| FURTHER
ADVENTURES OF THE LAD FROM SHERINGHAM |
WITH
THE EVENTS of the previous evening still fresh in his mind Albie
was quite relieved it was his Saturday morning off work
and, even more so, that he was still alive and around to tell the
tale. As tempting as it had seemed to remain in bed for the morning
– as was his custom every other Saturday – he decided
to arise, earlier than usual, in case there had been any further
developments at home or abroad. Thinking back over the past months
what a year it had been, having kicked off with one of the worst
winters since 1947,
and now this the threat of another global conflict – where
would it all end? Unfortunately, little did he know what else was
lurking just around the corner...
 ORRY
STATE OF AFFAIRS,” was his mother’s opening remark as
Albie opened the door leading from the hall and went through into
the living room, where she was washing the linoleum-covered floor.
“That poor Mr Kennedy; so young and handsome –
everything to live for – and his poor wife. My heart
bleeds for them, that do. Thank goodness they got the bloke
what done it...”
“Surely
you mean more than one person?” asked Albie, pouring
a kettle of warm water into a cream-coloured plastic bowl in the
scullery sink, then gazing out of the window across the back yard.
“There’s more to that than meets the eye,” he continued,
soaping a flannel and giving his face a quick wash, “Tha’s
the work of a Commie hit squad, I reck’n...!”
His
mother looked up from washing the floor, took a moment to brush
the hair out of her eyes before answering: “No! I jist heard
them say on the wireless tha’s someone called Lee
Oswald – they’re tearken him in custody and
got his gun an’orl!”
Albie
then began to lather his face ready for his morning shave. Taking
a safety razor off the windowsill he unscrewed the handle, took
a fresh blade out of a packet
of Gillettes, fitted it then began to shave his overnight growth
of ‘designer’ stubble.
“You
mark my words,” he said, shaving carefully under his
chin with upward movements of his hand, “that bloke’ll
have connections wi’ the Ruskies he will, he din’t do
it on his own, he din’t – you can bet your bottom dollar
onnit!”
“There’s
still time for World War Three,” he continued, rinsing
the shaving foam off his razor, shaking it dry, then placing it
back on the windowsill, “any minute now them there inter-continental-missiles
will start rainin’ down onnus, they will...”
“Oh!
For goodness sake – do yew dry your face and shut up!”
exclaimed his mother, coming into the scullery and handing him a
warm towel from the airing cupboard. “Yew and your blessèd
rockets, tha’s all yew ever think of – that an’
mawthers – anyway, do they do launch ’em, yew on’t
ever need to shave agin, will yew?”
LYNDI
HAS A QUEASY TUMMY
First
thing after lunch, Albie got his Lambretta out of the shed at the
bottom of the garden and rode over to Cromer
to see his girlfriend. Stopping outside her house on Westcliff Avenue,
he lifted the scooter onto its stand, walked up the front path and
rang the doorbell.
“Lyndi
en’t at all well,” Mrs Rance told him, half opening the
front door, “spent all morning in bed she hev – got an
upset tummy – best you don’t come in as that might be
catching!” And with that she closed the door in his face, leaving
a bewildered Albie standing on the doorstep.
“Well,
tha’s a rummen,” he said to himself, scratching
his head as he walked back down the path, “she seemed all right
last night – s’puz that could’ve bin delayed
shock from the pictures...”
With
that he mounted his scooter, depressed the kickstarter and rode
away from Westcliff Avenue and back home to Sheringham.
Scarcely
had the sound of his Lambretta faded in the distance than Lyndi,
by now fully-dressed, tiptoed downstairs and pushed past her mother
still standing by the front door.
 “Hev
he gone, that Albie?” she asked, slipping her red coat
over her shoulders and putting on a pair of shoes, “’cos,
if so, I’m nipping out for a bit...”
“You’ve
certainly made a miraculous recov’ry, hen’t you,
my girl?” her mother asked, as Lyndi cautiously opened the
front door. “Where’ya goin’ then? Over the Marrams
for some fresh air? That’ll soon put the colour back in those
cheeks of yours...”
