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 AS
FAR AS ALBIE was
concerned, at the Paston School, there was one person to be feared above all others
– ‘Maggie’ Magdaleno, the Physical Training Master. Although he
was a ‘hard’ man, he was fair with it, and never seemed to single out
any one boy when it came to ‘doling out’ punishment – they all
got it! Many was the time the sound of plimsoll on bare flesh (well, almost!)
would reverberate around the gymnasium accompanied by the associated squeals of
pain. Maggie intended to make men of the boys of 12 years of age or so, but perhaps
it was bit over-presumptious of him. Anyway, he merely gritted his teeth in determination
and had a damn good try...
ONE
MORNING,
dressed in his PT kit of white shirt and baggy, navy-blue shorts, Albie joined
the rest his form in the gymnasium for a period of ‘physical torture’.
Maggie approached, whistle at the ready. “Running
on the spot... ...begin!” came his sharp command, accompanied by a
loud blast on his whistle which he always seemed to have slung around his neck.
After a good ten minutes of this warming-up exercise, Maggie again blew his whistle
loudly as a signal to stop. “Now
what?” moaned Albie, breathlessly, and somewhat fatigued by his over-excertions.
Luckily for him, and the rest of the boys, his comments went unheard! “Up
the wall bars – Go!” shouted Maggie, again blowing his whistle
until the veins in his neck stood out like gnarled tree trunks. In
unquestioning obedience, the boys climbed the horizontal wall bars. Once at the
top, with the floor a good six feet below, Maggie ordered them to suspend themselves,
backwards, by the hands, as if crucified. Again, they did as they were told.  Soon,
thirty or more, juvenile bodies were hanging from the bars, their tightly-clenched
hands already beginning to feel the strain. Legs dangling, twitching with uncontrollable
muscular spasms; chests heaving in vain attempts to breath in life-giving air;
knuckles whitening and fingers beginning to lose grip of the sweat-sodden, slippery
wall bars. How they all longed, no, prayed a silent prayer, for deliverance from
their torture.
Suddenly,
they heard the shrill whistle and, as one, they fell, and collapsed utterly breathless,
on the floor of the Gymnasium. Hardly
having had time to recover, the boys then learned their next fate – boxing! Albie
wasn’t at all keen to participate, as he never liked rough games and definitely
not fighting with other boys, but Maggie insisted it was all part of the ‘character-forming’
process. There seemed no way out for Albie. Magdaleno
then began pairing off the boys for the contest and seemed to take wicked delight
in his selection, as he took neither size nor strength into consideration and,
as it turned out, Albie was in for quite a shock. ALBIE
MEETS HIS SPARRING PARTNER Once
in the ring, Albie found himself face to face with a formidable opponent, another
lad from Sheringham, called Michael, who had an outstanding physique. It
was obvious to all watching that the match was about to be very one sided and
the outcome a forgone conclusion. But, with a desperate will to survive, Albie
hatched a very cunning plan. Michael,
apart from being very well built, had other pronounced attributes: rather
large ears, bigger than Albie’s in fact, and a magnificent
specimen of a nose! Albie,
not wishing to get flattened, in the first five seconds of the bout by his seemingly-unconquerable
opponent, had heard tell of his weakness – his oversensitive nose. Thus,
his strategy was decided...  “Touch
gloves and... box!” said Maggie, blowing his whistle for the first
round. Albie quickly threw a punch in the general direction of his opponent’s
nose. It wasn’t a lucky punch, nor was it well-aimed, but it certainly connected
with the target that was so large as to be unmissable.
