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 AT
THE END OF THE SUMMER TERM of 1953, Albie’s parents
were quite pleased with the progress their son had made during his
first year at the Paston School. In his school report the evidence
was there on every page: tries hard, good steady work, likeable
lad, and – making good progress. They were so impressed by
his efforts that it was decided to reward him with a bicycle! Not
just any old bike of course, it had to be a brand spanking-new bicycle,
the very best that the Co-op could offer!
ONE
WEDNESDAY MORNING,
towards the end of July, a large green and yellow delivery lorry
arrived at Sheringham Co-op and, in the back, all carefully wrapped
in brown paper and cardboard, was a smart, new bicycle.
At
1pm, Albie’s father, the Co-op manager, shut up shop for the
day – being early closing – and wheeled his son’s
new bicycle to the family home in Regis Place.
“Just
you wait ’til Albie sees his new bike, Gladys,” said his
father. “Tha’s a smart ’un, en’t it?”
“I’m
sure he’s gorn t’ love it,” replied Albie’s
mother, laying the table for their midday meal, “he’s
upstairs at the moment, readin’ his comics – I’ll
give him a call, besides dinner’s nearly ready.”
A
NEW BIKE FOR ALBIE
The
minute the lad came downstairs, his eyes lit up, for there, outside
the kitchen window, stood his very-own bicycle, a Federation
made by the CWS Cycle Works at Redditch, Worcestershire, and resplendent
in a black and gold-lined livery, sporting lashings of sparkling
chrome.
“Cor,
thanks, Mum and Dad,” the boy exclaimed excitedly. “Tha’s
really super, can I have a go, please?”
His
father shook his head. “No, not yet,” he replied, pointing
to the table laid out for lunch, “you’ll have your dinner
first and then you can go out.”
“Here
you are then, Albie,” said his mother, putting down a plate
of lettuce, tomato and cold brisket in front of him. “Do you
eat it all up like a good boy – and don’t wolf it down!”
“Why
can’t I hev beans on toast instead?” he complained, picking
at the fatty meat. “You know I en’t orl that keen on meat!”
“You’ll
clean that plate right up,” ordered his father, “do you
don’t, I shan’t take you out on your bike!”
A
half hour later, Albie’s plate appeared remarkably clean with
only a few scraps of fatty brisket discreetly concealed under his
knife and fork.
“Come
on then, Albie,” his mother said, clearing the table. “We’ll
leave the washing up ’til later – let’s get you out
on your bike.”
“We’ll
go to the Golf Links, I think,” said his father thoughtfully,
“If you fall off, it’ll be nice an’ soft on the grass!”
PRACTISING
ON THE GOLF LINKS
 At
the end of Links’ Road, there was a little gateway leading
to the practise links where, in those days, it was common practice
for learner cyclists to take their maiden voyage on two wheels –
often dodging flying golf balls! The locals insisted
they had a ‘right-of-way’ across the golf course, but
the greenkeeper, understandably, had other ideas!
Once
on the immaculately-kept green sward, Albie mounted his sparkling
new bike, his pride and joy, and his father began pushing him from
the rear.
“Go
on, boy,” he shouted breathlessly, “pedal – pedal!”
Albie
did as he was told and began pedalling furiously, wobbling from
side to side, clutching the handlebars tightly until his hands began
to ache.
“Don’t
let go, Dad,” cried out Albie, who was becoming a trifle anxious
as he tacked from one side of the green to the other, pedalling
with all his might. However, in a short space of time, he had gained
a natural balance of his machine and had gone ‘solo’,
leaving his parents standing as proud spectators a fair distance
back.
Naturally,
he took a couple of tumbles – pride comes before a fall, as
they say – but, by mid-afternoon, he had mastered his bike
and was brimming with of confidence – there was to be no turning
back now!
“You’ve
done very well today, Albie,” said his father, praising the
lad, “take care of your new bike an’ keep it clean –
an’, whatever you do, don’t git it wet!”
