“I’ve decided to forget all about girls,” said Albie, “at least for the time being – and I’ve bought a new guitar instead!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

TRAVELLING BY TRAIN to Norwich, that Monday morning during the first week of September 1963, Albie was far from happy. What a disastrous weekend it had been! Talking it over with his friend Chris from Kennings, sitting beside him on the train, he had managed to keep the real truth of his breakup with the girl from Blofield from him, or so he thought. But what would he say to Felix Bernasconi, his colleague from Jarrolds, who would be joining the train at the next station? Sitting on the front seat of the green-painted diesel railcar, Albie had a good view of the line ahead and already the train was slowing down as it approached Gunton. On the platform, passengers waiting for the Norwich train surged forward as the railcar squealed noisily to a halt in the station. Heading for the nearest doors typists from Norwich Union and toolmakers from Lawrence Scott & Electromotors, students from the Norwich Tech and shoppers bound for the market place, all rushed to find seats for themselves. But someone was missing...

OME ON, FELIX, HURRY YOU UP!” shouted the train guard, green flag held unfurled in one hand, whilst his bright, shiny whistle was poised in the other, about to be raised to pursed lips. “Pedal up boy, do you’ll miss the train – we’ll hatta go in a minute...”

A solitary figure – the last of the passengers – struggled with his bicycle up the steep approach to the station with a massive bunch of Chrysanthemums precariously balanced across the bike’s handlebars and a bulging briefcase lashed with baler twine to a rack over the back wheel.

Jerkily, Felix dismounted and, leaning his bicycle against the platform railings, gathered up his briefcase and bunch of flowers, sprinting – the best he could – towards the waiting train, cycle clips still firmly fastened around his trouser bottoms.

“Dorn’t yew go an’ git orl het up, Felix,” the porter told him, wheeling his bicycle towards the bike sheds. “I’ll look arter this for yuh – as I allus do!” he laughed.

This happened every day of course – same old rigmarole, same old banter! Never one to hurry unnecessarily, he always took his time did Felix, and with such understanding railway staff it was just as if the trains ran specially for him and to his time – not British Railways!

FELIX CATCHES THE TRAIN – JUST!

Gunton station – on the Sheringham to Norwich line – was quite elaborate, thought Albie, peering out of the steamed-up windows across the track to the other side. Of course it may have had something to do with Lord Suffield, the one-time East Norfolk Railway’s chairman having resided at nearby Gunton Park!

On the ‘downside’ of the line there was a fine red-brick building – far more substantial than any other wayside station – and complete with an ornate canopy to keep the worst of the weather off ‘his lordship’ when alighting for Gunton Park. However, on the other side – the ‘up-line’ to Norwich – the buildings were nowhere near as grand, not even sporting a canopy, and with such a small waiting room that proved inadequate for those waiting for the train that morning!

Leaning forward in his seat and looking through the train window on the platform side, Albie noticed Felix wrestling with the door nearest to the front compartment, balancing his briefcase and floral bouquet with one hand, whilst grasping the well-worn brass handle with the other. Eventually he succeeded in opening the door, clambered into the carriage, then turned and struggled to close the door behind him.

“Tha’s or’right, boy Felix,” said the guard, walking along the platform checking each door in turn. “I’ll git that for you – git yourself settled.”

Putting the weight of his hand behind the door, the guard slammed it shut then began the short walk back to the guard’s compartment. Once back, he glanced – first this way, then that – up and down the platform before raising his green flag and blowing his whistle. Then, stepping into the guard’s van, he pressed a small button – not unlike a round light-switch – that sounded a buzzer in the driver’s cab.

Upon hearing this, the driver – just in front of Albie – selected first gear, opened the throttle, and, with a double ‘parr-parrp’ on the hooter, the railcar moved smartly out of Gunton, quickly passing the signal box and accelerating briskly up the rising gradient towards North Walsham, leaving a billowing plume of bluish-grey diesel smoke in its wake.

With the train disappearing into the distance, life at Gunton returned to normal: the porter returned from the bicycle sheds, passing the waiting room on the way, and, after tidying a row of empty milk churns – kicking them into place with the side of his boot – he picked up a broom and began sweeping the platform. Near the edge lay a dozen or so fallen chrysanthemum petals and, as he proceeded to sweep the golden-bronze flowers over the platform edge and onto the track below, several disorientated earwigs scurried in all directions seeking the safety of the nearest crack in the brickwork.

