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HE FIRST WEEK IN FEBRUARY 1961 was certainly living up to its reputation
for filling
ditches and dikes, and Albie was getting quite ‘brassed
off’. Why? Well, the answer was quite simple. For his twentieth
birthday, early that week, his parents had bought him a new camera,
a Zeiss Ikon Nettar – which he’d set his heart on after
spotting it in Cyril Nunn’s photographic shop in Church Street,
Sheringham – and he was dying to try it out! Fat chance of
that, he thought, looking out of the rain-streaked windows, and,
to top it all, he’d taken a few days holiday from Jarrolds
– timed so he wouldn’t have to buy everyone at work a
cake on his birthday!
THE
FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING, Monday the thirteenth, the grey skies
lifted for a while and somewhere
the sun was shining ... ... but definitely not in Norwich
where, by lunchtime, the inclement weather had everyone reaching
for their brollies again.
 “I
had hoped the clouds would’ve rolled by, by now,”
Albie told Mike, his friend and head designer, as they left off
for lunch after a busy morning’s work at Jarrold Printing.
“I was really looking forward to taking some photos
of the church next door with my new camera.”
“By
‘next door’, I take it you mean St Martin’s?”
asked Mike, as they climbed the stone staircase to the works’
canteen on the second floor of the old mill which housed the offices.
“Yep!
Tha’s the one – but, little chance now,” replied
Albie, “’corse tha’s tippin’ it down outside...”
“Wha’d’ya
want?” Mrs Symonds, the canteen manageress asked him, ladling
two scoops of mushy, mashed potatoes on to his plate. “Curry
or mince? Take ya pick!”
Opting
for the lesser of two evils, Albie chose the beef, minced into smallish
recognizable droppings – then wished he hadn’t as his
teeth crunched on, then bounced off, a piece of gristle half hidden
in his mash.
“We
could have a look inside St Martin’s,” Mike suggested,
polishing off the last of his curry and wiping his plate clean with
a chunk of bread. “Mmm – that was good. I can’t understand
why you don’t like curry...”
“Don’t
know wha’s in it,” Albie replied, pushing his plate of
chopped cartilage to one side.
A
PALATIAL CHURCH
Putting
on their ‘macs’ Albie and Mike made the short dash through
the February downpour out the front gate of Jarrolds and across
Whitefriars bridge to St
Martin at Palace, on the edge of Palace Plain, half hidden behind
trees which, somehow, managed to survive despite the oppressive
conditions afforded by the nearby Gas Works, their obnoxious next-door‘neighbours’.
The
church of St Martin’s – in spite of its ‘palatial’
title, which came from being close to the Bishop of Norwich’s
Palace and not one of the grandest or prettiest of churches in Norwich
– had been quite heavily restored by the Victorians as a result
of a partial collapse of the tower and chancel, although the interior
was to hold a hidden surprise or two for Albie and Mike.
“At
least it’s nice and dry in here,” said Mike, opening the
heavy wooden door and stepping through the south porch into the
nave, the main body of the church. “Let’s have a look
around shall we?”
Albie,
a Methodist, and ‘primitive’ at that, found himself in
the dark in more ways than one, but his friend and fellow designer
seemed to know his way around and began explaining the finer points
of the church and ‘what to look out for’.
“They
do say, in olden times,” he told Albie, dropping the heavy,
wrought-iron latch on the ancient oak door behind them, “that
some services actually began in the porch – baptisms,
funerals and the like – also penitents were expected to kneel
and seek absolution before being allowed to enter the church.”
“Nice
windows,” commented Albie, gazing upward at the brightly coloured
stained glass. “Although that look like they ran outta coloured
glass, dun’t it?” It did indeed for, to the untrained
eye, several colourful figures seemed to be ‘floating’
in a sea of plain glass.
Albie
began looking at the wooden pew ends, which he had originally hoped
to have photographed, but now out of the question due to the gloomy
interior exacerbated by the weather conditions outside.
Mike,
on the other hand, was wandering up the main aisle gazing upwards
at the roof when he tripped over a loose piece of carpet running
the length of the aisle.
