“Chris told me about this gorgeous bird called Molly who works in his office,” said Albie, “an’ he reckon she’s never bin on a scooter afore!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

THE NOSEY NEIGHBOURS, twitching behind lacy net curtains, had taken note of the ‘goings on’ in Regis Cottage between Albie and the girl from Wickmere and, gleefully, thought it ‘neighbourly of them’ to go inform his parents! In fact, by the time Mr and Mrs Gray returned from work at the Sheringham Co-op, they had been made painfully aware of his ‘illicit liaison’ – and, in a nutshell, they were not best pleased!

ON’T YEW EVER do that agin!” fumed his father, as soon as he set foot in Regis Cottage that Saturday evening early in July 1963. “When you’re under this roof yew’ll do as I tell yew – understood?”

Albie just stood there and shrugged his shoulders. “I dun’t know what you’re all gorn on about,” he replied, rather surprised at how quickly his parents had got to hear of it. “That wun’t that we got upta ennythin’, ’corse we din’t – Diane an’ me on’y listened to some records...”

“Tha’s what yew say!” said his mother, coming out of the scullery with a steaming kettle, whistling its head off! “We’re on’y got your word onnit – ennyway, what will the neighbours think?”

“I s’pose tha’s them I hatta thank for gittin’ me into trouble,” replied Albie sullenly.

“No one’ll thank yew for gittin’ a young mawther inta trouble, will they?” continued his mother, determined to have the last word.

“But, I hen’t,” said Albie, desperately trying to tell his side of the story, “I mean, I din’t do nuffin’, anyway, there wun’t time ’corse Chris wuz on’y gone for ten minutes – more’s the pity!”

With that he left the house, went outside to the shed at the bottom of the garden, and began tinkering with his Lambretta scooter.

CHRIS HAS SOME NEWS FOR ALBIE

Late on the afternoon of Thursday, 8 August, Chris Saunders – who worked as a junior storeman in Kennings Garage on Prince of Wales Road – almost missed the 5.23pm train home to Sheringham scrambling on at the last moment, and after the lengthy walk through the swaying carriages eventually found a vacant seat next to his friend Albie.

“Hi, Albie,” he said, sitting down and taking a copy of the Motorcycle & Scooter Weekly out of his duffle bag. “Nearly missed it, I did – all on account o’ some bloke wantin’ a whole load o’ bits for his Morris Minor!”

“First this bit, then that,” he continued, flicking through the pages of his magazine, “I’d get a part from the stores, then he’d ask for suffin’ else – I hatta tell ya, runnin’ for the train hev left me knackered, that hev! ”

Albie laughed silently to himself, then began gazing out of the train windows at the passing Norfolk countryside, his view punctuated by an endless line of telegraph poles each with its dipping wires singing a message to the next station that the train was on its way.

Chris eventually broke the silence and put down his magazine, half open, on the seat beside him.

“Oh – I just remembered there’s suffin’ I hatta tell ya,” he said, leaning back in his seat with his hands folded behind the nape of his neck. “Ir’e bin tellin’ this tasty bird at work about me an’ you hevin’ scooters...”

Picking up his magazine again, folding it, and tucking it in his duffle bag, Chris continued: “Molly, tha’s her name, reck’n she’s never bin on one afore, an’ she’ wun’t mind hevin’ a go...”

“Well – watta ya waitin’ for?” replied Albie with a laugh, “Get in there quick, my son – now’s your chance!”

“Oh, Molly en’t my type,” Chris replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Besides, she’s a bit ancient for me – more your age, I woulda thought!”

“You cheeky little waarmin!” laughed Albie, forgetting for a moment that his friend was not long past school-leaving age. “To listen to you, makes it sound like I’ll soon be drawing my old-age pension!”

“Anyway,” replied Chris, grinning from ear to ear, “I’re put in a good word for ya, an’ Molly’s expectin’ you to give her a call at work – there’s a ’phone box near Kennings...”

Albie sighed, remembering all the trouble girls had caused him in the past, then said to his friend: “I dunno, Chris, I’ve hed enough grief from the fairer sex to last me a lifetime...”

“..tell you what, though,” he continued, “I en’t makin’ no promises, but I’ll just sleep onnit and think it over, if you don’t mind!”

