“D’you like me new scarf?” says Albie, “me Mum knitted it for me, an’ tha’s hoolly warm!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

THE NEW YEAR had begun almost unworthy of a second glance for Albie. Much of the same, he thought, as the wintry weather – which had first manifested itself with a few flurries of snow on Christmas Eve – continuing unabated well into 1963. Back in November of the previous year there had been a foretaste of to expect, although few had been prepared for the severe onslaught that was to follow. Albie, of course, thought the snow ‘pretty’ and ‘just like the Christmases he used to know’. However, little did he, or anyone else, realise the winter of ’62/63 – the coldest since 1740 – would result in such severe blizzards, resulting with snow laying on the ground for sixty days or more.

N MONDAY 7 January 1963, Edward Stimpson had been up since just before five o’clock that morning, having set his alarm clock to awaken him in good time in case the weather had deteriorated. And indeed it had, as, following a heavy snowfall during the night, his village, Melton Constable, was all but cut off from the outside world. Edward had an important job, one which kept the wheels of the Nation turning, and, as bad as the conditions were, he knew he just had to make it through to work.

MELTON CONSTABLE

“Tha’s hoolly bad out there agin, Myrtle,” he told his wife, as she lay curled up in their nice warm bed, goose-feather eiderdown pulled up around her neck. “I’m gorn now, but don’t yew git up, I’ll git me own self orf!”

Trudging through the snow, piled in waist-high drifts by the cruel, bitterly cold, east wind, Edward paused under the old gaslight at the end of his road to catch his breath.

“Must git on,” he said to himself, managing a smile at the snow-encrusted road sign, Kitchener Road, “arter all, bor – ‘Your Railway Needs You!”

A TIME OF CHANGE ON THE RAILWAYS

Edward Stimpson signed on at the Melton Constable railway depot just before six.

Having worked there all his life he knew no other trade other than that of a railwayman, following in his father’s footsteps and his father before that. Starting as a cleaner, he had begun by emptying ashpans and the like on the Midland & Great Northern fleet of steam locomotives – a dirty, grimy task. Then, working up through the ranks, he became a fireman, knowing all too well what it was like to be up and about at the crack of dawn, firing up the steam engines, a real demanding, physical job – yet skillful and rewarding.

Eventually he had become an engine driver, taking charge of many a steam-breathing monster of the iron road. Been to foreign parts he had. Parts he’d never heard of as a child, let alone ever imagined existed. To the north, south, east and west he’d been – ah, those were the days – but not anymore.

BEFORE THE END OF STEAM AT MELTON

Driver Stimpson had seen the glory days come and go at Melton, known in its time as the ‘Crewe of North Norfolk’, but those days had well and truly gone – no thanks to the politicians advised by that ‘buffoon-of-a-doctor’ Beeching and his lamentable cuts. And more were yet to come in Edward’s lifetime – all in the name of progress. But, for the moment, he was to remain in blissful ignorance of ‘things to come’, although, with steam-oil for blood in his veins, he sensed all was not well on British Railways!

Following the untimely demise of steam, Edward was told he would have to retrain and learn to drive the ‘new-fangled’ diesel-powered railcars. After all, they said, he either wanted a job or he didn’t!

With these bitter memories on his mind, he made his way down a flight of icy steps, along the station platform to the signing-on room at the end.

REPORTING FOR DUTY

A coal-fire burned lazily in the blackened grate in one corner, affording little warmth in the sparsely-furnished signing-on room with its motley collection of hard, wooden chairs and a long, leather-covered couch. The latter, purloined from the waiting room of some nameless station that had felt the sharp edge of Beeching’s axe, had seen better days with tufts of wiry horsehair padding protruding from splits in the matt-brown cowhide.

“Mornin’ Ted,” greeted a fellow railwayman, emerging from a door marked ‘Private’, “yew mearde ut, then? Tha’s mast’rously cold out there, en’t it?”

Glancing at the old station clock – moved from the main ticket office, now tick-tocking away on the wall – Driver Stimpson pencilled an entry into the signing-on book with the date, time and destination, then scribbled his name.