“Hello
– what’s this?” he said, lifting a corner of the
carpet to reveal a golden-coloured, brass plate set in the flagstones.
“Hey, Albie – come and have at what I’ve found!”
“Wha’s
that, then?” asked Albie, kneeling down beside his friend as
he carefully rolled back the carpet.
“A
monumental brass – a really old one too!” replied Mike,
looking at a picture of a majestically-robed man etched into a brass
plate. “It
would be nice to take an impression of it, don’t you think?”
Albie
thought it sounded like a good idea, but wasn’t at all sure
how to go about it: “What d’ya think we’d need then,
Mike?”
“Some
thin-ish paper,” he replied, thinking it over for a moment,
“we could get some large sheets from the printing works –
and some wax. I seem to recall someone saying you can use ‘cobblers’
heel ball’!”
“Wha’s
that when it’s about?” Albie asked, getting up
off his knees and dusting them down. “An’ where do you
get it?”
Mike
laughed at Albie’s ignorance. “Don’t you know anything?”
he said, covering the memorial brass again with the carpet. “It’s
a block of coloured wax used by cobblers – shoemakers to you
– and they use it to shine up the heels on shoes.”
“Oh,
why din’t you say so in the first place!” retorted
Albie, “I know what ‘cobblers’ are, we’ve got
one in Sheringham!”
“There’s
a cobbler’s in Magdalen Street as well,” Mike told him,
glancing at his watch, “we’ll get some a heel ball tomorrow
– it’s time to get back to work now!”
Pausing by the south porch door, Albie lifted the heavy, wrought-iron
latch. “Come to think of it,” he said, opening the door
slightly, “I
have heard tell there are some very good brasses at Felbrigg
Hall, near Cromer.”
“That
sounds good, and we could make a day of it next Saturday,”
Mike replied, as they left St Martins to return to work, “but
you’ll have to get permission for us – of course!”
ALBIE
’PHONES THE SQUIRE
That
evening, as soon as the train pulled into Sheringham, Albie made
for the red telephone box next to the station. Asking the operator
for the number for Felbrigg
Hall, home of Robert Wyndham Ketton-Cremer, who was the last
‘squire’ of Felbrigg, Albie quickly dialled the number
he was given.
“Hello
– Felbrigg Hall,” said the Housekeeper at the other end
of the telephone, “may I help you?”
“Yes,
please,” answered Albie, “could I possibly
speak to Mr Ketton-Cremer, please?”
“Who
shall I say is calling?”
“This
is Albie Gray from Sheringham!”
“Hello,
Albie Gray from Sheringham,” laughed the jovial Squire, known
as ‘Bunny’ to all his friends. “How may I help you?”
“I’m
really interested in visiting your beautiful church at Felbrigg
Hall,” Albie told the Squire, being as polite as he could on
the telephone. “I do believe there are some fascinating architectural
features, including some nicely-painted box pews – and a few
memorial brasses!” At last, he’d said it – the real
reason for his ’phone call!
“You’d
like to make some rubbings of the brasses at St
Margaret’s?” Squire Ketton-Cremer asked, obviously
one step ahead of the lad. “They’re frightfully good,
y’know...”
“Yes,
please,” replied Albie, “I’d like to bring a friend
as well, if that would be all right?”
The
Squire of Felbrigg gave his permission and began telling Albie how
to get to Felbrigg Hall and where to obtain the key to the church.
“Come
to the Hall,” he told Albie, “on the right you’ll
see the Annexe – it’s left unlocked – and just inside
you’ll find a large vase. The key will be inside it. Then take
the grassy lane across the fields to the church – you can’t
miss it! ”
“Thank
you very much, Sir!” replied Albie, eager to get home to tell
his parents who he’d just been speaking to. “Thank you
very much indeed!”
“But,
don’t I know you from somewhere?” asked the Squire. “I’m
certain I’ve heard that name before...”
Perhaps
he had, thought Albie, as Robert Wyndham Ketton-Cremer was not only
a local JP but also on the Board of Governors of the Paston
School, and a good friend of the Headmaster, Lieut. Col.
K N Marshall.
