“Lyndi’s got this thing about men in uniform,” Albie sighed, “p’raps I oughta get my Army cadet gear outta mothballs...!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

DURING THE DAYS that followed, Albie became increasingly convinced that Lyndi, his girlfriend, was seeing someone else. How else could he account for the fact that – every time he called – she was so elusive, being, according to her mother, either babysitting, visiting grandparents or ‘running an errand’?

HERE’S SUFFIN’ WRONG,” Albie’s mother told him when he returned home from work that Thursday evening in late November, 1963. “Yew look hoolly down in the dumps yew do – trouble at Jarrolds, is it? I’ll get your tea for yew, then yew can tell me all about it...”

Kicking off his Chelsea boots and putting them in the shoe cupboard next to the fireplace, Albie shook his head: “No, work’s fine – just a bit tired o’ all this travellin’ by train, tha’s all.”

But his mother was having none of it, and told him so, as she got his evening meal out of the oven where she had kept it warm for the past half hour or so.

“I can read your face like a book,” she told him, as he sat at the living-room table aimlessly pushing his food about the plate. “Yew can’t fool me – just look at the way yew’re playin’ wi’ that Shepherd’s pie!”

“If that en’t nothin’ to do with work,” she continued, as he pushed his plate of half-eaten food to one side, “tha’s that blessèd mawther o’ yours, I reck’n – dorn’t yew, Dad?”

Albie’s father looked up from behind his Eastern Daily Press, where he’d remained hidden, deep in thought, amongst the ‘local news’ pages.

“I see the local rate will hatta go up again next year,” he said, “on account o’ the bad winter we had in Jan’ry,” then, slightly aggravated at being disturbed from his perusing, “so, jist what hev yew bin up to this time, boy Albie?”

“Tha’ on’y I’m a bit worried about suffin’,” Albie replied, deciding, for once, to be less conservative with the truth, “and, p’raps you can give me some advice...”

“What?” yelled his father, jumping to conclusions, “there – just what did I tell yew, Gladys! Our son has bin and gone and – yew know – let us down, he hev!”

“Oh – Heaven forbid!” Albie’s mother wailed, throwing her hands up in dismay. “Yew hen’t, hev yew? I mean, she en’t is she?”

“No – No! Nothing like that,” Albie replied tersely, somewhat disturbed by his parents lack of trust, “but you’re right, Mum, it is to do with Lyndi – she never seem to be in when I go to see her, that’s all, and...”

“Do she make excuses?” his mother asked, “like hevin’ to stay in to do her hair... or help wi’ the ironin’... or suffin’ like that? Do she do, she’s a-tryin’ to let yew down lightly, I reck’n, dorn’t yew, Dad?”

Albie’s father looked up from his newspaper, nodded in agreement, then buried his head amongst the ‘hatches, matches and dispatches’.

“I have my suspicions,” Albie told his parents, getting up from the table and going to the hall door, “on’y last night I thought I saw her go off with some other bloke in his car... I couldn’t be certain though... But, what would you do, Dad?”

“Yew hatta learn to stand on your own two feet,” his father replied, “arter all, a faint heart never won a fair maiden...”

“If I wuz yew,” he continued, giving his son a bit of fatherly advice, “I’d go round there, bang on her door, an’ ask her wha’s gorn on – tha’s the least yew can do, and.... what about a nice cuppa tea, Gladys?”

“Yis, Albert, in a minute,” his wife replied, getting up from her chair and going into the scullery to put the kettle on. “And do yew take your father’s advice, Albie – though, if yew ask me, that Cromer mawther en’t worth it, an’ yew should send her packin’!”

Thanks a lot, thought Albie, opening the hall door to go upstairs to his room. “I’ll go and see Lyndi tomorrow night,” he said, pausing at the foot of the stairs, “then maybe I can get to the bottom onnit!”

IS LYNDI AVOIDING ALBIE?

The following night, Albie scootered over to Cromer to see Lyndi at Westcliff Avenue but, once again, she was not at home.

“Babysitting,” Lyndi’s mother told him, pointing towards the top end of the road, “for that nice Jimmy Holmes and his wife in the White House...”

“But – twice in one week?” replied Albie, thinking it a bit strange, “I mean, surely, you’d think Lyndi would rather be out enjoyin’ herself with me than stuck indoors with a howlin’ baby, wouldn’t you?”

“My daughter does have a life of her own, you know,” shrugged Lyndi’s mother, “besides, she’s only up the road at Flat 2A if you really want to see her – I’m sure the Holmes wouldn’t mind.”

