“I can see myself as an impresario,” said Albie, “signin’ up groups an’ things for our new night club in Cromer!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

 

WELCOME SOME MORE OF ALBIE’S TALES Accueillir aux Contes d’Albie Heißen Sie willkommen zu den Erzählungen von Albie Dare il benvenuto alle Favole dell’Albie Verwelkom naar de Verhalen van Albie Bienvenido a los Cuentos de Albie Ønskevelkommen til Albies Fortellinger

 

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY... ... place your mouse over any of the pictures and see what you can discover. MUSIC MAESTRO PLEASE As each page is opened you should hear some music, to compliment each story – so, unless you hate music, turn on the sound – and ENJOY!

 

CAVERN POSTER FROM 1963 –
BY KIND PERMISSION OF ALBIE
(AND JARROLDS!)

ALBIE SPENT ALL WEEKEND in his room playing his new guitar – trying out new chords and techniques, making adjustments to his amplifier to get the best effects – and, in his view, he was beginning to play, and sound, like a true professional! However, his parents – and the long-suffering neighbours, Henry ‘Joyful’ West and his wife Betty – had far different ideas!

AN’T YEW GIVE THAT THING A REST!” his father shouted up the stairs to the small room, at the end of the landing, that doubled as Albie’s bedroom and rehearsal suite. “Your mother an’ I can’t hear ourselves think down here wi’ that racket!”

However, that Sunday morning halfway through September, Albie was far too engrossed in his music to take any notice of his father’s comments – even if he could have heard him that is – with his version of ‘Wipe Out’ blaring from the Golden Eagle amplifier his ears were insensitive to everything except his music.

Half an hour later, just as he’d almost perfected the instrumental by The Surfaris, his mother burst into his ten-foot-by seven bedroom. “ALBIE!” she shrilled, at the top of her voice, tugging his guitar lead with a loud ‘plop’ from its input on top of the amplifier, “For goodness sake, stop that row!”

“I think tha’s quite enough for a Sund’y mornin’, don’t yew?” she continued, as he switched off his amplifier and put the guitar back in its case. “Next-door hev bin hamm’rin’ on the wall like nobody’s business, they hev.”

“Your father coon’t tearke it a minute longer,” she went on, as Albie pushed past on his way downstairs, “he’re gone down to the Co-op to check his fridges, he hev – anything to git outta the house an’ away from the racket yew mearke. Call that music? I dun’t! Tha’s the wust thing yew ever did gittin’ that there amplyfire, that is.”

“I’m goin’ out an’orl,” shouted Albie over his shoulder, already halfway up the garden path to the shed where his Lambretta scooter was waiting. “I know when I en’t wanted...”

“Where yew gorn now?” his mother asked, standing in the scullery doorway. “An’ afore yew jist say ‘out’ – where out?”

Riding his scooter up the garden path towards the house, Albie stopped: “I’m gorn for a ride – I don’t care where, as long as tha’s away from this place!” And, with that, he rode up the narrow passageway between Regis Cottage and the neighbouring house, bumped off the pavement and disappeared up the road.

ALBIE OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION

After covering the four-and-a-half miles to Cromer in just under six minutes, Albie parked his Lambretta close to Cromer Pier, having ridden down the slope by the Melbourne Restaurant and along East Parade. A pleasant morning for mid-September with a gentle breeze from the east wafting along the promenade, carrying with it the freshness of the salt air and echoing to the seabirds’ cries. Leaving his scooter by Cromer pier, Albie decided to take a stroll to forget all his cares.

Walking towards the Gangway, with its colourful collection of crab boats laying idle for the Lord’s Day, Albie paused to look over the concrete sea wall, and gazed seaward at the majestic pier reflected in the peaceful waters with just the odd wave breaking against the rusty pier legs. On the millpond-like surface, a few flags fluttered atop bobbing buoys, with each and every one laying claim to twenty or more crab pots on the sea bed below.

At the bottom of the Gangway, dwarfed by a backdrop of hotels and guest houses, a small group of fishermen had gathered by the sea wall and were having their typical Sunday morning mardle.

