“I was told to wear a white shirt and tie when I began work at Jarrold’s,” said Albie, “and my lilac shirt was gone forever!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part three

WO WEEKS INTO HIS JOB as a junior Design Artist in the Design department of Jarrold Printing, Norwich and Albie still hadn’t heard a word from Roz, his erstwhile girlfriend. Missing her terribly, he’d tried telephoning her at home, from his favourite little red telephone kiosk at Britons’ Lane, in Beeston Regis, just outside Sheringham. But all he ever seemed to get was an engaged tone with the operator instructing him to ‘press button ‘B’ to get his money back’! On one occasion, he actually managed to speak to Roz’s mother who instantly put the ’phone down on him, as if he was some unspeakable pariah – the lowest of the low. Not knowing what else to do, Albie decided to seek some motherly advice...

ONE SATURDAY MORNING late in July 1960, Albie began to relate his dilemma to his mother, finding it easier to discuss ‘affairs of the heart’ with her rather than his dad, who would merely have told him to ‘pull himself together’.

“Mu-um,” he asked, finding an opportune moment in between helping put away the breakfast things, “I know you don’t think much of Roz do you?...”

“You’re right there, boy Albie!” she replied vehemently. “I can’t abide the way that she treated you...”

Albie gulped. His mother was right, of course, there was no denying it – but, the truth remained he missed Roz dreadfully, having something to do with the fact that she was his first girlfriend, his first love, and, to him, the flame still glimmered.

“The thing is, Mum,” he confessed with a voice sometimes breaking with emotion, “I miss her – terribly – an’ I reckon she feels the same.”

“Huh!” replied his mother, getting out the feather duster to unseat some cobwebs she’d noticed high up on the picture rail, “yew en’t a very good judge o’ character, are yuh? Yew’d let any pretty face turn ya eye, yew would!”

Sitting in a fireside chair with his head in his hands, Albie began moping over his lost love, staring at the cold ashes in the fireplace left over from the night before – July having been the coldest on record for a great many years.

“I jist dunno what t’do to make things right,” he moaned to himself.

“’Cos, yew know what the trouble is dun’t ya?” his mother continued, turning her attentions to removing specks of dust from the skirting boards. “She din’t loike yew a-gittin’ that there job at Jarrolds, she din’t.”

There was a lot of truth in that, thought Albie, but decided it prudent not to mention the fact that Roz had planned to apply for the job herself – but he’d beaten to it!

“Sound like ‘sour grearpes’ tuh me, Albie,” his mother told him, “but, give it time, an’ she’ll soon come to her senses, if she think anything of ya, that is.”

“But, surely there’s suffin’ I can do?” he asked. “I’ve tried phonin’, but they dun’t reply...”

“Yew could try writin’ to’er,” came his mother’s words of wisdom, “an’ tell ’er how sorry you are an’ how much she means to ya– I s’puz tha’s the least yew kin do.”

THE MOVING FINGER WRITES...

Taking his mother’s sound advice, Albie sat down and began putting pen to paper.

“Dear Roz,” he began, then pausing for a moment to consider whether ‘dearest’ might be more appropriate, he rejected it in favour of something a little-less-expensive sounding and more informal, and settled for ‘May Darling Roz’!

After a couple of false starts, which ended screwed-up in the fireplace, he began expressing himself right from the heart – being far more sensitive and articulate than the tongue-tied Albie of old.

He began to write saying how sorry he was for applying for her job – and getting it – and explained how, at the time, he thought it was all for the best so they could fulfil their dreams of a life together. With hindsight, he told her, he knew wrong he’d been and how he wished he could turn the clock back to happier times.

Finishing the letter by telling her how much she meant to him and how he was missing her, Albie sat back exhausted by his efforts and quietly read it through to himself.

It was a good letter, he thought, filled with truth and sincerity, and full of words he hardly recognized as his own. Once more, he read it through, putting himself in her place, making sure he’d covered everything taking the utmost care to let her know exactly how he felt about her! Then, as a postscript, he added: “Perhaps we could meet up one lunchtime, and have some beans on toast together!”

Licking the gummed strip on the back of the envelope, he sealed his letter with the merest hint of a kiss. There was no more he could do, he knew it – but he just hoped it would be enough and in time!

...AND; HAVING WRIT, MOVES ON

“I’m just orf to the Post Office,” Albie told his mother, clutching his letter to Roz tightly in his hand. “If I rush I should catch the late post – shan’t be long!”

