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FURTHER
ADVENTURES OF THE LAD FROM SHERINGHAM
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THERE
SEEMED NO LET UP to the Big Freeze of ’63, and Albie was getting
fed up with it. Although he loved snowy scenes on Christmas cards
it was a different case when the weather affected him, making travelling
to work difficult. And arduous it was, with lengthy delays to and
from work. How he wished it would all end and the snow, as pretty
as it was, would just go away.
 T
A QUARTER TO EIGHT it began to snow again, just as the train from
Melton Constable put in an appearance. Thrusting aside the worst
of the blizzard, the railcar emerged from the gloom under the railway
bridge and squealed to a halt in the station.
“Norwich
train, Norwich train!” shouted Guard Symonds, in an attempt
to hustle along the frozen passengers. “Hurry along, please
– we’re late enough as it is!”
Albie,
George, and the others needed no reminding as they were all eager
to exchange the worst of the winter chill for the warmth of the
train to Norwich. But how wrong they were!
“Cor,
tha’s blessèd frooze up in here!” declared Albie,
taking a seat next to a window. “There en’t no heat on
is there? I’m gettin’ fed up with all the snow, aren’t
you, George?”
Looking
up from his Eastern
Daily Press, his travelling companion nodded: “Best
place for it is on a Christmas card, I reckon!”
Following
a chorus of carriage doors being slammed, the railcar gave a couple
of discordant, ear-splitting hoots, before leaving Sheringham and
its winter wastelands far behind.
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| SNOW
COVERED THE TRACKS IN PLACES |
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In
itself, the journey to Norwich was relatively uneventful although
– it has to be said – pitifully slow and, due to a total
lack of heating on the train all the windows were frozen over, inside
and out, making the passing snowscape almost invisible to the passengers,
with snow covering the tracks in places.
Breathing
on the frozen glass, Albie cleared a small window of opportunity
enabling him to see Felix, his artist friend from Jarrolds, standing
on Gunton
station platform – looking like some long-lost ‘abominable
snowman’. Banging on the window, Albie succeeded in attracting
his colleague’s attention, soon to join the others in their
compartment at the front of the railcar.
Throwing
open the sliding door to the compartment, Felix began to shake the
snow off his coat and cap and, clumping his ‘size elevens’
on the floor, scattered snow and ice everywhere.
“For
Gawd’s sake, put the wood in the hole, Felix!” grumbled
Albie, blowing on his hands to keep warm. “Tha’s hoolly
raw in here!”
“You
don’t know what cold is,” retorted Felix, “unless
you’ve been standing on Gunton station platform for the best
part of an hour!”
At
North Walsham, impatient passengers were lining the edge of the
platform waiting for the train to Norwich. Some found it hard to
open carriage doors with their non-feeling frozen fingers, but soon
the porters crammed them in, doors slammed shut behind them, and
the diesel multiple-unit crawled off again on the next stage of
its journey.
COLD
COMFORT FOR DITHERERS AND SKATERS
The
River Bure at Wroxham was completely frozen over affording little
comfort for the wildife, with ducks dithering and swans skating
about on the ice. After a brief stop, to take on more passengers,
the railcar set off again rumbling and clattering as it crossed
the bridge over the river.
Driver
Stimpson was being tested to the limit; too heavy-handed on the
throttle and the wheels would slip on the icy rails, too little
and the train would never make it up the rising gradient out of
Wroxham. But make it they did and, once over the incline summit,
the railcar began to make better headway along the snow-covered
track.
On
the outskirts of Norwich – at Whitlingham
Junction, where the Sheringham
and Cromer line joins that of the Yarmouth and Lowestoft –
gangs of workmen were cautiously picking their way across half-hidden,
snow-covered rails, playing flame-throwers on the icy points to
keep the way ahead clear for the
train.
On its final approach to Norwich Thorpe, the train from Sheringham
passed alongside the River Wensum, which had only been saved from
icing over by the passage of a small ship carrying coal for the
Power Station at Trowse.
Once
at the terminus – Thorpe
Station – Albie, together with Felix and George, quickly
made their way through the main booking hall and out of the station,
and began the long and wearying trudge along snow-covered pavements
to Jarrold Printing, in Cowgate, where they arrived a few minutes
after half-past-nine.
