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 THE
LAST WEEK OF JANUARY 1953, had begun just like any other week; it was totally
uneventful, or at least as far as Albie was concerned, with life at home and at
school going on as it had always done. On the Wednesday, as it was relatively
fine, Albie’s mother, Gladys, decided to clean her windows. After she'd washed
and polished the downstairs windows to a brilliant shine she turned her attention
on those upstairs. Raising the lower sash-windows she sat herself on the outer
window-sill facing the windows, as she always did, and began to clean them as
well. Soon, all the windows began to look the better for her endeavours, although
one thing was always certain – it was bound to rain!
ON
THURSDAY ,
the bunch of seaweed hanging by a nail on the wall of the outside water-closet
displayed the telltale signs of impending bad weather according to Nanny Edie.
One look at that soggy bundle of marine vegetation told her that ‘they were
in for something’ and she was hardly ever wrong. “Oh,
Gladys,” she exclaimed, with a worried look on her face, “I sart’enly
dorn’t like the look o’ this, there’s suffen coming an’ tha’s
for sure!” “Wuh,”
laughed Gladys, pegging out her washing in the back yard, “tha’s an
ole wives tearle that is, an’ yew knows it an’orl!” “Yew
maark moi wuds, Gladys,” Edie replied vehemently, “tha’s a-cummin’
or’right, Oi kin feel it in me bones.” Edie’s
weather forecast was rarely wrong; even if the forecast on the wireless set ‘gave
out’ a fine day, she would always consult her seaweed first and, on the following
day, her predictions began to ring true. On
Friday 30 January an enormous depression, of some magnitude, began moving from
Iceland in a southeasterly direction heading for Scotland, with its northern coast
receiving a buffeting from gale force winds late that night. Albie
and his mum and dad, with Nanny Edie, sat glued to their wireless set as the briefest
of news came through, before the radio signal faded and nothing more was to be
heard that night. “Oi
told ya, Gladys,” retorted Edie, as she always liked to be right, “we’re
in fur a right ole tempest there’s no mistearken that!” With
the wind getting up to gale force, bad-weather warning cones were raised by the
coastguards to warn fishermen against the perils of putting to sea. But, of course,
they all had a bit more common sense than that, as they only had to take a look
at the mountainous waves to know they were best to keep their feet on dry land.
Yet,
at that point, there seemed to be no cause for alarm as they’d weathered
the storm before, so what made this one any different? Without the luxury of television
sets and meteorologists’ weather charts, with their computerised visual effects,
no one on the north Norfolk coast knew what was coming or what to expect... A
WEEKEND TO REMEMBER Albie
always looked forward to weekends, which meant a welcome break from rigours of
the Paston School and studies, even though a certain amount of homework was expected
of him. Saturdays
were always a bit of an excuse for a ‘lie in’, as he'd worked hard all
week, and that Saturday, 31 January, was certainly no different, except for the
sound of the wind rattling the roof-tiles that had awakened him much earlier than
he’d intended. “You’re
awake early,” remarked his mother, as she took him a cup of tea and a Custard
Cream biscuit. “I
can’t sleep through that din," he told his mother angrily, indicating
his dislike at his rattling window. “S’poose I might as well git up,”
the lad complained, “No rest fur th’ wickid!” “Well,
Albie,” his mother replied, “Dad’s suffen worried ’bout the
chick’ns, an’ would like us to feed them, do the weather wussens afore
he git home from work.” Like
his father before him, Albie’s dad rented an allotment on which to grow vegetables
and keep some hens for fresh eggs. This was always a bit of a bind for the family,
as the chickens needed feeding at least once a day. Besides, the allotment was
a fair distance out of Sheringham, down the Weybourne Road next to the Cemetery,
and a good distance from their house. Later
that Saturday afternoon, Albie and his mum put on their warmest clothes for the
long walk to their allotment to feed the chickens. The quickest route was over
the practise links of Sheringham Golf Course. Opening
the little gate, in the wicket fence at the end of Link’s Road, they began
to feel the full force of the wind, which was howling straight off the sea from
a northwesterly direction. By the time Albie and his mother reached the middle
of the links, which was totally exposed to the elements with no cover whatsoever,
they found it almost impossible to breathe in the face of the gale, let alone
make any headway.  Clinging
to his mother for support, Albie glanced over to the clifftops, a short distance
away, where the sea presented an almighty fearsome sight. It was huge! To Albie,
the gigantic waves were running wild and threatening to break over on to the golf
links, as if determined to scale the hundred feet tall cliffs that stood in the
way.