“You
may have known me from my days as a Pastonian,” Albie
told him, “or perhaps the Headmaster could have mentioned
my name...”
“Indeed
he may well have done,” the Squire of Felbrigg replied, “no
doubt from your reputation as a Cross Country runner, or an Academic
maybe?”
Albie
decided it best not to continue with this line of conversation and
quickly changed the subject.
“Perhaps
we could visit this Saturday?” he asked, “if it’s
convenient of course?”
“Yes
– of course, my boy,” replied Mr Ketton-Cremer, “but,
leave everywhere nice and tidy, won’t you? And don’t
forget to leave a half-a-crown or so in the Offertory Box!”
MIKE
TAKES HIS FAMILY – AND ALBIE – TO FELBRIGG
St
Valentine’s Day, Tuesday the fourteenth, heralded the start
of quite a warm spell for the month of February, with temperatures
well into the mid-60s – not only that, but it had stopped raining
as well.
“Looks
good for Saturday, Mike,” said Albie as he arrived for work
that sunny morning. “It’s all arranged an’ I’ve
got permission from the Squire to do some brass-rubbings. If it
stays like this, it’ll be great! We’ll be as happy as
‘a pig in mud’ – you mark my words!”
“I’ll
hold you to that!” laughed Mike. “Best you stay at ours
on Friday night, then we can make an early start – besides,
I thought my wife and Angela – our little girl – would
like to come as well. It’ll make a nice change for them.”
So,
first
thing, the following Saturday morning, they all set off in Mike’s
car – a Hillman Californian – for the three-quarter-hour
journey from Norwich to Felbrigg Hall, just outside Cromer.
Leaving
their home on the Heartsease Estate, Mike began to make good time
once they were on the main road to Aylsham.
In the historic market town, situated in the heart of green, rolling
countryside, Mike drove carefully down the narrow main street, merely
wide enough for one car let alone two, before rounding a sharp bend
dominated by the impressive church of St
Michael.
Accelerating
up a hill, topped by a redundant railway bridge, they continued
down the other side under a leafy canopy towards the village of
Ingworth, approached by a double bend.
“Look
at that thatched
church,” said Albie, gazing out of the car window and pointing
to a picturesque church clinging to the side of a hill, “I
sketched that once when I wuz an Art student – there wuz s’posed
to be a water-mill
here as well, but I never found it!”
Albie,
knowing this part of his world well, continued giving a running
commentary, whilst Mike tried to concentrate on his driving –
difficult when being told to look at this and that! Joan, his wife,
sitting beside him seemed to be enjoying the ‘mystery tour’
of north Norfolk, whilst little Angela aged two-and-a-bit sat beside
Albie, taking no notice whatsoever, and cuddling her favourite teddy.
As
they drove along, everywhere they looked there seemed to be a church
in a field or on the horizon, with Albie doing his best to identify
most of them.
“See
that tall church on the left there?” he said, pointing across
the fields. “Tha’s Erpingham,
an’ they do say tha’s wha’s written across the tower
an’orl – but just why defeats me, that do!”
“Can’t
be much further, can it?” Mike asked Albie as they passed
Hanworth Post Office crossroads, the site of a great many accidents
on the Cromer road. “Surely we’re almost there,
aren’t we?”
“Turn
left here – by the New Inn!” directed Albie, as they drove
down the hill into Roughton. “Tha’s the road that’ll
take us to Felbrigg.”
A
few minutes later, after driving through the main gate, Mike stopped
his Hillman Californian on the shingle drive in front of Felbrigg
Hall. Getting out of the car, Albie quickly made his way to the
Annexe and, going inside, he soon found the large vase – quite
an ornate Grecian urn, in fact – just as the Squire had told
him.
Wriggling
his hand through the narrow neck, he began rummaging around until
the tips of his fingers felt a cold metal object – the key
to St Margaret’s church, Felbrigg.
“What
a lovely day!” said Joan, Mike’s wife, as they set off
in the car down the grassy lane over the fields towards the distant
church. She was right, it was a lovely day, the first really
dry and sunny day in, what had started out as, a very wet February.
