www.albiestales.co.uk part one

ON THE LAST DAY OF TERM at the Paston School during July 1954, Albie could think of nothing but six weeks of sheer pleasure that lay before him – and a welcome break from the all rigours of grammar school life. Being in his early teens, Albie thought it quite acceptable to laze at home, doing absolutely nothing much at all, or out and about on his bicycle aimlessly pedalling around Sheringham. But he was in for a nasty shock, as his long-suffering parents had other ideas.

“DO YOU COME on now, Albie, an’ pull yarself t’gether!” mobbed his mother, early on Saturday morning at the start of the long summer holidays. “I on’t hev you sittin’ around on yar backside all day, besides, yar father think tha’s time you found yarself a little job.”

“Yis,” agreed Nanny Edie, sitting in her usual chair enjoying a quiet cup of tea, before getting back to her knitting. “I reck’ns the little waarmin could do with a bit o’ pocket money an’orl. But, tha’s up to him, I s’poose.”

ALBIE’S FUTURE IS IN THE BALANCE

Gladys, the lad’s mother, and Edie then began to discuss Albie’s future at great length – or at least his future for the next six weeks or so. It wasn’t that they wanted him out at work, just out from under their feet as he did have the tendency, like a little lamb, to follow them around.

“I am here, y’know!” exclaimed Albie angrily, rather hurt as he felt he should, at least, have some say in the matter. “Arter all, tha’s my future you’re gorn’ on about!”

His elders and betters were both quite taken back by his sudden display of truculence and seemed quite lost for words. But Albie, being rather stubborn, a trait he’d inherited from his granddad, wasn’t about to let the matter rest.

“I tried workin’ with Dad at the Co-op,” he recalled, “that wuz all right, but, there agin... no, I think I’ll give the Co-op a miss.”

That was on account of his ‘accident’ when weighing up Huntley & Palmers’ Rich Tea biscuits. Ending up with many more biscuits than he’d started with, his father, the Co-op manager, had quickly written out a sign, declaring: Broken Biscuits – Half Price! No, he thought, he would not be welcome at there again!

“No I can’t work with Dad,” replied Albie, thoughtfully, “but what I’d really like is an outdoor job.”

If he must work, being outside would be much better, he told himself. He could still retain his sense of freedom, even see his friends from time to time, and with some money in his pocket into the bargain. What more could anyone ask? But, there again, not too much like hard work, he decided.

JOB-SEEKING IN SHERINGHAM

The following Monday morning, Albie hopped on his bicycle and rode up into town to see if there were any ‘odd jobs’ available. Perhaps the Greengrocers would like a delivery boy, or the Market Gardeners a lad to do some hoeing and weeding. Everywhere it was the same story: they were ‘fixed up’. Even the dairy, opposite Albie’s house, had enough bottlewashers and delivery boys ‘thank you very much’, he was told! Then, on the Tuesday, Albie heard of a job that fitted the bill.

Bertram Watts, Booksellers and Stationers, had placed an advertisement in their window requiring a reliable newspaper delivery boy for the summer holidays – and that’s what they were about to get, in the shape of Albie!

Originally founded in 1902, for a great many years the business had occupied the site in Church Street where it still trades today and, as well as selling books, magazines and newspapers, Watts also had a subscription Lending Library, up some stairs through a doorway next to the Sheringham Post Office.

Reading the advert with much interest, Albie went straight inside to apply for the job.

“Please, Mr Watts,” he politely asked the shop owner, “I’d hooly like that there job in the winda.”

Mr Watts eyed Albie up and down, and he had to admit he appeared as keen as mustard, but he also knew his father at the Co-op, so, if there were any problems with the lad, he knew just where to go!

“Can you start straight next Monday, Albie?” enquired Mr Watts. “I shall require you to be here bright and early, every morning, to sort the newspapers, then deliver them all around town. There’ll be magazines as well, of course. Do you think you could do that for me?

“Yis, thank you, Mr Watts,” replied Albie, “I’m sure I won’t disappoint you!”

“Right!” said Mr Watts, summoning an elderly man from the office. “I’ll leave you with our Mr Storey who will show you the ropes, an’ tell you more about what we’d like you to do.”