FROM CLEANER TO ENGINE-DRIVER

“Tha’s hard t’ believe tha’s come to this,” he said, with bitterness boiling over in his voice, for Melton Constable – the pride of the M&GN – had become no more than a stabling point for a few diesel-mechanical railcars. Such an ignominious end to a once-proud railway complex that, in the past, had built and maintained a vast fleet of steam locomotives and had boasted a fine station serving trains to and from all points of the compass.

“Seen it all, I hev!” he muttered, gathering up a little bag containing a key and the control levers for his diesel railcar. “Troop trains, milk trains, parcels and goods, we shall never see the like agin. An’ then there were the Lester hol’dy speshuls, bringin’ visters from the Midlands to Cromer an’ Yarmouth – all gone... all gone...”

“What are yew gorn’ on about now?” laughed Reggie Symonds, his Guard for the train from Melton to Norwich. “Tha’s no good yew livin’ in the parst, those days are well and truly gone, mearke no mistearke about that!”

“Yis, but there wuz more satisfaction about the job then, wun’t there?” Ted replied, adamantly. “Not like nowadays...”

“Now, do yew come on, Ted,” his friend replied, in an attempt at appeasement, “don’t git all steamed up wi’ me – at least yew don’t hatta go home all cloaked up in coal dust, do ya?”

IT’S A LONG, LONG WAY TO NORRIDGE!

Leaving the signing-on hut together, Ted and Reggie began picking their way over the snow-covered railway tracks, to three green-painted diesel railcars huddled together in the engine sheds.

“Right,” said Ted, hauling himself up the steep steps to the driver’s cab of the first railcar, “betta git started, tha’s a long ole way t’ Norridge!”

“Let’s hope that en’t too bad,” called Reggie, out of the guard’s van window, “I come up on the snow plough, an’ tha’s bin runnin’ through the night to keep the tracks clear!”

DIESEL RAILCAR MANUAL

Opening the driver’s door, Ted went inside and began making the necessary checks: “Handbrake on, gear lever in neutral, deadman’s switch... all OK,” he reassured himself, as he carried out his preparation duties from the operator’s manual. “Right, almost done, jist one more t’ do...”

With that, glancing up at the destination board, he gave the winding handle a couple of turns until ‘Norwich’ appeared on the display, then he climbed down from his cab to start the first of the engines under the leading railcar.

For a moment he forgot just how cold it was, as his hands stuck fast to the frozen metal, threatening to tear the skin off his fingers.

“Oh! Blarst me!” he cursed, cupping his hands and blowing on them. “This fest’rin’ weather – gimme a nice, warm steam engine any day o’ the week!”

Checking there was enough fuel for the journey, Ted then pulled on the hand throttle, opening it wide, then thumbed the starter button. With an earth moving shudder, the diesel engines coughed and spluttered into life. Once started, all four engines settled down to a fast tickover before Ted, satisfied that all was OK, turned them all off again.

“Righto, me ole bewty,” he said, once back in the relative comfort of his cab, “let’s git yew up an’ runnin’ agin, then we’ll be orf!”

With that, he thumbed the left and right starter buttons in turn and waited for the engines to fire up and settle down to an even tickover.

In the meantime, Guard Symonds was busying himself in the guard’s van. Placing his brown leather guard’s bag – containing neatly-rolled flags of red and green – on a little seat in one corner of the van, he then began to make the first entry of the day in his log book. Then, taking out his railway-regulation pocket watch, he had a quick check of the time.

“Best be off,” he said, turning to a bell-push above the doorway, linking the guard’s van with the driver, and gave it a couple of lengthy prods.

“Buzz-zzzz, buzz-zzz!”

But, Driver Stimpson was miles away!

Sitting there, in the comfort of his cab, how he yearned for the old days when, as a fireman on a steam locomotive, he would start the day by setting a fire in the firebox, listening as the water simmered and bubbled in the boiler. What a comforting sound! And the smell of the coal and steam was unforgettable, not like the pungent stench of diesel fumes escaping from the railcar’s throbbing exhaust pipes.