Mesmerised by the timeless scene, either out of politeness – or indifference – Albie confined his interest to all things nautical, looking straight out to sea, and taking little notice of the group.

The smell of strong tobacco smoke – though not unpleasant in itself – invaded his nostrils and interrupted his train of thought. But still he gazed on the calming waters.

“Oi see’d the boy John afore I come hare...” he heard one half of a conversation begin. “An’ he hed a fearce as black as thunder, he did.”

Albie was still looking out to sea when he heard a second voice – somewhat quieter, younger, – raised in question: “What boy John would that be then, Tarm?”

“Dorn’t tork so sorft, Billy Boy,” replied the first, pausing to light his pipe and taking several puffs before completing his reply. “Yew know full well what boy John I mean – thass him wot hev the corfee bar up Jetty street...”

Albie found his attention drawn to two of the fishermen – one weather-beaten, though carrying his advanced years well; the other, a mere slip of a lad, tall, thin and gangly with a mop of curly hair half-concealed under a navy-blue flat cap, worn at a jaunty angle.

“Oi wuz parst there arlier,” continued Tom, the older of the two, turning, rubbing his back against the rough concrete of the sea wall. “He wuz hoolly het up ’bout suffin’, boy John wuz, an’ thass a fact.”

“What d’yew reck’n that wuz, Tarm?”

“Well – ” the old fisherman replied, taking the pipe out of his mouth, before half-turning and spitting over the sea wall, “Oi stuck moi hid round the door an’ axed him woss up.”

“An’ wha’d ’e say, Tarm?”

Albie found himself half-smiling; not from the conversation – for he was an innocent eavesdropper– but more from a sense of well-being imparted by the softly-surging sea falling on ever-moving shingle. A soothing, timeless, everlasting process. Yet even he was totally unprepared for what was to come and how Fate was about to turn the tide in his favour.

“Wuh!” he heard Tom, the old fisherman say, “thass suffen t’do wi’ some blook wantin’ t’set up a noight club, he reck’n – Oi ax yew, in Croamer, too!”

“What blook’s that then, Tarm?”

“Wuh! Oi thought yew woulda known b’now, Billy Boy,” laughed old Tom, “yar snout’s long enough, en’t that? Arter all, en’t yar next-door nearbuh Green the Custguard?”

Billy Boy nodded his head. “Yis – but wha’s that there Mr Green gotta do with it?”

“Wuh! I go t’see if I know!” exclaimed Tom, knocking burnt tobacco out of his pipe against the sea wall. “He’re got his observearshun pust oaver that there Salad Bowel, hen’t he?”

Billy Boy followed Tom’s wavering finger as it pointed to a small balcony, jutting out three storeys above a nearby seafront restaurant. “Yis,” replied Billy Boy, “but wha’s that gotta do with it?”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearin’,” said Albie, apologising for butting into their conversation, “but, you did say a night club, didn’t you?”

Both fishermen turned to face him, their steely-grey eyes filled with suspicion. “Woss that got t’do wi’ yew, bor?” said Billy Boy, turning out of the wind and blowing his nose after blocking one nostril.

“On’y interested... that’s all,” Albie replied.

“Well – bein’s yew axed – Oi heared Mr Walters watta set up a noight club on his premises,” old Tom told him, refilling his pipe and firming the tobacco down with his thumb before lighting up again. “An’ there be folk round hare wot en’t at all happy, they en’t – accordinlie to that on’t do loacal bus’niss no good, that on’t.”

A night club in Cromer? thought Albie, but where?

By then, Albie was running back to his scooter and too far away to hear Tom’s closing remarks.

“...He on’t find no-one, Walters on’t – no-one’d be sorft enough!” continued old Tom, clearing his throat and spitting over the sea wall as if to emphasize his point. “A noight club, hare in Croamer – who on arth ud be int’rested, Oi ax yuh?”

But there was someone who was extremely interested and, already, he was half way back to Sheringham to tell his friend Chris the good news!