And Albie certainly didn’t get much sleep that night, as a he lay awake thinking it over!

NORWICH 28271

Friday, 9 August, was to be a hectic day for Albie as he had many ‘loose ends’ to tie up as he would be on holiday for the next two weeks. Not that he was planning to go away anywhere, apart from Sheringham and Cromer, but a fortnight break from work meant having a good lay-in every morning with no travelling back and forth to Norwich.

He didn’t know it then but, over the forthcoming weeks, he was in for more than his fair share of traversing the highways and byways of Norfolk – and it was all to begin, that lunchtime, with a telephone call!

After lunch in the works’ canteen, Albie headed down Prince of Wales Road to a telephone box almost opposite Kennings Garage, having decided to telephone Molly.

Searching through the pages of the ’phone-book he found the entry for Kennings Garage and, after putting his pennies in the slot, dialled ‘28271’.

“Hello,” he said, pressing button ‘A’ as a girl’s voice answered, “can I speak to Molly, please?”

“Hold on, I’ll git her for ya,” replied the girl at the other end of the ’phone. “MOLLS... tha’s some boy here watta hev a word wi’ ya...”

Glancing up at the row of first-floor windows above the garage entrance, Albie saw a blonde-haired girl pick up the telephone and look downwards in his direction.

“Who’s that then?” she asked, pressing her face against the windowpanes. “An’ – wha’d’ya want?”

“Tha’s Albie,” he replied, opening the ’phone box door and waving to the face at the upstairs window, “I believe Chris may hev mentioned me?” From that distance, the girl looked pleasant enough, although too far away to tell if she really was as ‘gorgeous’ as his friend had made out.

The girl at the window waved back.

“Chris reck’n you wun’t mind hevin’ a go onna scooter!” Albie continued, standing half in, half out, of the ’phone box much to the amusement of the passersby.“I thought we could go for a ride this Sat’dy, if tha’s all right?”

“No, that that en’t!” Molly replied, shaking her head at the window, “make that Sund’y arternune, will ya? An’ – hev ya got a tranny?”

A ‘tranny’? Of course Albie had a transistor radio, he wouldn’t be without it these days he told her.

“But, do that hev an earpiece?”

Albie shook his head; no, it hadn’t as he had yet to find the need for one.

“Wuh! That oan’t do then, that oan’t,” Molly moaned, shaking her golden locks in disbelief. “If I’m a-gorn out wi’ you on Sund’y I’ll hatta hev an earpiece I will, do I doan’t I’ll miss my fearv’rit toones on Reardio Luxemborg!”

“So yew’ll hatta git one,” she declared adamantly, “do I oan’t go out wi’ ya!”

“Don’t you fret, Molly,” he assured her, “I’ll buy one in Sheringham tomorrow,” then, not having the slightest idea where she lived: “On Sund’y, do I pick you up in Norwich – or what?”

“No, you daft lummox,” she replied with a laugh, “I live at Blofield Heath, jist orf the road to Panxworth – meet me in front o’ the Two Friends pub, tha’s near the corner o’ Mill Road. Be there at two o’clock, an’ don’t you dare be learte!”

With that she rang off!

Where on earth was Blofield Heath, Albie wondered, as he made his way back to work. Or Panxworth? They could have been in a foreign country as far as he was concerned, as he’d never heard of either of them before.

FELIX TO THE RESCUE

Back at work, Albie immediately began poring over maps desperately trying to find Blofield Heath, of which there appeared no trace. He was even unsure in which part of Norfolk to start his search, having failed miserably to locate it in the index of the AA Book of the Road. Maybe it would have helped if he’d been looking in the Norfolk Broads region, instead of searching around Swaffham and Castle Acre!

“What are you doing, Albie?” asked Mike the senior designer, “I know you’re thinking more about your holiday, but you have work to do, y’know!”

“Don’t worry, Mike,” Albie replied, “I’ll get everything finished by five o’clock – I’m just tryin’ t’ find Blofield Heath on a map...”

“What do you want to go to Blofield Heath for?” quizzed his fellow designer, Tony Mullins. “It’s just off the Yarmouth Road – but why you want to go there beats me...”