“No,
not that far, I en’t. On’y to the corner an’
back,” Lyndi replied, venturing out of the front door, satisfied
the coast was clear. “Someone I watta see about tomorrow...”
“Not
that soldier again?” her mother called after her, as
Lyndi went out of the front door quickly making her way towards
a large white-painted house on the corner of Westcliff Avenue. “Besides,
he’s married – as well you know – and
with a little kiddie!”
“There
are times when I despair about my daughter,” Mrs Rance confessed
to herself, going back indoors and slamming the front door behind
her. “That Albie seems such a nice young man –
our Lyndi could do far worse – but, there again, she always
did have a weakness for a man in uniform!”
DOCTOR,
WHO DID YOU SAY YOUR NAME WAS?
“Yew’re
home hoolly early!” Albie’s mother told him, opening the
door as she heard his scooter arrive in the back yard. “Nothing
wrong between yew and Lyndi, is there?”
“No
– of course not!” her son replied irritably, kicking
off his shoes and draping his zip-up jacket over the banister rail
at the bottom of the stairs, “I didn’t hang about as she’s
got the dreaded
lurgi, or leastwise tha’s what her mother told me...”
“Oh
dear!” Albie’s mother replied, beginning to bite
her fingernails with worry, “yew and Lyndi hen’t bin up
to nothin’, hev yew?”
“Just
exactly what are you insinuating?” he asked, sitting
down in the easy-chair nearest to the television set, “if tha’s
what I think it is – huh! – chance would be a fine
thing!”
“Albie!
How could yew say such a thing like that – let alone
think it! Your father and I allus say tha’s best
to leave the ‘icing on the cake’ till last...”
“With
my sweet tooth I’d like a bit more ‘icing on the cake’
than just at Christmas and birthdays,” laughed Albie, switching
on the television set. “Once or twice a week would do me very
nicely, thank you very much!”
“I
could bake for some o’ them little buns with pink icing
and a cherry on top,” replied his mother, failing to see through
his innuendo. “But too much icing en’t for your teeth,
y’know!”
Just
before five o’clock, that Saturday evening, on the 23rd of
November 1963, Albie was still set fast in the easy-chair opposite
the television set and about to watch the start of BBC’s new
science-fiction serial, Dr
Who.
“What
are yew gogglin’ at now?” his mother asked,
deftly draping a crisply-starched tablecloth over the living room
table. “Not more o’ that space rubbish, is it?”
“Doctor
Who,” replied Albie, ‘shushing’ at her to be quiet.
“And, if you don’t mind, I’m tryin’ to
listen...”
“Who
did yew say he wuz?”
“Doctor
WHO!”
“Yis
– but just who is he meant to be?” continued his
mother.
“Tha’s
his name – Doctor Who!”
“Dun’t
look much like a doctor t’me,” Albie’s mother replied,
poking her head round the scullery door, “anyway, he hen’t
got no stetherscoop, hev he?”
“Doctor
Who dun’t have one!” Albie replied impatiently, “he’s
not that sorta doctor!”
Returning
from the scullery carrying a plate of bread and butter, Albie’s
mother glanced across at the television screen. “I’re
seen him afore, that bloke – wuh, don’t tell me –
tha’s William
someone-or-other. He’s from the Army Game. Wun’t a
doctor in that though, wuz he?”
“Dun’t
seem right,” she continued, standing right in front of the
television set, with Albie trying to see round her. “Him flittin’
from one programme to another – tha’s confoosin’,
that is – I’m surprised he can find the time...”
“For
goodness sake, Mum!” retorted Albie, angered by her
constant interruptions. “He is a Time Lord after all!”
“An’,
I’ll give yew time, my lord,” replied his
mother, pointing towards the back door, “here’s your father
now – wantin’ his tea – an’ yew can turn that
rubbish off for a start and go and wash your hands!”
ALBIE
HAS A SHOCK
The
following day, first thing after Sunday dinnertime, Albie decided
to see if Lyndi was feeling any better. Getting up from the table,
he collected his zip-up jacket from where he’d left it the
afternoon before – still hanging on the banister rail at the
foot of the stairs – and, putting on his shoes, headed for
the back door.
