“I’m havin’ trouble gettin’ to sleep,” said Albie, “all on account of girl trouble – and now I’ve got that blimmin’ toothache again!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

ALBIE’S MIND was troubled; had he made the right decision in ditching Lyndi as the result of her wanton behaviour, or had he been a bit too hasty? After all, as she herself had said, they had had some good times together. Now, it seemed, he’d thrown it all away. With such thoughts on his mind he knew he would find it very difficult to sleep that night and he was right!

T WAS AROUND ten-thirty when Albie heard his parents’ bedroom door close for the night. In his small room next to theirs, he lay awake mulling over the events of earlier that evening. Through the adjoining wall that separated their room from his, he could hear them talking. Although not loud enough for him to make any sense of their conversation, the constant mumbling was infuriating nevertheless, and it was preventing him from getting to sleep. He tugged at his pillow, pulling it over his head in a vain attempt at shutting out the unwanted noise. Rolling over, he closed his eyes and tried his hardest to get to sleep. But he could not!

“For goodness sake!” he said, sitting up in bed and shouting through the wall, “some of us are tryin’ to sleep, you know!”

That seemed to do the trick, he thought, as silence reigned once more.

Then he began to feel rather warm. His nose became all stuffed up so, getting out of bed, he went to open his window. Drawing back the curtains, to undo the catch and drop the sash window a couple of inches, he noticed the neighbours, opposite, had their outside light on.

“Oh – that blimmin’ light!” he moaned, as the lamp over the front door of Ivydene lit up his bedroom, “how anyone’s expected to get some kip is a mystery to me!”

Albie closed his curtains and got back into bed. A glimmer of light from the house across the road began to filter through a chink in the abstract-patterned material and cast eerie shadows on his bedroom wall.

“Huh! Can’t stick this!” he said, and got out of bed again. Opening the bottom drawer of his tallboy, he got out a blanket and draped it over his curtains, tucking it well down behind the pole, in an attempt at shutting out the light. Then his bedroom door opened.

“Are yew all right, Albie?” his mother asked, standing in the doorway with the light from the landing streaming into his room. “I heard yew fidgeting’ an’ wondered if yew wun’t very well an’ needed suffin’...”

“I’m OK,” he replied irritably, tugging the sheets and blankets over his head, “I just can’t seem to get to sleep tha’s all – I wuz so-oo hot an’ then that light outside wuz on again...”

“P’raps yew’re sick’nin’ for suffin’,” his mother replied, putting a hand on his brow. “Yew are hoolly hot – that could be the flu – there’s a lot onnit gorn about...”

“I’m ALL RIGHT!” snapped Albie, as his mother fluffed up his pillows and went round the bed tucking him in. “Will you please leave me alone – I just want to get to sleep!”

Quietly, his mother closed the bedroom door, leaving Albie to try, once more, to get to sleep. Closing his eyes, he could hear the wind gusting with increasing ferocity and rattling the window panes.

During a lull, he listened to the sound of the sea – angry waves crashing upon the shore. This was followed by a more calming sound, the gentle whoosing of waters as they subsided – pebbles tumbling, flint over flint – until an uneasy peace was reached until the next tumultuous wall of water surged upwards, building with a great roar, before curling over and breaking upon itself. And thus the process was to be repeated – hour in, hour out – as Albie lay there counting the waves...

It must have been about two o’clock the next morning when he first noticed it.

At first it was just a dull ache in the side of his face, but gradually the pain increased as the early hours wore on. Straight away he knew what it was of course as the tip of his tongue probed the cavity in his lower tooth, once home to a large filling. Far from easing the pain, this made it much, much worse.

Leaping out of bed, he felt in the pocket of his jacket – hanging on the clothes peg on the back of his bedroom door – and reached for the bottle of oil of cloves. He shook it, but it was empty!