Leaving his scooter outside Number Twenty, Albie walked to the end of Westcliff Avenue, climbed the rickety wooden steps to the verandah at the rear of the White House, and knocked on the door of the first-floor flat.

First of all no one came, so Albie tried knocking again – somewhat louder this time. Eventually he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, followed by the door opening.

“Yes? Who are you and what do you want?” asked the woman who standing in the doorway, with a little toddler in her arms. “I wuz expecting’ the baby-sitter to look after our Lucien...!”.

“I’m just looking for Lyndi and her mother said she was here,” Albie replied, pointing down the road in the direction of the Rance’s house.

“Well – she en’t here!” replied the woman, angrily. “And that mawther was supposed to have been here an hour ago so that Jim and I could go out.”

“We had planned to go to the pictures – being tha’s my birthday – fat chance now!” the woman continued.

“And, to cap it all, my Jim’s gone off in a huff – said he woon’t waitin’ no longer and he’d go by himself!”

Deciding it prudent not to wish her a ‘happy birthday’, Albie made his excuses, and left the woman standing on the verandah.“When you do see that mawther,” she shouted after him, “tell her from me I’re got a bone to pick with her!”

And so have I, thought Albie!

ALBIE MAKES TROUBLE

Albie walked back down the road to where he’d left his scooter, parked under the street light. Against his better judgment, he decided it was time Lyndi’s mother learned of her daughter’s antics, and went to the door of Number Twenty and rang the bell.

“I went to the flat as you suggested,” he told Mrs Rance, as she opened the front door, “but Lyndi wasn’t there – hen’t turned up the woman said...”

“If you ask me,” he continued, “there’s suffin’ gorn on between your Lyndi an’ the bloke from 2A – ’cos he wun’t there either; and his car wuz gone! Like that had on Wednesday night when I wuz here!”

“My daughter wouldn’t do a thing like that!” Mrs Rance told him, angrily. “She’s a good girl, our Lyndi, always hev bin...”

“Well – I hatta tell you, Mrs Rance,” Albie continued, determined to have his say, “this may come as a bit of a shock to you, but, the other night I saw her git into that there green car at the end o’ the road, and I followed them on my scooter to the woods near Cromer Hall...”

“How dare you make such vile accusations!” Lyndi’s mother exploded. “Stalking my daughter – en’t nat’ral, that en’t – and, castin’ aspersions on her character. You’re a troublemaker, you are! Don’t you ever set foot on this doorstep again! Do you hear me? Get back to Sherin’um where you belong and leave us decent Cromer folk in peace!”

And, with that, the front door of Number Twenty was slammed shut in Albie’s face, so hard that the milk bottles on the doorstep fell over, rolling about at his feet, whilst he just stood there staring at the closed door.

“That din’t go down too well,” he confessed, before shrugging his shoulders and making his way back down the path to his scooter. “P’raps it was suffin’ I said...”

ALBIE GOES OUT – AGAIN!

On Saturday evening, after he’d watched that week’s episode of Dr Who on television, Albie began getting ready to go out.

“You’re not goin’ out again, are yew Albie?” his mother asked, getting her knitting bag from the small cupboard under the glass-fronted cabinet next to the fireplace. “Seeing that Lyndi are you?”

“No, not tonight,” he replied, picking up the keys to his Lambretta from the mantlepiece. Then, opening the back door, he paused before going out into the darkness of the back yard: “I don’t know how long I’ll be – expect me when you see me...”

“Make sure yew wrap up – tha’s enough to gi’ yew the pip out there, that is!” his mother shouted after him; but, by then, he was already halfway up the garden path to get his scooter out of the shed. “Seem to me, my words allus fall on deaf ears these days – I don’t know why I waste my breath, I don’t!” she said to herself.

“The boy’s gone to Cromer, I reck’n,” said her husband, sitting at the living-room table checking his football pools against the results from the radio. “Well, blow me; I on’y needed two more draws to win. I hed City down for a draw against Sunderland but, would yew believe it, they went an’ lost at home...”

“Cromer, yew say?”

“No – Norwich!”

“But wha’s our Albie gone to Norwich for?” quizzed his mother.

“I din’t say he’d gone to Norwich,” replied his father, screwing up his football coupon and tossing it onto the fire. “I said, I reck’n he’d gone to Cromer!”

