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 ALBIE
HAD BEEN QUITE POORLY over
Easter. His mother put it all down to gluttony, as he’d gorged far too many
hot cross buns and chocolate eggs, and was now paying the price for his foolhardiness,
she scolded. The lad was off his food, which was most unusual for him, with even
his favourite – beans on toast – being left untouched on his plate.
But, returning to the Paston School after the Easter holidays, Albie knew the
real reason for his queasiness – the forthcoming GCE examinations!
ONE
WEEK INTO THE SUMMER TERM and with the exams to end all exams looming
ever-closer, Albie was beginning to panic. He
knew, all too well, what was expected of him and didn’t want to let anyone
down, least of all his parents, but he had to admit he was far from being an academic. When
he paused to consider the most basic subjects – English, Maths and History
– and although he was a borderline case he thought he might possibly just
squeeze through – there were other subjects that really bothered him,
such as French – which he spoke with a Norfolk accent – and Geography
and the Sciences. The list was endless it seemed, and the thought of ‘failure’
made him feel sick to his stomach. One
day, Mr Read, the woodwork master, called all the boys together, with the intention
of testing them in the art of making dovetail joints! ALBIE
FEELS QUEASY! “You’ll
work in pairs,” he said, fiddling with his greying moustache, “so, find
yourself a workbench and make a start!”  “A
dovetail joint?”
moaned Albie to the boy working with him, “I can’t even cut a piece
of wood straight, let alone make a joint!”
“You’ll
have to do better than that, Albie,” complained his woodwork master, looking
at his first effort, “that piece of wood is cut all on the ‘sosh’!” “And
it’s the wrong size!” he continued, “Now what did I tell
you? Measure twice and cut once!” The
more Albie tried, the more he worried, and the more concerned he became, the more
nauseous he began to feel. “Please,
Sir!” exclaimed his concerned workbench companion, “Albie doesn’t
look at all well!” That
was certainly an understatement, as Albie’s face matched the shade of his
white woodwork apron. “Outside,
immediately,” shouted Mr Read with a degree of utmost urgency, with
Albie now totally devoid of colour. “You’ll
feel much better after a breath of fresh air!” Then,
as an afterthought, which did nothing to dispel Albie’s anguish, nor settle
his heaving stomach: “We don’t want you spewing up in here, do
we now?” Once
outside, Albie began to feel a bit better and the colour returned to his cheeks.
He was just on the point of going back to his woodwork class when Mrs Marshall,
the Headmaster’s wife, appeared with a basket full of delicacies from Rackstraws,
the Grocers, in the town. “Just
what are you doing there, boy?” she demanding in her usual ‘wife-of-the-head’
sort of way. Albie
explained he had felt unwell and had been instructed by his woodwork master to
‘get some fresh air’. “Nonsense!”
she retorted, angrily, “I don’t believe a word of it!” “But
it’s true, Ma’am,” replied a pasty-looking Albie, feeling
his nausea making an unwelcome return. “Don’t
you lie to me,” declared Mrs Marshall, grabbing the boy’s arm,
“you’ve been misbehaving – that’s why you’ve been sent
out!” Albie
was fighting a losing battle and, unknown to him, matters were about to take a
sinister turn for the worse. “Come
with me, this instant,” she bellowed, “I’m taking you to
see the Headmaster!” A
VISIT TO THE HEADMASTER Grabbing
Albie by his ear, Mrs Marshall frog-marched the lad to the Office, where Miss
Joan Pratt, the school secretary, was pounding away on her ancient typewriter. “Trouble,
Mrs Marshall?” she enquired, as Albie was led into the room, protesting vociferously. “This
ruffian needs to be put in his place, Miss Pratt,” replied the Headmaster’s
wife, keeping a tight grip on the lad. “Says he’s sick –
but don’t you believe a word of it!” Lieut.
