 ALBY AND ME
Alby And Me is a powerful and poignant evocation of the friendship of two unusual boys growing up on a tough housing estate in the English Midlands in the late 1940s. Set against a background of family strife, it is a gritty, compelling, often humorous account of a critical period in the boys' lives as they encounter bullies, sexually savvy girls, a suicide, some vintage working class characters, and God. It is a story touched by both joy and sadness, and has an ending most will find hard to forget. (ISBN 978-1846856518)
The novel is available from the publishers, Exposure Publishing (website: www.diggorypress.com) at £6.99 (p&p £1.99) or the E-book can be downloaded for £3.00. The print version is also available from main on-line booksellers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Tesco, Blackwell's and The Book Place, and can be ordered at bookshops in the UK and the USA.
'Long-listed for the Waverton Good Read Award, Bird has written a fantastically touching tale. Alby and Me reads with ease as you get swept away into Matt Sheridan and Albert Wilson's world from the first word to the last. Everybody will find something in this book to relate to, whether it's one of the sub-plots of bullying, suicide or domestic abuse or the main theme of unbreakable friendship. Bird manages to get the reader laughing at the two best friends' encounters as they are drawn into battling their school's heirarchy of tough kids before fearing the consequences. The way the author describes the pair's surroundings is magnificent and makes you wish you were eating fish and chips on the Cornwall beach surrounded by seagulls. For all the light-hearted moments though, there are very poignant and sobering chapters, which are excellently written to make you feel the pain the characters are going through. The book draws you into the tight friendship and makes you feel as if you are experiencing the boys' adventure with them, which adds to the story's emotional ending. Alby And me hits home the importance of true friendship and leaves the reader picking up the phone to either get back into contact with someone or re-build old bridges. The hard-hitting nature of the book hits many nerves and leaves you wondering whether Alby and Matt's fate is actually a true tale camouflaged as a novel.' (Solihull Observer)
'Alby And Me is certainly a story that grabs you and carries you along... many moments of wry humour. The more I read, the story drew me in and I found that I genuinely wanted to know what happened... a remarkably gripping story. This deserves a wider readership. Put simply, it is a book which is an enjoyable and emotionally gripping read, and one which left me wanting to go back and savour it again.' (Raw Edge Magazine)
'A recommended holiday read.' (Birmingham Life magazine)
'A page-turner.' (Solihull News)
'Page turner it certainly is.' (Don Maclean, comedian & TV and radio personality)
''Just finished reading Alby And Me. Brilliant book!' ('Sensible', icBirmingham.co.uk)
These are some of the unsolicited emailed comments from readers I have on file:
Thank you again for your lovely book and the pleasure it has given me.' (Dorothy S)
'I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed reading your new novel. It was a fabulous read. I'm not a big reader and very rarely finish a book, but I could not put it down. By the end I was sobbing but I also felt uplifted. I look forward to reading your next novel.' (Sandra B)
'Have just finished reading your book. I enjoyed it immensely. Brough back many memories...' (Arthur P)
'A delightful story of friendship.' (Mary J)
'I thoroughly enjoyed it. Very easy to read which is half the battle, and I found it a real page turner. Of course, you had me in tears at the end. Congratulations - I look forward to the next one.' (Bill D)
'What a fascinating book. I couldn't put it down.' (Sue B)
ALBY AND ME was long-listed for the 2007/8 Waverton Good Read Award for the best British debut novel. It was one of 20 novels selected from nearly 60 nominations.
Here is a taster from Chapter One:
CHAPTER ONE
The moment I woke on that summer Monday morning in 1948 I had an irresistible feeling this was going to be anything but an ordinary day, though it began predictably enough.
The creak of the loose floorboard on the landing woke me. I knew it would be my father on his way downstairs. He’d be carrying his chamber pot, brimful and giving off that familiar odour of the Ansells’ mild ale he had imbibed the night before at the Hare and Hounds. Bobbing about on the surface would probably be a couple of butts from the Woodbines he had smoked before dropping off to sleep.
No need to look at my bedside alarm clock. It would be near enough quarter past six. My father’s routine hadn’t changed for as far back as I could remember.
Through the open slit window I could hear the fluty song of a blackbird, which was soon interrupted by the insistent revving of someone starting up a motorcycle. The early morning sun was filtering in through the faded yellow gingham curtains and bathing my small bedroom in a soothing glow. I began to feel that maybe the world wasn’t such a bad place to hang out in, and then I remembered what lay ahead at Herby’s, aka Sir Herbert Mason Grammar School, in just a few hours time. The first lesson of the morning was English Literature with Miss Elspeth Dowdeswell MA (Cantab.), a woman of stentorian voice and titanic bosom. ‘Dowdy’ struck fear into the hearts of all who sat before her, especially those of us who were sometimes careless enough to drop our aitches or slur words when reading aloud. A lesson with Dowdy was daunting enough at any time but on this particular morning it was an even more disquieting prospect. She would be announcing the results of the Fourth Form end of year English Literature examination, and woe betide anyone whose performance fell short of what she expected of them. Such unfortunate souls were likely to find themselves ordered to the front of the class and asked to explain why they had underachieved. I had some very special reasons for not wanting to be among them, as I had been on more than one occasion in the recent past.
Close by in the foldaway bed, still sound asleep, was my best friend Alby Wilson, who had the remarkable ability to do precisely as well but no better than he wanted in examinations, and seemingly with minimum effort. This talent enabled him to avoid unwanted attention from the staff or from a much feared group of pupils known as the Sharkey gang, who took a dim view of boys they considered to be swots.