Mr Storey, who lived in nearby Waterbank Road, was a remarkable man. He’d lost an arm in the Great War – the war to end all wars – whilst serving his King and Country. Yet, here he was, every single day without fail, delivering newspapers and magazines to all parts of Sheringham with the aid of his trade bike!

“Hello, boy Albie,” he said, opening his ‘bible’, the customer list.“This here book gives all the nearmes an’ addresses of our customers in the town – from the posh West End with their Times an’ Telegraphs, to Nelson Road who like the Mirra an’ Heralds.”

“An’ there’s two things they can’t abide,” Mr Storey told him, “tha’s gittin’ the wrong pearper put through their letterbox an’ gittin’ it learte!”

Albie laughed nervously but, quite looking forward to the challenge, said he’d do his best.

“You’ll hatta be here bright an’ early every mornin’,” continued Mr Storey, “to sort ’em out first, afore you go out on yar round.”

“What about the magazines?” asked Albie, looking at a vast pile of Women’s Weekly, People’s Friend and gardening magazines. “Do I sort ’em and slip ’em in with the newspapers?”

Mr Storey seemed quite impressed by the lad’s forward thinking, and told him so. “If they’re in on time, yis,” he replied, “but they do tend to be learte, so you may hatta go out agin jist afore dinner!”

“What about the evenin’ papers?” asked Albie. “Do I hatta do them, too?”

“No, me ole bewty,” laughed Mr Storey, “tha’s orl tearken care of, as is Sundays an’orl!”

Mr Watts then poked his head round the door of his office.

“What d’you think, Mr Storey?” he asked, “will the lad do?” The one-armed man nodded his head approvingly.

“Good,” replied Mr Watts, turning to Albie, “you can have Mr Storey’s trade bike for your deliveries then.”

“But,” asked Albie, “won’t Mr Storey want it for his round?”

“No,” replied Mr Watts, “Mr Storey will be on holiday for a couple of weeks, and won’t be needing his bike for a while. After that, we’ll have to see. But tha’s all down to you – so, don’t disappoint us, will ya?”

ALBIE DELIVERS THE DAILY NEWS

The following Monday morning, Albie was up with the lark ready to meet the newspaper delivery van from Norwich.

After sorting out the newspapers and magazines, taking care to pencil a small house number at the top of each one, Albie placed them in a large canvas bag, which, by now, was getting quite heavy.

Outside, on the pavement stood his trade bike, with a hand-painted sign below the crossbar declaring: ‘B A Watts, Newsagents and Stationers’.

“Hope tha’s strong enough to tearke orl this wearte!” Albie laughed, heaving the weighty load of newspapers into the carrier on the front and, quickly mounting the bike, he pedalled off on his first round, whistling as he went.

Starting from the town centre, near the Town Clock, his first delivery was on the Boulevard, then along Links Road and, through a little loke where lilac bloomed in springtime, into Montague Road and North Street. After dropping off newspapers and magazines in the west end of town, Albie then made his way to the salubrious heights of Hook’s Hill and Abbey Road, just off the Cromer Road.

Here, he delivered The Times or Punch to the elegantly-fronted houses of solicitors and bank managers – though the climb up to one, near the National Children’s Home, involved a great many steps and left him breathless! However, on the downhill stretch that followed, with his feet off the pedals, at least he had time to get his breath back!

To the northeast of town, at Hillside, just off Nelson Road, by the lower slopes of Beeston Bump, the delicious aroma of freshly-made coffee wafted through the mid-morning air.

“Mmmm...,” he said to himself, throwing back his head to savour the delicious smell, “that must be time for elevenses, I could hooly do with a bun an’ a cuppa!”

At the very end of Hillside, in a large house – a rather grand affair with a green-tiled mansard roof – Albie stopped to deliver a copy of The East Anglian magazine. A sign on a gate informed: ‘Tradesmen’s Entrance’ so, quietly lifting the latch, the lad went inside and, walking up a lavender-lined crazy-paved path, he headed for the back door.