Col. Marshall wasn’t at all amused when his ‘nearest and dearest’
burst in, pushing the protesting pupil in front of her. “Headmaster,”
she declared, pointing to a shaking Albie, “This young fellow has been sent
out of Mr Read’s class for misbehaviour!” The
Headmaster drew himself up to his full height and, with a swirl of his black gown,
glowered down upon ashen-faced Albie. “Well,
boy?” he said, reaching for his cane, “What do you have to say
for yourself? Are these accusations true?” “Please,
Sir,” replied an almost tearful Albie, “I did feel sick, an’ I
still do, an’ tha’s why I wuz sent out.” The
lad continued to protest his innocence, and that ‘feeling unwell’ was
the only reason for his dismissal from the classroom, which seemed to cause a
mellowing of attitude in the Headmaster. “If
you really feel that ill,” announced Lieut. Col. Marshall,
remembering that he had much better things to do with his time, “you shouldn’t
be here at all, so I suggest you had better return to your home – immediately!”
Albie
nodded, in subservient agreement. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” he gulped
and quickly made for the door. “And
I do not expect to see you in my study ever again,” warned
the Headmaster sternly, “Is that understood?” Albie
gulped loudly, apologised hoarsely, and fled the room. ALBIE
GETS SENT HOME On
the train to Sheringham, the guard took one look at Albie’s colourless face
and insisted he sat on the floor in the guard’s van next to an open window
‘just in case’! The rolling motion of the carriage did nothing to dispel
Albie’s nausea and, by the time the train had reached West Runton, the boy
just had to get off. He would walk the rest of the way, he told the guard. Leaving
Albie alone on West Runton station platform, the train started to move off again.
“Cheerio, boy,” shouted the guard, leaning out of the guard’s van
window, “I do hope you’ll feel better soon!” With
that the train puffed away, quickly disappearing under the railway bridge and
round the bend on its way to Sheringham, leaving a pale-faced Albie on the start
of a two-mile walk across the fields to Sheringham.  Soon,
he passed West Runton church, which was set back from the main road. Then he headed
along the overgrown footpath beside the railway line, eventually emerging next
to All Saints’ church, in Beeston Regis, with views of the sea and Beeston
Bump in the distance.
With
a pale-golden sun shining down from a clear blue sky, Albie paused for a while
to watch the sea birds wheeling and calling near the clifftops. The
lad sat on a steep grassy bank, beside the old pond he knew as Organ Beck, and
watched as the gossamer-winged damselflies skimmed across its silvery surface
pausing, every now and again, to rest on floating vegetation. Taking
an exercise book and pencil out of his satchel, Albie began to doodle on one of
the pages – quite aimlessly at first. After
a while, his doodling began to resemble the idyllic scene set before him, and
he paused from his efforts to admire his work of art. Suddenly, all feelings of
sickness had miraculously disappeared and he began to feel much better in himself. “Gosh,”
Albie laughed to himself, “this wholly beats woodwork!” ALBIE
DISCOVERS HIS HIDDEN TALENT! Then
he began to romanticise about the sheer beauty of the landscape unfolding before
him. It was as if he’d opened his eyes for the very first time. Looking down
at his drawing – only a rough sketch at this stage – he suddenly became
aware that he did possess some talent after all!  “Well,
I’ll be blowed,” he said to himself, gazing at his sketch of
Organ Beck, “tha’s a pretty darned good drawing, even if I do say so
myself!”
Unknown
to Albie, the seeds of an artistic temperament were sown within his subconscious
mind that day, awakening a passion for self-expression: drawing and painting –
and seeds that would germinate and continue to grow over the years that lay ahead.
Now,
at last, he knew there was something he was really good at,
and something, he hoped, would, one day, make his parents really proud of him
– only time would tell. NEXT:
Albie leaves the Paston School –
but what does the future hold for the lad from Sheringham?
Please sign Albie’s guestbook, or if you wish to contact
me – please email:
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