Poor
Michael let out a bloodcurdling howl and spun around in a complete circle with
blood spurting uncontrollably from his nasal passages. Albie just stood there
with his gloves protecting his face in anticipation of the onslaught yet to come
– but none followed. His
opponent was quickly led away clutching his badly-bloodied nose, and taken to
the school sickbay where a cold compress was applied to stop the bleeding! Albie
heaved a sigh of relief. Had he had got away with it, he wondered? Well,
‘yes’, for the time being, but, there again, ‘no’
as he was to discover on the homeward train journey, later that day, when Michael
was determined to finish the contest! A
TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY Early
in
1953, Maggie had introduced some variety into PT by way of a series of cross country
runs – as and when he felt like it! Whatever the weather, Albie and the rest
of his form were subjected to a three-and-a half-mile run around the outskirts
of North Walsham – but at least it meant a break from climbing wall bars,
running on the spot and boxing! One
day, during the summer of that year, in morning Assembly the boys were informed
of the Annual Cross Country Run, a six-mile course, to which the entire school
was expected to participate. To make matters worse, it was to take place first
thing after lunch, or ‘dinner’ as Albie continued to call it. “This
afternoon ,” the Headmaster declared, “we shall all enjoy a nice
run in the countryside.” To
be more precise, they would run, whilst he – the Headmaster
– ‘would see the field of runners off’ and be on hand to
‘welcome them back at the finish line – and ‘woe betide any slackers
or malingerers’; and as for ‘enjoying’ it, this was always open
to lively debate amongst the participants! “And
I shall be there as well,” warned Maggie, “and I expect to see some
good times from you all – so, no slacking!” All
the boys knew Maggie was likely to be anywhere on the route, as he cycled, wherever
possible, and would taunt and cajole the boys from the relative comfort of his
ladies’ bicycle – complete with a basket on the front containing a single
rubber plimsoll! The
morning passed all too quickly for Albie and the rest of Form IIB, with the threat
of the cross country run getting closer by the minute. Soon the bell rang, heralding
the start of the dinnertime break. Knowing
full well what to expect first thing after dinner, Albie joined the other boys
in the canteen. There, queuing at the hatchway was fellow scholar Parke, RC, who,
quite naturally, was called ‘Arsie’ by everyone! “Wha’s
for dinner?” asked Albie, standing at the serving hatch, plate in hand, hoping
for a ‘light’ lunch. “It
begins with ‘R’,” said Arsie, always the one with a wry
sense of humour. “R-soles!”
laughed all the other boys of IIB. “No!”
shouted the dinner-lady, sounding a trifle hurt by their outburst of vulgarity.
“Rissoles an’ mash with grearvy, an’ there’s a nice
steam puddin’ for afters – an’ pletty for seconds if you’re
good!” “Oh,
Gawd, no,” moaned Albie, clutching his stomach, “that’ll
be hooly heavy to run on!” And indeed it was too, with several boys destined
to fall by the wayside, quickly followed by their helpings of spotted dick! Albie,
however, was to be glad he never accepted ‘seconds’, as ‘firsts’
were to lay heavy enough!  First
thing after lunch, Albie, and the rest of IIB, strolled across the drive to the
changing rooms adjacent to the Gymnasium and put on their running kit.
Then
they assembled next to the Form Rooms, adjacent to the School House, to await
the start of, what was to be, the six-mile run.
The race would start with the Junior School, those of the first, second and third
forms, followed by the Seniors – the most experienced runners – of the
fourth, fifth and sixth. The
route they were to cover would be marked by several of the Form Masters and some
‘lucky’ boys, probably the possessors of ‘sick notes’, or
‘weeds’ as Albie called them! At
2pm precisely, with all the runners assembled and ready for the‘off’,
the Headmaster appeared from the direction of his study in the School House and
joined the other Masters at the Starting Line. “On
your marks... get set...” he called out, to his battalion of Pastonians,
and, raising his revolver to the clear blue sky he pulled the trigger. “BANG”
went the gun, “Go!” he shouted, and they were off.  Albie
sprinted down the tree-lined drive at a cracking pace, together with his fellow
scholars of IIB. Soon they had overtaken the first-formers and, once out of the
school gates, turned right along Grammar School Road where motor cars had stopped
to allow them to pass, and pedestrians stood back from the kerbside to watch the
unabated flood of runners streaming down the road.
Out
of the corner of his eye, Albie
noticed Edwards’ the Bakers and Harmer & Scott’s garage as they
were passed in quick succession. “No
time to look around,” he told himself, with his arms flailing and his feet
pounding the roadway, “gotta stay focussed!” It
was all uphill to North Walsham’s main railway station, barely a quarter-mile
from the Paston School, but, because of his cracking start, Albie suddenly felt
a stitch coming on as he passed under the railway bridge. Soon he had slowed to
a walking pace, finding it hard to breathe, and was quickly passed by many of
the runners from the Junior school. His
friends, Charman, Read and Barry Emms, had, quite sensibly, got off to a more
sedate start and, running steadily, caught up with Albie as he stood by the Victorian
postbox under the railway bridge. “C’mon,
Albie, ” called out Read, striding past the lad, “better git a move
on, you dun’t watta be last, do ya?” Charman
and Emms had already sprinted ahead, so Albie, taking his chum’s advice,
ran after them, fully recovered from his stitch. Reaching
the Water Tower, on the Norwich Road, the little group of runners were directed
by markers down a farm track and into a field high with maize, passing an old
stump cross on the way. “This
here’s a-maizin’,” laughed Albie, running slowly
along a narrow path through the head-high cereal crop. “You could git lorst
in here, I reck’n!” “Git
a move on, Albie,” shouted Charman, jostling him in an attempt to overtake,
“this here’s a race, not a Sunday School treat!” Emerging
from the field, they leapt over a style and crossed a muddy ditch, and headed
towards the village of Felmingham. As the runners crossed an open field that led
into Lord Anson’s Wood, Albie stopped for a moment by a gateway to give his
fellow runners the benefit of his ‘knowledge’. THE
PEASANTS ARE REVOLTING  “Durin’
the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, a greart ole battle took plearce here,”
he revealed, leaning on a gate whilst pausing for a breather.