Not wishing to crease the glossy magazine in order to ‘post it’ through the small letterbox, Albie gave a polite tap on the back door next to an open window through which the delicious smell of coffee was escaping.

“Good morning, Madam,” he said, as a very posh-looking lady opened the door, “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I couldn’t get your magazine through the letterbox...”

“That is perfectly all right,” replied the lady, “how very thoughtful of you, young man.” And, taking her copy of The East Anglian from him, she quickly closed the door. No chance of even a glass of water here, let alone a cup of coffee, Albie thought!

Retracing his steps back to Nelson Road, Albie then called at a quaint little cottage named ‘Dragonflies’. Set well back from the road, it stood amidst a beautiful, but rambling Old English garden, and home to an elderly lady, who seemed to live on her own, apart from her devoted ‘Binkie’, a small Yorkshire terrier. This little dog, though friendly enough, always announced the lad’s arrival with a shrill ‘yap-yap-yap’ each time he rattled the letterbox on the front door.

“Hello, dearie,” said the old lady, leaning heavily on her stick, as she took her copy of the Radio Times from Albie. “Could you be such a dear and run a little errand for me?”

Albie said he was only too pleased to help.

“Would you be as kind as to post this letter for me, as my poor old legs won’t carry me too far today?” the little old lady said, handing him a ready-stamped, small pastel-blue envelope, beautifully addressed in the finest handwriting he had ever seen.

With a sixpenny-piece pressed into his hand as a reward for his kindness, Albie mounted his trade bike heading for the nearest postbox in Cliff Road. “Thanks very much,” he called back, as he cycled away, “see you next week!”

This was to be a weekly occurrence whenever the boy delivered her much-loved magazine, as she had few pleasures in life apart from listening to her radio. But at least she must have someone, somewhere, he decided, as, although she lived on her own, apart from her dog, she always corresponded to someone in ‘foreign’ parts, from the address written on her letters.

RENEGADE ON THE WAR PATH

Not all people living in Nelson Road gave Albie such a warm welcome however, as he once discovered to his cost.

On day, when passing a house near the junction with Sandy Lane, a small boy – one of our ‘colonial cousins’ – was playing ‘cowboys and indians’.

At the time, Albie was delivering the papers using his own bicycle, a Federation from the CWS cycle works and a present for his eleventh birthday. Unfortunately, his trade bike was out of action, due to a puncture, and had been wheeled in to the Sheringham Cycle Works, in Station Road, to await the attention of old Siddie Lake.

The little American lad, dressed in buckskins and wearing ‘war paint’, mistook Albie for ‘General Custer’ and shot an arrow in his direction which passed through the spokes of his back wheel.

“What on earth did you do that for?” shouted an annoyed Albie at the little ‘indian’, surveying the badly-crumpled back mudguard of his pride and joy. “You’ll hatta pay for that!”

But neither the little lad, ‘Running Wolf’, nor his father, ‘big chief Sitting Bull’ – an American serviceman – never did!

That was Albie’s first brush with the Americans, many of whom lived in the area and served in the USAF on the base at RAF Sculthorpe, near Fakenham, flying sorties over Soviet territory during the Cold War period.

The following week, however, Albie was to have another ‘brush with the Yanks’ – but, this time, more pleasant!

FRATERNISING WITH THE COLONIALS

Albie had been delivering papers and magazines all along Links’ Road, ending with a house, rented by an American family, close to Sheringham Golf Club’s practise green. As it turned out, the Americans had a daughter who, on hearing Albie’s fumbles with the letterbox, opened the front door to collect her comic, the Mirabelle, from him.

“Hi,” said the pretty young girl with a turned up nose, “I’m Gayle – who are you?”

Albie just stood there, speechless for a moment, but then decided to introduce himself as well!

“Albie,” he replied, “I’m Albie,” and, with his paper round almost finished, he continued: “I’m now gorn’ over the golf links, d’you wanna come?”

To his absolute surprise, she breathed: “Sure, that’ll be reel cool!”

So, parking his bike up against the side wall of Gayle’s house, the pair set off together across the practise links – to practise the art of fraternisation!

As they walked along they held hands, something Albie had never done before, but he quite liked the idea and could hardly wait for more!

