Road to the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  When I was seven or eight I helped Dad create a small crazy paving patio under the French windows at the back of the house. I was appointed to break the larger slabs with a heavy hammer and then like a jigsaw we put the pieces together. Me with my small spade and he with his large shovel, we measured out the mixture of sand and cement, then hollowed out the centre of the mound and poured in the water slowly and carefully before mixing it all up. Then we sat on the grass admiring our handiwork and Mum appeared with two mugs of tea for the workmen.

  Years later, after my father’s death, I visited Number 19 Richard Road. The owners invited me inside but I declined. I just wanted to sit for a moment on the back step, looking at the crazy paving which Dad had so lovingly created and which had survived all those years. I just wanted a moment to remember my childhood.

  Near the River Don in Rotherham were the ‘old baths’, and some Saturdays, when he wasn’t at work, Dad took me swimming. There were none of the health and safety notices seen in swimming baths today – ‘No bombing, running, shouting, jumping, ducking, splashing, pushing’. We would spend an hour in the warm, steaming, pale green water, so strong in chlorine that our eyes streamed for a good half hour after we had dried ourselves. In the entrance, where we queued to get in, was a large bronze bust of Captain William Webb, a national hero, the first person to swim the English Channel in 1875. His healthy moustachioed face used to appear on the front of matchboxes. It seems odd, of course, in this day and age, that such an athlete and national hero should be used to advertise safety matches, the smokers’ constant companion. On the way into the changing rooms, children would rub Captain Webb’s nose for good luck, so the only part of the noble effigy that shone brightly was the aquiline proboscis.

  It was not unusual, as we were getting into our trunks (those terribly itchy woollen affairs with canvas belts and metal clasps), to see a rat, a visitor from the nearby canal, running between the cubicles.

  ‘Watch tha feet!’ the attendant would bellow from the side of the pool. ‘Theere’s a rodent on t’premises!’ This would be followed by the screams and yelps of terrified children, frantically scrambling up on to the wooden seats in the cubicles.

  ‘Geeaw, wi’ all that racket, yer daft ’aporths!’ the attendant would shout. ‘It’s more freetened o’ thee than thy are of it.’

  As I cowered on the wooden seat, I wasn’t at all convinced. We would hear scuffling and running as the attendant chased the intruder with the long bamboo pole with which he used to teach the children to swim. ‘Come ’ere, yer little bugger!’ he would shout.

  The pool would be a screaming mass of adolescent bodies swimming in all directions as we twisted and turned, dived and side-stroked to avoid collisions.

  Following our swimming sessions, skin wrinkled and pink-eyed, I would be taken by Dad into the café for mugs of hot sweet tea and teacakes. I would pick out the currants before eating the soft bread, while watching the swimmers emerging from the changing rooms with slicked-down hair and red shining faces, giving off an overpowering smell of chlorine.

  My father was an incredibly patient man and taught all three of his sons to swim in record time. It was because we all had such implicit trust in him that we willingly let go of the side of the bath. ‘It’s all right,’ he would say, ‘I’m here. I won’t let you drown. You’ll be fine.’ It wasn’t long before I was splashing up and down the baths. My brother Alec was the swimmer in our family, though, and could slice through the water like a knife. Later he swam for the school and won most of the races, much to the delight of our father, who never missed a gala.

  On one occasion – I must have been about eight – Dad said we were going to the baths with a friend of his called Peter and his son, Francis. In the car he told me that Francis went to a special school and was about my age. I was warned to be on my very best behaviour and make a bit of an effort with Francis, who hadn’t many friends. I thought this Francis would be like the boy at the top of the hill who went to Rudston, the posh private school on Broom Lane, that he would be toffee-nosed and full of himself. I had no idea what a ‘special school’ was. When we arrived at Peter’s house, I fully expected to see this boy waiting on the step dressed in coloured blazer and wearing his fancy cap. I followed Dad into the front room, to find Peter’s wife sitting on the settee with the boy face down across her lap. She was rubbing some ointment into his bottom. The boy wore nothing but a thin white vest. I didn’t know where to look or what to do, so I stayed rooted to the spot. None of the adults seemed the slightest bit awkward or self-conscious and continued to chat away. The boy himself didn’t appear at all embarrassed and looked up at me and smiled. If Mum had done that with me I would have prayed that the floor would open and swallow me up. I could see now that the boy was what in those days they called ‘handicapped’ or ‘mentally deficient’.