Buzz, buzz-zzzz – BUZZZ, went the alarm bell again in the drivers cab, which put an end to Ted’s daydreams, and, following a quick dab at the button in reply, he engaged first gear, let off the vacuum brake, and eased the ‘deadman’s’ handle forward!

The diesel multiple-unit shook and shuddered as it clattered over points – which once directed trains to faraway places with strange-sounding names, at least for a Norfolk lad! But, alas, no longer, as the days of the ‘Leicesters’, as those trains to the Midlands were known, were gone forever. The ghostly lines to the North were never to see the like of a train again!

Approaching Holt Station, the snow had begun to fall again and was laying deeply on the tracks, completely covering them in places. Suddenly, the diesel engines began to falter and splutter. Driver Ted knew that sound all too well! There was trouble afoot, he was losing power and it was all he could do to keep going in the Arctic conditions.

Sensing there was a problem, Guard Symonds had made his way through the swaying railcar to the driver’s compartment. “Wha’s up, Ted?” he asked as he slid back the door to the cab. “She en’t gorn’ too well, is she?”

“Tha’s all this blimmin’ snow on the track gittin’ at the ’lectrics, I spooz, Reggie!” Ted told him. “I’ll hatta hev a look underneath when we git to Holt, but yew’d better git Holt ’box to ring through to Sherin’am – tell ’em, we’ll be learte, an ’ tha’s gotta be a long, long way to Norridge today!”

ALBIE FEARS HE’LL BE LATE FOR WORK!

That Monday morning, his first day back at work after the Christmas break, Albie joined the other passengers huddled together next to W H Smith’s bookstall on Sheringham station, and began, what was to be, the long wait for the early morning train to Norwich. At least they under cover, and sheltered from the worst of the easterly wind, but it was still cold, bitterly cold, and there was no sight of their train.

“We’re gonna be late for work yet again!” Albie complained to the person nearest to him. “That just en’t good enough! What an abysmal service – and, did you notice, they’re puttin’ up our season ticket prices next month?”

“Don’t you work at Jarrolds?” asked his fellow commuter. “Your face looks familiar – isn’t your father the manager down at Sheringham Co-op?”

Albie nodded in agreement, which prompted an introduction from his fellow passenger.

“I’m George – George Edwards,” he said, “and I also work at Jarrolds, but in the Publishing department, on the same floor as the canteen – you may have seen me there? I do the accounts.”

“Why, yes,” replied Albie, turning to face the man, who appeared a bit older than himself, “I think I’ve seen you about, tha’s Antony Jarrold’s department, en’t it?”

“Yes, indeed it is!” agreed George, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Albie.

“No, thanks, George,” Albie replied, hesitating for a moment. “My New Year’s resolution is to give ’em up!”

“Resolutions are meant to be broken,” laughed his friend, waving a packet of Park Drive in front of him. “Just one won’t hurt, will it? After all, I’ll not tell anyone, if you won’t!”

With temptation getting the better of him, Albie accepted a cigarette, lit it, and put his newly-made resolution out of his mind. “Maybe next year,” he laughed, puffing away.

“Weren’t you in the Beeston Road Methodist choir for a while?” asked George.

“Until me voice broke,” Albie replied, “why’s that?”

“You probably knew Brenda, my wife – or Brenda Crowe as she was then – she was in the choir as well!”

Albie nodded. “Yeah, I remember – long time ago now, though.”

By now, the station platform was full of people. Some were wanting to get to work in Norwich, whilst others had a connection to make to take them well into ‘foreign’ parts. As one, they craned their well-wrapped necks to look up the track towards Weybourne in search of the elusive train to Norwich.

“I reckon we’re gonna be hoolly late at this rate, George,” Albie declared, rolling up his cuff to glance at his wristwatch, “d’you know, tha’s ha-past seven already, an’ no sign of that flippin’ train – what a bloomin’ way to run a railway!”

Just then, a very flustered-looking Stationmaster Blanchard came out his office next to the booking hall.

“The Norwich train will be rather late this morning, I’m afraid!” he announced, striding along the platform. “Tha’s brook down at Holt!”

NEXT: Will Albie be late for work? Will he even get there at all? Find out in The Big Freeze Continues.

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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