into the drive, feet scrambling for a foothold, and throwing up clouds of loose gravel in his wake, he was all but exhausted. Nevertheless, the lad was determined to finish the race in style and summoned up what little stamina remained for a quick sprint to the finish.

The Headmaster and Form Masters were lining the route, Albie noticed, joined by an ever-increasing throng of boys, who had completed the gruelling six-mile course, many of them still in their running kit.

A massive cheer went up as Albie approached.

How proud of himself he felt, as, obviously, he had done well.

But then, out of nowhere, appeared a little figure – a mere first-former – who stormed past Albie as if jet propelled much to the tumultuous applause of the assembled Pastonians.

Young Brian Howes, from Thorpe, who everyone called ‘Half-pint’ because of his diminutive stature, was the recipient of all the applause and gained much backslapping from the other boys, whilst Albie languished in a state of utter exhaustion on the school drive, mere inches from the finish line.

“I’ll never, ever, live that down,” he gasped to himself.

THE EPILOGUE

THE STORY WASN’T TO END THERE of course, as, a great many years later, Albie was to receive a sharp reminder of his long-forgotten past.

One day, at his place of work, he was moved to a another department where there were new processes to master and different people to get to know.

He was quietly working away, keeping his head down, whilst, at the same time, should the truth be told, indulging in his favourite pastime of daydreaming, when a familiar figure from his past strolled up, as large as life would you believe?

“Hi, Albie,” greeted ‘Half-pint’ Howes. “Fancy seeing you again, after all these years!”

Albie was dumbfounded and totally lost for words for a moment, as he had always hoped his past would have remained just that – in the past.

Then, just to let Albie know he hadn’t forgotten that day at the Paston School all those years before, Half-pint said with a chuckle:
“And how did you like being ‘Pipped to the Post’?”

Photographs by the late-Humphrey Grantham-Hill, courtesy of the Society of Old Pastonians.

NEXT: Albie receives a reward for his hard work at the Paston School.

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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