  ‘Nearly done,’ said Peter’s wife, pulling on these sort of plastic pants. ‘Francis has been so looking forward to today. He loves the water.’ She stroked the boy’s back. ‘There’s a little friend here,’ she told him. The boy smiled and gurgled and threw his head back. ‘This is Gervase,’ she continued, ‘and he’s come to take you swimming.’ My heart sank into my shoes. I was unsure and frightened. At school the word ‘spastic’ was used as a term of abuse. ‘You spastic!’ boys would shout if you missed a shot at the goal or did something stupid. So many times I had passed the life-size plaster figure of the smiling boy with callipers on his legs, holding the charity box, that stood outside Davy’s Café in All Saints’ Square, but I’d never met a real disabled person. And now I was to go swimming with him. Suppose my friends were at the baths? What would they say? And why hadn’t Dad told me?

  The wheelchair was put in the boot and we set off for the swimming baths with Peter next to my father in the front of the car and me sitting with Francis in the back. The boy smiled a lot and pulled funny faces, and when he tried to speak he dribbled. I remember feeling so embarrassed at the baths, seeing people staring at us as we headed for the water, and I quickly swam on my own in the deep end instead of playing in the shallows with Francis. I made no effort at all to be friendly or kind. When Dad waved for me to come and join them, I flipped beneath the water and ignored him.

  Dad didn’t say a word as the four of us left the baths. Peter thanked me for coming and pressed a two-shilling coin into my hand. Francis smiled and nodded. I felt awful. On the way home I could see that my father was angry with me. I don’t think I had ever seen him so angry. He dropped off Francis and his father and after we turned the corner, he pulled over and switched off the engine.

  ‘I think you should be ashamed of yourself, young man,’ he said quietly. He only called me ‘young man’ when he was mad at me. ‘I am very disappointed in you.’

  I hung my head and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I should think you are,’ said Dad. ‘It costs nothing to be friendly, and Francis is just like any other boy but he’s got a lot more than most to put up with.’

  ‘I’ll play with him next time,’ I promised.

  ‘I shouldn’t think there will be a next time after the way you behaved today,’ said Dad, starting the car, and that was all he said on the matter. He was a product of a generation that didn’t acknowledge the value of self-exploration. He was not in the business of explaining why it was thoughtless and mean of me to behave as I had done. He didn’t need to – I knew. He drove home without another word on the subject and I felt guilty and dejected. I can’t recall my father getting angry very often, but on that occasion I remember well his quiet voice and the look in his eyes and I still feel bad about that day at the swimming baths. I never did get to play with Francis again.

  Christmas was for me, as I guess it is for most children, a very special time, and my father made a great effort in our house to have everything just right for the occasion. He would increase my pocket money for me to buy presents and before the big day take me shopping into Rotherham. I loved those visits into town just b
efore Christmas, when the shop windows were stacked with Christmas goods, when coloured lights lit up the streets and carol singers and the Salvation Army band filled All Saints’ Square with music. It was even more special when a light dusting of snow covered pavements and roof-tops, making the dark town seem so much cleaner and brighter. I loved it when the air became so icy it burnt your cheeks and your exhaled breath came in great clouds.

  The old imitation Christmas tree would be taken from its dusty box and erected in the front room to be decorated with coloured balls, little wooden figures and tinsel, and we children were allowed to drape streamers in the living room and put up balloons. The crib with the small plaster Nativity figures was given pride of place on the mantelpiece and the crucifix on the wall was taken down until the New Year.