“An’
what a load of revolting peasants they were, too,” laughed Barry Emms, quickly
running past. Angrily,
Albie shouted after him, but, for the sake of not wishing to cause offence, his
earthy expletives are unprintable here. “It
wuz orl on account o’the Pole Tax of 1380,” he went on, “and the
people, who wun’t gorta pay up, rebelled against King Richard II.” His
fellow form-mates had heard it all before and decided to humour him, after all
there seemed to be no point in rushing back to school, they thought, as it was
a pleasant afternoon and a break from studies. “Watt
Tyler started it orf in Kent,” Albie proclaimed, “but our John
Litester, from just up the rud, wanted t’ knock the King’s block orf!” “Yeah,
but the peasants got their blocks knocked off,” replied a know-it-all, bespectacled
third-former as he sprinted past. “And
you’ll get your block knocked off too, if you don’t get a move on,”
quipped Maggie, who had silently crept up on Albie, having hidden his lady’s
bike in the hedge. Well,
to
cut a long story short, although Albie had always prided himself in being an accomplished
runner – though what he had based this claim to fame on is difficult to see
– the six-mile Cross Country Run was beginning to take its toll. So, he would
be glad when all this ‘runnin’ lark’ was over, he told himself. Albie
was overjoyed, though too tired to notice, when the school gates eventually came
into view. Quickly
glancing over his shoulder, he appeared to be on his own, so he decided on an
impressive sprint to the finishing line. A
SPRINT FOR THE FINISH Turning
into the drive, feet scrambling for a foothold, and throwing up clouds of loose
gravel in his wake, he was all but exhausted. Nevertheless, the lad was determined
to finish the race in style and summoned up what little stamina remained for a
quick sprint to the finish. The
Headmaster and Form Masters were lining the route, Albie noticed, joined by an
ever-increasing throng of boys, who had completed the gruelling six-mile course,
many of them still in their running kit. A
massive cheer went up as Albie approached. How
proud of himself he felt, as, obviously, he had done well. But
then,
out of nowhere, appeared a little figure – a mere first-former –
who stormed past Albie as if jet propelled much to the tumultuous applause of
the assembled Pastonians.  Young
Brian Howes, from Thorpe, who everyone called ‘Half-pint’ because of
his diminutive stature, was the recipient of all the applause and gained much
backslapping from the other boys, whilst Albie languished in a state of utter
exhaustion on the school drive, mere inches from the finish line.
“I’ll
never, ever, live that down,” he gasped to himself. THE
EPILOGUE THE
STORY WASN’T TO END THERE
of course, as, a great many years later, Albie was to receive a sharp reminder
of his long-forgotten past. One
day, at his place of work, he was moved to a another department where there were
new processes to master and different people to get to know. He
was quietly working away, keeping his head down, whilst, at the same time, should
the truth be told, indulging in his favourite pastime of daydreaming, when a familiar
figure from his past strolled up, as large as life would you believe? “Hi,
Albie,” greeted ‘Half-pint’ Howes. “Fancy seeing you
again, after all these years!” Albie
was dumbfounded and totally lost for words for a moment, as he had always hoped
his past would have remained just that – in the past. Then,
just to let Albie know he hadn’t forgotten that day at the Paston School
all those years before, Half-pint said with a chuckle:
“And how
did you like being ‘Pipped to the Post’?” Photographs
by Humphrey Grantham-Hill, courtesy of the Society of Old Pastonians.
NEXT: Albie receives a reward for his
hard work at the Paston School.
Please sign Albie’s guestbook, or if you wish to contact
me – please email:
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