“Just
goin’ to Cromer, Dad,” he said, leaving his father in
the scullery washing up the pots and pans. “I would
help, honest, but it is November outside an’ it gets
perishin’ by late afternoon, don’t it?”
“Do
yew go then,” said his mother, shaking the tablecloth outside
the back door, “and – do yew mind what yew git up to...”
He
had thought about commenting ‘chance would be a fine thing’
but, wisely, decided against it, saying instead: “Don’t
worry, Mum, I’ll behave myself – I won’t do nothin
you and Dad won’t do!”
With
that, sitting astride his Lambretta – its little engine purring
sweetly beneath his feet – Albie set off on the short journey
to Cromer to see Lyndi.
It
was a few minutes after three o’clock in the afternoon when
he arrived at Westcliff
Avenue, but when he rang the doorbell of Number Twenty there
was no reply.
“Oh
dear,” he said, standing on the front doorstep gazing
up at the bedroom windows. “Perhaps Lyndi’s still poorly,
and in bed...” He did think about tossing a handful of small
stones at the bedroom window, but then wasn’t quite sure which
was her room.
“Never
mind,” he said, getting back on his Lambretta, “I’ll
go to the Cavern and see who’s there this afternoon –
then call back later to see if she’s up.”
It
had been several weeks since Albie had last visited the ‘premier
night spot’ of Cromer, the Cavern, on East Parade near the
pier. Other ‘things’ had seemed to dominate his mind –
mainly Lyndi! But he was in for quite a shock when he arrived outside
The Salad Bowl restaurant on East Parade, for it seemed quite deserted,
closed for the winter and boarded up! After parking his scooter
nearby, he climbed the steps to the main entrance where a large
poster declared the Cavern to be ‘CLOSED BY ORDER’!
“God!
Whatever has happened?” he said, gasping with horror
at the news. “Last time I was here it seemed so successful...”
Sensing
movement in one of the rooms upstairs – given away by the twitching
of lacy curtains – Albie stepped up to the main door, rang
the bell and, after what seemed an age, Mr Walters eventually appeared.
“You’ve
read the notice then, Albie,” he said, pointing at the poster
pasted beside the door, “you’d better come in – I
think you deserve an explanation...”
Closing
the front door behind them, Mr Walters continued: “It seems
we’ve fallen foul of fire regulations – not having an
additional exit from the cellar you see.”
“But
– what about that small window lookin’ out onto the prom?”
Albie asked.
“Insufficient
in an emergency, I’m told,” replied Mr Walters, shaking
his head, “someone – who shall be nameless – has
dropped us right in it and now, as a result, there’s
no more Cavern for you youngsters I’m afraid.”
Albie
tried to find the words to express how he felt, but just couldn’t
at first. “I’m so sorry,” he eventually said,
choking back his emotions, “it was so kind of you to let us
have the cellar in the first place – it was good while it lasted
– and I shall miss coming here...”
“My
wife and I think it’s time we move on,” Mr Walters continued,
“so we shall be putting the Salad Bowl restaurant up for sale
fairly soon – there’s nothing left for us here anymore...”
“Sorry
to hear that,” replied Albie, pausing by the front door. “Oh!
– I mustn’t forget my guitar and amp are still down in
the Cavern... I’ll collect them next Wednesday night, if tha’s
all right with you?”
“Yes,
whatever suits you, Albie,” replied Mr Walters, opening the
door for him. “Mind how you go on that scooter of yours. Until
next Wednesday then?”
Then,
closing the door behind him, he went back upstairs and watched Albie
as he rode his Lambretta along the East Parade, back up the slope
towards the main road.
“I’ve
a **** good idea who’s got the Cavern closed,” he said
angrily, as he rode down New Street and past the Jetty Coffee Bar,
“and I shall go in there an’ give him a piece of my mind!”
Parking
his Lambretta a short distance away from the coffee bar, outside
the parish church, Albie stormed back to have it out with John,
the owner, being certain he was behind the demise of the Cavern.
Pushing open the door, the café was so full he could hardly
get in, let alone see the man he was looking for.