  One year my father was persuaded by Mr Evans to have a real Christmas tree. Our neighbour said he had a contact in the Forestry Commission at Clumber Park and could provide one at a fair price. He didn’t mention just how big the tree would be. We were expecting a small affair, so when this strangely shaped monstrosity arrived my mother was less than pleased and stared in disbelief as it was manoeuvred through the back gate. It was all of eight foot high, with great spreading lateral branches and twisting roots.

  ‘We won’t get it in the house, never mind the front room,’ my mother complained.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll chop a bit off when I get back from work.’

  Alec, my brother, prevailed upon Dad to let us cut the bit off, and when he had departed for the afternoon shift, we set to work with the saw. The bit we lopped off the tree was from the top, so we had this strange-looking truncated Christmas tree that shed its needles the very day it was placed in the corner of the front room. It was to be the very last real Christmas tree we bought.

  Christmas morning I would wake up to see the bulging pillow-case at the bottom of the bed. There would be tangerines and string bags of assorted nuts, chocolate coins encased in gold and silver foil, a box of rose-scented Turkish delight covered in powdery icing sugar, glistening dates on a bony stem in a box with three camels on the front. There would be crystallized fruits, a selection box of chocolates, coloured pencils, a John Bull printing set, roller skates, a penknife, lead soldiers and always a book.

  Every Christmas and every birthday my father bought me a book. These formed a precious collection, my own little library, and I have them still. As I look up from my desk now I see a shelf full of those adventure stories my father bought for me when I was a child: Anthony Hope’s swashbuckling The Prisoner of Zenda and Rupert of Hentzau, John Buchan’s gripping The Thirty-Nine Steps, Chesterton’s thrilling The Man Who Was Thursday, Edgar Rice Burroughs’s Tarzan of the Apes, Erskine Childers’s masterpiece The Riddle of the Sands, and, of course, Treasure Island. My father would write a small message or adage in the front.

  I cannot remember my father ever shouting or swearing or smacking me. I just picture a small, quietly spoken, loving man with fingers as fat as sausages, a shiny bald head and a smile that lit up my world. The qualities he hoped to instil in us were politeness, kindness, obedience, patience, unselfishness, fortitude, courage, truthfulness, self-control, application, modesty and reverence. Plus, of course, a sense of humour, for he was a massively amusing and witty man.

  My father died one sultry summer afternoon. He had just returned from the Royal Oak, where he had enjoyed a pint of bitter and a game of dominoes. He was feeling tired and told my mother he would have a rest. She found him later draped across the bed. He had had a massive heart attack.

  On his death I collected together the little sayings he had written in the front of every book he ever gave me and composed a poem for him. In it I tried to put into words some of the things this remarkable man, for whom I had a profound love and respect, tried to teach me.

  A Father’s Advice to his Son

  Always smile at those you meet

  And they will do the same.

  Look for good in others, son

  And don’t waste time on blame.

  Never be ashamed of crying,

  It’s not a sign you’re weak,

  And don’t be quick to criticize

  And think before you speak.

  Give more than you take, my son,

  Do no one hurt nor harm

  And don’t be afraid of being wrong

  And always chance your arm.

  Stick firmly to your principles,

  Don’t follow fads and trends,

  And always answer to your heart

  And value all your friends,

  And keep that sense of humour

  It will help you to survive,

  And don’t take life too seriously, son,

  For none come out alive.

  14

  I am five. The photograph shows a chubby little boy with a round pale face, a mop of black hair and large eyes, standing on the back step of the house in Richard Road just before he sets off for his first day at school. He does not look at all happy. In fact, he seems on the verge of tears. He is wearing a crisp white shirt and a little tartan clip-on tie, short grey trousers which he eventually will grow into, socks pulled up to the dimpled knees and large polished black shoes and a blazer. A rose is pinned to his lapel.