ALBIE MAKES A PHONE CALL

After talking it over with Chris, later that Sunday evening, Albie telephoned Mr Walters at the Salad Bowl in Cromer.

“Is it true what I’ve heard that you’re thinkin’ of setting up a club?” he asked the restaurant owner. “’Cos, if you are me and my mate Chris are very interested in helping out... unless you’ve already found someone else, that is..”

“It’s a bit late to discuss anything right now,” Mr Walters told him, glad that at last he’d found someone interested in his little scheme, “and I shall be busy for most of next week – but, how about coming to see me on Saturday, will that be all right?”

Albie explained it would have to be during the afternoon, as he always worked alternate Saturday mornings.

The following week, Albie and Chris could talk of nothing else other than setting up – and running – a night club where all the youth of Cromer and Sheringham could meet and dance their weekends away, and already they had begun to make plans – before they’d even met Mr Walters at the Salad Bowl.

“We’ll hatta come up with a name for it,” Albie told his friend, “wha’d’ya think?”

“How about... Twisters?” Chris replied, after giving it careful consideration. “You know, as in doin’ the Twist; or mebbe Rollers – bein’ tha’s so close to the sea?”

Albie was unimpressed, and shook his head in dismay.

“Honestly, Chris,” he replied, “it needs to be snappier than that – something topical, in the news, to put the place on the map...”

“Tha’s all right for you to say, Albie,” replied Chris, sulkily, “but I can’t think of nothin’ else, can you?”

Albie sighed, shook his head, then gave up thinking. “Let’s leave it until we see the place,” he said, “then perhaps we’ll get some inspiration...”

THE SALAD BOWL

Just after two o’clock on the afternoon of Saturday 21 September, Albie and Chris rode their Lambrettas along East Parade towards the Salad Bowl restaurant, parking their scooters nearby.

The late-summer sunshine had brought the daytrippers flocking to Cromer by the ’bus load, with many promenading along the seafront, whilst lapping up lunchtime ice creams. Others, seeking more substantial sustenance, were queuing outside the Salad Bowl, which seemed to be doing a roaring trade.

‘Cromer crab salad now being served’ announced the sign next to the doorway, also ‘Fish and chips’, carrying the local guarantee of being ‘freshly-caught today’! Glancing down at the menu board, Albie noticed his favourite – beans on toast – joined by fried egg and chips, poached egg and chips, and sausage, egg and chips, as well as fresh-filled rolls to take away.

“This’s is it then, Chris,” said Albie, taking off his crash helmet and placing it next to the spare wheel on the back of his scooter. “Looks quite a big place, don’t it? I wonder where Mr Walters intends to have the club?”

The Salad Bowl restaurant appeared to be a rather an ungainly, back-to-front L-shaped building, Albie thought, due to it being two storeys on the left-hand side and three on the right.

“Nicely painted though,” he said to Chris, pointing at the blue-washed front, then, looking up, he spotted a peculiar bay window almost at the top of the third storey. “Wha’s that then, d’you reck’n?”

As Chris joined Albie, gazing up at the window, Mr Walters came out of the front door of his restaurant and called over to them. “I heard you coming on those scooters of yours,” he said, waving them inside, “so, when you’ve finished sightseeing, let’s get down to business shall we?”

“And in case you’re wondering,” he continued, anticipating their question and pointing up to the bay window, “that’s the Coastguard’s look-out up there – our Mr Green has fine views out to sea and all along the coast, he does.”

“About this here night club,” said Albie, glancing into the main dining room with tables neatly laid, in a most formal fashion, set out as if for the evening meal, “whereabouts will it be then, Mr Walters – not in here, I take it?”

The restaurateur shook his head and led them to another room, in which people were still having crab salads for their lunch.

“Last orders now being served, Mr Walters,” called out a waitress, flitting out of the kitchen with plates of food precariously balanced, two in her left hand and one in her right. “Besides, reck’n we could do wi’ some more crabs for later...”

“Don’t concern yourself, Tilly,” he replied, closing the front doors and turning the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. “I’ll see to it later – don’t you fret.”