“But, what for? He hen’t seen that Cromer mawther lately, hev he?” Gladys asked her husband. “He’ll forgit what she look like if that go on much longer. Is that still on, d’yew think?”

“Well, accordin-lie to what I’re heard on the grapevine,” he replied, stretching back in his chair and warming his feet by the fire, “my Co-op colleague at Cromer reck’n she’s the talk o’ the town – gallivanting about, as large as life would yew believe, with some married bloke in the Army...!”

“Oh dear!” replied his wife, “dorn’t yew think we oughta tell the boy?”

Her husband shook his head: “Noo. He wun’t thank us for it, would he? Besides, he’ll find out soon enough – if he hen’t done so already....”

LONG ARM OF THE LAW

Just after seven o’clock, Albie arrived outside the Salad Bowl restaurant on the East Parade in Cromer. Pulling his scooter onto its stand, he walked towards the prominent, blue-painted building on the seafront, up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. Mr Walters, the owner, soon appeared at the door and let him in.

“Your guitar and amplifier are where you left them,” he said, as they both descended the short flight of stairs to the Cavern, now full of tables and chairs from the restaurant. “Seems such a shame it all had to end – but, there you are!”

Taking a very last look around the popular haunt of many local youngsters, which, at the time, had showed great promise of being one of Cromer’s premier attractions, Albie felt his pent-up emotions beginning to get the better of him.

“It was... good... while... it lasted,” he croaked, gazing through misty eyes at the midnight-blue walls and the imaginative display of graffiti all to be lost forever, though never to be forgotten. “I shall always treasure my memories of the Cavern,” he continued, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder and picking up the heavy amplifier. “And I shan’t forget you either, Mr Walters...”

With that, Albie stepped out into the still night air, its fresh salty tang coating his lips, and began roping his amplifier on the spare-wheel rack on the back of his Lambretta with his mother’s linen line he’d thoughtfully brought along. It was a difficult task, much harder than he had expected. He recalled how, when he had first taken his musical equipment to the Cavern, he’d balanced the amplifier on the footboard between his legs as his friend Chris had taken his guitar for him. But now, on his own, it was a far different matter.

Eventually, with his guitar slung over his shoulders and the amplifier strapped to his scooter, Albie was almost ready to set off for home. However, with all that weight, the Lambretta proved rather unwieldy to handle and refused to go where it was being pointed!

Struggling with the handlebars, Albie was greatly relieved when the streetlights of Sheringham flickered into view – those near Beeston Common – as it meant he was almost home, but not quite!

Meanwhile, outside the Dunstable Arms – just along the road past the common – PC Grimshaw was sitting astride his police-issue Velocette, lying in wait for anyone foolish enough to emerge from the public house the worse for drink. Then, of course, Albie had the misfortune to wobble past on his Lambretta!

“Pull OVER!” shouted PC Grimshaw giving chase on his Noddy Bike. “And STOP!”

Trying his hardest, Albie applied the brakes but the scooter just kept going due to the extra weight.

“I SAID ‘STOP’!” yelled the policeman, furiously waving his arm. “RIGHT NOW!”

Struggling to bring his Lambretta under control, Albie managed to stop – eventually – but had great difficulty in getting his scooter back up onto its stand.

“Do you normally ride like that – weavin’ from side to side – young fellow-me-lad?” the police motorcyclist asked him, walking around the scooter, then, pointing to Albie’s amplifier strapped to the back, “and, by any stretch of the imagination, would you say this here load is secure?”

Albie mumbled something about ‘it being all right when he set out’, but had to agree that the amplifier wasn’t secured quite so well as he would have liked, but he was in rather a rush and it was so dark on Cromer promenade at the time. But the policeman wasn’t about to accept any lame excuses, and certainly didn’t take kindly to the idea of Albie riding his scooter in its present overloaded state.

“PAPERS!” PC Grimshaw demanded, getting out his pocket book and licking his pencil. “Driving licence and insurance? You do have them, don’t you?”

“Well; yes – but, there again, no!” Albie replied, searching through his pockets. “They’re in me other jacket. I think!”

“Right, I’ll have your name and address for a start,” the policeman told him, “then there’s the little matter of riding without due care and attention to discuss, using a vehicle with an insecure load, failing to stop when ordered – and anything else I can think of...”

“You’ll hatta report to the police station on Webb’un Road within twetty-four hours – ” he continued, scribbling in his pocket book, “ – and don’t forget to bring your papers!”