  When I look at the photograph I wonder just what my mother was doing sending me to school looking like a little adult attending a wedding. The class photograph taken at the end of my first year shows that my mother’s taste in my clothes had not altered, for again I am dressed like a little dandy. The girls are all dressed in similar clothes: pale cotton, knee-length dresses, cardigans, white ankle socks and sandals. The boys too are dressed in virtually identical outfits: white shirts, jumpers, grey shorts, grey socks and black shoes. I am the exception and stand at the end of the row in a jacket and bow tie. I suppose even at such a young age I looked, and must have felt, different.

  The most indelible impression of my early childhood was when I started school. Broom Valley Infant School appeared to a small boy of five as a vast, cold and frightening castle of a building, with its huge square metal-framed windows and endless echoing corridors, shiny green tiles, hard wooden floors and the oppressive smell of stale cabbage and floor polish. The very doors at the entrance looked gargantuan, and everything beyond seemed ten times bigger than normal. There was an asphalt playground full of the disconcerting animal din of a large group of children occupied in manic activity – running, skipping, leaping, jumping, chasing, screaming, shouting – which is still to be heard in primary schools up and down the country today. Outside each classroom was a row of neatly spaced hooks and I recall wondering what they were for. Maybe the children were hung on them if they were naughty. It was a daunting place. I didn’t like it at all and wanted to leave.

  On my first day, so my mother told me years later when my own children started school, when I arrived at the infant classroom I screamed and shouted, tugged and writhed as she held my small hand firmly in hers. I hated it and wanted to go home and sit at the table in the kitchen and help her make gingerbread men and listen to her stories. When I saw her head for the door, leaving me in the school entrance, I thought I would be abandoned for ever and couldn’t be consoled. ‘I want to go home!’ I cried. ‘I want to go home!’ But I was made to stay, and Miss Wilkinson, the headteacher, took my hand and led me down a long cold corridor to the infant classroom where I met a young, slim, smiling teacher standing at the door to greet me.

  I spent the whole morning whimpering in a corner, resisting the kind attentions of the infant teacher, Miss Greenhalgh. At morning playtime I couldn’t be coaxed to eat the biscuit or drink the milk on offer and continued to sniffle and whimper. But by lunchtime I had become intrigued and soon dried my tears. Just before lunch Miss Greenhalgh opened a large coloured picture book and began to read. I loved books, and the bedtime routine was my mother or father or sister snuggling up with me to read. I knew all the nursery rhymes and the fairy stories and, although
I couldn’t read, I knew if a word was changed or a bit missed out and would tell the reader so. When Miss Greenhalgh opened the book on that first morning, I stopped sniffling and listened. She looked to me like someone out of the pages of a fairy tale: long golden hair like Rapunzel’s, large blue eyes like Snow White’s, and such a gentle voice and lovely smile, like the Sleeping Beauty’s. When she started reading the story, I was completely captivated.

  In the afternoon I was keen to hear the rest of the story but the teacher went through a few basics on how we should behave, about going to the toilet before the lesson, washing our hands, saying ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’, calling her Miss, raising our hands if we wanted something and not shouting out. I was desperate for her to finish the story, but then we were all told to lie down on little canvas beds for a nap.

  ‘When will you finish the story?’ I asked glumly when it was nearing home time.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ replied Miss Greenhalgh, smiling.

  The following morning I wolfed down my breakfast, keen to get back to school and Miss Greenhalgh.

  I loved those early years at school. We moulded little clay models, dug in the sandpit, played in the water tray, counted with little coloured beads, sang the nursery rhymes, danced with bare feet in the hall, made models with toilet rolls and cardboard boxes, splashed poster paint on large sheets of grey sugar paper, chanted poems and learnt to read. Most of all I loved the fairy stories read by Miss Greenhalgh, stories which celebrated goodness of heart, compassion, kindness to animals, consideration for the poor, weak and elderly and which abhorred greed, selfishness and cruelty. I remember that when the wicked stepmother or the ugly sisters got their come-uppance, we children cheered.

  Miss Wilkinson had the shining eyes of the great teacher. As I recall, she was a small vigorous woman with a sharp sense of humour and a striking appearance. Although she had a kindly smile, clearly loved the company of young children and was rarely impatient or cross, there was no way any child would question her decrees.