“My
Gawd,” yelled with the wind buffeting his face, “jist look at that there
sea!” “Tha’s
no use, Albie,” shouted his mother above the noise of the storm, holding
the lad tightly, “we’ll hatta to go back, there’s no way we can
git to Webb’n Road now.” “The
hins’ll hatta look arter themselves,” Albie shouted back, losing his
footing on the grass and falling on his backside, lifted off his feet by the force
of the wind. UTTER
DEVASTATION ALL ALONG THE COAST That
evening, Albie’s father became increasingly concerned about the precarious
state of the shed in their back garden. Whipped up by the gale, the roof was beginning
to lift, so Albert senior, armed with a length of rope, ventured down the garden
in an attempt to hold the roof in place. He
was to spend the next four hours sitting inside his shed holding on to the rope
and struggling to keep the roof from becoming airborne, whilst, outside in the
garden, wallflowers were uprooted, flowerpots flew off into the night sky, never
to be seen again, and, the strangest of things, small pebbles from the
beach began to drop from the air as if by magic! The
town’s pavements were becoming littered with broken roof tiles and chimney
pots that were sent flying earthwards; trees were uprooted and garden fences blown
down and, in the darkness of the night, scenes of utter devastation were to be
witnessed everywhere. Worse
was to follow as the night went on, although many other places along the coast
were to fare far worse than Sheringham. Sunday,
the first of February, dawned much quieter; the winds had dropped significantly
and there seemed a promise of a much better day ahead, until the extent of what
had happened during the hours of darkness became known. When
Albie got up that morning, his father was already busying himself in the garden,
tidying up the overnight damage caused to the fencing and the shed, although he
was relieved to discover his efforts of the previous night hadn't been in vain,
as the shed roof was still almost intact, apart from being devoid of its felt
covering!
But Albert, Gladys, Nanny Edie and Albie were mystified at how several small pebbles
from the beach, which was many hundreds of yards away, now lay in a thick flint
carpet covering their garden. After
breakfast, Victor came to call for Albie. “Hello,
Albie,” his friend said, standing in the kitchen doorway, “you'll never
believe it, but they do say that the sea’s come up Beeston Road!” “Can’t
have, can it?” replied Albie, “tha’s never done that before, least
ways, not that I know of.” ALBIE
AND VICTOR WITNESS AN UNBELIEVABLE SIGHT!
Quickly
putting on his shoes and a warm duffle-coat, Albie and Victor set off down Cliff
Road to have a look for themselves, but they were totally unprepared for the unbelievable
sight that met their eyes. Everywhere
was a scene of utter devastation! The sea, normally fairly placid, never venturing
further than the top of the Fishermen’s East Beach, was indeed gushing up
Beeston Road and making waves as it did so. Even with the highest, spring tide
it had never breached the sea walls, but here it was, a torrent of swirling
gurgling sea water, flowing along the road, carrying with it ruined crab pots,
nets, dead foul-smelling fish and, across the entrance to Beach Road, the wreck
of a crab boat, Our Margaret, smashed to smithereens by the force of the raging
sea. Wading
around the edge of the flooded road, Albie and Victor made their way up into town
heading for the Boulevard and the Burlington Leas, near the Grand Court Hotel,
itself looking a sorry state after suffering the full brunt of the overnight storm.  Walking
down the slope, under the old bridge that housed the public conveniences, they
attempted to reach the West Promenade, but, down at the bottom of the steep concrete
slope they were stopped in their tracks – the rest of the slope and the promenade
to the Lifeboat Station had gone, washed away by the force of the sea and in its
place was a mass of broken concrete. The once-proud promenade had been torn apart
by the force of the sea. All that was left were neatly-shredded, huge chunks of
concrete, with exposed rusty lengths of reinforcing ironwork.
Albie
and Victor
completely forgot themselves for a moment, leaping from one enormous chunk of
concrete to the other, scaling the two-foot gaps between. To them, this was a
great game. But, to many others, it was a national disaster, as, unknown to Albie
and Victor at the time, many people up and down the coast had lost their lives.
Entire communities had been destroyed by the onslaught of the relentless storm
and raging seas. People
had been washed out of their homes by the sudden inrush of water – only a
few miles further along the coast – with no warning whatsoever, such was
the lack of communications in 1953. Some
people made holes in their ceilings and clambered, in their nightclothes, into
the roof spaces in an attempt to avoid the rising waters. Others clung all night
long to chimneys and rooftops, never giving up hope.
For some, help just came too late and they succumbed to the biting wind, driving
rain and bitter cold. It was a similar story all along the East Coast, of raging
seas bursting through inadequate defences without warning. As
they played amongst all the desolation and destruction, Victor and Albie suddenly
realised the sheer magnitude of the disaster. They felt ashamed that they had
taken it all so lightly and, as they returned to their homes, they could think
of nothing else but the terrible scenes they’d witnessed. In
the hours that followed, the full extent of that night in 1953 was made known
on the radio and, for those who had it, the television. In
chapel, the following Sunday, Albie, with his parents, together with a large congregation,
gave thanks for their deliverance in time of need and then, quietly, remembered
those who had lost everything, including their lives. On
his way home from the Beeston Road Methodist chapel, Albie knew that the night
of 31 January/1 February 1953 would be a night to remember, and one he vowed he
would never forget for the rest of his life.
NEXT: Albie goes on a run across country
and meets his match!
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me – please email:
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