Then, mounting his Velocette and depressing the kickstarter, PC Grimshaw said: “And another thing, tha’s about time you started wearing your crash-hat – that’ll be the law one o’ these days, I shoon’t wonder!”

With that, the policeman rode off into the night, leaving Albie to struggle the best he could with his overloaded Lambretta.

* * *

“You’re rather late, dear!” said his mother, as Albie manhandled his heavy amplifier into the house, leaving it just inside the scullery. “Did you have a nice evening?”

For once, Albie was lost for words!

A TICKING OFF FOR ALBIE

On Sunday the first of December, it was with some trepidation that Albie approached the entrance to Sheringham Police Station on Weybourne Road and opened the door leading into the cold, hostile vestibule. To his left was another door, marked ‘Private’, and next to it a small hatchway with a frosted-glass window. Beside the hatch was a notice, advising: ‘Press For Attention’ under which was a little, black Bakelite bell-push with a white button, and, plucking up courage, Albie gave it a quick press.

Suddenly, the window slid back to reveal the face of PC Beck.

“Yes?” he said, raising an eyebrow of inquisition at the suspicious-looking ‘miscreant’ on the other side of the half-open glass window. “And what can I do for you?”

“I’m reportin’ as summoned,” Albie replied nervously, thrusting his driving licence and insurance papers through the gap in the window, “and your officer on his motorbike told me to bring these along – without fail...”

PC Beck took the documents from Albie then opened the side door, indicating for the lad to enter the small, sparsely-furnished interview room. “Come through, and sit yourself down...”

“I’ve seen you before, hen’t I?” the police officer continued, first looking at Albie’s documents, then reading a report sheet on his desk, before returning his gaze to the young man sitting in front of him. “Tha’s Albie, en’t it? I never forget a face... you were here a few years ago, weren’t you? Gold coins, wasn’t it?”

Then, continuing to read the report sheet laying on his desk: “Now, let’s see what this is all about, shall we? Hmm – insecure load according to Constable Grimshaw, amongst other things... what was it then, this load?”

“Guitar and amplifier,” replied Albie, “but that din’t seem too bad to me...!”

After much ‘humming’ and ‘harring’, PC Beck completed his deliberations by filing the report sheet into a tray marked ‘Solved Crimes’, then returned Albie’s licence and insurance papers to him.

“It’s pretty clear to me,” the policeman said, getting up from his chair and towering over Albie – all six feet of him, “I shall hatta take this matter further... by havin’ a word with your father at the Co-op...”

Albie just sat there, motionless, head in hands, “But, couldn’t I just have a small fine or suffin’? I mean, does Dad really hatta know?”

“On the other hand,” laughed PC Beck, satisfied Albie had learned his lesson, “I see no reason to pursue this matter any further, taking up valuable police time – just let that be a lesson to you, Albie – consider yourself cautioned – and, don’t make too much noise with your guitar of yours will you? After all, we don’t want your neighbours comin’ in here complainin’, do we now?”

ALBIE IS FACED WITH A DIFFICULT CHOICE

Although he didn’t know it then, Wednesday the fourth of December 1963 was to be the turning point for Albie – a major milestone in his tumultuous journey through life – and it was all to begin, as you might well expect, with an evening visit to Cromer.

Having being ‘warned off’ by Lyndi’s mother, he decided not to call at 20 Westcliff Avenue to see if his girlfriend was in – if indeed she was still his girlfriend at this point! Instead, carrying on down the hill, he headed towards the town centre.

As he passed the parish church on his Lambretta its engine began to splutter, faltered, and then died completely, and the scooter coasted to a halt. But what was wrong? Surely not a whiskered spark plug, as he’d only replaced it with a brand-new Champion the weekend before. No, it had to be something else, he told himself.

Lifting up the seat, he loosened the petrol filler cap to take a look inside the tank, but it was far too dark to see! Giving the scooter a good shake from side to side he could hear no sound of petrol ‘sloshing’ around in the tank, so he came to the conclusion it was empty!

“Blimmin’ heck!” he cursed, standing beside his immobilised machine, “I meant to check that afore I come out...” Then, noticing the lights of the East Coast Motor Company at the far end of Church Street – next to the Gangway– he began pushing his scooter towards the garage.

“You’re in luck!” the forecourt attendant told him, as he wheeled the mobile BP Zoom petrol pump over to the Lambretta. “Quiet tonight – apart from that racket next-door!” he laughed, as he operated the handle on the side of the pump. “That’ll be four-and-ninepence.”