“Felix an’ his bloomin’ flowers,” laughed the porter, “someone’ll git more than they bargained for, I reck’n earwigs ’n’ orl!”

ALBIE HAS SOME EXPLAINING TO DO

Sitting in the front compartment, Chris and Albie turned as they heard the sliding door behind them being opened – rasping, grating, catching on rusty runners. Then, with a sharp tug on the handle, Felix closed it again and laid his bunch of flowers on the vacant seat behind the two lads, placing his briefcase on the overhead rack.

“Nearly missed it, that time, din’t you?” laughed Albie, turning in his seat and looking back over his shoulder. “One o’ these days you’ll not be so lucky...”

FELIX – AS OTHERS SAW HIM!

“Nonsense!” replied Felix, settling back in his seat – with his knees up against the seat in front – about to close his eyes for the half-hour journey to Norwich. “I haven’t missed a train yet, not in all my days at Jarrolds...”

And then, with that, he went to sleep, whilst Albie heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe Felix had forgotten all about Molly and the day ‘best forgotten’ at Great Yarmouth – or had he?

Upon arrival at Thorpe station, Albie and Chris had the door open even before the train had stopped at the buffers and, left feet first, they leapt off and ran up the platform, through the barriers, flashing their season tickets at the ticket collector as they went.

Felix, in the meantime, after gathering up his flowers, minus a few petals – and earwigs – followed at a more leisurely pace.

“Come on, slow-coach!” teased Albie, turning and waving to his friend. “If we don’t hurry we’ll be late, y’know.”

“Better to be late – than in a crate,” his artist friend shouted back, a favourite saying of his.

At Kenning’s garage, just past the Grosvenor Rooms, Chris said ‘cheerio’ to Albie and Felix and went inside. Albie ventured a brief upward glance to see if Molly was in her usual spot by the window, but he was to be disappointed as there was no sign of her.

Unfortunately, his foolish action had not gone unnoticed by his friend, who immediately asked: “How did it go at the weekend?”

“How did what go?” replied Albie, feigning ignorance, in a vain hope of avoiding the issue.

“Don’t play silly games with me,” retorted Felix, “you know very well what I’m talking about...”

“Oh, that,” replied Albie, nonchalantly. “That wuz hoolly a wearste o’ time, that wuz, an’ tha’s a fact!”

“For goodness sake, speak properly,” scolded his friend, “you ought to hear yourself sometimes!”

Albie merely shrugged his shoulders, then replied: “That Molly just wun’t – I mean wasn’t – worth all the effort – I just don’t know why I bothered in the first place... ”

Coming to the end of Gooseberry Walk, between views of the spiralling Cathedral on one side and overgrown allotments on the other, they turned left into Bishopgate and began walking towards the Gas works.

“I did exactly what you suggested – I treated Molly to a day out in Great Yarmouth,” Albie told Felix as they made their way past the Adam and Eve, the oldest pub in Norwich. “Spent oodles of money on her, I did; we had coffee in a nice quiet seafront café, then a delicious luncheon at the majestic Carlton Hotel, followed by a glittering show on the pier starring what’s-his-name...”

“But even then she wasn’t happy,” he continued, giving quite a convincing performance so far (at least, he thought so!), “so I told her, as nicely as possible – after all, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, did I? – that perhaps we weren’t right for each other and we should call it a day.”

“Oh, dear,” replied his friend, as they crossed Whitefriars Bridge, turning left into the drive towards the old Yarn Mill and Jarrolds, “– and just as I thought you two were getting on so well together...”

Unfortunately, walking just behind them – after parking his car on Palace Plain – was fellow-designer Tony Mullins, who had just ‘earwigged’ the tail end of their conversation.

“What’s up then, Albie?” he laughed, putting his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Molly given you the push, has she?”

“Not having much luck with the ladies, are you?” he continued with a sly wink, “take a tip from me – love ’em and leave ’em, that’s my motto!”

ALBIE GOES WINDOW SHOPPING

After a terrible week when nothing he touched seemed to go right, the second week in September promised much of the same, leaving Albie well and truly ‘down in the dumps’.

He had tried, so hard, to ‘make friends’ with certain young ladies at work only to be faced with replies such as: ‘what would I want to go out with you for?’ or ‘I’m not that desperate!’ or ‘not in a million years!’. And, as a result, his work had begun to suffer.

