“Since we last spook, I hen’t bin at all well,” said Albie, “I really hen’t felt meself lately, an’ tha’s not like me that en’t.”

www.albiestales.co.uk part three

LBIE JUST WASN’T FEELING HIMSELF; in fact, he’d been off colour for the best part of a week. His mother put it all down to a ‘chill on the liver’, brought on by gallivanting about on his motorcycle, so, reaching in the medicine cupboard for the bottle of ‘Carter’s Little Liver Pills’ she promptly dosed him up, which did nothing to improve his condition. Instead, it caused acute embarrassment to the lad everytime he attended to ‘the call of nature’, with golden rain showering to a psychedelic deep purple! Despite his many protests, his mother insisted that ‘all the muck was being flushed out of him’, and that he’d be ‘as right as ninepence’ in no time at all. But, what on earth was wrong with him, he worried? His mother knew best, as they always do of course, and told him, in no uncertain terms: “Tha’s ya own fault, yew shoon’t hev left ya vest orf so soon, yew know what they say: dorn’t cast a clout, afore May be out!” But as the days wore on, in spite of wrapping himself up as dictated by his mother, Albie fared no better. Then, on Thursday, 10 May 1962, it all came to a head...

MIKE, THE HEAD DESIGNER, at Jarrold Printing of Norwich, took one look at Albie then quickly stepped back putting a safe distance between them.

“What is wrong with you, Albie?” he said, rather concerned at the young designer’s appearance. “You look a funny colour, you do. Do you think you should you really be at work?”

“I hen’t felt at all well for the past few days,” Albie replied, holding his aching head in both hands, “my head’s hammering away nineteen to the dozen and I feel hot all over – an’ my throat is so sore I can hardly speak...”

“You do look ill – poor thing,” Sylvia, one of the other designers, told him, “I’ve some aspirins if you’d like one...”

“Here, Albie, drink this,” said Anne-Marie, the department first-aider, handing him a glass of water. “You certainly look very flushed!”

“I reckon tha’s suffin’ wha’s gorn about,” Albie replied, taking painful sips out of the glass of the water. “tha’s even hard to swallow, that is...”

John and Felix, two of the Design artists, didn’t like the look of him either – and soon, the entire department were of one mind – that he should go home... and the sooner the better!

“After all,” Mr Oliver, the Design manager, told him, “whatever it is, we don’t all want to catch it! So – just go!”

ALBIE TAKES TO HIS BED

After a long wait at Thorpe Station for a train home to Sheringham, Albie was greatly relieved when it arrived. Boarding the two-car diesel railcar, he sat quietly on a seat by himself, drifting in and out of sleep on the hour-long journey. Passengers came and went, though none sat next to him, and occasionally he heard their mutterings: “Don’t get near him,” they whispered to each other, “he dorn’t half look queer!”

As soon as he arrived home, Albie took to his bed, prompting his mother to tuck him up with a hot water bottle.

“Tha’s too bright in here,” he complained, pulling the bedclothes over his head, “hurts me eyes, that do – I can’t bear the light!”

Closing his bedroom curtains, Albie’s mother applied a flannel, soaked in cold water, to his feverish brow: “That hotty’s sweatin’ it out on ya” she said, putting an extra blanket on his bed. “Anything else I can git yew?”

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his bed and ripped open the neck of his pyjamas.

“Oo-ooh, I can hardly bre-eathe, I’m so-oo suffin’ hot,” he moaned, and promptly threw up into a strategically-placed bucket beside the bed.

“Yew’ll feel a lot better now,” declared his mother, washing his face and neck, then, suddenly, she noticed the rash – a myriad of tiny, red, inflamed spots breaking out all over his chest.

“Oh, my Gawd!” she screamed, putting her hands up to her face, “yew’re covered innit!” Then, rushing downstairs and putting on her coat and hat, she yelled out: “Sharn’t be long, Albie – I’m jist goin’ to ’phone the doctor!”

THE DOCTOR MAKES A SWIFT DIAGNOSIS

The very next day, Friday 11 May, following his morning surgery, Doctor Lawson – an amiable Scotsman , who everyone knew as ‘Merry and Bright’ on account of his cheerful disposition – called to visit the ailing Albie. It took him but a moment of his time to make a swift diagnosis.

“German measles!” he declared, looking at the lad’s spotty face and chest, and flicking the thermometer before placing it in his patient’s mouth. “Well, laddie, that’s the finest example I’ve seen for many a year – it will keep you out of circulation for a wee while, I fear!”