With the toothache getting the better of him, Albie crept downstairs through the sleeping house. Into the scullery he went and put on a kettle of water to boil. Ten minutes later, clasping a hot water bottle against the side of his face, he tried to get back to sleep. Initially, the warmth from his comforter seemed to do the trick, as the pain began to subside. Through heavy eyelids, weary from the lack of sleep, the first wispy veils of oblivion began to fall upon him.

Thursday morning dawned far sooner than Albie would have liked. Had he slept at all? It certainly didn’t seem like it. Far from being refreshed, he could so easily have stayed in bed for another hour or two, but he just had to get to work! So it was, with eyes heavy from lack of sleep, he gingerly made his way downstairs, with each step jarring his already-aching jaw.

“Whatever’s wrong?” his mother asked him, as he drew up a chair at the breakfast table. “Yew do look queer – your face is all red and swollen on one side!”

“I’ll just have a warm drink,” he replied, rubbing his tender jowl, and, feeling inside his mouth with a finger, “I din’t get much sleep last night – tha’s this tooth actin’ up again...”

“If that go on much longer, Albie,” his father told him, “yew’ll hatta hev it out...”

“Dorn’t worry the boy so, Dad!” said his wife, pouring a cup of tea. “Yew know full well he don’t like dentists...”

“Anyway, Albie,” she continued, as he took little sips at his cup of tea, trying to avoid the hot liquid touching on the nerve, “yew weren’t very late home last night, wuz yew? There en’t nourthin’ wrong between yew and that Cromer mawther is there?”

FROM ALBIE’S SKETCHBOOK: REGIS COTTAGE FROM THE REAR.

Albie winced loudly. “That pains me to even think about it at the moment...” he replied.

“She en’t right for yew!” his mother continued, “me an’ your father both say so, we do. She’s bin tearkin’ yew for a ride, she hev, an’ tha’s time yew fearced up to the fact!”

With that, Albie got up from the breakfast table, put on his coat and shoes then left Regis Cottage, slamming the back door behind him, and went to work.

A VISIT TO THE DENTIST

All that morning at work, Albie was in pain from his aching tooth so, that lunchtime, he went to Boots the Chemists to buy another bottle of oil of cloves. All to no avail. That afternoon, the tooth was more painful than ever, so much so that he found it hard to concentrate on his work. Another sleepless night was to follow and, by Friday morning, he had had enough!

“I hatta go to work,” he told his mother, “on account of havin’ a rush job. But I can’t stick this blimmin’ pain much longer.”

As he left for work, he asked his mother to make an appointment for him with their local dentist on the corner of Augusta Street in Sheringham.

“I’ll call in at the surgery when I’m in town,” she replied, “an’ tell him tha’s an emergency – then ’phone you at work from Dad’s Co-op!”

Later that morning, the telephone rang in the Design department at Jarrold Printing.

“Albie! It’s your mother on the line!” the manager’s secretary announced.

“Tha’s about your appointment wi’ the dentist–––,” his mother told him, as he answered the ’phone, “he say he can’t fit yew in terday, but that’ll hatta be termorrer, Sat’dy mornin’, as he can’t do yew no sooner, he can’t – an’ yew mustn’t hev nourthin’ to eat nor drink, yew mustn’t, ’corse yew may hatta hev gas...!”

Gas! Gas? Oh, no! thought Albie, anything but gas – remembering the last occasion he was forced to wear a facemask prior to an extraction, then found himself, coming-to, on the floor of the surgery, with a white-coated young lady trying to bring him round. Never again! The ‘young lady’ part was quite nice, as he recalled it, but the smell of that sticky rubber facemask and the sound of hissing gas....! Urgh!

“I en’t havin’ gas,” he whispered to his mother, hand cupped over the telephone mouthpiece to avoid anyone else hearing. “I don’t care how much that hurt – I en’t hevin’ gas!”

“Don’t be such a big baby!” his mother told him, “yew’ll do as yew’re told!” Then she put the ’phone down!

The following morning, after much complaining that ‘it was his Saturday off’ and ‘what a way to spend his free day’, Albie left home for his appointment with the dentist.