Finding himself unable to concentrate on anything but his failure in the field of feminine fortuitousness, he’d found himself putting the wrong sizes on pieces of artwork and photographs – making them far too big or far too small – then he instructed the Composing room people to typeset manuscripts for The Jarrold Magazine in completely the wrong type face, which was bound to incur the wrath of the manager, Wilf Thompson – and early on the Tuesday morning Albie was about to get his comeuppance!

“Now look you hare, Albie, about this magazeen,” he said, after summoning the lad to his office, “I know that en’t no Thames & Hudson job, but woss wrong wi’ yuh, boy? Carn’t you git nourthin’ right? We’ll hatta reset the b*****d lot now, you’re b****y useless, you are!”

From that, Albie came to the conclusion that Mr Thompson was a bit upset about something.

And Mr Oliver, manager of the Design department, wasn’t very pleased either: “Now, Albie, your mind seems to be elsewhere these days. If you wish to remain with us, you’d better buck your ideas up in future!”

Albie – there and then – made a ‘three-quarter-year’s resolution’ to mend his ways, vowing to turn his back on the fairer sex and return to his old passion, music in general – his style of music – and guitar music in particular! There was only one stumbling block, his old guitar was broken, having fallen down the stairs according to his mother – or was it pushed?

The following day, Wednesday 11 September, Albie went window-shopping for a new guitar. Not just any old guitar, he told himself, this one would have to be really special! It would make all the difference to his playing as well, he thought – but where best to look?

To start with he went into Wilson & Ramshaws, in Bridewell Alley, but was bitterly disappointed with what they had to offer – solid-bodied, electric guitars, Rosettis in bright red.

“How garish!” he declared, pressing his nose against the plate-glass windows. “Anyway, I want something special, with a nice mellow tone, perhaps a Gibson or a Hohner.”

Going into the shop he was disappointed further by the assistant: “Gibson? Gibson? You’ll need a mortgage for one of those these days, I’m afraid... ...anyway, we haven’t got any – sorry!”

“What about a Hofner?”

“We haven’t any of those either, I’m afraid,” apologised the salesman, “not in fashion, you see – all the kids round here want electric guitars and amplifiers these days!”

Rather disillusioned, Albie made his excuses and left.

A VISIT TO THE BAZAAR

The next day, Thursday, Albie continued his quest for a new guitar. Knowing it to be early closing day he persuaded the Design manager to let him take his lunch break a half hour earlier, with the rest of the factory, and quickly made his way into the city centre before the shops closed.

AN ADVERT FOR WILLSON’S MUSIC BAZAAR

At then end of Castle Meadow, he turned right, just past the Castle Hotel, and went down a few short steps to the other music shop in Norwich, W E Willson’s Music Bazaar of Orford Hill. And there in the window was just what he’d been looking for – a semi-acoustic cello guitar in a sunburst finish.

“Now, if I had that, instead of my useless old guitar,” he said to himself gazing through the window, “I reckon, with a bit o’ practise, I could play just as well as that Gerry and any of his Pacemakers!”

Just then, the shop owner came to the door and began to turn the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. Before giving him the chance to lock the door Albie quickly burst in and said ‘how very interested he was in the guitar in the window and could he have a closer look and how much was it, please’?

The man, who Albie took to be the owner, Mr Willson, reached into the window and handed the guitar to him.

“It’s not new, as I took it in part-exchange,” the shopkeeper explained, as Albie began to strum the guitar, “but, I have to say it’s good for its age and has a good tone to it – I was told it was an early Gibson, from the early ’fifties, I think! But I can’t be sure, as there’s no name on it anywhere.”

“It’s smashing!” said Albie, running his fingers up and down the frets and admiring the sunburst finish. “It’s super, it really is – and sounds great... B-but, just how much is it?”

“Well, my lad,” replied Mr Willson, scratching his head, “it’s quite an old model – known as an arch-top – but there’s nothing wrong with it, you understand! Most boys these days want electric guitars and amplifiers – acoustic guitars are a bit out of fashion, I’m afraid, except for the discerning musician like yourself, that is!”

“Yes – but, how much is it please?”

Perhaps Mr Willson could see just how badly Albie wanted that guitar, or maybe he just wanted to close the shop for the rest of the day, but with no more to do he replied: “It’s a good guitar, although quite expensive in its day... but bearing in mind I’ve had it for a month or two, you can have it for £12/17/6!”