Alby had the blankets pulled over his head, but I could hear his rhythmic breathing. He was stopping over at our house because his folks had been away for the weekend in their caravan. Alby thought the world of his mom and dad and his older sister, Enid, but he didn’t share their fondness for caravanning. Once when I asked him why, he looked at me as if I was a bit simple. ‘How’d you like to be cooped up in a sweaty tin box with three other people all weekend? Wouldn’t be so bad if you got a decent night’s kip. But if it isn’t my old man snoring, it’s our Enid yakking in her sleep, or the cows mooing their udders off in the field next door.’
Downstairs I heard the hiss and hum of the lavatory flushing, then the rattle of the plumbing as my father filled the kettle at the kitchen sink. The pipes went on juddering, and I knew he would be washing his hands and face under the cold running water. Then everything went quiet. My father would be sitting at the kitchen table swigging a mug of sweet, strong tea. As always when he drank any hot liquid, each gulp would be followed by a throaty sigh like he was sampling some rare vintage brandy. It was one of many of his habits that set my teeth on edge.
My bedside clock showed ten minutes to seven. Moments later I heard the front door slam, just as I knew it would. I sat up and lifted a corner of the curtain. My father was on his way up the gravel path that divided our small patch of front garden from that of the Froggatts next door. He was wearing a charcoal jacket and navy blue trousers salvaged from suits that had once been his Sunday best. Shiny patches on the elbows and on the seat of the trousers testified to years of faithful service.
He stopped at the gate and lit a cigarette, then tossed the empty packet under the privet hedge before heading off along Jubilee Avenue to catch the bus to join the early shift at Burnside’s gas meter factory. As he disappeared in the distance, I could see steam beginning to rise from the road surface and the blue slate roofs of the houses. The sun was creeping slowly across the Thornfield estate’s uniform rows of houses and beyond over the chimneys and zigzag roofs of the factories to the north. To the east the tops of the cedar trees that stood like guardsmen around the edge of Chamberlain Park, the one reasonable-sized stretch of open space left in the neighbourhood. Just visible to the west was the silhouette of Sir Herbert Mason Grammar School, an ill-assorted mixture of gloomy Edwardian architecture and modern appendages which had replaced parts of the building demolished by German bombers in 1943.
Apart from a couple of professional footballers and a soldier who won a Victoria Cross in the First World War, Herby’s couldn’t boast many distinguished names among its pupils, and was never a shining beacon of academic achievement. Most of the brightest kids went to the grammar schools in the more salubrious parts of the city. But I would have bet a year’s pocket money - at three shillings a week that totted up to seven pounds sixteen shillings - that there wasn’t a sharper mind among the city’s school population than the one presently slumbering a few feet away from me. In fact such were his varied talents I took it for granted that if he could be bothered he would some day become a famous name in whatever field he decided to make his living. That was unless he chose instead to become a tramp or a beachcomber, which was quite possible.
After watching my father go off to work, I dozed off again to be woken about an hour later by my mother coming into the bedroom. ‘Your dinner money’s on the sideboard love,’ she said. ‘Make sure you and Alby have a hot drink and something to eat before you go to school.’
‘Where are you working today?’ I asked her.
‘The Farquhars,’ she said. Her eyes looked tired and the ivory skin of her face was taut and had a yellow tinge.
Listening to her wheezing cough as she trudged down the stairs, I thought of her having to kowtow to the snooty Mrs Farquhar, and felt a knot of frustration tighten in my chest. The Farquhars’ house was among the largest on Northwood Avenue, which ran along one side of Chamberlain Park and was by some margin the most affluent road in the area. I realised my nails were digging into the palms of my hands as I clenched my fists under the sheets. I became aware that Alby had woken up and was lying watching me.
‘You’re looking a bit thoughtful mate,’ he said.
‘I’m feeling it,’ I said.
‘D’you want to tell your Uncle Albert all about it?’
‘Not just at the moment.’
Alby pushed himself up on his elbows. ‘In that case, how about a nice cup of tea?’
As I eased myself out of bed, Alby asked, ‘What’s the time?’
I picked up my bedside clock and pointed the face towards him.
‘Blimey, it’s still only half way through the night,’ he said, pulling his pillow over his head.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, lit the gas stove and put the kettle on. While I waited for the water to boil I cut four hunks off a cottage loaf, spread them with a thick layer of beef dripping, and put on some slices of beetroot. Then I made a pot of tea, poured two mugs and added plenty of sugar and milk. I put the drinks and food on a tray and took them up to the bedroom.
Alby breakfasted in bed. I ate and drank while I dressed, then headed downstairs again to wash at the kitchen sink. I knew from experience it wouldn’t do much good nagging Alby to get a move on; he would go at his own pace come what may, so I sat at the kitchen table and read Sunday’s News of the World.
With barely ten minutes left to catch the bus that would get us to school just in time to beat the assembly bell, Alby dashed into the kitchen, wet his comb under the tap and ran it quickly through his dark, curly hair. Then he splashed some cold water on his face and dabbed it dry on a hand towel before pulling on his green blazer and grabbing his satchel.
We sprinted down Jubilee Avenue to the corner of Stackley Road and leapt on the double decker bus just as it was about to pull out of the terminus.
‘Cutting it fine a bit aren’t ya lads,’ said the conductor as we scrambled, panting, onto the bench seat at the rear of the bus.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Alby, grinning, ‘my pal here finds it hard getting up in the morning.
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