THE SURGERY ON AUGUSTA STREET

Arriving at the large house on the corner of Augusta Street, Albie paused briefly to glance at the well-shone, brass sign on the wall declaring it to be the ‘Sheringham Dental Practice’.

“I hope they know what there a-doin’ on,” he commented, as he opened the front door and went inside, “and en’t still practisin’ at it!”

Sitting at the reception desk was an attractive young nurse, dressed, from head to toe – well, almost – in white.

“I’re come for someone to hev a look at me tooth,” Albie told her, clutching the side of his face.

“And you must be Albie!” she said, taking a bundle of notes out of a drawer. “Emergency treatment, isn’t it? Mr C ––– was hoping to have had a quiet round of golf this morning...!”

“And I wuz just hopin’ to hev stayed in bed!” Albie replied haughtily, never one to fully understand the need to have a knockabout with a small white ball. “I don’t watta be here either, but we can’t all hev what we want in life, I s’puz!”

Getting up from her seat at the reception desk, the nurse gave a large sigh then escorted him into the surgery where the dentist was waiting.

“Sit down in the chair and... open wide,” Mr C ––– ordered, delving into the inner depths of Albie’s mouth with a long spiked probe until he located the troublesome tooth – or what was left of it. “Ah, yes; hmm, I see... not much left is there?” Then, giving it a good poke: “Does that hurt?”

Hurt? Of course it hurt, shouted Albie, leaping up out of the chair.

“It will definitely have to come out,” the dentist told him, pushing him back into the chair, “quite a difficult extraction, I’m afraid – I would advise you to have ga...”

“I en’t hevin’ gas!” Albie told the dentist emphatically. “That I en’t – I’m lurgic to that I am...”

“Don’t be such a wimp!” the nurse told Albie, keeping him firmly trapped in the chair, whilst the dentist advanced, brandishing a large hypodermic syringe containing a face-numbing concoction. “You’ll only feel a little prick,” she giggled. And he did!

A few minutes later, after the dentist had injected the local anaesthetic deep into the throbbing gum, Albie’s face began to feel quite numb and cold. The pain in his tooth had all but subsided, so, perhaps, that was all that was needed he thought. But the dentist had other ideas.

“Open wide,” Mr C ––– ordered, forcing Albie’s frozen jaw wide open with his hand. “I just need you to keep it like that for a few minutes... but this clamp should do the trick...”

With that, he slipped a stainless-steel clamp into Albie’s mouth, adjusting it so as to prevent his jaws from closing, let alone permitting him to speak.

“Not too uncomfortable, is it?” the dentist asked.

“Oowwgh!” answered Albie, not quite sure whether it sounded like yes or no. “Dasss ogay!”

“Oooh; you are so-oo brave!” the nurse told him, patting his hand. “The worst is nearly over...”

“Don’t go away,” laughed the dentist, leaving Albie gaping in the chair, “I’ll have that out for you in a minute or two – after I’ve finished my coffee!”

With much stirring of spoons in cups, followed by the dunking of biscuits, Mr C ––– appeared once more, with the nurse by his side.

“Extracting forceps, please, nurse,” he said, holding out his hand, “lower molar...”

Albie closed his eyes.

The dentist began by pushing hard on the tooth, then wiggled it from side to side.

“Do try NOT to move your head!” he complained. Easier said than done, thought Albie, as his head continued to rock from side to side, and up and down, with the movement of the dentist’s hand.

Suddenly, the big pull began, followed by some more pushing, a bit of wiggling, then another long, hard pull.

“Stubborn one, this,” Mr C ––– complained, with the nurse mopping his brow; then, turning to Albie, “If only you’d had gas...”

The poor lad just sat there, clutching at the arms of the chair until his knuckles went as white as his face. He half wished he’d had gas after all, as his tooth resisted all attempts at separating it from its healthier companions on the lower set.

Through half-open closed, Albie could see the look of determination on the dentist’s face as he took up the struggle again, this time with both hands on the pliers and one knee against the chair for extra leverage.