“I don’t think this will do for a night club either,” whispered Chris to Albie. “Do you?”

Albie shook his head. Where was this room that Mr Walters wanted to turn into a night club, he wondered?

After returning from closing the front doors, the man headed for the staircase at the end of the hall, beckoning for the lads to follow.

“That is where Eunice – my wife – and I live,” he said, pointing upstairs.

Upon hearing her name, a woman – who looked a great deal younger than her husband – appeared at the top of the stairs. “Did you call, darling?” she asked.

“No need for you to come down,” Mr Walters replied to his wife, “I’m just about to show these two where we’d like our night club!” With that, the lady turned on her heel and disappeared, accompanied by the sound of a door being closed.

So, if it was not upstairs either, thought Albie – just where was it?

“Come on, you two,” Mr Walters said, pausing at the top of a stone staircase leading down into the basement, “down there is the ideal place for the night club – in the cellar!”

A DINGY CELLAR

Dark, dank, dilapidated and dingy – those were the only words Albie could find to describe Cromer’s proposed ‘premier night spot’ when he first clapped eyes on it – after Mr Walters had flicked the switch to the solitary light-bulb dangling from the flaking, distempered-ceiling.

And, as if that was not bad enough, there was this terrible smell, that lingered in the airless confinement of the cellar, clutching at their nostrils and gagging in their throats.

“Phwor! Talk about aroma of Cromer,” complained Albie, nipping his nose tightly with his fingers, “tha’s awful, that is – what on earth is it?”

Mr Walters just laughed. “Sorry about that,” he said, “Kitty tends to come down here for her ‘do-do’s’ – especially when it’s wet outside!”

As if on cue, a large tortoiseshell cat crept out from behind some packing cases – tail quivering in the air with satisfaction – and made her way out of the cellar and back upstairs.

“Well? What do you think, boys?” asked Mr Walters. “Surely, once it’s been spruced up it should make a good venue for you youngsters, shouldn’t it?”

“After all, there’s even a jukebox down here already,” he continued, moving a large crate to one side to reveal a dusty Rock-Ola, languishing in the corner. “I bought this a few years ago – thought it might come in handy one day...”

“Records are all out of date, though,” commented Chris, looking at the charts on the front, “mind you, we could use some o’ mine...”

“Yes, I think it’ll do, don’t you Chris?” said Albie, warming to the idea of a being part of the Cromer club scene, in spite of the dingy surroundings. “Mind you, a good lick of paint would make all the difference!” he continued, looking at the cream-distempered walls. “Can’t wait to get started...!”

CHRIS AND ALBIE SKIP WORK

On Friday 27 September, it was no small coincidence that both Chris and Albie woke up with bad headaches, deciding – instead of going to work – that a ‘breath of fresh air’ would be the cure for their ailments, and proceeded to Cromer to commence the much-needed refurbishment in the Salad Bowl cellar. And, after Mr Walters had agreed to reimburse them for a couple of tins of emulsion paint, leaving the choice of colour to them, they made their way into town looking for the nearest hardware shop.

Almost on the corner of Bond Street, facing the parish church, they found just what they were looking for and went into K-Hardware to buy some pots of paint.

“Cream en’t no good is it, Chris?” Albie said, picking up a colour chart and glancing at the range of shades and hues. “I reck’n we want suffin’ t’give the place a bitta atmosphere, don’t you?”

“What about this green? Chartreuse – tha’s a rather nice colour, I always did like that...”

Chris shook his head: “No, that on’t do – tha’s more like a hospital waiting room, that is.”

“That need t’be a deep colour – dark an’ bold,” he continued, reflecting upon the nature of the cellar and its proposed use, “to make you feel almost like you’re in a cave...”

“Tha’s it!” cried Albie excitedly.

“Wha’s what?” replied Chris.

“The name we’re bin lookin’ for,” Albie replied, barely able to contain his excitement, “The Cavern! You know – just like what the Beatles hev in Liverpool – on’y we can hev our very own Cavern here in Cromer – wha’d’you think?”