Eventually,
after making his way through the jostling crowd of youngsters, he
managed to attract John’s attention.
“I
see bus’ness is back to normal!” he said, sarcastically,
as John emerged from a cloud of steam from the Espresso machine,
“now I s’puz you’re happy?”
“Looking
for that friend of yours?” replied John with a laugh, “the
blonde bird?”
“And,
what if I am?”
“You’ve
only just missed her by five minutes,” the coffee bar owner
replied, then,
giving Albie a knowing wink: “came in here earlier, she did
– you need to keep a tight rein on that one!”
Just
what did he mean, Albie wondered, as he went back to his
scooter to go look for Lyndi, but, try as he might, there was no
sign of her anywhere.
ALBIE
GETS TOOTHACHE
On
Monday morning it was cream cakes all round at Jarrolds, according
to the custom whenever anyone had a birthday – except
Albie, that is, who always seemed to take his winter holiday
during the first week in February, thus saving himself considerable
expense!
 Nevertheless,
not one to look a gift horse in the mouth – nor wishing to
cause offence by his refusal of such a delightful treat – Albie
was soon scoffing an iced bun with a cherry on top.
It
seemed he was enjoying his mid-morning feast immensely until there
was a loud crunch!
“Urgh!
There’s suffin’ hard in this here cake!” he complained,
pulling a face and delving into the hidden depths of his mouth for
the cause of his displeasure. Eventually, a large piece of steely-grey
metal emerged, clutched between finger and thumb, and held aloft
for all to see!
“Tha’s
pulled me stoppin’ out that hev!” he cried, examining
the cake-coated piece of amalgam in minute detail, whilst rubbing
his jaw tenderly. “Tha’s given me toothache an’orl,
an’ tha’s hoolly painful that is – I can’t eat
no more o’ this cake...!”
With
that, he threw the half-eaten bun into his wastepaper basket then
sat nursing his aching jaw.
“They
do say tincture
of cloves is very good for toothache,” his friend Felix
told him, never one to bother with doctors or dentists if he could
possibly avoid it. “You dab it on with a piece of cotton wool,
then it dulls the pain – always works – I’ve used
it myself!”
Tony
Mullins laughed. “Old wives’ tale that is!” he said,
“if you’ve lost a filling, and it’s as painful as
you say, you’ll need to have the tooth extracted...”
“No
fear!” replied Albie, who had a dislike of dentists,
drills, or anything to do with them, “I suppose I’ll hatta
put up with all this pain until lunchtime...”
Being
unable to eat the merest mouthful of the sandwiches his mother
had thoughtfully provided for his lunch, Albie quickly made his
way to London Street and the pharmacy counter of Boots, the chemists,
where he asked for a bottle of oil of cloves.
“This
really isn’t intended to be a permanent cure,”
the pharmacist told him, taking a small phial of blood-red liquid
off a shelf, “it will relieve the pain, short-term, that’s
all! Only use it until you can get to see a dentist...”
“Not
likely!” Albie mumbled, taking the bottle from the man
behind the counter, “how much did you say that is, please?”
“Two
shillings and thruppence...”
Handing
over a florin
and a threepenny
bit, Albie was out of the shop like a shot for fear of being
further pressurised into seeing a dentist.
Back
at work, after seeking Felix’s advice on the ‘best way
to administer the remedy’, Albie pulled the cork out of the
phial of clove oil, liberally soaked a plug of cottonwool, then
inserted it into the gaping hole in his throbbing molar. After a
few minutes, the face-numbing pain subsided to a dull ache, only
to disappear altogether within a half hour.
“Tha’s
worked!” he declared, full of jubilation, with merest
traces of clove oil dribbling down his chin. “I’ll say
this for you, Felix,” he continued, standing by his
friend working at the next desk, “you certainly know
a thing or two, don’t you? Anything to keep away from them
there quacks can’t be bad, can it?”
But
how many more bottles of oil of cloves was it to take for Albie
to see sense?
ALBIE
BECOMES SUSPICIOUS
On
Wednesday evening, Albie went to Cromer on his scooter to collect
his amplifier and guitar from the Cavern on the seafront, as agreed
with Mr Walters. He had planned to go straight there but,
just about to pass Westcliff Avenue, he did a ‘u-turn’
on the Runton Road and went back to see if Lyndi was at home.