ALBIE
AND VICTOR RIDE THROUGH THE WOODS
One
Saturday afternoon, late in the summer of 1953, Albie cycled up
Cliff Road, quite steep in parts, and pedalled down a little loke
that led into the Avenue. Here, at a fork in the tree-lined road,
almost at the end, was Victor’s house. Knocking on the door,
Albie patiently waited on the doorstep to see if his friend, another
Pastonian, was in.
“Hello,
Victor,” said Albie, as his friend opened the front door, “are
you coming out today?”
Victor
glanced outside at Albie’s gleaming bicycle propped up by the
kerbside. “How about a cycle ride then, Albie?”
Albie
nodded in agreement and, a few minutes later, the pair were cycling
up Common Lane, past the Sheringham Water Works and along a damp,
leafy track into the Spring woods.
Cycling
along behind Victor he thought it quite remarkable how very rugged
and well-made his friend’s bike was. A ‘Rudge’ no
less, it sported quick-acting rod brakes and powerful lights which
ran off a hub-dynamo in the back wheel.
On
the other hand, Albie’s bike was a lightweight model, a ‘Federation’,
with cable brakes that, in the wet, took a bit of time for the bike
to stop – so, some forward thinking was necessary, as Albie
had discovered!
Taking
a steep, slippery track to the left, deciding it was too hazardous
to cycle, the two friends dismounted and began pushing their bikes
up the hill, avoiding overhanging trees and knobby roots sticking
out of the rutted path.
“Over
there,” declared Albie, pointing to a dense copse, where all
manner of trees and rough scrub vied with each other for life-giving
sunshine, “that used to be a zoo in olden times, the Foxes
Farm my dad calls it!”
“Didn’t
they keep silver foxes there for their furs?” Victor asked
his friend, pausing to glance across at the overgrown area, finding
it hard to believe that anything ever existed there. “That
must have been a long time ago, though, as there’s nothing
left now!”
At
the top of the hill, they remounted their bicycles and began to
ride deep through the dappled sunlight along a well-defined path
of light sandy soil, until further access was denied them by encroaching
bushes of prickly, golden gorse and wildly flailing branches of
thorny brambles.
Seeking
another route, they eventually emerged into bright sunlight and,
leaving the woods behind them, they followed a rough, sandy track
that led to a minor road.
THE
BOYS RIDE TO ROMAN CAMP
“If
we turn down this lane,” said Victor, indicating a grassy track
at the bottom of a steep, bracken-covered hill, “it’ll
take us all the way to Roman Camp.”
“Good
idea, Victor,” replied Albie, turning off the road and into
the lane. “Let’s have a race – last one there buys
the drinks!” he laughed, as he sped away on his bike as fast
as his legs could pedal.
To
begin with, the going was reasonably good, but, soon, the grassy
track became deeply scarred with wide muddy ruts caused by the tractors
from a nearby farm – and the race between the two friends was
over!
“Phew!”
exclaimed Albie, as his front wheel became stuck in a muddy rut,
“this here’s too much like hard work!” His friend
also agreed and, slowly picking their way through the foul-smelling
mire, they began the long, slippery walk following the track as
it began wending its way steeply uphill.
At
the top of the hill,
the boys paused for a welcome rest and a moment to admire the view.
In front of them unfolded the unsurpassable vista afforded from
Roman Camp – with its acres of musky-scented heather and golden
gorse, still in bloom and attracting swarms of wild bees seeking
nectar.
Looking
towards the shimmering sea, broken only by the rise and fall of
the cliff tops, they could see West Runton village taking centre
stage, with the seaside resort of Cromer in the east and Beeston
Bump, standing guardian over Sheringham, in the west.
“Why
do they call this Roman Camp?” asked Albie, hoping his
friend, always interested in historical matters, would have the
answer.
“I’m
not absolutely sure,” confessed Victor, “but, perhaps
it’s something to do with those high banks – over there
– or earthworks, as I think they’re called!”