They talked and talked, they chased all over the golf course, they sat on the cliff top watching the sea ebbing and flowing, with waves breaking over the foreshore – then they chewed ‘gum’ and blew bubbles!

One thing, of course, led to another and Gayle, insisting by now they were‘going steady’, suggested they should go out on a ‘date’ together .

“Gee, Albie,” she said in her Deep Southern drawl, squeezing his hand tightly, “we could go downtown, get a ‘furter’ and take in a movie...?”

“Ooh, I’m not too sure...,” Albie replied, as, what on earth would his parents think, he wondered? But Gayle wasn’t about to take ‘no’ for an answer and turned to him with a grin.

“Gee whiz, that’s great,” she smiled. “I’ll go and tell Mom and Pop.”

Crikey, thought Albie, what would his school friends think? And he shuddered to think how his parents would take to the idea as well!

“Now, look here, Albie,” declared his father, far from pleased with his son’s latest escapade. “This will not do. You are much too young to go gallivantin’ around with some ‘mawther’ – an’ a ‘foreigner’ an’orl!”

“I dun’t know who he git it from,” moaned Albie’s mother, worried sick by her son’s antics.

“I go along o’ your mother,” continued Albie’s father. “You jist hatta have girls on yar mind all the time, I dun’t know wha’s come over ya!”

Oh dear, thought Albie, perhaps they weren’t too keen on the idea.

“But tha’s all arranged,” quipped the boy, quite looking forward to his trip to the ‘movies’ in the company of his newfound female friend. It made him feel all grown up and, besides, he told his parents, they were to be taken to The Picture House in style – in Gayle’s father’s Studebaker, no less!

“All right then,” replied his father, sternly, “this once, but never again – do you understand?”

That was to be the first – and last – time such a large and impressive automobile, resplendent in its two-tone painted finish, lashings of chromework and enormous tail fins, was ever to be seen in Regis Place.

Gayle and Albie arrived at the movies in style, with her parents paying for both of them to sit in the one-and-nines. Once inside, they settled down in their seats, whilst Gayle eagerly waited for the lights to go down to herald ‘the start of the action’ – but Albie had other ideas!

Tarzan of the Apes was on the sliver screen, with Johnny Weissmuller in the lead, and Albie did particularly love his Tarzan films – they came second only to his Westerns.

Even before the lights went down, Albie had noticed a great many of his school chums there as well, but, hoping to remain unseen he snuggled down in his seat, but to no avail!

“Cor, jist you look at Albie,” the cry went up, “he’s with a mawther!” This was followed from the cheaper seats with a chorus of: “We know you no-ow. We know you no-ow!”

Albie’s friends kept turning round to see what the pair of ‘lovebirds’ were up to, but as far as Albie was concerned he was there to see the film and he couldn’t, because, at that moment, someone with a big head sat down in front of him.

“Tha’s no use,” he muttered to Gayle, “I can’t see, I’m gonna hatta move.” And move he did, with two seats separating the young couple for the rest of the evening!

As for Anglo-American relations, Albie had blown it with Gayle, his American ‘girlfriend’, it seemed who broke off ‘diplomatic relations’ at the end of the film – leaving her ‘short-lived’ boyfriend to walk home!

Soon afterwards, her father was recalled to the States and the family left Sheringham, never to return.

PROUD TO BE A PASTONIAN

One advantage of Albie working for Bertram Watts, Newsagents of Sheringham, was that he was given free run of their Lending Library, which they had set up before the days of the Public Library. For a small fee, perhaps a shilling a week, the avid reader could make a choice from a vast selection of books displayed on shelves in the upstairs room.

Being an employee at Watts, Albie was allowed to visit the Lending Library in his break from delivering newspapers and often took advantage of this to satisfy his passion for reading. Often prone to flights of fancy, especially after reading his favourite comic, the Eagle, Albie like nothing better than to lose himself in the little room upstairs seeking anything to do with Outer Space or Science Fiction.