Now, bathed in glorious sunshine, everywhere was so lush and green,
with sheep and cows in the pastures nearby, feasting on the verdant
sward and affording an occasional glance of curiosity as the car
lurched and bumped along the uneven track.
“This
looks a good spot to park,” said Mike, pulling hard on the
handbrake as he stopped on a grassy patch close to the churchyard
wall. “So, if you’re ready – let’s get brass-rubbing!”
Armed
with rolls of paper, blocks of brass-rubbing wax and tea, coffee
and sandwiches to sustain them throughout the day, Mike and Joan,
with little Angela toddling beside them, waited in the flint-faced
porch whilst Albie turned the heavy iron key in the lock. In audible
protest at the invasion of the rusty key, the medieval door swung
open on its wrought-iron hinges and Albie and the others went inside,
leaving the bright sunny day behind them.
ALBIE’S
LATIN COMES IN USEFUL
Leaving
Joan sitting quietly in a box pew quietly reading, having picked
up a copy of the Parish News for January, little Angela began exploring
the church and climbed the steps to the pulpit. Meanwhile, Mike
and Albie began rolling back some carpetting at the east end of
the nave, only to reveal a splendid brass – that of the founder
of St Margaret’s, Symon de Felbrigge and his wife Margaret
of Bohemia. Besides being the most magnificent memorial brass
Albie had ever seen it was also the largest, and they barely had
enough paper to cover it, he thought.
 “Hic
jacet Symon ffelbrigge... can’t read much of the rest though...”
exclaimed Mike, reading the inscription at the base of the brass.
“Do you know what it means, Albie?”
“Tha’s
Latin, that is, I did that at the Paston School,” revealed
Albie, his education in classical language having paid off for once!
“An’ it says here, let me see, ‘hic jacet’
means, oh, yes: ‘here lies’... and tha’s the
bloke’s name Symon Felbrigge... an’ that looks
like he wuz a knight or suffin’!”
“What
does the rest say?” Mike asked him, as they knelt, quite reverently,
side by side reading the rest of the inscription.
“Dunno,”
replied Albie, scratching his head, “I din’t get that
far – I studied French the next year!”
Then,
recalling his ‘experience’ with Nicole Legréve,
the French student he met whilst fruitpicking, he swiftly changed
the subject.
“Cor
– I couldn’t half polish off a cheese roll,” he said,
as he knelt on the flagstones brushing dust and grit off the surface
of the brass.“All this here brass-rubbing
makes me hooly famished!”
“Come
and give me a hand, will you?” Mike asked him, having rolled
a large sheet of paper over the brass. Together, they began lightly
rubbing the surface of the paper with a block of black wax, the
cobblers’ heel ball they’d bought from a boot and shoe
repairer’s in Magdalen Street, Norwich.
Eventually,
after a couple of hours’ work, their very first brass-rubbing
in Felbrigg church was finished and it was just magnificent!
“Come
and look at this, Joan!” Mike called to his wife. “Look
at the detail in the knight’s armour – isn’t it terrific?”
Indeed
it was, thought Albie, standing back to admire their handiwork for
a moment, but eager to get on with the next – and there were
plenty to do, secreted under old scraps of carpet.
Suddenly,
the sun – which had, until then, been streaming through the
clear glass windows – became conspicuous by its absence, although,
even then, the interior of St Margaret’s was far from gloomy
due to the large plain glass windows.
“Surely
tha’s not rainin’ again, is it?” commented Albie,
at the sound of ‘pitter-pattering’ on the windows, which
were, by now, streaked by the falling rain. “What a
Feb’ry this hev been!”
“Only
a passing shower,” replied Mike, on his hands and knees working
on the next brass-rubbing, “it’ll soon be over; besides,
I don’t know what you’re worrying about – we are
in the dry after all!”
“I
do think we should go soon though, Mick,” his wife said, going
to the porch door and taking a peek outside, “I don’t
like the look of those clouds, I think there’s a storm on the
way.”
Little
Angela said nothing – she just hid behind her mother, tugging
at her coat.