Standing
on the doorstep of Number Twenty, Albie put his finger on the bell-push,
gave it a quick press, then stepped back to wait for someone to
come to the door.
“Lyndi’s
not in I’m afraid, Albie,” said her mother, opening the
front door and pointing up the road, “she’s just gone
babysitting at the end house – the white one – at Flat
2A... least, tha’s what she told me...”
“Thank
you, Mrs Rance,” he replied politely, looking up the road to
the house on the corner, outside which was parked a green-coloured,
‘sit-up-and-beg’ Ford
Popular car. “I do hope the people there won’t mind
if I just pop in to say hello to Lyndi, will they?”
Leaving
his scooter parked under the streetlight, halfway down Westcliff
Avenue, Albie set off into the darkness towards the large white
house at the end of the road. He was a mere twenty yards away when
a man came down a flight of steps at the side of the house, got
into the Ford, and started the engine.
From
the darkness Albie watched as a girl wearing a bright red coat suddenly
appeared from the shadows, ran over to the car, opened the passenger
door and got in.
“Surely,
that wasn’t Lyndi, was it?” Albie gasped
with disbelief as the car moved off. “It certainly looked
like her – if so, what on earth is she up to?”
But,
more to the point, he thought, who was she with?
Running
back to where he’d left his Lambretta, he quickly gave chase.
 Almost
passing
the car as it drove down Howard’s Hill, Albie flicked the scooter’s
headlight onto main beam to get a better view inside the car, but
only one person was visible – the driver, who appeared
to be in some sort of military uniform. But where was the
passenger, he wondered?
Filled
with suspicion, he kept pace with the car as it picked up speed
down Central Road. Reaching the junction at the bottom of the hill,
the Lambretta protested at being leant over at such an acute angle
– sparks flying from its grounded silencer – as Albie
took the corner at speed, putting his right foot down to steady
the scooter.
From
the direction he was going, the driver seemed to be heading towards
Cromer town centre, with Albie, still hard on his heels. But, just
past the Methodist chapel, the car made a sudden right-hand turn,
before speeding through the gates of Cromer
Hall and vanishing into the darkness of the woods.
By
the lodge gates Albie slewed to a halt, confronted by a sign lit
by his flickering headlight that ordered: ‘Private –
Keep Out’!
“*****!”
he cursed, manhandling his scooter around in the darkness, “I’ve
blimmin’ well lost ’em now!”
Then, thinking about it for a moment: “I could’ve
bin mistaken, I s’puz, after all, lots of girls wear
red coats!”
Deciding
he didn’t feel like calling on Mr Walters at the Salad Bowl
that night after all, Albie headed back the way he had come and
scootered home to Sheringham.
*
* *
In
the distance, the sound of the scooter could still be heard as it
went up the hill towards the Runtons, gradually fading into the
still night air, replaced by the plaintiff solace of a barn owl,
awakened from its slumbers by movements in the car beneath its haunt.
Ruffling its plumage, it cast a downward glance of inquisitiveness
– or was it disapproval – before flying away into the
night.
“Hev
that Albie gone?” Lyndi asked, getting up from the back seat
where she had lain, unseen, for the short journey. “Is the
coast clear now, Jimmy? ” she continued, craning her neck to
peer out of the narrow rear window of the Ford Popular, half-hidden
amongst the trees.
“Yeah
– all clear, Lyndi,” replied James Holmes – a sapper
with the Royal Engineers Bomb Disposal Unit based at Trimingham
– as he sat down beside her, “musn’t be long though,
I told the wife I was just goin’ out for some fish ’n’
chips...!
NEXT:
Will
Albie discover the truth before it is too late? Or will he end up
being an innocent party to Lyndi’s devious little tricks? One
thing is certain, he’s sitting on a time bomb and the seconds
are ticking away – but can he defuse the situation? Find out
what went on in the Rocket
House Gardens!
 Please
sign Albie’s guestbook as I would love to hear your comments
–
or email:
| 