Albie realised, by ‘next-door’, the man meant the Cromer Youth Club, where the sound of ear-splitting music from inside mingled with the hustle and bustle of traffic moving past.

“All right if I leave my scooter here?” he asked, paying the man for the petrol, “just while I take a gander inside the youth club?”

“Sure!” the man laughed, “sooner you than me – if you call that music I’m a Dutchman!”

Chubby and The Checkers were halfway to Kansas City by the time Albie had pushed his way through the crowd of teenagers, all twisting and bopping to the music.

The group was quite good, he thought, certainly better than the last time he’d heard them. Early in November that was, when he went to the club with Lyndi. Sweetness and light she had been in those days, but how things had changed in such a short space of time. So much uncertainty, so little happiness; if only things could go back to the way they were.

A crash of drums and screech of guitars brought Albie back from his voyage of melancholia and into the real world, severing all links with the past. This was now, he told himself, and best to move on again.

The music stopped. One number ended and another began, this time a ballad. As if on cue, smooching couples filled the floor and someone dimmed the lights. Albie began to experience loneliness again. Leaning against a wall, he closed his eyes and just listened to the warmth of the mellow music, caring little for the words. Though through half-closed eyelids he sensed the sudden brightness as the song finished and the room was, once again, bathed in light.

“Hi, Albie!” Chubby called out, climbing down off the small stage in one corner of the room, as the group took a well-earned break from their musical exertions. “Tha’s flippin’ good to see you here – what d’you reck’n, then, are we any better? I gather you weren’t too impressed last time?”

“OK, I s’pose, what I heard of it,” replied Albie, picking up a bright-red Rosetti guitar and giving it a strum. “But you could still do with a good lead guitar, y’know!”

Chubby, joined by his brother playing rhythm guitar and Dave on drums, replied: “The offer is still open – why not put your plectrum where your mouth is and join us...?”

“Over my dead body!” shouted Lyndi, as she suddenly emerged from the seething crowd, where she’d been hidden from view.

“You’re either goin’ out with me, or you en’t!” she screamed, pushing Albie up against the wall, “but I en’t sharin’ you with that lot...!”

“You should flippin’ talk!” replied Albie angrily, yet relieved at catching up with her at last. “I’ve gotta bone to pick with you my girl... but not here.. let’s go outside!”

With that, he grabbed Lyndi by the arm and manhandled her, protesting, out into the street and around the corner into the darkness of the Rocket House gardens.

“You’ve got a helluver lot of explaining to do,” he told her, as they sat huddled together – though not too close for comfort – in a shelter overlooking the Gangway. “Take last Wednesday night, for instance; I saw you get into that bloke’s car – so don’t even bother tryin’ to deny it!”

“At least he’s doin’ suffin’ useful with his life,” she sneered, “clearin’ mines from our beaches and servin’ his country – anyway, I always did hanker after a man in uniform...”

“But I did my bit as well you know,” protested Albie, “I wuz in the cadet force at the Paston School, I wuz – and I wuz a corporal, an’orl!”

“But my Jimmy’s got a car!” Lyndi continued, suitably unimpressed by Albie’s ‘military’ record, “not like that silly scooter of yours!”

“You were glad of it once!” Albie told her. “Anyway, he’s married – as well you know...”

“Oh, I see,” Lyndi replied, “gettin’ on your moral high-horse now, are you? And, from what I’ve heard from me Mum, you’ve been tittle-tattling behind my back an’orl...”

“See here, Albie, you don’t own me,” she continued, “and nothin’ you say will stop me seeing my Jimmy – so, why don’t you go to h...”

“That’s it!” shouted Albie, leaping up and storming off, “I’ve heard quite enough from you – and as far as I’m concerned you can go entertain the entire platoon for all I care! – I’m off!”

Sensing Albie was a bit upset, Lyndi ran after him. “Let’s not be too hasty,” she pleaded, “after all, we have had some good times together, haven’t we? It’d be a shame to throw all that away – can’t we at least talk about it like two responsible people?”

“ Besides, I could do with a lift home...” she continued.

“You’ve got two legs, hen’t you?” shouted Albie, leaping on his Lambretta. “You can blimmin’-well use ’em!”

With that, he rode off down the road and back home to Sheringham.

NEXT: Wow! Whatever next? Got a temper on him, has that Albie! But has poor Lyndi really received her marching orders, or is she just a pain in the neck? Albie’s got a pain – but it’s not in his neck! Find out in the next episode!

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