At the Post Office, next to Bertram Watts’ Stationers in Church Street, Albie inserted some money into the stamp-vending machine on the outside wall, lifted the small metal flap and tore off a single perforated stamp. Doing a quick ‘lick and stick’ he smoothed the stamp in place on the envelope and slipped it into the letterbox, watching as it silently dropped out of sight to join other letters and parcels awaiting collection and delivery.

But, would he get a reply, he asked himself? He certainly hoped so – and the sooner the better! Not hearing from Roz, ever again, would be utterly unthinkable he told himself as he hurried back home.

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER!

August arrived, and was pleasantly sunny and warm, a complete contrast to the previous month. Each and every day Albie looked out for a reply to his letter, but none came. He began to wonder if Roz had ever received it; or if her parents had intercepted the post and kept it from her. As the days turned into weeks, he became more and more disheartened.

“What more can I do?” he asked his mother one Saturday morning, just before catching the early train to Norwich for work at Jarrold Printing. “She ’on’t answer her phone, she ’on’t reply to my letters – I s’puz tha’s it, en’t it?”

“Yew could go an’ see ’er,” his mother told him, “– p’raps in Norridge; not round the house though, I dun’t think yew’d be welcome there, d’yew?”

What a good idea, thought Albie, as he left to catch his train. “Tha’s the on’y way,” he called back over his shoulder, “I’ll have it out with her – man-to-man – then, whatever the outcome, no-one can’t say I didn’t try!”

In those early days in the Design department of Jarrold Printing, Albie had to work every other Saturday until midday, so, being his Saturday ‘in’ he would have to defer his plans for another week.

The following Saturday morning, Albie caught the early train to Norwich and quickly headed up Prince of Wales’ Road, mingling with all the other Saturday workers as they made their various ways to shops and offices. At the top of the road, opposite Anglia House, Albie turned into Upper King Street and, quickly crossing the road, headed in the general direction of London Street and Jarrolds’ Department Store, where, he knew, he was likely to make a chance encounter with a certain young lady – Roz – when she arrived for work in their Art Department.

Waiting in Pottergate, near the bicycle sheds where Jarrold employees left their bikes, Albie soon saw a familiar girl cycling towards him.

“Hello, Roz,” he said, as she went to park her bike in the cycle rack, “fancy seeing you here!”

Roz turned, suddenly, at the sound of his voice. “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.

“I just happened to be passing... an’ what a coincidence – you being here an’orl!”

“But I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again,” she replied angrily. “Your being here was never by chance, was it?”

Albie looked at her sheepishly.

“Well... no, I have to admit...” he replied, “ – but hang it, Roz, we just can’t leave it like that can we?”

“I was under the belief we already had,” she said curtly, “it all ended the day you took my job from under my very nose!”

“But I really have missed you, an’ I’ve learnt my lesson,” Albie told her, trying to get hold of her hand. “Can’t we just talk things over, ple-ease?”

“I think it’s far too late for talking,” she snapped, pushing him away from her. “There really isn’t anything to say, is there?”

“Please... please, let me explain, will you?” he pleaded passionately, “that’ll only take a moment – then, if you don’t feel the same about things as I do – well... I’ll understand.”

Side by side, they began walking down Pottergate in the general direction of Jarrolds in Exchange Street, and, as they walked together, Albie tried his best to explain his side of the story.

“I honestly thought I wuz doin’ the right thing,” he told her, “an’ that wuz all for the best – after all, you have to admit, we had been planning for the future together, hadn’t we?”

Roz thought about it and did indeed remember the time they spent planning and window-shopping: drooling over jewellery in Dipple’s of Swan Lane, trying on the best purest white satin Bridal ensemble in Annette’s of Castle Meadow, with a pair of the finest high-heeled shoes by Edwards & Holmes, and then a visit to Norwich Cathedral... ! Yes, she had to admit to herself, up to a point, Albie was right when he said they’d made plans – but how could she ever forgive him for taking her job at Jarrolds?

“You should have discussed it with me,” she told him, as her hand touched his, looking, for the briefest of moments, like a spark of affection was about to ignite. “ But, it’s been all of four weeks – you could’ve seen me sooner!”

“But, I tried!” Albie replied, gripping her hand tightly and pulling her close to him, “you wouldn’t answer your phone, so I wrote you a letter explaining everything...”

“What letter?” Roz replied, turning to face him. “I haven’t seen any letter! That’s just an excuse – you’ve never written a letter in your life!”

“But I did... I did write to you,” Albie called out, as Roz broke away from him and stormed off towards the entrance to Jarrolds’ shop. “I wrote to say how sorry I wuz, an’ how much I’ve bin missin’ you...”