Several minutes later – following a fair degree of brute force accompanied by grunts from the dentist and groans from Albie – a sudden tinkling sound announced the troublesome tooth was where it belonged, in a stainless-steel dish, and dumped, without ceremony, into a bin marked ‘clinical waste’!

Thankfully, for Albie, the pain had gone, replaced by a sense of anaesthesia leaving him with a numbness, and little control over his lower jaw.

“That’s it, Albie,” laughed Mr C –––, “you can open your eyes now!”

Albie did as he was told and, through tear-filled eyes, he could see the nurse standing before him, holding a large glass of pink liquid in one hand and a packet of tissues in the other.

“Have a really good rinse out,” she told him, “and spit!”

Sipping the lukewarm minty mouthwash, and having a good swill out, Albie took a tissue from her and dabbed his eyes.

“Sign here...here... and here,” she said, handing him a biro and the obligatory paperwork to complete. “And, while you’re here, would you like to make an appointment for next check up?”

With that, Albie was out of the door so fast he didn’t even have time to ask for ‘something to put under his pillow for the tooth fairy’!

ALBIE IS SHOCKED!

Walking up St Peter’s Road, Albie was in a complete state of shock following his painfully-prolonged extraction. It seemed he had completely lost his bearings as he began heading not home but towards the railway station.

Sitting on the platform seat watching a Cromer-bound train arrive in the station, he appeared lost, dazed and bewildered, as he began gathering his thoughts. What on earth was he doing here, he wondered?

Taking his bloodstained handkerchief away from his face and putting it back in his pocket, he could feel the anaesthetic beginning to wear off. To his utter relief, the excruciating pain of toothache had vanished, with the tooth, leaving but a slight throbbing sensation.

“I could do with a drink,” he said to himself, getting up from the seat and leaving the station platform, “suffin’ warm, to thaw out my face...”

Going back through the booking hall, Albie left the station then turned right and began walking to the end of the road towards the level-crossing gates, which were already closed to road traffic to let the Cromer train depart.

Leaning over the crossing gates, he watched as the signalman sprinted down the steps of Sheringham East signalbox carrying the single-line token to hand to the departing train.

Craning his neck, Albie followed the train’s progress up the track for as far as he could see, until it disappeared into the distance on the way to Cromer. Then, as the gates began to open again to let other road-users through, he turned and noticed the Gatehouse Café.

“Never been in there before,” he said, striding across the road and pausing on the pavement outside the building, “but it looks OK, and I could certainly do with a warm drink for this face.”

With that, he opened the door and went inside.

ALBIE SPILLS HIS COFFEE

Although a tidy step from the seafront, the Gatehouse was a typical seaside café offering – according to the menu board hanging on the wall – the usual fare of ‘Fish ’n’ Chips’, with locally-caught plaice and cod, as well as ‘Egg, Bacon and Chips’, ‘Sausage, Egg and Chips’, and ‘Burgers, Baked Beans and Chips’.

Already, Albie was beginning to feel quite hungry; perhaps it was his favourite, baked beans, that had set him off!

‘Coca-Cola – ice-cold from the fridge’, declared the neon-lit sign hanging behind the counter. No doubt chilled to the right temperature – just the way he liked it – but not this time. He would have a warm drink instead, to thaw out his face, he decided as the heady aroma of freshly-brewed coffee wafted from the Espresso machine standing, steaming and bubbling, on top of the Formica-covered counter.

“Tha’s if there’s anyone here to serve me!” he muttered to himself, as the café seemed pretty-well deserted. “Hello?” he shouted, ringing a little bell on the counter, “anyone there?” But still no one came.

“Fat chance me gettin’ a drink in this place,” he complained, heading for the door. He was just about to leave when a young waitress, struggling with a heavy crate of soft drinks, came in from the back of the café.

“Sorry!” she said, lifting the crate of Coca-Cola onto the counter, “I hope you hen’t bin waiting long – I hatta go down the cellar for some more cokes.”