With
a sudden flash and a loud clap of thunder, the Heavens opened and
the rain began bucketing down in torrents, leaving them little choice
but to remain in the church until the storm had abated. Inside,
although nice and dry, it became so gloomy as to render further
brass-rubbing out of the question, becoming almost impossible to
see due to the darkening skies.
“I
think you’re right, Joan,” Mike said, “best we get
packed up – we can always come back another day.”
With
that, they began to gather up the finished brass-rubbings and all
the paraphernalia that went with them, together with the rest of
the uneaten sandwiches and empty Thermos flasks, taking great care
to make sure everywhere was left ‘spick and span’ as Squire
Ketton-Cremer had instructed.
“Oh
– and – mustn’t forget to put something in the box,
he said!” Albie remembered, dipping his hand into his jacket
pocket and putting four-and-sixpence – all his loose change
– into the box next to the porch door.
During
a lull in the storm, Mike and Albie made a quick dash for the car,
followed by Joan and little Angela. After piling everything into
the boot, Albie ran back to the church to make sure the door was
well and truly locked.
“Right,”
he said, climbing into the back of the Hillman Californian, “tha’s
it; we’ve just gotta take the key back to the Hall, then we
can all go to Sheringham for tea at my house!”
“Sounds
pretty good to me!” replied Mike. “I don’t know about
you, but I can do with a cuppa!”
“You’re
sure it won’t be too much trouble for your mother?” Joan
asked, turning round in her seat and looking at Albie sitting with
Angela in the back.
“No,”
replied Albie, settling down in his seat for the short drive to
Sheringham, “she’ll be puttin’ the kettle on about
now, I shoon’t wonder!”
HAPPY
AS A PIG IN MUD?
Mike
turned the key in the ignition and, after a couple of quick dabs
on the starter button, the engine leapt into life and eventually
settled down to a nice steady tickover, purring contentedly to itself.
“OK
– well, here we go,” he announced, putting his
foot on the clutch and letting in first gear with a crunch. Then,
releasing the handbrake, he put his foot down on the accelerator
pedal and advised everyone to: “Hold tight!”
With
the revs building up to a crescendo, Mike let out the clutch and
... nothing happened. The back wheels were going round, that much
they all knew, as they could hear them spinning on the sodden grass.
But of forward motion there was none, just a violent swaying from
side to side as the vehicle tried its best to escape the quagmire.
 “We’ll
be off in a minute,” declared Mike, pressing harder on the
accelerate pedal, accompanied by the sound of frantic activity from
the rear wheels as both of them attempted to gain a tyre-hold of
the soft, soggy ground. But, all to no avail – for, the harder
he tried, the deeper the back wheels dug in, until they were well
and truly bogged down!
“Jo-oan,”
suggested Mike, putting his car in neutral, “you and Albie
had better get out and give me a shove – and put some weight
on the back wheels, will you?”
Standing
at the rear of the Hillman
Californian wasn’t exactly the best place to be for, once
Mike started revving up again, Joan and Albie quickly found themselves
getting sprayed with thick mud into the bargain. However, their
combined efforts worked and soon, if looking slightly the worse
for wear, they were back on the road again and heading for Sheringham
– and afternoon tea at Albie’s!
“What
was that you said?” laughed Mike, as they drove down Regis
Place and parked outside Albie’s house. “Happy as a pig
in mud? Well – you said it!”
What
on earth would his mother say at his mud-speckled appearance,
thought Albie? He was soon to find out!
THE
EPILOGUE
Albie’s
mother, Gladys, had been planning for the visit of his friends from
Jarrolds all morning, and had cooked a fine roast beef dinner for
their tea. The front room, usually only used on ‘high days
and holidays’, had been set aside for this important occasion,
with the fire already lit to take off the chill and the table laid
with all the ‘Sunday best’.
However,
upon seeing the state of her son – and the others – there
was a swift change of plan!
“I
reckon that’ll be warmer in the living room!” she said
putting forcing a smile. Then, hastily laying the table, she turned
to Albie and muttered under her breath: “Trust you tuh git
yarself in a pickle! You shoulda stayed at home an’ cleaned
my brasses instead!”
NEXT:
Albie has a big surprise
in store for him!
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