Nearby,
on Palace Plain, the Victorian Gasworks was a hive of activity due
in no small part to an increased demand for its product. But at
their next-door neighbours, Jarrolds, there appeared little sign
of life and the Yarn
Mill, housing the offices, was plunged in total darkness.
JARROLDS
HAD THE POWER TO IMPROVISE
“There’s
been a power cut!” Albie was told by his manager as he reported
for work – a trifle late! “You’ll just have to make
the best of it, I’m afraid.”
“But,
what about the printing machines?” Albie enquired, rather
concerned. “How can they run, let alone the blokes see what
they’re doin’?”
It
seemed the Chairman, Mr John Jarrold, had had the presence of mind
– just after the war – to purchase a secondhand diesel
engine which had come from a German U-boat. This had been installed
in a purpose-built generator house and was providing much-needed
electricity to power some of the printing machines. At least, that
is what the Design manager explained to Albie.
“I
seem to recall Mr John had the idea following the fuel crisis during
the hard winter of 1947,” Mr Oliver told the young designer,
“before my time of course, but I do believe tractors were brought
in to drive the printing machines – you can read all about
it in the Jarrold Magazine!”
“Must’ve
looked a bit like a farmyard!” laughed Albie.
ALBIE
IS LEFT IN THE DARK!
With
no electricity it was impossible to have the overhead fluorescent
striplights on, so Albie and the other designers just had to make
the best of things.
“I
just don’t know why we bothered to turn out in the first
place!” moaned Albie, a sentiment also shared by some of the
other, although less-vociferous, members of his department. “I
can hardly see me hand in front of me face let alone me drawing
board, can you, Felix?”
His
fellow designer and artist, Felix
Bernasconi, paused for a moment, then, paintbrush in hand, he
glanced over the top of his large magnifying glass into Albie’s
direction.
“You’re
always complaining about something or other,” he replied,
unscrewing the top of his Thermos flask and pouring a cup of hot
cocoa. “It’s not that bad – your trouble
is you don’t eat enough carrots!”
At
half-past ten the tea trolley arrived, and not a moment too soon
for Albie’s liking!
“At
LAST!” he shouted, rushing to the trolley, “now at least
I can get a crusty cheese roll to eat!”
“All
rolls are OFF!” declared Muriel, the tea-trolley lady from
the Works’ canteen. “Hen’t hed no deliv’ries
terday, ’cause o’ the snow! We’ve on’y got hot
drinks, tea or corfee! An’ there oan’t be no dinners terday
neither!”
“But,
Muriel,” Albie moaned, taking a cup of tea from her trolley,
“what’ll I do for me dinner?”
“En’t
my fault,” she replied, “You should’ve brought something
with ya!”
So,
with much rumbling and grumbling going on ‘down below’,
Albie had to make do with a steaming cuppa, holding it in both hands
to bring some feeling back into his frozen fingers.
“I
s’puz I’ll hatta wait till lunchtime now!” he said,
“afore I git somethin’ to eat!”
ICE
COLD... ON THE WENSUM
At
twenty-to-one Albie decided enough was enough, and left off work.
Venturing outside into the front yard of the Yarn Mill at least
it had stopped snowing, he noticed.
As
he crossed Whitefriars
bridge over the River Wensum he paused, for a moment, to join
a group of bystanders staring over the edge of the bridge. What
on earth were they looking at, he wondered? So, Albie took a look
too!
There,
on the frozen river, next to the Victorian gasworks, stood a pub
table and colourful umbrella – advertising Bullards’ Best
Bitter – and at the table sat a small group of men raising
their pint glasses to an astonished audience.
Other
workers from the Palace Plain gasworks were also beginning to venture
out onto the ice, some cautiously feeling their feet, slipping and
sliding, whilst others were kicking a football about.
As
he stood there watching, Albie noticed some of his fellow printworkers
lowering a ladder onto the ice. Soon, a couple of makeshift goal-mouths
were set up, using coats, scarves and jumpers, and the first –
and only match – in the Norwich Works’ League began.