“Cuppa coffee – if that en’t too much trouble,” he replied rather sarcastically at being kept waiting, “I’ve just had a tooth out, an’ I watta warm drink to thaw me out...”

“Oh! You poor thing,” the waitress replied, pointing to a table under the window, “sit yourself down an’ I’ll get you a nice hot drink with pletty o’ sugar. Just look at your poor face, tha’s all blown up – still painful is it?”

Doing as he was told, Albie sat at the table in the window watching the world go by. On the opposite side of Station Road, the shop selling sweets, newspapers and cigarettes, seemed quite busy. As he watched, several children went in and emerged a few minutes later clutching bags of sweets – licorice allsorts and dolly mixtures – and sucking large, sticky lollipops. And that was how all his teething problems had begun, he seemed to recall!

HOLIDAYMAKERS ENJOYED PONY RIDES FROM THE MARBLE ARCH

Then Albie noticed Mr Dyball cycling up the road. He spent most of his summer months giving pony rides to the holidaymakers’ children. From the Marble Arch they would go, clip-clopping around St Nicholas Gardens to the Boulevard and back. But all that ended a couple of months ago, when the people from foreign parts returned home again.

Now Mr Dyball was stopping outside the little shop. Getting off his bicycle he leant it against the shop wall and went inside. When he came out he stood there for a moment or two, a packet of Woodbines in his hand, before tearing the cellophane wrapper and dropping it into the gutter.

Taking a cigarette out of the pack, he tapped it on the back of his hand before lighting it. Then, cocking his right leg over the crossbar of his bike, and with a swift turn of the pedals, Mr Dyball was gone, cycling down Station Road towards the Robin Hood pub, his next port of call.

“Sorry it took so long,” chirped the waitress, interrupting Albie’s window-gazing as she placed a steaming-hot cup of coffee in front of him, “I’ve made you a fresh cup...!”

“It’s nice an’ sweet,” she continued, standing beside him, her hands resting on the edge of the gingham-plastic tablecloth. “I’ve put three spoonfuls in – tha’s always good when you’re in shock, that is, or hed a tooth out!” she laughed.

Raising the cup to his lips, still quite numb from the anaesthetic, Albie took a sip of coffee. Dee-licious, he thought! Just the way he liked it! But, try as hard as he might, the coffee failed to remain in his mouth – going in one side and out the other – and dripping all over the plastic tablecloth.

“I am sorry!” he mumbled, somewhat embarrassed, “still a bit numb, I think...”

The waitress, quickly mopping up the small puddle of coffee, laughed: “Never mind – I know just the thing for you!”

With that, she went behind the counter and returned with a couple of drinking straws.

“Try these!” she laughed, drawing up a chair next to Albie. “By the way,” she continued, as he began slurping his coffee through a straw, “I’m Patricia, but everyone calls me Patsy – I hen’t seen you in here before, hev I?”

“I met this boy in Cromer – at the youth club,” he explained to Patsy as he finished slurping his coffee, “playin’ in a band he wuz – Chubby Checker I think he said...”

“You mean Chubby and his Checkers!” she laughed, “they’re really good, they are – they practise here on Sunday afternoons. Why not come along?”

“Yes, I may just do that,” Albie replied, feeling much better in himself now, the warm drink having helped. “Oh, by the way, I’m Albie...”

Patsy laughed, shaking her head from side to side. “We all know who you are,” she replied, you’re that ‘Mod’ who’s always tearing up and down the High Street on a Lambretta!”

It seemed his ‘fame’, or possibly notoriety, had already preceded him.

ALBIE ENJOYS PLAYING IN A BAND...

The next day, first thing after Sunday lunch, Albie went to hear Chubby and The Checkers practising at the Gatehouse Café.

Parking his Lambretta by the side of the building, on the gravel drive next to the railway line, he made his way around to the front. Already he could hear the familiar sound of Twist and Shout booming out, interrupting the quietness of the afternoon.