“Easier to get to it from Salhouse – turn left at the Brickmakers’ pub,” commented Felix, the department’s artist. “It’s near Woodbastwick – now there’s a lovely little village to go sketching... ”

“Somehow, I don’t think he’s got sketching on his mind,” laughed John Newland, one of the other designers. “Knowing Albie, I bet a pound to a penny there’s a young lady involved...”

Albie’s blushes, spreading from ear to ear, quickly gave the game away.

“There – I told you!” chuckled John, pointing at the young designer’s reddening face. “Who is she then? You can tell me!”

“Oh, shuddup will ya,” replied Albie, angrily, “you lot are allus tearkin’ the Mickey. What if there is a girl? You’re on’y jealous... anyway, tha’s my business!”

With that, he leapt up from his desk, scattering paper in all directions, and made for the privacy of the gents’ toilets.

As he took time to wash his hands, Albie gazed out of the small window high above the River Wensum and admired the view of Norwich Cathedral with its lofty spire which, every now and again, was half-hidden amongst sulphurous plumes of smoke and steam from the Palace Plain gasworks.

Deeply lost in thought, he hardly heard the door behind him swing open as Felix entered.

“Don’t take it to heart, Albie,” he said, putting a hand on the lad’s shoulder as they walked back to their office, “that lot are only happy if they’re poking fun at someone – but, you can tell me, what is the attraction at Blofield Heath?”

Albie then told his friend the complete story of the telephone call to Molly and how he’d arranged to take her out on his scooter – if he could ever find her village that is!

“As usual, you haven’t thought it through, have you?” Felix asked, leaning on the filing cabinet next to Albie’s desk. “After all, isn’t it an awfully long way from Sheringham?”

Albie began to look rather dejected.

“Well – if your mind’s made up,” Felix continued, taking an Ordnance Survey map of Norfolk out of the filing cabinet, “Let’s see if we can work out how to get to Blofield Heath!”

ALBIE SETS OFF ON AN EPIC JOURNEY

Just after one o’clock on Sunday afternoon – after deciding to forgo his mother’s usual ‘Sunday roast’ and grab a quick sandwich instead – Albie set off on his Lambretta scooter, excited at meeting Molly, his ‘blind date’, for the very first time.

“Do you tearke care on that there scoota,” shouted his mother as he slipped it into first gear at the start of his trip to ‘foreign’ parts. “An’ don’t yew go an’ git yarself lorst... an’ mearke sure yew’re home in time f’tea!”

With his mother’s parting words of advice still echoing in his ears, Albie sped along the road to Cromer, with a piece of paper – his route to Blofield Heath, kindly supplied by Felix – taped across the handlebars of his Lambretta.

“Go through Crossdale Street an’ take the road to North Walsham,” he read, stopping at the top of the hill overlooking Cromer, “then turn right at the Market Cross and head along the Norwich Road towards Westwick Arch...”

North Walsham, of course, he knew all too well having spent the best part of five long, wearying years at the Paston School. Cross country runs had taken him as far as Swanton Abbott and across Felmingham Heath but never quite as far as the Westwick Arch, but he was sure to find it he told himself.

“Best be off,” he said to himself, turning the left-hand twistgrip on the scooter’s handlebars to select first gear. “Mustn’t keep the mawther waitin’!” And with that he released the clutch lever and sped off towards North Walsham and beyond, leaving behind a cloud of two-stroke smoke hanging heavily in the air for a moment or two.

Albie made good time, although was held up for a few minutes at the Mundesley Road traffic lights in North Walsham. Once out of town, and back on the main road to Norwich, he was – in his own words – ‘hoolly hossing along’!

CAPTAIN’S POND, NEAR WESTWICK

Slowing slightly for the notorious double bends near Westwick, always deeply shaded by a thick canopy of trees, he leant the Lambretta over for the sharp curves grounding the silencer as he went, sending a shower of sparks cascading across the road.

The odd angler, patiently awaiting a bite beside the water-lilied solitude of Captain’s Pond, glanced up as the scooterist’s fleeting image reflected, for a brief moment, in the still waters.

“Blasted racket!” he was heard to say as a bigger fish got away. “No blimmin’ rest fur the wicked...” Words drowned out by the raucous exhaust note of Albie’s scooter as he sped up the hill and soon the majestic arch at Westwick, straddling the main road from Walsham to Norwich, came into view.