Albie
was suitably impressed by his friend’s revelation and could
picture some fine Roman general surveying the coastline – much
as they were doing – about to unleash his mighty legions against
the unsuspecting local tribes.
With
its uninterrupted sea views, Roman Camp was a favourite spot for
many, with its own small campsite with a profusion of small caravans,
of all shapes and sizes, and a conveniently-placed tea rooms.
“Mm-mmm,”
declared Albie, “this here ice-cream’s rather tearsty,”
having just purchased a sixpenny tub of Walls’ Vanilla from
the little shop at the tea rooms.
Victor,
on the other hand, was too busily enjoying his cheese and celery
sandwiches, which his mother had thoughtfully packed, to pay any
attention to Albie. “Wha’s that, Albie?” he said,
happily munching away, “I could do with a drink, could you?
All this biking don’t half make you thirsty!”
After
partaking of two bottles of ginger beer – also from the tea
rooms – to slake their thirst, Albie and Victor set off on
their bikes once more.
“Shall
we carry on through the woods to Runton Common?” asked Victor,
calling back over his shoulder as he crossed the road at Roman Camp.
“Then we can ride back along the cliff tops to Beeston Regis.”
Their
cycle ride involved mainly a downhill route, through dense woodland
the youngsters knew as ‘King Edward’s Wood’, and
the path was, in parts, quite hazardous, due to tree roots breaking
the surface.
With
Albie in agreement, the pair began the descent through the woods,
but, unaware that disaster was around the next corner!
TAKING
A TUMBLE!
 “Watch
out, Victor,” warned Albie, passing through a heavily-rutted
muddy section, with gnarled tree roots sticking out at crazy angles.
“This here mud’s rather slippery,” he shouted, putting
his left leg down to steady the bike as it slewed sideways.
His
parents words of warning – regarding taking care of his new
bike and not getting it wet – were all but forgotten as Albie
ploughed through the mire.
“Wow,”
he shouted, excitedly, ”this is fun!”
Victor,
also enjoying himself, had picked up speed on the steepest section
of their route through the woods. Like an arrow, he zoomed past
Albie sending mud, leaf-mould and rotting leaves flying in all directions.
Suddenly,
without warning, Victor completely misread the path where the protruding
roots were at their worst. The front wheel of his cycle travelled
along the slippery roots at right angles to the path – and
he parted company with his bike!
Albie,
hard on his heels, saw the bike tangled up with its rider and applied
his brakes – but too late, as his mud-encrusted brakes were
useless. Ploughing into Victor, he flew over the handlebars of his
bike, joining his friend in the mud!
Luckily,
neither of them was hurt and their bikes, although mud-splattered
and with one or two superficial scratches, had emerged from the
melee almost unscathed.
They
picked themselves up, brushed themselves down and set off cycling
all over again, with the rest of the afternoon without further mishap.
But,
alas, for Albie, the story wasn’t end there, of course.
Perhaps
due to the lad not taking heed of his parents’ warning –
or it may have been the indifferent quality of chrome-plating in
those days – a
few weeks later the bright, shiny, sparkling wheels of Albie’s
pride and joy began to lose their sheen. Not only that, but the
chrome began to flake, then peel, until it fell off in strips, revealing
rusty metal underneath.
Albie
wasn’t too pleased, but his father was absolutely furious.
“That
bike,” he declared sternly, “will hatta go back to the
Co-op – there’s no two ways about it – they’ll
hatta sort it out!”
With
Albie’s father being the manager of the Co-op, that was the
end of the matter – or rather just the beginning of a ‘new
age of immobilisation’ for his son as a direct result of his
‘off-road’ adventures!
“How
am I expected to get to see my friends?” Albie complained bitterly
to his parents, upset at the thought of being without his bicycle
for such a long time.
“Walk,”
replied his unsympathetic father, “like everyone else –
you’ve got legs, hen’t ya?”
That
was small comfort to Albie, who had begun to appreciate just how
much freedom a bicycle offered – and how much he now missed
it!
