“As a special treat for Molly, we went to Great Yarmouth,” said Albie, “for a day to remember – but would I ever forget!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part four

DURING THE SECOND WEEK of his holiday, Albie went to see Molly every evening after she left off work at Kennings. But all she ever wanted to do was either drink Babycham all night in the Two Friends pub near her home – which dented his already depleted pocket – or spend the entire time listening to Elvis Presley records on her Dansette record-player. Albie, on the other hand, had lost all interest in ‘Elvis the Pelvis’ – preferring instead the ‘Fab Four’ from Liverpool – and it was not long before they agreed to disagree over their choice of music!

LBIE RETURNED TO WORK in the Design department at Jarrolds’ Printing works on Monday 26 August. Utterly exhausted, following the past two weeks of going ‘back and forth to Blofield’ every single day at the click of Molly’s well-manicured fingers, he looked to his closest friend and workwork, Felix Bernasconi, the department’s senior artist.

“I hatta tell ya, Felix,” he confided in friend, “I’m absolutely knackered after my holiday, and I’m hoolly glad to get back to work just for a rest, I am, an’ tha’s a fact!”

“You do look a trifle peaky, Albie,” replied his friend, “but what on earth have you been doing for the past two weeks to get so tired out?”

Albie sighed. “Well, tha’s a bit of a long story, but if you’ve got a half an hour or two...”

“Just give me time to take off my coat and hat,” Felix replied, “then tell me all about it.”

“Tha’s all t’do with my Molly,” Albie yawned, barely able to keep his eyes open. “Bein’s she coon’t hev the same two weeks off as me, I hatta make do wi’ seein’ her at night... every night, would you believe? – and Blofield Heath wuz so far t’go on my scooter...”

“But, remember, I did warn you, didn’t I?” Felix reminded him. “But apart from all the travelling, did you have a good time?”

Albie thought about it for a moment. “Well, yes... that wuz all right, I s’pose, but, there again...”

“...That was all sweetness and light, at first,” he continued, recalling how he’d taken Molly to meet his parents and how they had told him, afterwards, ‘she was definitely the girl for him’. “Then she changed and began acting strange – an’ that all started when I said I preferred the Beatles to Elvis.”

“But, Albie, I thought you liked Elvis – after all, haven’t you quite a large collection of his records?”

Albie nodded. “Yes, I have, or at least I did have, as I’ve given them all to Molly now, and I’ve told her she could keep them as I on’y listen to the Beatles these days.”

“Then she said she absolutely hated the Beatles,” he continued, “an’ told me I wuz stupid to waste good money onnem – they'll never catch on, she said!”

“I told her, she wuz the stupid one to like some bloke who useter be a truck driver, an’ who coon’t really play his guitar...”

Felix, ever the diplomat, eager to pour oil on troubled waters, replied: “It’s just plain silly to have differences of opinion like that, let alone argue over the choice of music – if you can call it music, that is.”

“If I was you,” he continued, “and if Molly means anything to you at all, you should take her somewhere extra special this weekend, treat her to a slap-up meal, make a fuss of her and do your level best to give her a day to remember!”

ALBIE PLANS A TREAT FOR MOLLY

That Sunday, the first of September, Albie set off on his Lambretta scooter to see Molly. Having taken Felix’s advice, he’d decided to spend a day neither of them would ever forget in Great Yarmouth. He had it all planned.

Upon arrival in the glitzy seaside resort – the Blackpool of the north Norfolk coast – he would take his girlfriend for a leisurely cup of coffee in a nice little seafront café to give them both time to talk over their differences, mere trifles, and none of which couldn’t be resolved, he thought.

Then he would treat Molly to a visit to the Waxworks on Regent Road, where he knew there was a particularly good likeness of Elvis Presley that he was sure she would like.

After that, he had planned ‘an intimate luncheon for two’ in a posh hotel, and had even taken the liberty of pre-booking a table in advance at the luxurious Carlton Hotel on Marine Parade. However, to him the daunting thought of dining somewhere so very posh left him wondering if he would know which knife and fork to use – and just hoped there would beans on toast on the menu, which he hoped would be in a language he could understand!

Then came his pièce de résistance – the rest of the afternoon spent sampling the delights of the Pleasure Beach. Candy floss leaving their faces all sticky; the wind in their hair as they viewed the sights from the top of the Big Wheel; using up all their loose change in the penny arcade. And the exhilaration as the Big Dipper plunged earthwards leaving their tummies floating, as high as Yarmouth’s famous Nelson column! He just couldn’t let a trip to Great Yarmouth go by without a visit to the funfare, now could he?