Once under the arch – after sending a flock of pigeons skywards in disarray at the sound of his scooter – Albie stopped again to consult his map.

“Turn left at Scottow Three Horseshoes,” he read, running his finger down the list of places to look out for or pass through. “Then carry on for several miles to Wroxham, keepin’ a look out for the river...”

At a quarter-to-two, after passing through the popular boating resort and turning left towards Salhouse, Albie began to find his route map slightly misleading and had to admit he was lost!

Stopping at some crossroads, down a quiet country lane, he noticed a solitary cottage set well back from the roadside and, deciding it was time to enquire for further directions, he began looking around for someone to ask. His luck was in it seemed, for, coming out of the garden gate, there appeared a man carrying a large punnet of juicy, red strawberries.

Pulling his scooter onto its stand, Albie watched as the man walked over to a rusty, sit-up-and-beg bicycle propped up against the hedge, placing the punnet of fruit on an even rustier rack on the back of the bike.

“Hello, Charlie,” said Albie, walking over to the man. “I’m lookin’ for Two Friends, near Blofield Heath, do you happen to know what way that is?”

“How d’yew know moi nearme wuz Charlie?” asked the man, taking a pair of bicycle clips out of his jacket pocket and fastening them to his trousers.

“I din’t, I jist guessed that wuz!” replied Albie with a laugh.

“Well, moi ol’ bewty,” said the man, waving a weather-beaten hand to all points of the compass, “do yew’d betta guess yar way t’ Blofield Heath, hen’t ya? An’ yew betta hope yar two friends are still there when ya git there!”

“Wuh!” replied Albie, angered by the local’s lack of help. “You’re blimmin’ sorft...”

The man just laughed and cocked a leg over the crossbar of his bike.

“Sorft, yew say?” he replied, putting his left foot on the pedal. “Well, tha’s as mebbe... but, leastaways I en’t lorst like yew!”

With that he rode off, leaving Albie none the wiser as which way to proceed. He had a choice of three country lanes to take – discounting the way he’d come – but none were signposted!

So, resorting to the age-old, well-tried-and-tested, ‘eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ method, he quickly discounted the roads to his right and in front, and opted instead for the road, with grass tufting down its middle, to his left. But would it get him to the pub on time, or not?

THE TWO FRIENDS

“You’re hoolly late!” Molly told Albie when he eventually arrived outside The Two Friends pub opposite Mill Road. “I’d almost given up on ya...”

“But, tha’s on’y ha’-past two,” Albie replied, glancing at his wristwatch, “besides, I’ve hed a nightmare of a journey, that I hev, an’ tha’s a fact!”

“But, I’m here now, an’ tha’s the main thing – you can’t wait too long for a good thing, y’know!” he joked, handing her a smart, red and white, Spacemaster crash helmet. “Put this on and we’ll have that ride, shall we?”

“You can put that there thing away for a start,” Molly snapped, tossing her head in a petulant manner, though leaving her heavily-lacquered golden locks totally undisturbed. “I en’t wearing no skid-lid, that’t muss my hair up – I on’y did it afore dinner!”

Taking his crash-hat off, Albie tied both helmets onto the spare wheel carrier on the back of his Lambretta, then helped Molly climb onto the scooter.

“Put your arms around my waist,” he told her, tapping her knee in a reassuring manner, “and get as close to me as you can – then we’ll be off...”

With that, the two friends set off together; storming down country lanes, burbling along byways, careering across carriageways congested with holidaymakers making for the Golden Mile, before heading towards Hemblington, with its simple, yet pretty, round-towered church.

Suddenly, Molly tapped Albie on his shoulder and bellowed in his ear.

“We’re gotta stop – pull in here will ya!” she shouted, pointing to an open gateway leading into a field of cut barley, which had been recently harvested and stacked leaving a carpet of prickly stubble across the field as far as the eye could see. “I watta lissen to Reardio Caroline on your tranny!”

Parking his Lambretta in the gateway, Albie took his transistor radio – hanging by a leather strap around his neck – and handed it to Molly. Brushing her hair away from the side of her face, she plugged the earpiece into her right ear and began listening to her favourite pop music from the radio station far over the sea.

The little tranny was turned up so loud that even Albie could hear the music, albeit faintly, coming out of the earpiece plugged into Molly’s ear.

