“I recently met Chris, whose father owns a pub in Sheringham,” said Albie, “an’ we ended up enjoyin’ a beer or two!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

SUZY WAS ABSOLUTELY LIVID with Albie for not taking her on the Jarrold Car Club treasure hunt and first thing Monday morning she intended letting him know just how bitterly disappointed she had been. Catching an early ’bus on Aylsham Road, close to where she lived, Suzy got off at Stump Cross and walked the short distance to Jarrold’s printing works to confront Albie...

LREADY IDLE TONGUES had begun to wag, as the news of Albie and Philip’s failure to win the prestigious Treasure Hunt cup spread through the general office like wildfire, much to their acute embarrassment!

Just after a quarter-to-nine, the door to the Design department swung open and Suzy, face red with rage, burst in and stormed over to where Albie sat working.

“I’m surprised you even dare show your face,” Suzy shouted angrily in his direction, “the way you treated me! I’ve got far better things to do with my time than hanging around on street corners waiting for you on your nasty smelly scooter – as far as I’m concerned you can hit the road on your own in future, ’cause I won’t be round no more!”

In the Design department, and General Office next door, you could almost hear a pin drop as all ears tuned in on the one-sided conversation.

“But, Suzy,” pleaded Albie, “let me explain...”

But the irate girl from Publishing was in no mood to listen to any excuses Albie might offer, even if he could think of one in time.

“And another thing – our friendship is at an end!” she declared, almost spitting the words in his face, before turning on her heel and leaving him red-faced with embarrassment, “and I never, ever, want to see you again!” This, however, was to prove easier said than done, bearing in mind they both worked in the same building!

“Never mind, Albie,” joked his friend Felix, working at the next desk, “there are plenty more pebbles on the beach...”

“Don’t you start!” Albie replied grumpily. “You sound just like my mother!”

ALBIE HAS AN ACCIDENT AT WORK

Albie found it increasingly hard to concentrate on his work after Suzy’s untimely confrontation. Not winning a prize in the Jarrold Car Club treasure hunt was bad enough, but to be publicly humiliated by Suzy in front of all his friends and work colleagues would take some living down.

Sitting quietly at his desk, Albie began working on a piece of artwork, a pen and ink drawing for the next issue of the Jarrold Magazine and, just before lunch, it was almost finished.

“That’s good,” said Felix, the senior Design Artist, glancing at Albie’s illustration, “what’s it for?”

ALBIE’S ARTWORK ILLUSTRATING PRIZE-WINNING GARDENING CATALOGUES PRINTED BY JARROLDS IN 1963

“Front page of the mag,” Albie replied, reaching for a new blade for his scalpel to neatly trim his piece of artwork to size.

With other things on his mind rather than work, Albie could only watch helplessly as his scalpel skidded across the metal ruler he was using as a guide and sliced into his finger cutting it deeply, almost to the bone.

The sudden onset of pain was indescribable, not unlike a powerful electric shock, but, never one to make a fuss, he simply clasped the finger tightly with his other hand and went to seek medical help.

In the Personnel department, Miss McReynolds was on the telephone when Albie burst in, clutching his hand, but, upon seeing his pallid complexion, made her excuses and hung up.

“Oh, dear, Albie – whatever is the matter?” she asked, in a voice full of genuine concern.

“I’ve cut my finger... rather badly,” he replied, gripping it tightly with his other hand.

“Let go of it then,” she said impatiently.“I cannot see it if you keep hold of it like that!”

“But, Miss McReynolds,” Albie replied, still grasping his finger tightly, “if I let it go, that’ll bleed...”

“Don’t be such a baby – let go of it this instant!” the head of Personnel ordered him – to which he did, and blood spurted everywhere!

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Miss McReynolds said, quickly ushering him into a small side room, “put your hand in the sink – I can’t have it bleeding all over the lino!”

After washing his finger thoroughly – holding it under the cold tap to stem the flow of blood – the Personnel Officer carefully dressed it, then sent for a cup of tea with two sugars.

“That’s much better,” she sighed, sipping at the hot, sweet tea, leaving Albie standing there holding his bandaged finger in front of him. “You’d better get back to the Design department now – and, keep your hand above your head to stop the bleeding...”

“But, if it’s still bleeding after lunch,” she continued as Albie was about to leave her office, “you’ll have to take yourself to the hospital and have it stitched!”

LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN

Following his unfortunate accident with the errant scalpel, Albie began to feel quite under the weather and, being decidedly queasy as the result of shock, was unable to fancy anything for lunch. To make matters worse, as he sat languishing at his desk holding his bandaged finger high above his head, Suzy walked past and glared at him over the row of filing cabinets which divided his department from the rest of the general office.

“Don’t you dare make rude signs at me,” she fumed, storming into his department. “I wasn’t joking – I never want to see you again! Besides, I’m now off for a nice ride with my latest boyfriend in his lorry – that beats your tatty old scooter any day of the week!”

With that, Suzy turned on her high-heels, threw back her head and flounced out of the Design department with her nose stuck high in the air.

Just after half-past-two the telephone rang, and Mr Oliver, the Design manager answered it. “Albie,” he called out to the lad, “you’re to go down to the Personnel department immediately!”

“But, Mr Oliver,” pleaded Albie, “my finger’s much more better now – tha’s stopped bleedin’ – look – there en’t no need for stitches no more...”

“Will you just do as you’re told, please?” the manager continued, “and go to Personnel this instant!”

Ambling down the flight of stairs in the tower of the Yarn Mill, Albie paused for a moment at the door to the Personnel department before plucking up the courage to go inside.

“About time!” said the Personnel assistant, ushering him into a side room, “they’ve been waiting for you for the best part o’ five minutes!”

“But tha’s better now an’ don’t want stitchin’,” he told her, holding up his bandaged finger.

“I don’t know nothing about that,” the girl replied, pushing him in front of her, “these here two men want a word with you...!”

In the small room, two Very-Official-Looking-Men sat behind a small table, with two of Albie’s colleagues – John Newland and Tony Shearing.

“Pull up a chair, lad,” one of the men told him, “then we’ll get on.”

What on earth was it all about, thought Albie? He was soon to find out!

The men started by introducing themselves.

“I’m Mr Whittaker,” said the first, more suave-looking, of the two, “and I’m the Branch Secretary of the Society of Lithographic Artists, Designers and Engravers...”

The other man, a more ‘down-to-earth’ type, spoke next.

“Bill Butcher’s me name, and I’m in charge o’ the Norwich Typographical Society – we’re here to unite you boys with the Union...”

Albie was dumbfounded! It was the first he’d ever heard of being in a ‘Union’, after all, from what he’d seen on the telly with the miners and car-workers they always seemed to be on strike, and if that was being united he wanted none of it!

“But – I really don’t know what my mum and dad would say about me bein’ in a Union,” he managed to utter before being interrupted.

“I’ll take that one!” Mr Whittaker declared, indicating John Newland, “he can remain an artist!”

“Looks like you two are with me then!” laughed Bill Butcher, shaking Tony Shearing and Albie by the hand. “You may have been artists in the past, but now you’re typographic designers – no need to bother yourselves with drawing and painting again, you’ll be pleased to know!”

Application papers were then thrust under their noses, with the Branch Secretaries watching every stroke of the pen until the official documents were signed, sealed and delivered into their hands for safekeeping.

In the mere space of an hour, Albie, Tony and John found themselves part of the brotherhood of workers, whether they wanted to be or not, and, at the sound of becoming a Typographic Designer – as opposed to a Graphic Designer – Albie was not at all happy. What a day Monday, the seventeenth of June, had been – life at Jarrolds would never be the same again!

ALBIE MAKES A NEW FRIEND

The following Saturday, 22 June, dawned sunny and warm with only the merest hint of an easterly breeze coming off the sea and, as it was his day off work, Albie decided to go for a ride on his Lambretta scooter.

“Where are yew orf to then, Albie?” his mother asked as he wheeled the scooter – his pride and joy – out of the garden shed. “Yew oan’t be long will yew, as that’ll soon be dinnertime!”

Pulling his scooter up on its stand, Albie gave the kickstarter a prod and the engine burst into life, soon settling down into a quiet tickover.

“I’m jist goin’ to git twetty Consolate an’ a quarter o’ toffees,” he replied, riding his scooter up the little alleyway at the side of their house. “I oan’t be long!”

After buying some sweets and cigarettes in a little shop opposite Lushers the bakers, at the bottom of the High Street, Albie decided to have a quick ride over to Cromer to work up an appetite for his lunch.

As he was riding along the coast road just through West Runton on the way to Cromer, he noticed another scooter heading towards him, almost immediately recognizing it as another Lambretta, but an older model, a Series II.

As the other rider drew nearer he waved to Albie to stop and, doing a ‘U-turn’ in the road, pulled alongside.

“Tha’s a nice Lambretta you’ve got there,” he said, admiring Albie’s scooter. “I’ve seen you on it before when you’ve gone past the pub, but I’ve never been able to catch you up!”

“What pub’s that, then?” Albie asked, as he glanced at the more-bulbous lines of the other boy’s red and grey Lambretta. “And, is that a one-two-five like mine?”

“I’ll have you know tha’s a one-fifty, if you don’t mind!” laughed the other lad, who, from his appearance, looked a few years younger than Albie. “Oh, by the way, I’m Chris – my Dad’s got the Dunstable Arms on the Cromer Road – just before you get to Beeston Common – you’ll have to pop in for a drink sometime!”

“How about first thing arter dinner?” Albie asked him. “I usually don’t do much Saturday afternoon, but I’ll hatta be home by three – ’cause I don’t watta miss wrestling on the box, I’d never miss that for all the tea in China, I wun’t!”

Chris laughed: “Sure, after lunch it is then. I’ll give you a guided tour of the cellar and then we can sample a beer or two – race you back to Sheringham?”

And with that Chris spun his scooter around, facing towards Sheringham, and set off at a furious pace with Albie hard on his heels in fast pursuit!

IT WAS THIRSTY WORK

After lunch, Albie went to see Chris at the Dunstable Arms, parking his Lambretta on the forecourt.

The sign above the door informed: Leonard Saunders, landlord; licensed to sell beers, spirits and liquors – this must be his friend’s father, he told himself.

“I’ve come to see Chris,” Albie told a man behind the bar, “is he about?”

“Go round the back – you’ll find my son in the garden,” was Mr Saunder’s reply, as he began clearing up glasses after the lunchtime trade. “And tell him, from me, the lawn needs cutting, will you?”

In the garden at the rear of the Dunstable Arms, Albie found Chris on his hands and knees tinkering with his scooter.

“It was runnin’ a bit on the weak side,” he told Albie, looking up for a moment and wiping his oily hands on his jeans. “I’ve put a bigger main jet in and tweaked the carb a bit, so that should make all the difference now!”

“Seemed to be goin’ all right to me,” Albie replied, recalling their race from West Runton earlier that morning. “You hoolly flew along, you did!”

“Oh, by the way,” he continued, “your dad said you’ve gotta mow the lawn...”

Chris shrugged his shoulders. “Huh! No rest for the wicked,’ he complained, going over to a garden shed. There, half-hidden from view under crates of ‘empties’was a venerable Suffolk Punch petrol-powered lawnmower. “Give us a hand with this will you, Albie?”

After hauling the lawnmower out of the shed, Chris gave it a dozen pulls on the starter handle before deciding the spark plug needed attention, so, getting down on his hands and knees he began tinkering with its engine!

“I sp’uz there’s petrol in it?” Albie enquired, trying to be helpful and giving the oblong petrol tank a shake. “’Cause I can’t hear any sloshin’ around, can you?”

Once the empty petrol tank was refilled, from the contents of a Jerry-can obtained from the garage near Beeston Common, the lawnmower started first pull of the handle and burst into life.

Taking turns at walking behind the little lawnmower as it chugged along – with freshly-cut grass getting strewn in all directions out of the ill-fitting grass-box – they both decided they’d had enough exercise for one day and set up two deck-chairs on opposite sides of the lawn.

“Tell you what, Albie,” laughed Chris, coming up with an idea to make their lawnmowing chore much easier and more fun, “I’ll send the lawnmower to you, then you turn it round and send it back!”

And that was just what they did – for a while, at least, until they tired of it and decided to go in search of a drink – of which there was plenty in the Dunstable Arms, now closed until the evening!

“We’ve finished the lawn, Dad,” Chris told his father, strolling into the bar with Albie. “But we had to get some petrol for the mower, so tha’s four bob you owe me!”

Dumping a crate of brown ale on the bar counter his father replied: “Come of it, boy! Last time I looked in the shed there was plenty enough petrol for that lawnmower...”

“You’ve been using that for your scooter again, hen’t you, you little waarmin?” he continued with a laugh. “Do us a favour, will you, and put another keg o’ Red Barrel on tap – you can take your friend down to the cellar with you!”

Under the Dunstable Arms, in the dimly-lit cellar, soon a heady aroma filled the air as Chris connected up the keg of bitter, fresh from the brewery, spilling a couple of pints as he did so. It was a fascinating place, thought Albie; a whitewashed room with neatly-stacked barrels awaiting use and pipes disappearing, back up to the bar, through holes in the ceiling. With such limited headroom, Albie had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the pipework suspended from the ceiling, as a solitary light bulb, devoid of shade, swung to and fro casting eerie shadows on the flaking whitewash.

“All done, lads?” Chris’ father asked, as they returned from the cellar.

“Tha’s a lovely beer, that is – so full of body, and what a lovely colour!” he declared, pulling the first pint of Watney’s and holding it up to the light. Then, satisfied that all was well, he took a good mouthful and, well-pleased with the result, licked his lips. “Ah – nice and malty, can’t beat a pint o’ Red you can’t!”

“Here y’are my boys,” he continued, pulling a couple of ‘halves’, “Best take these through to the back room with you – I reck’n you deserve ’em!”

A few more ‘halves’ later and both Albie and Chris had to agree Red Barrel really was the drink for them, and a suitable reward for cutting the lawn!

“I reckon I ought to be goin’ home now, Chris,” said Albie, looking at his watch, “I don’t watta miss me wrestling! There’s Jackie Pallo an’ Mick McManus at four, an’ I watta see them, I do – I’ll see you in the week.”

For Albie, that was the highlight of his Saturday afternoon, watching wrestling on ITV, and he wouldn’t miss it for all the world. Then, on Saturday night, there was Dixon of Dock Green, another of his favourites, he told his friend.

“You don’t watch that ole rubbish, do ya?” Chris laughed, as they made their way outside to where Albie had left his scooter. “I prefer Thank Your Lucky Stars on ITV myself – hev you seen that?”

Albie shook his head, as that sort of thing was frowned upon in his household!

“I’d better go,” he replied, feeling a trifle unsteady on his feet. “Cor – that beer wuz hoolly strong that wuz!

With that a very red-faced Albie mounted his Lambretta, fumbled to find his key, then wobbled all the way home, and spent the rest of the afternoon ‘sleeping it off’ in his favourite chair in front of the telly. However, on this occasion, wrestling – his most un-missable television programme – turned out to be totally and utterly – missable!

NEXT: Albie and Chris listen to records in Regis Cottage with a friend, but the neighbours are watching their every move!

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

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