Alas,
Albie didn’t hang around long enough to discover the result,
as his pangs of hungerwere getting the better of him! However, as
he discovered later from a report in the Jarrold Magazine, the result
was Jarrold Lions 3 – Gasworks 4. It would have been more for
the ‘Lions’, but sampling the Bullards’ ales got
the better of some of them!
As
Albie continued on his way along Tombland,
teetering about like a man on marbles, he couldn’t help but
admire the way people were coping with the dreadful winter. The
traffic, such as it was, proceeded slowly but surely, with drivers
giving way to others in a most friendly way, waving ‘thank-you’
to each other and stopping every now and again to permit pedestrians
safely across the slippery roads.
Despite
the freezing cold, everyone seemed so cheerful. Being such a declared
cynic, Albie wondered what it would be like in the future when there
was a lot more traffic on the roads!
After
slipping and sliding down St Andrew’s Hill, and blundering
over on the ice, Albie made his way to Bridewell Alley and Matthes,
the cake shop, for some buns for his lunch.
“Could
I have a couple of Chelsea Buns and a Jam Doughnut, please?”
he asked.
The
young lady shop assistant simply shrugged her shoulders and replied:
“Sorry, we hen’t hed no deliv’ries terday –
’cause o’ the snow!”
A
BAG OF CHIPS?
Shrugging
his shoulders, Albie left Matthes and headed up Bridewell
Alley, a narrow medieval street with overhanging rooftops. One
of the lanes of Norwich, it took its name from the ‘Bridewell’,
in olden times a prison
for beggars and women, but now a museum.
“If
I’m lucky,” he said to himself, hurrying along to Norwich
Market, “I might get sixpenn’orth o’ chips.”
Turning
the corner by Jarrolds’ Department Store, Albie’s nostrils
began to flare to the exciting and tempting aromas coming from one
of the colourful stalls. Somewhere, under one of those snow-covered,
multi-striped awnings, was a fish and chip stall. So, following
his nose, he headed up the row and joined a long queue of like-minded
folk all waiting for a bag
of chips!
Gradually,
the line of people began wending its way closer to the chip stall,
with satisfied customers brushing past Albie, with heads down and
blurred fingers hastily conveying vinegary chips from yesterday’s
news to today’s eager stomachs.
The
closer Albie got to the front of the queue, the more his mouth watered
as the delicious smell of fish and chips invaded his very being.
“I’m
absolutely famished!” he told the stallholder, as his
turn came at the head of the dwindling queue, “can I hev a
bag o’ chips, an’ some o’ them there little crispy
bits, please?”
The
man shook his head, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, and
snorted: “Sorry, son, tha’s it fur terday! Sold out! We
hen’t hed no spuds delivered!”
“I
know, don’t tell me,” replied Albie, sarcastically, “tha’s
all on account o’ the weather, I s’puz?”
ALBIE
DREAMS OF TEA
Back
at work, Albie continued to moan to Felix. However, by mid-afternoon
that day, at least the power had been restored and the lights were
back on.
“D’you
know, I’m hoolly famished, I am,” Albie told his
artist friend, “I’ve hardly had anythin’ to
eat all day!”
Felix
just kept his head down, trying to make up for lost time when the
lights had been out. He just wanted to finish his piece of artwork
– a colourful poster for the Jarrold Sports‘ Club –
before it was time to leave off for the day.
“What
are you going on about NOW, Albie? ” he asked, briefly
looking up from his work.
“I’m
hungry!” replied Albie, as his stomach gave out a loud
groan in protest. “I’ve had to make do with a bag
o’ crisps, a Mars bar, an’ a Lyons fruit pie – an’
I just can’t wait to get home for me tea!”
Then,
sitting back in his chair with his hands behind his head, he began
to dream of the culinary delights he was sure his mother would be
preparing for his return.
“Mmmm
– beef stew and dumplins,” he said, licking his lips at
the thought of the mouthwatering meal awaited him at home. “And
carrots an’ peas – an’ a lovely rice puddin’
with sultanas, with a sprinklin’ of nutmeg on top ...”
“Don’t
forget, we’ve still got to get home first,” teased Felix,
nodding towards the window, “if that weather’s anything
to go by, it’s not going to be easy!”