Agreeing that it was a brilliant idea, both lads eventually emerged from K-Hardware with three tins of midnight-blue emulsion, two paint brushes and a roller, and quickly made their way back to the Salad Bowl to begin work on repainting The Cavern!

However, upon their return, Mr Walters was less than overjoyed with their choice of colour.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as the first brushstrokes of midnight-blue appeared on the ceiling, “I’m not paying for that – I thought it looked all right in cream! – besides, you’ll hardly be able to see your hand in front of your face with that colour! ”

Albie tried to explain that, as it was, the cellar lacked atmosphere – but still Mr Walters was unimpressed. “You know best,” he said, leaving them to their painting, “but don’t expect me to pay for the paint...!”

“Never mind,” Albie said to Chris, continuing to paint the ceiling and getting splattered in the process, “just means I’m almost skint now... until next payday!”

CROMER’S FIRST GRAFFITI?

Working all weekend, by late Sunday afternoon Chris and Albie had almost finished painting in The Cavern, and even Mr Walters was quite impressed with the result. With its midnight-blue ceiling and walls – one left in its original cream distemper – even he had to admit there was a definite ambiance, one which was totally lacking before.

Even the original lightbulb had come under scrutiny from Albie, who had replaced it with a red one, ‘borrowed’ from some coloured illuminations on Cromer pier.

“I have to admit,” the restaurateur confessed, glancing around the cellar, which now smelled of fresh paint rather than feline faeces, “you have made a good job of it – transformed it in fact – but, why the cream wall? Run out of paint, did you?”

“No,” replied Albie, shaking his head and, taking a large black Magic Marker out of his pocket, he began to draw a cartoon on the light-coloured wall. “We’re goin’ to encourage everyone to draw suffin’ on this wall – an’ leave it for posterity...”

With that, he continued with his first of many cartoons, reflecting the people and events of the era. “I thought I’d start with Christine Keeler...” he declared, pausing to give his subject much careful thought, “arter all, she seem t’be in the news a lot these days!”

“I’m not too sure about that red light,” Mr Walters told him, “we wouldn’t want to attract the wrong sort of clientelle, would we? After all, this is supposed to be a night club, not one of those ‘establishments’ in Amsterdam...!”

“...Anyway, when do you think we should open?” he continued, quickly changing the subject to avoid answering any awkward questions following his previous remark. “Could we make it next Saturday evening, do you think?”

OPENING NIGHT APPROACHES

The following Monday morning, as soon as he got to Jarrolds, Albie set about designing a poster to promote ‘The Grand Opening Nite Of The Cromer Cavern’.

“What are you up to now, Albie?” asked his friend Felix, sitting next to him. “Not another of your scatterbrained schemes is it?”

“I hope you’ve finished that book for Mortimer Wheeler!” Mike, the senior book-designer told him, looking over Albie’s shoulder. “Work does comes first – as well you know!”

“I trust that’s not private work, is it?” Mr Oliver, the head of the Design department asked him.“After all, that’s not the best way to guarantee a job here, is it?”

To avoid any further wry comments, Albie hid the poster under his drawing board and made a start on ‘Jarrolds’ work instead. Although, every now and again, he continued to work on the poster but making sure no-one was looking over his shoulder.

This went on until Wednesday when, pleased with his poster design, Albie printed twenty-five copies on the department’s Xerox copier. All that remained now, he told himself, was to get the posters displayed in Cromer – and started making a list.

After returning home from work in Norwich, straight after tea Albie set off on his scooter for Cromer to put up his posters – with the Jetty Coffee Bar on High Street, just past the Hotel De Paris, being the first on his list.

“Could I have a frothy coffee, please?” he asked, deciding a bit of diplomacy was required before handing over a couple of his posters. “And could you display these for me, please?”

John, the café proprietor, was not a happy man. “That on’t do my bus’ness much good!” he replied, reluctantly taking the posters from Albie, “but, bein’s you’re a reg’lar, I’ll put one up for you – but I still en’t happy about it, I en’t. As I told old Tom, the other day, no good’ll come onnit – you mark my wuds!”