And finally, if his finances held, they might even take in the Rolf Harris show at the Britannia Pier before returning home – or so he hoped.

Albie had it all planned... but even the best-laid plans have a nasty habit of going wrong...

MOLLY PUTS ON HER PARTS

“I can’t stick coffee!” Molly pouted, as Albie parked his scooter on Marine Parade outside a little seafront café. “Besides, the pubs’ll be open soon – I could do with a real drink!”

Strolling hand in hand along Marine Parade, they soon found themselves outside the Barking Smack.

“This here’ll do,” declared Molly, pushing open the door and shoving Albie inside. “I’m dyin’ o’ thirst – git us a beer, will ya?”

One look at the dingy interior with its sawdust-strewn floor and the sign ‘No Spitting’ suspended over the bar, left Albie in no doubt whatsoever that this was not a very good idea.

“Two light ales of your finest, please,” asked Albie of the unshaven, burly-looking landlord, who stood behind the bar polishing a less-than-clean glass with an even grubbier-looking cloth.

“Pints?” he managed to utter, through yellowing teeth clenched tightly upon a foul-smelling cigarette drooping ash all over the beer-swilled bar top.

“N-no,” muttered Albie, taking some money out of his pocket, “just halves, please...”

“Suit yarself, boy!” the man replied, taking two glasses from under the bar. Then, with a deft swipe of his hand, he dispersed a large bluebottle clinging to the beer pump and proceeded to fill each glass with Double Diamond. The fly performed a couple of swift circuits around the room, buzzing frantically, landing every now and again to sample spilt beer, before returning to its preferred haunt on the end of the dripping, beer pump tap.

Molly, in the meantime, perched herself on a rickety old bar-stool.

“I dunno why we hatta go trearpsin’ all round Yarmouth,” she said, kicking off her shoes and massaging her feet, “tha’s hoolly mearde me feet earche, that hev.”

“Don’t you like your trip to Yarmouth, Molls?” asked Albie, passing her a glass of foaming beer. “Never mind, git this down ya – that’ll work wonders, that will.”

“Oh, yis – tha’s betta,” said Molly, quickly tipping back her glass and draining every last drop before wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “I could do wi’ another an’orl – but, wha’s wrong o’ yours? You’ve hardly touched it!”

“I’ve had pletty, thanks,” replied Albie, pushing his three-quarter-full glass to one side, “anyway, tha’s time to buzz off, ’cos there’s someone I’d like you to meet...”

Leaving the Marine Parade behind them, Albie and his girlfriend began the long walk up Regent Road to the Waxworks, where Elvis stood, hips fixed in a permanent gyration.

“I en’t gorn in there. Lookin’ at all them dead-lookin’ people gi’ me the creeps, that do!” Molly complained, as they stood outside the entrance, “I dunno why we coon’t hev stopped where we wuz, instead o’ trearpsin’ about – tha’s left me famished that hev.”

“Never mind, Molls,” Albie replied, hoping that a nice, slap-up meal would be more to her liking. “We’ll hev some dinner now, shall we?”

“Tha’s not too far,” he told her, as they walked back the way they’d come, “just around the corner in fact.”

Soon, they were standing on the pavement looking up at the majestic Carlton Hotel, where a table for two awaited them.

“I en’t gorn in there for me dinner!” Molly declared, steadfastly refusing to enter the hotel. “I want some chips orf the Market – an’ I en’t walkin’ a step further; you’ll hatta git yar scooter!”

Even Albie was feeling a trifle tired after all the walking so, going back to his scooter parked nearby, together they rode up to the Market Place where he bought two bags of chips.

“And I’ll hev a couple of saveloys wi’ mine an’orl,” said Molly, as she salted and vinegared her chips. “Then, p’raps we could hev some do’nuts to finish orf with!”

After their luncheon, taken alfresco, they headed back down the Marine Parade on the scooter towards the Pleasure Beach, passing several horse-drawn landaus on the way. Next to Botton’s Funfare, two or three landaus were parked up, awaiting fares, whilst the horses were munching away at the contents of their nosebags. One, a large chestnut-coloured bay, proceeded to relieve itself onto the roadway.

“Pooo! What a stink!” exclaimed Molly, covering her nostrils in disgust. “That shoon’t be allowed in a public place, that shoon’t.”