“From a Jack to a King,” he could just hear, though fading slightly every now and again due to the ‘atmospherics’. “From loneliness to a wedding ring, I played an ace and I won a queen, and walked away with your heart...”

A good omen, those words, he thought and began to feel quite romantic as they made their way across the prickly stubble towards the straw-stack.

Albie gathered up an armful of loose straw, laying on the ground, and made a comfy cushion for them to sit on next to the stack.

“Let’s sit down for a while, shall we Molly?” he suggested, sitting down first on the soft straw and pulling her down beside him.

“Tonight the light of love is in your eyes...” sang The Shirelles, coming loud and clear over the ‘ear’ waves, “...but will you love me tomorrow?”

Albie realised he just couldn’t wait until ‘tomorrow’, and quickly moved closer to Molly, putting a hand across her shoulders whilst the other moved, surreptitiously, closer to her knee!

“An’ you kin stop that all that palaver an’orl!” she told him, quickly, but deftly, snatching his hand away.

“What do you tearke me for? I en’t hevin’ no ’anky-panky, I en’t – leastwise, not till I’re got to know ya betta. P’raps arter tea, if you behave yourself...!”

STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM

Molly’s mother was anxiously awaiting the return of her daughter.

“Oi reck’n suffin’ musta happen’d to our Molly, dun’t yew, Charlie?” she exclaimed, pacing up and down the front path of their home, Holly Cottage. “Oi told har t’be hoome fur tea... an’ tha’s not like har t’be learte.”

“Well, if she do go a-gallivantin’ about wi’ ev’ry Tom, Dick an’ Harry,” replied her husband, opening the front gate and pushing his bicycle up the shingle path towards the cottage. “What kin yew expect...”

“Oi allus tells har t’be careful – who is it this time then?” he continued, leaning his bike against the side wall of the cottage. “Not wossisnearme, that there car searlesman, frum Kennin’s agin is ut?”

His wife shook her head: “Nooo – she sear suffin’ ’bout gorn out onna scoo-uh...”

“That wun’t a Lamber-ett-ah, by enny chance, wuz that?” replied Charlie, taking a punnet of juicy, red strawberries off the rusty rack on the back of his bike, “...’corse Oi cem acrorse a yella an’ blue ’un, arlier this arternune wi’ sum young fella roidin’ ut...”

With that, Charlie took the freshly-picked strawberries into the scullery, placed them on the drainer at the side of the old stone sink, and went outside to put his bicycle away in the garden shed, next to the earth closet.

A few minutes later, the sound of Albie’s scooter could be heard as it raced up Mill Road before screeching to a halt, in a cloud of dust, outside Holly Cottage.

“Hello, Mum,” said Molly, leaping off the pillion seat, and dragging Albie along by his hand, “this here’s Albie, my new boyfriend – an’ I’re had a fab time on his scoota, that I hev...”

“Yew must be parched, boy, arter orl yar hossin’ about,” laughed Molly’s mother, shaking him by the hand, “I’m Mearvis – do yew come indoors an’ hev some tea – we’re got fresh strawb’ries an’ cream, will that do ya orlright?”

“Charlie? Charlie!” she called out, going through into the scullery. “Oh – where’s that hubby o’ mine got to now? Navver hare when ya wa’t him, he en’t!”

Opening the back door, she shouted to her husband down at the bottom of the garden: “Charlie! Du yew come hare this instant! Our Molly’s hoome wi’ har noo boyfriend...”

“Orl right, orl right, Mearvis,” replied her husband closing the shed door behind him, “yew kin stop yar hallerin’, I en’t luggy!”

“So, where is he then, this here noo blook o’ Molls?” Charlie continued, kicking off his boots in an untidy heap on the scullery floor. Then, glancing through the doorway into the front room, he saw Albie sitting on the sofa with Molly draped all over him.

“So, you’re the boy Albie!” he declared, standing in the doorway surveying the ‘cosy’ scene, “I reck’n our paaths hev crossed orlreddy, hen’t they, young fella-me-lad?”

At that moment, Albie just wished the sofa would swallow him up!

NEXT: Albie’s mother and father are keen to meet Molly – but will she win their ‘Seal of Approval’?

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