Finished his Cappucino, Albie left – by which time one of his posters declaring ‘Grand Opening Nite, Cromer Cavern, Saturday 5 October’ had appeared in the side window of the Jetty Coffee Bar.

Next, he made his way to the Olympia Rollerdrome, just around the corner in Garden Street, and, from the noise coming from the building, it was obvious a roller-skating session was in progress.

“Do you think you could display this poster for me, please?” he asked the lady in the kiosk, handing over one of his posters, then, deciding to remind her: “After all, I am one o’ your reg’lars, aren’t I? ”

“Hang on, love – I’ll just ask Norman,” she replied, taking the poster from Albie.“Norman, Nor-man, can we put up a poster for this young man? Says he’s reg’lar!”

“Wha’s that, Hilda?” her husband asked; then, taking the poster from her: “Oh – The Cavern – I’re heard all about that – yis, of course, we’ll put that up for you. Help put Cromer on the map an’orl – nourthin’ like that in Sherin’um is there?”

ALBIE MEETS LYNDI

The following Friday night, just twenty-four hours before the grand opening of The Cavern, Albie scootered over to Cromer to check everything was ready at the Salad Bowl, taking his guitar with him – slung over his back – and the amplifier roped onto the spare wheel rack on the back of his Lambretta.

In the Cavern, Albie helped Mr Walters set up a bar in the cellar – from which to sell soft drinks and snacks – then plugged in his amplifier and ‘treated’ the restaurateur to several tunes of the day. After a while, Mr Walters retired upstairs to his living quarters complaining of ‘one of his heads’!

Leaving the Cavern, Albie rode his scooter into town, parked it next to the parish church, and walked the short distance to the Jetty Coffee Bar where he was pleased to see his poster was still on display. Going inside he decided to have a coffee before returning back home to Sheringham.

“I still don’t like it, Albie,” said John, the coffee shop owner, about to pull on a large lever to make a fresh cup of Cappucino for him. “Like I told you the other day, that’ll do my bus’ness harm, that will, as I’ve heard them youngsters in here talk o’ nourthin’ else but this here ‘cavern’ thing!”

After much ‘whoosing’ and spluttering, and amidst clouds of steam, he handed Albie a cup of coffee. “Even ternight tha’s quiet in here; goodness knows what that’ll be like tomorrow.”

Making his way to the nearest table, by the window that looked out onto Jetty Street, Albie could just make out the outline of Cromer church silhouetted against the darkening sky. Nearby, at an adjacent, Formica-topped table, sat the only other occupant of the café – a girl in her mid-teens with long blonde hair. She looked up as he approached, and smiled in his direction.

“Hiya,” said Albie cheerfully, taking a sip of coffee out of the wide-rimmed cup before reaching into his zip-up jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “Quiet in here tonight, en’t it?”

Flipping open the packet, he took out a Consulate – menthol-tipped for cooler taste – then, searching his other pockets, found his cigarette lighter. A couple of flicks, with the sound of metal on flint, and an orangey-red flame appeared. Applying it to the end of his cigarette, Albie inhaled deeply. “Ah – that’s better!” he said, savouring the cool-tasting tobacco and blew a single smoke ring towards the ceiling.

“Got one for me?” asked the girl, getting up from her table by the door and sitting down beside him. “I’m absolutely gaspin’ – do you hev one to spare?”

Certainly not slow in coming forward, Albie thought; nevertheless, he handed her the packet with a cigarette protruding.

“You can git it out,” she told him, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulders, “an’ light it up for me...”

“...I’m Lyndi,” she continued, as he proceeded to light the cigarette. Then, taking it from him and inhaling deeply: “Wha’ your name, then?”

Albie quickly introduced himself, then got back to drinking his coffee.

“My boyfriend wuz goin’ to take me to the pictures,” she continued, “I’re bin here since seven – the b****r en’t comin’ now, is he? Looks like I’re bin stood up.”