Stepping inside the café, it seemed the entire building was dancing to the beat: cups and saucers were rattling on the tables, the menu chalkboard on the wall was swinging back and forth, and even the neon Coca-Cola sign was flashing it time to the music. And, beneath his feet, Albie could even feel the floorboards reverberating!

“Hi, Albie!” shouted Patsy above the music, standing behind the counter drying some glasses, “I’m ever so glad you could make it – as you can hear, the group are practising in the cellar!”

“So, tha’s what you call it!” joked Albie, giving her a wry smile. “All they need now is a good lead guitar,” he continued, indicating his Gibson-lookalike slung across his back, “and perhaps I can help ’em out there!”

Finishing drying the glasses, Patsy took Albie into the kitchen to meet John, the café owner, and his wife Joy. Albie discovered, as well as being the proprietor of the Gatehouse, John was also manager and agent for Chubby and The Checkers, and keen to see some return on his investment – having paid for all their equipment.

Leaving Joy to keep an eye on the café, John and Patsy took Albie downstairs to the cellar – its walls and ceiling reverberating to the earthy beat of the music. Then, as the music stopped, John started to introduce the members of the band to Albie.

“This is Kenny Farrow,” he said, indicating a well-rounded young man with a voice to match. “Better known as Chubby – he plays rhythm guitar and does a bit o’ singing as well!”

“Yes, we’ve met before,” replied Albie, shaking Kenny by the hand, “in Cromer, a couple of weeks ago.”

Next to him, tuning his bright red Rosetti bass guitar, was Roger – Kenny’s younger brother – a mere slip of a lad aged around sixteen. Whilst sitting behind them, banging away on an impressive drum kit – was David, another Cromer lad.

“Call me Dave!” he said, tossing a drumstick high in the air and dropping it on the floor. “We can’t keep on calling you Albie, can we? Not very hip is it? Hen’t you got a nickname like other shannocks?”

Albie shook his head, and replied he wasn’t strictly a ‘shannock’ as his father had come from Cromer. “At least your dad had some sense,” laughed Dave the Rave, “never mind, we’ll soon think of suffin’ when we’ve heard you play!”

“Here’s our lead singer,” said Chubby, as a short, bespectacled youth, swinging a microphone by its cord, came over to join the others. “Buster – from Shipden Avenue...”

Glancing at the boy, Albie was struck by his resemblance to that of Freddie Garrity – of Freddy and The Dreamers fame – and, just like Freddy, Buster was renowned for becoming extremely animated when on stage!

“I remember you – firework night that was!” Buster announced, eyeing-up Albie over his horn-rimmed spectacles. “You an’ that Lyndi from Westcliff Avenue were on the seafront lettin’ off bangers...”

Albie shook his head. “I think tha’s all best left forgotten!” he replied, not wishing to be reminded of the events of the past few weeks. “Tha’s time I put that behind me, I reck’n!”

As he talked to the members of the band, Albie had to admit to being most impressed by their enthusiasm. Not only did they sing with great gusto – adding lyrics of their own at times – but they also played their instruments in a highly professional way.

“So, would you like to join our group or not?” asked Chubby, putting down his guitar. “It’s time to make up your mind – either pick up your plectrum, or put that guitar back in its bag!”

Putting it like that, Albie was left little choice.

“How’s about we start off with Johnny B Goode?” Albie asked, plugging his guitar jack-plug into a spare socket on the group’s amplifier.“I take it you know it? Then – if you can keep up with me – I’ll give you my answer!”

Nodding in agreement, Chubby turned to the others: “With a – one and two and three, and four...”

In true Chuck Berry fashion, Albie launched himself into the guitar instrumental that preceded the song with Buster coming in, on cue, with the vocals:

Deep in mountain country down by New Orleans,
In amongst the pines and the evergreens,
In a little log cabin made of mountain wood,
Lives a boy by the name of Johnny B Goode,
He never learned to read or write too well,
But he plays his guitar just like ringin 'a bell.
Go, go – go Johnny go, Go, go – go Johnny go,
Go, go – go Johnny go, Go, go – go Johnny go,
Go, go – Johnny B Goode.