Then, removing the thermometer: “Ra-ather high, I’m afraid, however, you’ll soon mend!”

“But what about work?” Albie asked, as the doctor was about to leave, “I mean, when can I go back?”

“Och, no, laddie,” replied Dr Lawson, scribbling out a sick note for Albie, “there’ll be no work for you for the next two weeks at least, I’m afraid!”

“Plenty of liquids,” he instructed Albie’s mother as he left the sickroom, “and do keep him away from everybody in the meantime!”

Albie slumped back in his bed. German measles, how on earth would he ever live that down? What would they say at work; and, what could he do with himself for the next two weeks? Then, he remembered his motorcycle....

“Wow!” he said, “I can go out on my Zundapp every day – tha’s like being on holiday – do you know, I feel much better already!”

A GET WELL CARD FROM JARROLDS!

Later that day, Albie’s father telephoned Jarrold’s Design department to let them know his son would be away from work for a couple of weeks, as he’d got a bad dose of German measles.

The news of Albie’s demise went round his department like wildfire, prompting his friends and colleagues to get together to design a ‘Get Well Soon’ card!

“Trust Albie to catch German measles!” laughed Mike, having just spoken to the young designer’s father on the telephone, “he never does anything by halves, does he?”

“He must have got it from that bike of his,” chortled Felix, in between munching some of his wife’s homemade cakes, “it’s a Zundapp, isn’t it? Surely that’s German!”

By now, Tony Mullins was putting the finishing touches to the card, showing Albie languishing in bed, dressed in his favourite Angora sweater, and with his new motorcycle beside him.

How they all laughed as they signed the card and added their personal messages! He was not to forget that in a hurry!

ALBIE GOES OUT ON HIS ZUNDAPP

Feeling much better by the Sunday, which just happened to be his parents’ Wedding Anniversary, Albie decided to go out for a ride on his Zundapp.

“Sorry, I hen’t been able to git a card for you, Mum,” he said, putting on his crash helmet and pulling down his goggles, “but I hev been ill, hen’t I?”

“Don’t you mind, Albie,” his mother replied, “but, if yew’re goin’ out on yar bike, jist mearke sure yew wrap up warm...!”

Albie laughed: “Don’t worry, Mum,” he replied sarcastically, “I’ve got me vest on – and, I’ll try to keep away from people – Doctor’s orders! Anyway, shan’t be long!”

Getting his motorcycle out of the shed at the bottom of the garden, Albie set off down the road. In all his motorcycle gear, he was safe in the knowledge that, even if he did happen to bump into anyone from Jarrolds – unlikely as it was on a Sunday – they would never recognise him!

Crouching down, true road-racer fashion, he set off at a cracking pace along the road to Cromer, taking the Beeston Regis bends at speed. Then, crossing the railway bridge straddling the line to West Runton, he braked and dropped a gear for the thirty mile-an-hour speed limit into the village.

“Let’s see what you can do!” he said to his bike, with his chin almost touching the handlebars. Then, zooming around the sharp left-hander beside the Village Inn – or 19th Hole to the locals – Albie gave his Zundapp full throttle! And she just flew, quickly leaving West Runton hidden in a cloud of dust and a spiral of two-stroke fumes.

Forty... forty-five... fifty, he saw coming up on the speedometer – then fifty-two... fifty-three... and, finally, an impressive fifty-five miles per hour! How exhilarating it felt, bowling along the main coast road at speed!

On his right, out of the corner of his goggles, loomed the dark shape of Ingleborough Hill, close to East Runton. Time to throttle back now, he thought, as he approached the village. Taking another left-hander at speed, he passed the little Methodist chapel where his grandparents worshipped every Sunday, and applied his brakes as he entered the narrow village street.

At the Fishing Boat Inn a group of locals were already congregating outside, queuing patiently for the pub to open, not wishing to miss a single minute of supping time!

“Drat them thar infernal things!” shouted a man as he escorted his ‘lady friend’ towards the little chapel. “Do yew hev ta mearke so much uvva conflopshun on th’ Lord’s Day?” he shouted in Albie’s rapidly disappearing direction, then crossed the road and joined the others by the pub!

Further on, between East Runton and Cromer, was a line of houses reaching down from the coast road to the clifftops. This was the little hamlet of Wyndham Park where Albie’s grandparents lived and, already, Elijah, his granddad, was on his allotment gathering some fresh vegetables for Sunday lunch.

From the main road Albie could see him picking peas so, turning down the dusty lane, decided to stop and say hello.

“Wuh – tha’s young Albie, en’t it?” exclaimed Elijah, as his grandson raised his goggles, “tha’s a surprise that is, I haard yew wuz ill an’ hed got Jarman measles.”

“Why, yes, I was – and I have,” replied Albie, forgetting about all ‘keeping away from people’, “but I’m feelin’ much better now, apart from these spots – they hoolly scratch, they do!”

“But I en’t s’posed to git near anyone,” he continued, suddenly remembering ‘doctor’s orders’.

“Tha’s orl right, boy,” laughed his grandfather, “both me an’ yar grandmother hev hed it when we wuz children – not like yew!”

“No – until now, I was quite healthy,” Albie replied proudly, “I hen’t had mumps or chickenpox either...”

“Yew’re got suffin’ comin’, yew hev,” his granddad told him, as they walked together down the lane to Louis Cottage with Albie pushing his motorcycle, “tha’s allus wusser in learter life – do yew maark my wuds!”

Indoors, Granny Gray was already getting started with the Sunday lunch: “Why, Albie,” she said, “tha’s a nice surprise – are yew feelin’ any better?”

Albie nodded that he was and, following his grandparents into the living room, he loosened his motorcycle jacket and removed his crash helmet.

“I thought you’d be at chapel this morning?” he asked, sitting down on a chair by the back window and looking down the garden path to where his Zundapp was standing. “You do normally, don’t you?”

His grandmother nodded in reply: “Yes, I do usually go on a Sunday mornin’, but there’s a good preacher there ternight – a Mr Beales – all the way from Hicklin’ what me and Grandfather watta hear.”

“Albie cearme over on his noo moatabike, May,” Elijah told his wife, nodding towards the gleaming blue and cream machine standing next to the garden shed. “Tha’s a furriner he tells me – Jaarman, an’orl – I dun’t know what the wuld’s comin’ to, I dorn’t and tha’s a fact! Jaarman – I ax yew!”

“Well – that certainly look a nice little bike, Albie,” his grandmother told him, “but, do yew tearke care onnit, ’corse they’re dearngerous things, motorbikes – an’ do yew wrap up an’orl. Do yew’ll mearke yarself wuss!”

Deciding he’d had enough ‘lecturing’ for one day, Albie made his excuses and left, and was soon back on his Zundapp, head down, bowling along the road towards Sheringham.

After wheeling his motorcycle back to the garden shed, taking care to lock up carefully behind him, Albie opened the back door of Regis Cottage and went in.

“Just where hev yew been? asked his mother, standing by the back door with her hands on her hips, “Yew’ve been gone all mornin’– and, jist yew look at the stearte on ya, with yar coat all undone! I told yew to mearke sure yew wrap up warm – dorn’t yew come blarrin’ to me if yew hev a relapse!”

PROBLEMS WITH PRODUCTION

Having been signed off the ‘sick club’ by Dr Lawson, Albie returned to work on Wednesday, 30 May, feeling much better after his ‘enforced’ absence, though most of the time spent gallivanting about on his motorcycle!

“Good to have you back, Albie,” his boss, Mr Oliver, told him, “as there’s a rush job we’d like you to do – see Mike, he’ll put you in the picture!”

Handing Albie – what seemed to him – an absolute mountain of paperwork and photographs, Mike began his brief: “This is a supplement for Griffin & George, the scientific equipment supplier to schools – and it’s extremely urgent,” he told the young designer. “Tony Mullins normally handles their account, but he’s far too busy this week– besides, it’ll be good experience for you!”

Albie began by sorting everything into neat piles: copy for marking up and typesetting, photographs for sizing and printmaking, and rough pencil layouts to help him decide ‘exactly what goes where’. Then, sifting through the various piles, he began to make a start.

Sitting at his desk with a ruler in his hand, he had just begun sizing up all the photographs when Eric Cocks, the manager of the Production Control department, came into the room.

“Who’s workin’ on Griffin & George?” he snapped. “Tha’s due on machine next week!”

“Albie has just made a start,” came the reply from the Design manager.

“How much longer will you be?” Eric asked Albie, standing over him in a menacing manner.

“I really can’t say yet, as I’ve only just started the job,” Albie replied, in all innocence. “This is my first day back after all...”

“Trust you to be away when we’re busy!” the manager of Production Control rasped as he stormed out of the room. “I want that job first thing tomorrow – do you hear?”

By lunchtime, Albie had finished sizing the pictures, sending them to the Xerox Room to have prints made, before joining Mike and the others in the Works’ canteen.

He’d hardly had time to take his first mouthful before Ian Fenton, the ‘progress chaser’ for Production Control, came over to his table.

“Can you tell me who is working on Griffin & George, please Mike ?” he quietly asked the head designer. “Sorry to disturb your lunch, but it’s due on machine next week, I gather!”

“Have a word with Albie,” replied Mike, nodding in his direction at the other end of the table.

“Can you say how much longer will you need?” Ian asked Albie, watching as the lad piled some peas onto his fork.

“Tha’s hard to say,” Albie mumbled, in between mouthfuls. “I told Eric earlier, I’d only just started...”

“I’m ever so sorry,” Ian said, in his usual apologetic way, “but, do your best will you, as it’s due on the machine next week!”

After lunch, working ‘fit to bust’, Albie got his head down and began checking through the customer’s manuscript, making the odd change here and there, before deciding which typeface style to use, breaking off only for a couple of minutes during the mid-afternoon tea break, to snatch a welcome cuppa.

He’d hardly had time to raise the cup of tea to his lips, let alone take a sip, before Kim Billham, responsible for all typesetting, rushed into the room.

“Who have you got working on Griffin & George, Mike?” he asked. “Tha’s due on machine next week!”

Mike had other things on his mind, namely enjoying a well-sugared, jam doughnut, and merely nodded in Albie’s direction.

“You haven’t got time for that,” Kim laughed, as Albie spluttered over his cup of tea, “Griffin and George’s due on machine next week!”

“If you let me have the copy for typesetting by half-three,” he continued, “I can get you some proofs for your layouts first thing tomorrow – so, pull your finger out will you!”

After an extremely, hectic, first day back at work, Albie was looking forward to five’o-clock and time to go home again.

“I dunno ’bout you, Felix,” he said to his artist friend and travelling companion, “but I’ve had a hoolly testing day today, an’ tha’s a fact!”

At five-to-five, just as Albie was packing up, getting ready to leave off for the day, Jackie, the new secretary in Production Control breezed into the Design department.

“May I have a quick word with Albie, please, Mr Oliver?” she politely asked the Design manager.

“Um – Albie, oh, um, yes,” he replied, “but, you’ll have to be very quick, or you’ll miss him!”

“Albie,” she said shyly, “I wonder... if you’d like to... but, if you wouldn’t, I’d understand... ”

“As I told Eric – ” snapped Albie.“– and Ian... and Kim – now it look like I’ll hatta tell you – I DON’T KNOW how long that blessèd job will take! It’ll be done when tha’s done that will an’ not a moment sooner!”

With that, he stormed out of the department, leaving the poor girl standing there speechless.

“Well, if he doesn’t want to go out for a walk with me, I shan’t bother asking him again!” she eventually muttered to herself as she returned to her own department. “I certainly wasn’t interested in his job – I hope he mucks it up now! That’d serve him right!

Felix and Albie made their way to Thorpe Station to catch their train home, catching it by the skin of their teeth as usual, and, as they sat together on the train, Felix turned to Albie and told him: “You were rather rude to that young lady, weren’t you?”

“Anyway,” he continued, with a wry smile on his face, “d’you really think you’ll get that job finished tomorrow? – ’cause I need you to help me retouch some photographs!”

“Don’t you start!” replied Albie angrily.

A TESTING DAY FOR ALBIE!

At a quarter-to-seven that night, Albie arrived home, after a long, and stressful, first day back at work after his illness.

“Had a good day?” his mother enquired, getting his evening meal out of the oven. “I bet they were glad to hev yew back again, weren’t they?”

“To tell the truth,” he replied, in between mouthfuls of sausages, egg and chips, kept warm in the oven, “I’ve had a right trial today, I hev an’orl – you’d hardly credit it!”

“First one bloke asked how long a job would take, then another, an’ another – ” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “then this here office girl watta know – so, yis, Mum, tha’s true to say I’ve been tested to the limit, that I hev!”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” his mother said, handing him a buff-coloured envelope, “this came for yew, in the mornin’ post – by the look onnit, I reckon tha’s your motorcycle test, don’t yew?”

Taking the envelope from her, Albie quickly tore it open then read the brief letter and sighed.

“Wuz I right then?” his mother asked, “’corse yew dun’t seem overjoyed, dew ya? I thought yew’d a-bin over the moon by it...”

“What – after the day I’ve had?” he replied irritably. “Tha’s one blimmin’ thing arter another – besides, I en’t too sure I’m ready for it yet!”

NEXT: Albie faces the moment of truth as he takes his motorcycle test!

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