Sometimes, surreptitiously, he was able to read some more colourful grown-up material, when nobody was looking, such as a Spick or Span magazine – fairly innocuous at that time. Although he found the experience ‘enlightening’, he was the first to admit that he didn’t fully understand all the ‘goings-on’ in the grown-up world.

Towards the end of his summer holidays in 1954, Albie, having finished his mid-morning round, found he had time to spare before delivering the day’s magazines, so he decided to pay a visit to the Lending Library.

“Mr Watts,” he politely asked the shopkeeper, “if it’s all right with you, can I just nip upstairs an’ have a look through the old books in the library?”

“Of course you may, anything particular in mind?”

The boy had recently been reading books about the Second World War – which had only ended nine years previously – and had many paperbacks about the subject.

“I’ve read Cockleshell Heroes and Two Eggs On My Plate,” he told Mr Watts, and then went on to explain that the first book had been about a canoe attack by commandos on the German Fleet at anchor, whilst the other was an account of wartime life in the RAF. “But I’d like to know more about Monty and the Desert Rats!”

Mr Watts chuckled to himself and gave a friendly wave as the lad made for the old staircase that led up to the library.

As books became tatty, or well-thumbed with age, having been lent out a great many times, they were put on a large mahogany table in the centre of the room and offered for sale – usually for some paltry amount such as a shilling or two. Quickly, Albie made a beeline for the table to see if there was anything of interest to him.

“Cor, this looks hooly good,” he exclaimed, picking up a magazine. It was the cover that had attracted his attention, for there, on the front, was a picture of German stormtroopers from the Death’s Head Division of the Waffen SS. As the boy went to have a closer look at the magazine he noticed, half hidden underneath, a large book heavily-bound in light-brown leather, with a faded, tired and age-distressed look about it. Turning it over, his eyes almost popped out of his head at what he saw.

“Cripes!” he exclaimed, finding it hard to contain his excitement. “The Paston Letters!”

He could hardly believe his eyes as he opened the musty-smelling book. Printed in 1787, it contained a selection of letters written by members of the Paston family. In parts, it was almost impossible to decipher as it had been written in a very unusual style of Old English. On each recto page Albie noticed an 18th century translation, but even that made it none the easier to understand.

However, Albie knew a ‘prize’ when he saw one, and, having forgotten all about Science Fiction and War, he quickly gathered up the large, heavy volume and took it downstairs to make his purchase.

“Well, boy Albie,” joked Mr Watts, “what on earth have you found this time – Mein Kampf, is it?

The boy believed in playing his cards close to his chest, though flushed with excitement at the prospect of acquiring – what was to him as a Pastonian – such an important book!

“Just some old book I noticed on the table,” he replied in a nonchalant manner, not wishing to give the game away. “I might have a use for it someday, I s’pose!’

The shop owner paused for a moment, scratched his head, and began to look puzzled – playing a different version of Albie’s game!

“That is rather old,” he declared, blowing years of accumulated dust off the cover and thumbing through the well-worn pages of parchment.

“But,” he replied, seriously, “I really can’t let you have it for a shilling, I’m afraid.”

Albie’s jaw dropped, fearing the worst, perhaps it really was of a greater value than he could afford.

“Let’s just say,” said Mr Watts, suddenly, with a big smile, “you can have it for... SIXPENCE!”

“After all,” he continued, “it is rather old, and hardly worth having!”

That old book of letters, which spoke of life in 15th century Norfolk through the eyes of the Paston family, was to give Albie a great deal of pleasure for many, many years. Reading through those timeworn pages he shared the joys and heartaches, the pleasures and disappointments, the tragedies and achievements of the letterwriters, but, most of all, he gained a greater insight into the Paston family, the ancestors of Sir William Paston – the founder of the Paston School.

No longer was Sir William Paston just a name to be remembered in October each year, now, through the pages of the Paston Letters, reading those accounts of life in a Norfolk of long ago, Albie began to realise why it had been necessary to provide the Norfolk lads with ‘Godly learning to guide their wills’.

Reading through the pages of his book, Albie began to realise what it meant to him to be a Pastonian – and it made him hooly proud!

NEXT: Albie joins an ‘elite’ force and does his bit for Queen and Country and... Headmaster!

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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