Grudgingly,
Albie was forced to accept his father’s advice. Putting on
his coat, the lad slammed the back door behind him and set out on
a four-mile-walk to Wyndham Park to see his grandparents –
for tea and sympathy, he hoped!
GRANDDAD
ELIJAH’S TRUSTY OLD FRIEND
“Come
in, Albie,” said Granny Gray, opening the back door and glancing
outside, “where’s your bicycle then? You din’t walk
all this way, did you?”
“Yeh,”
replied Albie, breathlessly, “tha’s hatta go back to the
Co-op, an’ I'm lorst without it!”
Albie’s
granddad, Elijah, sat on his favourite chair in the living room
listening to his grandson’s tale of woe. “I knows how
ya feel, boy Albie,” he said, a cyclist himself in his earlier
days. “I wun’t o’ bin without moine fur love nor
money!”
The
old man then began to tell the boy just how vital his bicycle –
an old sit-up-and-beg bike, similar to that used by the local policeman
– had been to him and made it possible for him to meet his
Lilian May.
“My
bicycle,” Elijah told his grandson, “was jist loike an’
old friend t’ me. It was allus there when I wanted it an’
would tearke me anywhere.”
Albie
sat and listened, spellbound by the old man’s tale.
“Without
my bike – wha’s still in the coal shud t’ this day,”
he went on, “I wun’t hev met yar grandmother, all them
there year ago, nor would you have bin here today, I shun’t
wonder!”
“How
did ya meet Granny?” Albie asked his grandfather, sitting down
beside him.
“Well,
I wuz warkin’ on alterearshuns at th’ White House in Ing’am,”
Elijah replied, putting his feet up on a little footstool. “Tha’s
a long toime ago now, o’ course...”
“Where’s
Ing’am, then, Granddad?” the boy asked, rather rudely
butting in.
“Wearte
yew a minute, young fellow-me-lad,” replied his grandfather,
tapping him sharply on his wrist. “I’m comin’ to
that – tha’s near Stal’am, that is.”
That
afternoon, Albie discovered his grandfather had been a builder with
Bullens’ of Cromer and, living with his brothers and sisters
at East Runton, he’d cycled to Ingham every day – a distance
of almost twenty miles.
 “Arter
a while, I moved itta lodgin’s in Ing’am village,”
Albie’s granddad went on, “an’ they had a daughter
– a sweet young thing she wuz too – an’ afore too
long, we started walkin’ out tergether, as they say.”
In
those days, marriage wasn’t rushed into, nor taken lightly,
as a lengthy engagement had to be observed before marriage could
even be considered.
“We
courted for a good six year,” revealed Elijah, “an’
of course my wark din’t last all that there long. So, when
I come back t’ Runton, whenever I could, I’d bike to Ing’am
on Sundays to see my May, an’ sometimes, she’d bike t’
see me!”
“Din’t
ya ever git a puncture, Granddad?” asked his inquisitive grandson.
“Wuh,
s’poose I did, from toime t’ toime,” replied Albie’s
grandfather. “But I jist hatta mend it, by the rudside, otherwise
I’d hatta walk hoome, an’ I wun’t a-gorn t’
do that, wuz I?”
Albie
didn’t think he’d like the idea of walking too far either,
and hoped he’d never get a puncture!
“We
got wed at Stal’am Baptist in 1912,” Elijah continued,
“an’ all these years learter I’ve still got my ole
friend, my bike, in that there shud, to thank for that.”
“’Cos,
without my bike I wun’t never hev met yar grandmother, so tha’s
how important that bike wuz t’ me!”
What
his grandfather had told him set Albie thinking. Would he
ever meet the girl of his dreams one day, from some far-distant
part of the country? Quickly, however, he dismissed the preposterous
idea as, being a mere schoolboy, he was far too young
to be bothered by such matters, he decided!
But,
for now, Albie just yearned for the return of his bike, the freedom
it would bring and to be united with his cycling friends.
NEXT:
Albie delivers the ‘News’
and meets a girl from the Colonies!
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