Parking the Lambretta outside the Pleasure Beach, Albie and Molly walked through the Funfare towards the Scenic Railway. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks, gazing in horror at a railcar, full of screaming holidaymakers, careering, seemingly out of control, up and down the rickety, wooden construction known locally as the ‘switchback’!

Twisting and turning it went, plunging deep into the very heart of the latticed framework, only to re-emerge elsewhere to begin the ascent up the next steep incline. Hanging for a split instant at the very top – with splendid views over Yarmouth and out to sea – before descending, at breakneck speed, down the vertigo-inducing slope with a characteristic clickety-clak, clickety-clack...

“I en’t gorn on that thing!” Molly declared, as they watched the switchback coming to a halt at the end of the ride. “I’ll throw up if I do – those do’nuts lay hoolly heavy!”

Turning on her heel, she headed back towards his scooter. “Come on, boy,” she said, “You can tearke me up to the doones at the North Denes to walk me lunch off – but mebbe we’ll call in at the Iron Duke first, afore closin’ time!”

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

When they arrived at the North Denes – with its endless landscape of marram-covered, sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see – the Iron Duke, on Jellicoe Road, was already closed for the afternoon.

“Honestly!” complained Molly, as Albie parked his scooter next to a shelter on the seaward side of the road. “If you’d pulled ya finger out they’d still be open...”

With that, she leapt off the scooter, crossed the pavement and stepped down onto the sandy dunes.

“Come on then, slowcoach,” she said, half turning and waving for Albie to follow, “let’s hev a walk to the sea...”

“Tha’s further than it looks, Molly,” he replied, pointing to the glimmering, silver sheen breaking upon golden sands a half-mile distant. “Why don’t we just sit and hev a rest? Arter all, we’re bin on the go all day!”

“But I watta hev a paddle,” Molly replied, striding out across the soft, sandy dunes, with her high heels leaving a path of tiny indentations for him to follow. “Come if ya like – if not stay there. See if I care!"

After locking his Lambretta, Albie set off to catch up with Molly who was, by now, some way in front, and all he could see of her was her head bobbing up and down over the dunes in the distance.

When he caught up, she was sitting, half hidden, at the bottom of a sand dune with her shoes off.

“Blimmin’ sand! That git everywhere that do!” Molly was complaining to herself. “In me hair, in me shoes, and – would ya Christmas Eve it! – tha’s even itchin’ in me knickers!”

“An’ jist look at my new shoes!” she said, directing her comments to Albie as he approached, “they’re full o’ sand, an’ all scratched and ruined!”

“Why did you hatta bring me here?” she continued, tossing a shoe at him in anger. “I wuz quite content t’be at that pub, I wuz.”

Albie sat down next to her and put his arm around her waist. He had to admit, she looked quite a sight sitting on the dunes, knees up to her chest, whilst the fine sand, carried in on the strengthening east wind, began to get in her hair and eyes.

“I hate it here!” she said, shaking sand out of her hair, and rubbing her eyes. “An’, jist look at me stockin’s – they’re both plucked – an’ tha’s all your fault!”

Albie began to protest that it was she who had suggested coming to the dunes in the first place, and nothing to do with him, but his remonstrations fell upon deaf ears, and she would have none of it!

“I’m sorry about your stockings,” he said, trying to console Molly, putting his hand upon her knee and patting it affectionately, “they are in a state, aren’t they? I’ll happily buy you a new pair...”

“And you can cut that out for a start!”she shouted, pushing him away roughly, “I know why you’re brought me here – an’ I en’t hevin’ none onnit – I’re bin bitten afore by a one-eyed trouser snake, so you can put that thought right outta ya mind this instant!”

CHECKING UP ON ALBIE?

Deciding it was high time to put Great Yarmouth, and their day to remember well and truly behind them, Albie helped Molly across the dunes back to his scooter.

Standing barefoot on the pavement next to the shelter, leaning on Albie’s scooter for support, Molly began shaking tiny particles of sand out of her hair, tipping it out of the toes of her stilettos, and also from the hem of her skirt, before sitting down on the pillion seat of the Lambretta.

Albie was too busy kickstarting his scooter to take notice of the small scrap of paper protruding from under his seat, but Molly had already spotted it!

“Wha’s this, then?” she said, quickly grabbing the piece of paper – a Co-op delivery note – with a brief message scribbled in blue Biro.

“That say here,” said Molly, quickly reading the note out loud: “Dear Albie and Molly; can’t see you nowhere, but hope you’re hevin’ a nice time, an’ not doin’ nourthin’ you shoon’t in them there doones!”