Albie shook his head. “I just can’t afford that, sorry,” he said, half turning for the door, “it’s a bit more than I wanted to pay...”

“I could let you have it on the ‘never-never’ and I’ll throw in a guitar case as well,” Mr Willson told him, eager to close the deal and get home for his lunch.

“If you’re agreeable, we can sort out the paperwork now,” he continued, reaching under the counter and pulling out a pad of hire purchase forms, “and then, if you put down a small deposit and agree to pay a few shillings each week until it’s settled – you can take the guitar away with you!”

Albie nodded his head excitedly and, ten minutes later – although five pounds the poorer – he emerged from Willson’s Music Bazaar carrying his new guitar and, brimming over with pride, began his walk back to work where he could hardly wait to show it off to his friends.

“What have you been wasting your money on this time?” Felix asked Albie, as he took his new guitar out of its case. “Not another guitar...”

“But, that en’t just any old guitar,” fumed Albie, “the man in the music shop told me it was a Gibson, and tha’s the very best there is...”

“Gibson is it?” laughed Mike, the senior designer, taking the guitar from him and running his fingers across the strings in a discordant manner. “I wouldn’t have thought so – anyway, where does it say ‘Gibson’ on it?”

“Well – as far as I’m concerned it is a Gibson, whether it says so or not!” replied Albie, snatching back his guitar and laying it lovingly in its green-baize-lined case. “So there!”

“I’m surprised you didn’t buy an amplifier at the same time,” joked Tony Mullins, taking the guitar out of its case and playing a tuneful run of chords. “Shame it’s an acoustic, but an amp would make all the difference.”

“Besides, it has such a nice tone,” he continued, “no doubt you’ll want to join a group now, so you’ll definitely need an amp!”

“Now there’s a thought!” said Albie, quietly closing the lid on the guitar case, “– and it’s my Saturday morning off work tomorrow as well!”

ALBIE RETURNS TO NORWICH

On Saturday morning, his day off work, Albie made the momentous decision to forego his usual lengthy sleepover, getting up in good time to catch the mid-morning train to Norwich.

“Yew’re up hoolly early for a Sat’day,” his mother told him, as he pulled on his shoes ready to set off for Sheringham station to catch his train. “Goin’ somewhere special?”

“Norwich,” he replied, making his way through the kitchen to the back door, “shopping.”

“I’m surprised yew’ve got any money left,” his mother reminded him, “arter comin’ home wi’ that gee-tar on Thursday – blimmin’ wearst o’ money that wuz... an’ what a row that mearke an’orl...” However, his mother’s final words were wasted as, by then, he was out of the house and halfway up the road.

At Sheringham station his train was on time, getting into Thorpe station, in Norwich, a few minutes after eleven o’clock and, walking briskly through the booking hall, Albie made his way to the row of bright-red, Eastern Counties ’buses standing near the station entrance, scouring his eyes for one to take him up Castle Meadow to Orford Place.

He was in luck for there, at the head of the line of parked vehicles, was a No. 90 ‘double-decker’ displaying a destination-board declaring ‘Castle Meadow, Orford Place, Surrey Street’. “Hurry along, son,” said the conductor, as Albie climbed the tall step to the bus, clinging onto the rail for support as it lurched forward.

“Orford Place, please,” he asked, handing the ’bus conductor a two-shilling piece as he made his way along the double row of seats on the lower deck collecting fares. “I was lucky to catch this one, wun’t I?”

“There’s always another one behind,” joked the conductor, handing Albie a ticket and his change, “we run every twelve minutes on this route, y’know.”

“That’s a relief!” replied Albie, bearing it in mind for his return journey.

“No!” laughed the conductor, ringing the bell for the first stop, “we only put on ‘reliefs’ when we’re really busy...!”

At Orford Place Albie bid farewell to the ’bus conductor, crossing the road next to the Bell Inn – a white-painted building with a large brassy-looking bell on its façade – and ran down a short flight of steps taking him back to the music shop, Willson’s Music Bazaar.

ADDING TO THE ‘NEVER-NEVER’

The door gave a friendly ‘tinkle’ as he went in, although, inside, it seemed deserted giving him plenty of time to look around. Glancing at the vast display of musical instruments – guitars and violins suspended from the walls, cornets and trombones hanging from the ceiling, with record players stacked side by side on shelves – he soon found what he was looking for, an amplifier to make his guitar sound much, much louder!