The sound was truly amazing! Halfway through the number, Albie came to his instrumental solo, his fingers almost a blur as they flew up and down the frets of his guitar.

“Take it away, Fingers!” shouted Dave – and thus a name was born that was destined to stick with Albie during his time with the group!

Getting somewhat carried away, he even managed to slide across the cellar floor on his knees, just like Chuck, that colourful American performer! However, the holes that appeared in his trousers were to take some explaining away to his mother when he arrived home!

At the end of the practise session, Chubby and all his Checkers were quite impressed with Albie’s performance – even if he had shown-off a bit! John, the group’s manager, thought him ‘all right’, but could cut down on the ‘stage-acting’! Whilst, Patsy just wondered what it would be like to go for a ride on a scooter – is she was ever asked, that is!

As for Albie, he was liked the group’s style of music, and the lads, even if they were all from Cromer! At last, for once in his life, he was doing something he really enjoyed – and seemed good at it!

“If you’ll have me,” he said, “I’d love to be part of your group, as I have so enjoyed this afternoon! And I’m sure Chubby and The Checkers will go far!”

But not far enough for some people!

A FLIPPIN’ RACKET, INNIT!

Lushers’ Bakery stood on a corner at the meeting place of two roads, where Wyndham Street joined up with the bottom end of High Street and continued down to the seafront. Daily, the pleasing aroma of hot bread and tasty pastries would tempt many townsfolk into their shop on ‘Lushers Corner’ to sample their wares.

Since 1946, Fred Wisbeach and his wife Edith had lived just across the road from Lushers, where they had a little shop with an upstairs apartment. Whilst Fred worked in Norwich – managing the Composing department of Page Brothers, the city’s second largest printers – his wife ran their little shop selling all manner of children’s toys.

EDITH WISBEACH STANDING IN THE DOORWAY OF HER TOY SHOP.

‘Edith’s Shop’, as it was called, was a veritable delight for the local children. She sold anything and everything for the young, as well as for the not so young or those still ‘young at heart’!

From Dinky toys to dolls’ houses, train sets to Plasticene, teddy bears and tennis rackets, buckets and spades, shrimp nets and kites, all crammed into the small shop window or displayed on shelves inside. And if you couldn’t see what you wanted, or were spoilt for choice, Edith Wisbeach was always there with a smile and a friendly word of advice. She loved children and it showed! And, to top it all, Green Shield stamps were given with every purchase!

After working all week long, Edith and Fred liked a rest on Sundays. A bit of peace and quiet. As had been their tradition for a great many years – since coming to Sheringham in fact – after partaking of a home-cooked Sunday roast they would amble up to the Tyneside Club, almost opposite the station, for an after-dinner drink. Then, after several single malts, Fred would lead the way back home, with Edith following a few paces behind! Their route, of course, took them past the Gatehouse Café!

“Gawd! Lissen to that flippin’ racket!” exclaimed Fred, stopping in his tracks next to the Gatehouse at the sound of Albie’s guitar instrumental blasting out at pavement level. “What the ruddy ’ell are they playin’ at?”

“It’s only some youngsters playing their music,” replied Edith, catching up with him, “after all, Fred, it’s not that bad – quite good, in fact!”

“What? Cor, luv a duck! Hev ya gone tone deaf or suffin’, Edith?” Fred replied, holding his hands over his ears, “I think that’s ruddy terrible... if I ever catch the little blighter woss making that blimmin’ row and disturbin’ the peace, I’ll give him a piece of my flamin’ mind I will...!”

Little did Fred know that, in a few short months, he was to come face to face with the ‘little blighter’!

NEXT: Chubby and The Checkers has its first booking, but where will it be? The famous Grosvenor Rooms in Norwich? The Samson and Hercules? Or the Olympia perhaps, nearer to home? Find out in A Lively Performance, coming soon!

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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