Looking
through the icy panes, Albie could see what his friend meant as
it had started to snow heavily again, almost obliterating the view
across the river to the gasworks.
“P’raps
we could leave off early?” Albie asked Mr Oliver, the manager
of the Design department. “After all, you wouldn’t want
us to be like ‘Scott
of the Antarctic’, would you?”
However,
his request fell upon deaf ears, and, leaving off at the usual time,
it was to be a long and tortuous journey home for Albie!
SITTING
BY THE FIRELIGHT
The
journey from Norwich took a good two hours that night, with the
train to Sheringham having to stop on several occasions due to ‘snow
in the works’. When Albie left the booking hall of Sheringham
Station, he immediately noticed the lack of lighting in the houses
on St Peter’s Road, itself in darkness apart from the yellowish
glow of one of the last remaining gas-lamps next to the Council
Offices.
“Oh,
no!” he muttered, “not another blimmin’
power cut.”
Feeling
his way gingerly along the pavement, running his hands on top of
the brick walls to guide his way in the darkness, he eventually
arrived in Regis Place,
“Soon
be home now,” he said to himself, walking the short distance
to his home. “I just can’t wait to have me tea!”
But,
when he opened the back door expecting to be greeted by the succulent
smell of beef stew and dumplings, he was in for a bitter disappointment.
The scullery was in darkness, the stove was cold, and of his evening
meal there was neither sign – nor smell!
“We’re
both in here, Albie,” his mother called from the living room,
“an’ the ’lectric’s orf – bin orf most
o’ the day it has, an’ orl!”
Albie
stepped into the living room, lit only by the flickering flame of
a solitary candle. Peering into the gloom, he could just make out
his parents clustered around the fireplace, with the coal fire crackling
and spitting in the grate.
“Poor
ole coal that is, Gladys!” declared his father, poking at the
fire and sending a column of sparks showering up the chimney. “Whatcha,
Albie; how wuz it at work terday?”
Deciding
to keep his coat on for a while, Albie sat down in the spare chair
by the fire.
“Dreadful!
Never known a day like it!” he replied, warming his hands in
front of the fire. “No lights, no heat – no food either!
I s’puz some tea is outta the question?”
His
parents shook their heads in unison.
“If
tha’s any consolation,” his mother replied, putting some
more coal on the fire, “we hen’t hed nothin’ either!
We coon’t cook nourthin’ as the ’lectric woon’t
on!”
Then,
Albie had a bright idea.
“Got
any bread? And what about a tin o’ beans?”
he asked, getting up from his chair. “I’m not lettin’
a little thing like a power cut beat me – we’ll hev beans
on toast, done the old-fashioned way!”
Going
into the larder, in the cupboard under the stairs, Albie returned
with a tin of beans. After opening it with a tin-opener and removing
the label, he placed the tin on the old black trivet next to the
fire, and after a few minutes, the beans began to bubble and steam.
Then
he skewered a slice of bread on the old brass toasting fork –
used for many years as a fireside ornament – and, holding it
inches away from the glowing embers in the fireplace, watched while
the bread began to brown.
“There
you go,” he proudly declared, handing plates of beans on toast
to his parents, before tucking into his own. “As I said, done
the old-fashioned way!”
After
their meal, the only hot one of the day, his parents began to wonder
where their son had got the idea.
“Tha’s
hoolly clever on ya,” his father told him, “but what
gev you that idea?”
Albie
innocently replied: “Me an’ Roz used to do that at the
Art School,” he said, “ but using an electric fire instead
– although we did hev a bottle of ‘So Terns’ to go
with it!”
His
father thought it best not to pursue the matter any further,
but his mother was not at all pleased by her son’s reply.
“I
thought we’d heard the last o’ that there mawther!”
she said angrily. “I hope you en’t hevin’ no more
t’do with her, are you?”
“Naah,”
Albie replied with false bravado, “I hen’t seen her
since I started work – an’ I dun’t s’puz our
paths’ll ever cross again – not if I hev my
way!”
But
little did he know what Fate had in store for him!
NEXT:
In the spring, a young
man’s fancy turns to thoughts of ... but what exactly
did Albie have on his mind?
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