Running after her, he caught her up as she was about to enter the main doors to Jarrolds on the corner of London Street.

“Can’t we try again – just the once?” he pleaded, draping his arm around her shoulders as she began to cry. “Let’s just put it all behind us.”

“But Mummy said I wasn’t to have any more to do with you!” Roz replied, in between sobbing into her lacy, white handkerchief. “And Daddy told me you’ll never make anything of yourself – and I’d be better off with someone else!”

“But, listen, Roz,” Albie protested, encircling her in his arms and trapping her against the plate-glass window, “I’ve got really good prospects as a Designer...”

Just then, who should come round the corner of London Street but Roz’s parents, Mr and Mrs Barton, on their way to Norwich Market for the weekend vegetables and cut flowers for the table.

“Get your hands off our daughter,” yelled Mrs Barton, striding forward and almost ripping Albie’s arms off. “You’re to stay away from her in future – she was innocent until she met you! Do I make myself clear?”

“B-but, I only wanted to talk to her,” pleaded Albie, trying so hard to explain the situation, as Roz began crying again.

“Now look what you’ve done,” said Mr Barton, pushing Albie out of the way. Just stop pestering us and our daughter and clear off – or... I’ll call the Police!”

Unfortunately for Albie, a Constable – walking past on his way to Bethel Street Police Station – overheard the final part of the conversation.

“Nar then, nar then, nar then,” he declared, stepping forward to intervene. “Wha’s a-gorn on here then?”

“Nothin’,” Albie replied sheepishly.

“Yew en’t annoyin’ this young lady, are yuh, fellow-me-lad?” continued the Policeman, taking hold of Albie’s arm.

“No, I en’t,” he replied, still determined to be given the chance to tell his side of the story, “She’s my girlfriend, an’ I only wanted to talk to her...”

“Oh, no, she isn’t!” said Mr and Mrs Barton together.

“Oh, yes, she is!” replied Albie, snatching his arm away from the policeman.

Roz said... absolutely... nothing. Inconsolable, she just continued weeping into her already tear-sodden sodden hankie, ran through the glass doors into Jarrolds shop, and disappeared up the escalator to the Art department on the second floor.

“Orl right, orl right, young man,” said the Police Constable, bending Albie’s arm behind his back in a vice-like grip, “tha’s enough o’ that ole palarver! I’d advise yew tuh come quietly, dew if yew don’t we’ll hatta carry on this here converseartion down at the Steartion – an’ I don’t mean Thorpe neither!”

Discretion being the better part of valour, Albie made his excuses... and left!

A LETTER FROM THORPE ST ANDREW

Then a week later, Albie received a letter from Norwich!

It smelled of a familiar perfume and, recognizing it as one much-favoured by Roz, he excitedly tore open the envelope, but what would she say?

To his utter dismay, hundreds of small, torn-up pieces of a letter – his letter – cascaded out of the envelope, fluttering like dying autumn leaves in a carpet on the living room floor. This, the confetti of disaffection, was her reply.

It really was over, now he knew it and was faced with accepting it, and wept floods of broken-hearted tears.

“Never mind, dear,” said his mother, placing her arm around him in an act of consolation. “Let’s hev a nice cuppa tea – besides, there’s pletty more fish in the sea!”

THE EPILOGUE

A couple of weeks later there was a knock on the door.

“Who’s that at the front door, Albie?” said his mother, duster in hand as usual, polishing the ornaments – a Policeman and Postman – that lived on the mantlepiece over the fireplace. “Jist hev a look, will ya?”

Opening the front door, there, on the doorstep, stood the Postman with a large parcel in his hand.

“This here’s fur yew, Albie,” he told the lad, handing over the brown-paper package. “Yew’ll hatta sign fur it – so, let’s hev yar monicker, will ya?”

Signing for his parcel – postmarked ‘Norwich’ – Albie quietly took the long, thin package through to the living room and laid it on the table, where his mother was, by now, seated and polishing the cutlery.

“Wha’s that yew’ve got there now?” she asked, inquisitive as to the contents of Albie’s parcel. But, he knew what it was, only too well, the moment the Postman handed it over!

“She’s on’y gone an’ sent back the present I gave her for Christmas,” he replied tearfully, ripping off the brown paper to reveal the contents: one lilac umbrella.

“Well – tha’s the end o’ that, then!” replied his mother, picking up the umbrella and opening it slightly, “Never yew mind – I’ll hev that, I will – that’ll hoolly go nicely with my red outfit!”

NEXT: Mike takes Albie ‘under his wing’ and tells him the ‘Jarrold way’ of doing things!

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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