After a minute or so, Mr Willson appeared from the back room, carrying several packets of guitar strings and plectrums.

“Hello,” he said, a bit taken back at seeing Albie so soon. “Is everything all right? Weren’t you in here on Thursday? A guitar, wasn’t it? Nothing wrong, is there?”

Albie told him, “No, no, tha’s fine – but I just wondered if I could buy an amplifier an’orl, and add it to my ‘never-never’ account? Ple-ease?”

Mr Willson laughed. “Is that all? Of course you may – is there any particular amplifier you’d like? We do have a few, as you can see...”

The amplifiers were displayed in one corner of the shop; there was a small one in a green imitation-leather case with a carrying handle on top, and next to it was a slightly bigger amplifier finished in matt-black, whilst nearby was another – in a two-tone brown, wood-effect finish with a gold loudspeaker grill – and much, much larger!

“As you’re a beginner I’d start with this one,” Mr Willson told him, picking up the little green-leatherette amplifier, “it’s not too loud, only two-watt output, but good enough to practise on...”

Albie shook his head, pointing to the largest amplifier in the shop. “No – I want that one...”

Moving to the amplifier with the matt-black finish, Mr Willson continued, “I would recommend this one if I were you, it’s a trifle louder – only five watts – so it shouldn’t upset too many people...”

Albie stood his ground, pointing all the time at the large model with the gold speaker grill. “I want that one – please!”

Mr Willson shook his head in dismay, then disappeared to the back room eventually to re-emerge with a large, cardboard box for the amplifier of Albie’s choice, a Bird 4/25 Golden Eagle, and rated at a heady 25 watts – loud enough to blow your socks off, and guaranteed to upset the neighbours!

“You’ll need an electric pick-up for your guitar,” he told Albie, reaching into a box under the counter. “Shall I add it to your account?”

Albie nodded in agreement, as Mr Willson lowered the amplifier into its cardboard box, tying the top with string, and handed him a small box containing the pick up.

“All the fitting instructions are included in the box,” he said, “you’ll soon sound like the Shadows in next to no time at all!”

And so, after paying a further deposit – and adding to his ‘never-never’ account another ten shillings a week, and an extra eighteen months as well – Albie struggled out of Willson’s Music Bazaar with his large cardboard box, tied up with string, and set off along Castle Meadow to wait at the ’bus stop, almost in the shadow of Norwich castle. Then he began to wait... and wait... and wait...

“Funny old twelve minutes,” he muttered to himself then, glancing at his wristwatch, “I’d better go, do I’ll miss me train...” Then, picking up the box by the string tied around it, he began to walk instead.

He had barely struggled a hundred yards when a man walked up beside him. “That box looks a rather heavy,” he said, which was a bit of an understatement. “Are you going very far? If not, perhaps I can give you a hand?”

“Just to the station,” replied Albie, putting down the box and looking at the painful impression left by the string cutting into his hand. “Thorpe station, that is...”

With that, the man took hold of one side of the string tied around the box, whilst Albie held the other, and together they struggled all the way down Prince of Wales Road to Thorpe station, stopping for a rest every now and again to get their breath back!

Helping Albie onto the platform with his heavy box, the man even lifted it onto the train for him, for which the lad thanked him profusely. However, once back in Sheringham, there was no such help for Albie, so he had to struggle home with his parcel the best he could.

ALBIE’S PARENTS ARE NOT BEST PLEASED

“What hev yew bought now?” was the best homecoming his mother could afford him. “Yew’ll never hev any money, yew oan’t – I dun’t know what your father will say when he git home...”

Albie’s father was, under the circumstances, quite vociferous – especially when Albie revealed the contents of the box!

“Oh my Gawd!” he declared, throwing up his hands in horror. “That there guitar wuz bad enough – but an amplifier... I aarsk yew! Yew en’t playin’ that infernal thing down here, yew en’t, yew kin play it up in your room, an’ tha’s my final word!”

It was up to his wife Gladys to have the last word, however.

“Oh dear – whatever will the neighbours say?”

What indeed!

NEXT: Albie practises on his guitar day and night, but does his music please everyone? Find out in Down In The Cavern.

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: