“Bein’ over twetty-one hen’t done me no favours,” moaned Albie, “I can hardly move without the neighbours tellin’ on me!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

ALBIE’S NEW FRIEND CHRIS, who lived at the Dunstable Arms in Sheringham, had quite an extensive record collection, mostly pop music, and liked to be up-to-date with the top twenty charts. When it came to popular music, especially the recently-emerging sound from Liverpool, Chris was something of an authority as, even if he couldn’t quite afford to buy all the new releases, he knew somewhere he could listen to them for free!

HRIS WORKED as a trainee storeman in Kenning’s, a large car dealership in Norwich, almost at the bottom of Prince of Wales Road and, travelling on the same train from Sheringham as Albie, they began going to work together.

On Tuesday, 2 July, whilst waiting on the station platform for the arrival of the train to Norwich, they began chatting about ‘pop’ groups, the Olympia at Cromer and the ‘top twenty’ in general.

“Gerry and the Pacemakers are a good group,” Chris told Albie, “didya hear their number one – How Do You Do It? That wuz in the charts for ages.”

“How do you do what?” asked a bemused Albie, stepping back from the platform edge as their train pulled into Sheringham station. “And, anyway, who’s Gerry and the Whotsits?”

Opening the door to a vacant compartment, Chris turned round with a look of disbelief on his face. “Don’t you know who the Pacemakers are? Where on earth hev you bin for the last year or so? Life on Mars, is there?”

“I’ve always been an Elvis fan, myself!” Albie admitted, removing a discarded copy of yesterday’s news from the seat before plonking himself down. “Or the Everly Brothers, or Buddy Holly, or...”

“They’re all load o’ useless furriners,” Chris retorted, putting his feet up on the opposite seat. “Now – take the ‘Liverpool Sound’ for instance, tha’s special that is – they’ll go far, they will, you mark my words!”

“I s’puz you hen’t heard of the Beatles neither?” he continued, as the train stopped at the wayside station of West Runton, barely five minutes up the track from Sheringham.

“Oh, yes, I have!” replied Albie, determined not to be caught out a second time. “Tha’s that there rummun lot wi’ long hair, en’t it? I don’t know about you, but I reckon they talk suffin’ funny they do... but why the mawthers flock arter them beats me!”

Arriving in Norwich just under an hour later, Albie and Chris quickly made their way through the ticket barrier, flashing their season tickets as they went, pushing their way through the crowds of businessmen heading for the London train.

“Tell you what, Albie,” said Chris as they crossed Foundry Bridge, spanning the River Wensum, “why don’t we meet up this lunchtime? I goin’ to buy Gerry and the Pacemakers’ latest 45, come an’orl and you’ll be able to hear what they sound like, won’t you?”

MUSIC IN A BOOTH

At lunchtime, Albie met his friend outside Kenning’s Garage and, crossing busy Prince of Wales Road together – with its row of trees growing in the central reservation – they walked up the road towards the traffic lights at Bank Plain.

“Where’re we goin’, then?” asked Albie. “This here place where you get your records?”

“Willmotts – there it is!” replied Chris, pointing to a large, glass-fronted shop with an impressive sign declaring it to be: 45–51, Willmott’s Stores Ltd.

What a place, thought Albie, gazing through the plate-glass windows. They seemed to specialise in just about everything; from junior tricycles to motor bikes, babies’ prams to toys and games, refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, radios, televisions, and – more importantly – gramophones and records!

Going into the shop, Chris immediately headed for the record department leaving Albie trailing behind gazing, first this way then that, at all the television sets: KB, Pye, Ekco and Murphy – but no Sobells like his father’s.

In the record department, with colourful showcards hanging on the walls advertising all the different recording studios – Decca, Parlophone and Capitol amongst others – there were three or four small, glass-fronted booths. These, Chris informed him, were for listening to records before buying them.

“I come in here most lunchtimes,” he whispered, selecting half a dozen records from the racks. “I’ll listen to several 45s, an’ sometimes buy one,” he continued, with a shrug of his shoulders, “they don’t seem to mind!”

Handing his selection to a gum-chewing girl behind the counter, under which was a row of turntables playing several records, Chris said: “May we listen to these, please?”

“Yeah, OK,” she nodded, with a pronounced air of disinterest. “Booth two!”

Closing the door of Number 2 Booth behind them, Chris and Albie stood facing each other, sandwiched together in the small room, complete with an overhead loudspeaker, and waited for the first record to be played. It was, of course, Gerry and the Pacemakers’ I Like It – and Albie did!

“Tha’s great, that is!” declared Albie, tapping his feet in time to the music. “And – what a rhythm! Those guitars are fantastic– just dig that beat!”

He had to admit it, the Liverpool sound really was special just as his friend had told him. No amount of Elvis the Pelvis would ever please him again. From now on he would only listen to the very best of music – even if he couldn’t quite understand the words!

Towards the end of their lunchtime, after listening to six or seven records – with Chris buying I Like It and some jaunty piece from Freddy Garrity and The Dreamers – Albie returned to work at Jarrold’s Printing works with his head in a spin!

“I’ve just been list’nin’ to some really fab music!” he told his friends and colleagues, “tha’s changed my life, that hev. No more Elvis Presley for me!”

“Thank goodness for that!” declared Mike, the head designer, relieved that Albie had seen some sense at last. “What was it? Classical? Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, perhaps? Or Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake?”

“Er – No-oo,” replied Albie, not quite sure how his friend would take to the ‘Liverpool Sound’.

“It must be jazz, then?” Mike continued, eagerly anticipating his young friend’s change of musical taste. “Don’t tell me, let me guess – Louis Armstrong...?”

“No!”

“I’ve got it! Modern jazz! Dave Brubeck?”

“No,” replied Albie, ready to confess all, “actually, tha’s some group called the Beatles for me now – an’ I’ve just bought one o’ their 45s!”

“I might have known!” was Mike’s reply. “There’s no hope for you, is there?”

ALBIE GETS IN THE BAD BOOKS!

Albie’s mother and father had set their hearts on a new car! Ever since the day they’d seen the gleaming, British Racing Green Austin 1100 – standing proudly in the showroom window of Baxter’s Garage in Fakenham – they were smitten! They just had to have it, whatever the cost, but how could they afford it on only one income?

Although Albie’s father was the manager of Sheringham Co-op, his weekly income didn’t quite stretch to buying a new car. However, Albie’s mother had the solution – she applied for a part-time job in the Co-op Drapery Department, and began work selling shirts, socks and pants!

Soon, with a down payment made on the car, the hire purchase agreement signed, sealed and delivered, the brand-new Austin 1100 stood proudly outside Regis Cottage ready to have years of tender loving care lavished upon it!

Saturday, 6 July, was Albie’s day off work, so he spent his morning, as usual, having a lengthy, lazy, ‘sleep in’. His mother, of course, wasn’t there to disturb him being far too busy at work all morning to pay him any notice.

She had hoped, however, at least the dinner table would have been set before she returned home at one o’ clock, but she was to be disappointed – Albie was still in the ‘Land of Nod’!

When his father walked in through the back door, at a quarter past one, his wife was rushing around like a fool in a fit hastily preparing one of her salads for lunch.

“That boy’s still a-bed,” she complained, nodding in the direction of the staircase, “I dun’t know what fares him – tha’s every weekend the same, that is!”

“Wha’s for dinner, Mum?” Albie asked in all innocence, quietly making an appearance in the kitchen. “I hope tha’s ready, ’corse I’m goin’ to Cromer this afternoon...”

“You lazy little waarmin!” scolded his mother, banging down a plate of salad in front of him, “you spend all mornin’ stinkin’ in bed, an’ expect me to wait on you hand an’ foot...”

“That en’t fair, Albie,” agreed his father, pulling up a chair and sitting down at the table, “that en’t the way to treat your mother, that en’t – you know she’s bin hard at work all morning so as to put bread on the table...”

Or a car in the garage, thought Albie, but decided against voicing his opinions.

“Yis!” continued his mother, “and bein’ we’re so shorthanded I’re gotta go this arternoon an’orl!”

“B-but...” said Albie, trying to reason with his parents, only to be interrupted by his father.

“Don’t breathe another word!” he fumed, brandishing a fork under his son’s nose. “Just eat your dinner, then git outta the house – you’re allus gittin’ in my bad books, you are, an’ you’ve done it again!”

A DIFFICULT CUSTOMER

Stationmaster Tyrell lived with his wife in a rather grand house – as was befitting his position on the railway – right next door to Weybourne Station. Indeed, so close was the stationmaster’s residence that, upon leaving his house first thing each and every morning he only had to walk a few paces to the majestic station itself.

His wife, Grace, also found it most convenient, living right on the railway’s doorstep, as, working in Sheringham – the next stop along the line to Norwich – she would catch the early ‘Up’ train each weekday morning.

Like Albie’s father, Mrs Tyrell also worked at Sheringham Co-op, but as his counterpart – the manageress of the Drapery Department. As such, she was always smartly dressed, usually in a navy-blue two-piece suit, but never without her frilly white blouse!

On that particular Saturday afternoon in July, Mrs Tyrell was dealing with a rather difficult customer. First of all, the lady in question couldn’t decide whether she wanted a pink or cream blouse to go with the grey, pleated skirt that lay on the glass-topped counter, then wasn’t at all sure whether a plain, cotton dress would be more serviceable instead.

“I dunno whether I like ’em or not...” hesitated the lady.

“Perhaps Madam would care to try them on?” Mrs Tyrell suggested most politely, trying to disguise her exasperation. “Or you could take both on ‘appro’?”

With a puzzled look upon her face, the lady scratched her head: “I en’t at all sure I want either onnem – I on’y come in for some knicker elastic, y’know!”

That did it!

“Gladys,” called out the manageress, unable to contain her frustrations any longer, “are you free to serve this customer, please? I feel one of my heads coming on!” And, with that, she flounced off to the sanctity of her office and slammed the door shut!

“Elastic, wuz it?” Albie’s mother asked the customer standing at the haberdashery counter. “Did yew want black or white?”

“Come to mention it,” replied the woman, “I en’t too sure...”

“Are they white – or are they black?” replied Gladys, beginning to get rather flustered.

“Wha-at?”

“Your knickers!”

“Oh, that en’t for me,” replied her customer, getting two shillings out of her purse. “Give us half a yard o’ black, that’ll hatta do – tha’s o’ny for my boy to mearke a catapult with!”

ALBIE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND

“How’s your Albie getting on these days?” Mrs Tyrell asked Gladys, after the awkward customer had left the shop with half a yard of best black knicker elastic. “Have he found himself a young lady yet?”

“He’s brought one or two mawthers home to meet Albert an’ me,” replied Albie’s mother, polishing the glass counter with a large yellow duster, “but none we took a shine to – most onnem come from the council estate ...”

“Aren’t you a teeny bit concerned about leaving him alone on a Saturday?” Mrs Tyrell asked, polishing her well-manicured fingernails. “After all, boys will be boys you know – the things they get up to these days – it makes your hair curl...”

“Yis – an’ I know what you’re gettin’ at!” snapped Albie’s mother. “My boy know betta than to bring any mawther home when I en’t there!”

In the meantime, Albie was enjoying himself in Cromer, having first called for his friend, Chris, from the Dunstable Arms. Getting on their Lambretta scooters, it took but a few minutes to ride the four and a half miles along the coast road to the rival seaside resort.

It was there, in the Jetty Coffee Bar near the parish church, that Albie met Diane, and, over a cup of frothy coffee, they began talking about old times: the Olympia ballroom, music and the scooter ride back to her home in Wickmere a couple of month’s earlier.

“So, Diane, tell me, what hev you bin gettin’ up to these days?” laughed Albie, hoping to rekindle their friendship. “Are you still workin’ weekends at the Tudor House?”

Diane replied that, indeed, she was still ‘waitressing’ at the restaurant on Church Street, as the money came in useful for clothes and shoes, and the odd record or two.

“In fact, I’ve just been to Jack Bryant’s record shop – you know the one, almost opposite the church,” she said, then, taking a couple of small records out of her bag, “I bought a couple of 45s, tha’s From Me To You and this’s Love Me Do by the Beatles...”

“I would,” laughed Albie, “if you gave me half a chance!” Diane, however, said nothing, instead she turned her head away to conceal her blushes at his comment.

“Cor – let’s have a look at them records!” said Chris, up till then quietly sipping his coffee, “I hen’t got either onnem yet!”

“Tell you what,” he continued, “why don’t we all go back to my place? We could listen to records for the rest of the afternoon if you like!”

“Better still,” said Albie, still fancying his chances with Diane, “my Mum is out all afternoon, an’ we’ve got a really great-sounding radiogram...”

Diane wasn’t at all sure, she told the lads, as she had to be back at the Tudor House by six to help serve the evening meal.

“Tha’s OK,” Albie assured her, taking her by the arm, “I o’ny live in Sheringham, we’ll go there on my scooter an’ I promise to get you back before half-past five!”

THE NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH

On the way to Albie’s home, Chris stopped off at the Dunstable Arms to collect some more records from his Beatles collection, leaving Albie and Diane to go on ahead. As Albie rode down Regis Place on his scooter with Diane clinging tightly to him, arms around his waist, already lacy curtains on either side of the cul-de-sac had begun a continuous round of twitching.

Totally oblivious to the many faces pressed to the steamy panes at numbers 2 and 4 Regis Place – even Rockdene and Ivydene too – Albie parked his scooter outside Regis Cottage, opened the front door and went inside with Diane.

“Did yew see that?” old Mrs Avery, the next door neighbour, said to her daughter Jean, going out into the road to get a better look. “Boy Albie hev took some young mawther indoors, as large as life – an’ his mother en’t there, y’know! Shameful I call it!”

Mrs Bayfield, who lived across the road and a good friend of the Gray family, was equally shocked.

“Well, I never did!” she declared to Wilfred, her husband, who had just come indoors from the garden. “Do you know, Albie has just taken a young lady into his house.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Wilfred laughed, “he is over twenty-one, isn’t he?”

“But his mother is still at work,” replied Mrs Bayfield, “she will be most vexed – I have to say I never expected that of Albie!”

“Boys will be boys,” declared Wilfred, joining his wife peering out of the front room window. “Oh, look, he’s closing the curtains now...!”

Whilst waiting all of ten minutes for Chris to return, Albie and Diane snuggled together on the comfortable sofa, listening to Love Me Do blaring out of the radiogram, unaware of the ructions their clandestine meeting were to cause...

NEXT: Will Albie’s parents learn of his indiscretion? And who is he telephoning from the call-box outside Kenning’s Garage in Prince of Wales Road?

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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