“Wuh!” she exclaimed angrily, throwing the note at Albie, “tha’s from your mother an’ father! The cheek onnit! They’re bin checkin’ up onnus. Spyin’ onnus their bin. You can tearke me strearght home, you can – right NOW!”

ALBIE AND ELVIS ARE OUT OF FAVOUR!

It was a very quiet journey back to Blofield Heath. Molly hardly said a word all the way home. In fact, at times Albie had to feel for her knees to see if she was still on the back of his scooter. This resulted in ‘slapped wrists’ and a snapped admonishment to ‘keep your hands to yourself and your eyes on the road’!

Back at Holly Cottage, Molly could hardly wait for the scooter to stop before leaping off and disappearing indoors. She was definitely quite upset about something, thought Albie.

After a couple of minutes, she came out the front door as far as the green-painted picket gate, carrying an armful of records – Elvis Presley records, Albie’s records!

“And you can hev these back for a start,” she told him, bundling the pile of LPs into his hands. “I don’t watta never see them – or YOU – ever again! As far as I’m concerned – tha’s over!”

“W-what?” replied Albie, a note of disbelief in his voice. “Wha’d ya mean?”

“You luggy – or what?” shouted Molly, then, pointing up the road, “tha’s the way to Sherin’um, so off you go to Mummy, little boy – tha’s over, O-V-E-R – tha’s... over!”

With that, nose in the air, Molly turned on her heel and ran indoors, slamming the front door behind her.

A HAPPY HOMECOMING?

An hour later, upon his return to Sheringham, Albie’s parents were already home and waiting for him.

“Did yew hev a nice time, dear?" his mother asked him, “with that nice young lady friend o’ yours.”

“Strange yew wun’t nowhere to be seen,” his father commented, “I trust yew woon’t a-doin’ nourthin’ yew shoon’t a-bin a-doin’ of?”

“Thanks very much for the note!” replied Albie angrily, “that really went down a treat, that did! Tha’s all over now, thanks to you!” With that, he went upstairs to his room.

“There, Albert,” said his mother, hearing Albie’s bedroom door slam shut behind him, “I allus said she woon’t no good, that mawther from Blofield, our Albie is well shot of her, he is, an’ tha’s a fact!”

In the sanctuary of his bedroom, Albie stacked his Elvis Presley records on top of his tall-boy, and began thinking back over his ‘day to remember’! What would he say to his friends at work? Especially Felix? How could he ever live it down? Then he remembered his mother’s words from a previous, similar, occasion.

“Never mind,” he sighed to himself, “there’s pletty more fish in the sea! Shame I allus seem to hook the wrong sort, p’raps I’ll just throw ’em back in future!”

CHRIS HAS A CONFESSION TO MAKE

The next day, Monday 2 September, Albie joined his friend Chris, the junior storeman at Kenning’s garage, on the platform of Sheringham station to await the early morning train to Norwich.

“How’re ya gettin’ on with Molly from our place?” was his friend’s opening remark that morning.

“Don’t ask!” Albie replied, just wanting to forget all about it.

“But I just did,” continued Chris, as their train entered the station. “Everything OK for you two lovebirds, is it?”

“Well, in a word, no,” Albie said, then told him that it was all over between Molly and him. “She wuz far too demandin’ for me – I hatta pack her in – an’ tha’s gospel, whatever she says to the cont’ry!”

“There’s suffin’ I shoulda told you before, but I din’t like to,” Chris confessed, sitting down beside Albie as the train moved off on its journey to Norwich. “All the time you’ve been seeing Molly she’s been gittin’ friendly – a bit too friendly for my liking – with a car salesman at our place, y’know...”

“Not a ‘four-eyed git’ by any chance?” asked Albie.

“Yes! But how did you guess?” replied Chris.

“Suffin’ she said a week or two ago,” Albie explained, “ then, one Sunday, she had a lift home from work with that bloke – problems wi’ the accounts, she said...”

“Sometimes, during working hours, Molly’d go for a ‘test drive’ with him – or tha’s what she called it!” Chris told Albie. “Then, when she came back, she’d tell everyone how good the back seat wuz – and how she preferred a car to a scooter any day...”

“Sorry, mate,” he continued, “I should’ve said earlier I know, but I jist coon’t...”

“I reckon I’ve had enough of girls to last me a lifetime!” Albie sighed, “you mark my words, that oan’t happen again, that that oan’t!”

NEXT: Will Albie ever learn? – or has he given up on the ‘fairer sex’? – find out in Albie Buys a New Guitar!

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