“Hen’t I seen you ridin’ about Cromer on a scooter?” she asked, tapping ash from the cigarette onto the floor. “I’re seen you somewhere I’m sure...”

“Yes – most likely at the Rink,” Albie replied, finishing his coffee and spooning the last of the frothy milk from the bottom of the cup. “I often come to Cromer on my Lambretta – did you know we’re opening The Cavern on Satd’y night?”

Lyndi nodded: “Yes, I saw the poster; that’ll make a change from the Rink, I s’pose. Can I come wi’ you? My boyfriend en’t into that sort o’ thing, he en’t.”

“Rog – tha’s his name – work at the mushroom fact’ry up Mill Lane,” she continued, getting up from her chair and scraping it across the floor. “Live wi’ his gran, he do. All he watta do is b****y-well stay in every night, sittin’ watchin’ telly an’ that – doin’ b****r-all. But tha’s good you gotta scooter – ’corse we can go places an’ do things...!”

Just what things had this girl in mind for him, Albie wondered?

“Anyhow, tha’s nearly ten, gotta go now,” she said, heading out of the coffee shop. “Where’s that scooter o’ yours? You can take me home if you like!”

In spite of Lyndi’s rather forward approach and her frequent inability to refrain from less-than-ladylike expletives, Albie thought her ‘quite nice’. Mind you, he was rather biased when it came to blonde-haired young ladies, a trait which had been deep-seated within him for many more years than he could remember.

As a teenager – back in the 1950s – when his parents first had a television set, Albie spent most of his weekends with his eyes glued to the small screen watching films in glorious black and white. Motion pictures dating from the 1930s – from the studios of Warner Bros, Paramount, RKO and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer – had a great effect on the lad from Sheringham. Even then, he found himself drawn to the feminine attractions of the day; such names as Fay Wray, Claire Trevor, Jean Harlow, and later, the one and only, Marilyn Monroe.

All had one thing in common, they were blondes – at least that’s how they appeared to Albie on his family’s television set from the Co-op. But, from then on, he was well and truly ‘hooked’ on blondes of any description – and the buxom the better!

So it was not surprising he found himself attracted to Lyndi – who fell into the first category, being a blonde, although when it came to ‘well-blessed’... well, no-one is perfect – are they?

ALBIE ASKS LYNDI OUT

As Lyndi and Albie left the Jetty Coffee Bar the clock on the parish church, nearby, began the first of its ten chimes, echoing through the still night air. Walking, side by side, through the darkened streets of Cromer, they quickly arrived to where Albie’s scooter was parked.

Climbing onto the pillion saddle of his Lambretta, Lyndi held on tightly with her arms clasped around his waist, as they set off along Church Street towards the other end of town.

“Where do you live?” Albie asked her, stopping near the Eastern Counties’ omnibus station, on the corner of Cadogan Road. “Not far, is it? It is gettin’ rather late ...”

“Westcliff Avenue,” she answered, pointing towards the seafront, “go up Prince o’ Wales, turn left at the end, then go up the hill – I’ll tell you when to stop!”

At the top of the hill – on the road to Wyndham Park and the Runtons – just past the clifftop green known as the ‘Marrams’, Lyndi tapped him on the shoulder. “I live down there,” she said, pointing to a row of council houses, “but, before I go in, let’s hev another fag, shall we?”

Taking two cigarettes out of the packet, Albie put them in his mouth and lit them, shielding them from the easterly wind with the palm of his hand, before handing one to Lyndi.

“Perhaps you would like to go out with me on Satd’y?” he asked, as they stood side by side under a street light. “We could go to the Cavern first, then have a drink somewhere if you like?”

Her answer came accompanied by the sudden exhalation of cigarette smoke wafting in his face and making his eyes water: “OK!”

“I thought you’d never ask!” she laughed, looking back over her shoulder as she walked towards her house at the end of the road.

NEXT: Will the Cavern be a resounding success? And is Lyndi the girl for Albie? Discover the truth in Where Were You?

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 Sid Kipper

Please sign Albie’s guestbook as I would love to hear your comments –
or email: