The Heart of the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  It was a cold, overcast afternoon when I arrived at the final school I would visit that term. Backwatersthwaite Primary had been the very first school I had visited on becoming a school inspector. I was now looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with the remarkable headteacher, Mr Lapping. Our paths had crossed on various occasions during the intervening years, and he had never failed to impress me.

  I had got hopelessly lost on the way to that first visit and had, in fact, passed the school without realising it. There had been no traffic triangle warning of a school, no school board, no playground, nothing that would identify the austere building as an educational establishment. I formed the idea at the time that the window boxes, tubs of bright flowers, curtained windows and small carefully-tended garden in the front of the building were intended to disguise the fact that it was a school. Perhaps the headteacher had cleverly altered the appearance of the building to resemble a private dwelling to evade a visit from unwanted visitors, in particular anyone from the Education Department at County Hall.

  I smiled now as I made my way up the narrow path towards the gaunt stone edifice with its shiny slate roof and high leaded windows. I recalled that first occasion when I had lifted the great iron knocker in the shape of a ram’s head and let it fall with a resounding thump. The heavy blackdoor had opened and I had been confronted by a thin, stooping man with frizzy greying hair like a tangle of wire wool and the complexion of a corpse. The figure appeared as though he had clambered up an embankment after a rail crash. He had had no policy documents, planning materials, schemes of work, lesson plans or curriculum guidelines. When I had asked to see his School Development Plan, he had run a hand through his hair and wrinkled his forehead into a frown. Then he had given a hollow laugh and had informed me frankly that he wouldn’t recognise such a thing if it were to fly through the window. He had gone on to inform me that, in his book, education was not about paper and processes, procedures and documentation, it was about teaching. Then he had tapped his brow.

  ‘It’s all up here, Mr Phinn,’ he had said.

  He had told me, on that first meeting, that he reckoned it was the teacher who made the real difference in children’s lives and that the teacher has an awesome power and a great responsibility. ‘A teacher can inspire or deaden, challenge or bore, hurt or heal, develop a love of learning or kill it stone dead,’ he had told me. ‘Teaching is a vocation, Mr Phinn, not a job.’

  Because of my late arrival, the children had in fact already gone home and so I had returned a month later for a proper visit. Despite the fact that there was still nothing written down or recorded, I had been highly impressed by everything I had seen and heard. Before I had left, a small nine-year-old with wide eyes and thick bracken-coloured hair had approached to inform me seriously that ‘Mester Lapping’s a reight good teacher, tha knaws.’ He had then suggested that I ought to write it down in my little black book in case I should forget.

  Mr Lapping was now retiring after forty years in a profession he described as the most influential of all. I was there that afternoon to wish him the very best in his new life. He was moving south to Canterbury to live nearer to his daughter and grandchildren. I knew he would miss Yorkshire desperately and wondered if he would ever settle so far away from his beloved county. I had been invited to his farewell party, which was to take place later in the village hall, but sadly I had had to decline since it clashed with the nativity play at Hawksrill School. I had promised Christine I would be home in time to go to it with her.

  Mr Lapping and I were sitting in his office, during the afternoon break. Through the window, I could see that snow had started to fall softly, and the deep valley, where a wide unhurried river flowed gently beneath the arches of a slender bridge, was speckled in white.

  ‘This is for you, George,’ I said, passing him a brightly wrapped present. ‘As you browse through the pages, it’s to help you remember your days in Yorkshire. It will perhaps remind you of the people of the Dales who have been so much a part of your life.’

  ‘How very kind,’ he replied. ‘May I open it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He stared at the book, then read from the binding: ‘Dale Folk, Character Sketches in Prose and Verse by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe. How wonderful. Thank you so much.’

  ‘The final poem is a particular favourite of mine,’ I told him. ‘Perhaps I might read it to you and wish you all the very best in your retirement. It’s called ‘The Yorkshire Blessing’ – I expect you know it.’ I turned to the very last page and read:

  To thi mind – Peace,

  To thi ’eart – Joy,

  To thi soul – Strength

  And Courage.

  In thine outgoings

  Nowt amiss,

  To thi ’ome comings

  ’Appiness.

  ‘Thank you, Gervase,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall treasure it.’ There were tears in his eyes.

  He took a moment to compose himself, and then asked, ‘You will stay for the final rehearsal of our nativity play, won’t you? I am sure you will enjoy our very own Yorkshire version, which the children have written and produced themselves. They took the Bible story and re-wrote it in their own inimitable words. I suppose some might say it’s not really appropriate to go tinkering about with the Good Book but, then again, it has been translated into a fair few languages in its time and I reckon God won’t object if He hears it in dialect – especially since God is, of course, a Yorkshireman,’ he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

  I sat in at the back of the large room as the children performed their drama on the makeshift stage. Of all the nativity plays I had seen over the years, this was undoubtedly one of the most original and perhaps the most memorable. The cast had dispensed with the usual attire – sandals, dressing gowns, pasteboard crowns, coloured towels draped over heads (usually held in place by elastic belts with snake clasps), cottonwool beards, cloaks, cardboard wings and tinsel halos, and had opted for simple modern dress.

  A large, fresh-faced girl with long flaxen hair and attired in black slacks and a white blouse stood at the side of the stage as two children, the boy dressed in jeans and denim jacket, the girl in a bright flowery dress, entered holding hands.

  ‘And it came to pass,’ said the narrator, ‘that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus, the Emperor in Rome, that all the world should be taxed. Joseph, the carpenter, took Mary, his wife, who was having a baby, from Galilee to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, in Judea from where his family came. They walked wearily along the hot and dusty road and into the town, which was crowded with people all there to be counted. Very soon Mary and Joseph, tired from their long journey, arrived at an inn looking for somewhere to stay.’

  A boy wearing a blue and white striped apron stepped on to the stage, his hands on his hips.

  ‘Innkeeper! Innkeeper! ’As thy any room?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Nay, lad,’ replied the Innkeeper. ‘I’ve nowt left. We’re full to burstin’. Place is chock-a-block wi’ fowlk cum to pay their taxes.’

  ‘That’s a rum do. We’ve been on t’rooad all day,’ Joseph told him, ‘and both on us are fair fit to drop. We’re fair fagged out!’

  ‘Well, I’m reight sorry, lad, but there’s nowt I can gi’ thee. We’re full up for t’neet.’

  ‘I’ve got t’wife out ’ere,’ announced Joseph. ‘An’ she’s ’avin’ a babby, tha knaas.’

  ‘I’m reight sorry abaat that, an’ all,’ said the Innkeeper, ‘but there’s no room in t’inn, an’ that’s top an’ bottom of it.’

  ‘Nowt at all? Anythin’ will do.’

  ‘Theer’s t’stable round t’back. Bit basic like, but it’s warm an’ dry enough. Tha can sleep theer if tha wants.’

  ‘It’ll ’ave to do,’ said Joseph. ‘Come on, Mary.’

  The narrator took up the story. ‘And so Mary and Joseph had to sleep in the stable with the oxen and the asses, for there was no room in the inn that night.’ The holy couple left the sta
ge and two boys and a girl entered. They wore old jackets and flat caps, and carried crooks. ‘Now far off, in a distant dale, on a dark, cold night, three shepherds were tending their sheep and watching over their flocks, when suddenly there appeared, in the dark sky, a great shining light.’

  ‘’Ey up!’ said the first shepherd. ‘Teka look at that then!’

  ‘Weer?’ asked the second shepherd.

  ‘Theer.’

  ‘Weer?’

  ‘Theer, up yonder in t’sky.’

  ‘Wor is it?’

  ‘I don’t know but it’s gerrin’ brighter.’

  A girl entered in a white blouse and skirt. ‘’Ey up, lads! Don’t be frit. I’m not gunna ’urt thee. I’m Hangel o’ Lord, ’ere wi’ tidin’s of gret joy.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ asked the third shepherd.

  ‘There’s a babby boy been booarn toneet, a reight special babby, who’s liggin in a manger, wrapped up in swaddlin’ bands, ovver in Bethle’em. God’s own lad, Saviour o’ World, Christ the Lord, the Messiah, an’ does thy know what?’

  ‘What?’ asked the first shepherd.

  ‘’E’s reight champion, that’s what.’

  ‘Way, ’appen we berrer gu an’ see ’im then, sithee,’ said the first shepherd.

  ‘Wor abaat t’tups and yows?’ asked the second. ‘I’m not reight chuffed abaat leavin’ ’em on their own, what wi’ wolves.’

  ‘Ne’er thee mither abaat tha sheep,’ said the angel, ‘I’ll see to ’em fer thee.’

  The narrator stepped forward and a group of children came on stage, dressed in white shirts, white trousers and white plimsolls. ‘And suddenly the sky was filled with a host of heavenly angels.’ The children sang lustily, ‘Glory to God, Glory to God, Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace and goodwill toward all men.’

  As the angels and shepherds left the stage, the Three Kings entered, wearing long red cloaks. ‘Now far far away in a distant land, Three Kings, wise men of the East, saw a star high in the dark sky which foretold the birth of the newborn king.’

  ‘Hey up!’ said the first king. ‘Teka look at that, then!’

  ‘Weer?’ asked the second king.

  ‘Theer.’

  ‘Weer?’

  ‘Theer, up yonder in t’sky.’

  ‘Wor is it?’

  ‘By the heck, it’s a reight big star.’

  ‘Tha knaas what that means, dunt tha?’ said the third king.

  ‘No,’ chorused the other two.

  ‘Tha does!’

  ‘We doaan’t.’

  ‘Summat special’s ’appenin’, that’s what. It’s a sign from on ’igh. A new babby king’s been born toneet. It were foretold. Come on, lads, let’s follow yonder star an’ see weer it teks us.’

  ‘’Old up,’ said the second king. ‘We shall ’ave to tek ’im a present.’ The Three Kings left the stage, picking up three brightly wrapped parcels on their way out.

  ‘So the Three Kings set off to follow the star,’ said the narrator, ‘carrying their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, and soon they arrived at a huge marble palace.’ The Three Kings appeared back on stage. ‘They knocked loudly on the great iron door and from inside came a voice. It was King Herod.’

  ‘Clear off !’

  ‘Oppen dooer!’ shouted the first king. ‘We’re t’three kings from t’Orient.’

  ‘I don’t care who thy are or weer tha from. Clear off !’

  ‘We’ve got gret news that a new babby king ’as been born this neet an’ we’re off to see’ im? Does tha want to come wi’ us?’

  On stage came a small boy with spiky hair and a brightlycoloured shirt. ‘What’s all this abaat a babby king, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve just telled thee,’ said the first king. ‘See that theer star up in t’sky?’

  ‘Weer?’ asked Herod.

  ‘Theer.’

  ‘Weer?’

  ‘Theer, up yonder in t’sky.’

  ‘Wor abaat it?’

  ‘Well, it’s tekkin us to see this new babby king. Get tha cooat on an’ tha can come wi’ us.’

  ‘Nay, I’ll not bother,’ replied Herod, ‘but cum back this way, will tha, an’ tell me weer this babby is and ’appen I’ll go an’ see ’im missen an’ tek’im a present.’ He turned to the front and pulled a gruesome face. ‘I’ll tek’im a present, all reight, and it’ll not be wor ’e’s hexpectin’. I’m not reight chuffed abaat this at all. There’s only gunna be one king around ’ere, sithee, an’ that’s gunna be me.’ Herod stomped off.

  The narrator continued as the stage filled with all the children, except Herod; they gathered around a small manger that had been brought onto the stage. ‘And that night, in a stable in Bethlehem, Jesus Christ was born and the Three Kings and the humble shepherds, the angels and the beasts of the fields worshipped Him for He was the Son of God, the most wonderful, the King of all Kings and the Light of the World.’

  ‘Glory be to God,’ chorused the children.

  ‘And all who saw the child marvelled,’ said the narrator finally, ‘but Mary, holding her newborn baby close to her breast, kept all these things to herself and pondered them in her heart.’

  As I drove back to Hawksrill in the late afternoon sun, the light dusting of snow making the Dales look ethereal yet peaceful, I recalled the last words of the nativity play I had just seen – ‘Mary, holding her new born baby close to her breast’, – and thought of my own beautiful wife and baby whom I should shortly see. How lucky I was!

  The cottage looked welcoming as I parked the car on the track alongside the garden; there were lights behind the closed curtains, and a wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney into the frosty air. As I went through the back door and into the kitchen, the smell of something delicious cooking made me sniff the air appreciatively.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ said Christine, who was sitting at the table, with Richard in his carrycot beside her.

  I kissed them both. ‘I was determined not to be late today,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t want to miss the Hawksrill play. What time is your mother coming? It’s good of her to baby-sit for us.’

  ‘She rang about half an hour ago to say she was just leaving. And I can promise you, it’s no hardship to her at all. She’ll come any time and look after this little bundle for us.’ The baby gurgled as if on cue.

  I noticed there was a five-pound note on the table, and went to pickit up. ‘Is this mine or yours?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s mine – for the moment,’ replied Christine. ‘But it will be Andy’s as soon as he calls round for it. I was expecting him earlier.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I paid Andy the other weekend all we owe him for the gardening.’

  Christine laughed. ‘This, I’m afraid, is for something quite different. It’s for that bet you had with him – the red-tails are back!’

  ‘What – here?’ I asked. I had hoped I’d never see those wretched squirrels again.

  ‘No, not here. You’d have heard about it long before if they were here. Andy called in to say that he had seen a flash of red tails down at Ted Poskitt’s farm – and, incidentally, he said there’s not much red on them any more. Apparently, they’ve taken up residence in the roof above an old tractor shed.’ She stood up and crossed to stir something on the stove.

  ‘I expect they’ll be back here soon enough, then,’ I said gloomily. ‘The farm’s not far away.’

  No,’ said Christine, who appeared amazingly calm about the return of the pesky creatures. ‘Andy thinks that they will winter there now, hibernate, and in the spring they will be so busy thinking about babies that they will probably stay where they are.’

  ‘Oh, good, that’s that then’, I said, mightily relieved.

  ‘Well, don’t forget you owe me for the fiver that’s going to Andy,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ I said, crossing the room to put my arms round her. ‘Nor will I forget that I am married to the most enchanting girl in t
he world.’

  Christine turned and nuzzled her face into my shoulder. ‘And that we have a wonderful son in Richard,’ she murmured, ‘who would like at least two brothers and perhaps a little sister as well.’

  And, in due course, that’s just what happened.

  A Dalesman to His Son

  Well, lad,

  I’ll tell thee summat:

  Life for me aint been no easy road to walk.

  It’s been a long hard journey –

  Mostly uphill all the way.

  At times it’s been a hot and dusty trail,

  Wi’ potholes and sharp stones beneath mi feet

  And a sweltering sun burning the backo’ mi neck.

  Sometimes it’s been knee-deep wi’ mud

  And thickwi’ snow and blocked wi’ fallen trees,

  With an icy wind blowing full in mi face.

  There were times when it’s been dark and dangerous

  And I’ve been lonely and afraid and felt like turning back.

  But all the time, lad,

  I’ve kept plodding on,

  And climbing stiles,

  And scaling walls,

  And seeing signposts,

  And reaching milestones,

  And making headway.

  So, lad, don’t you turn round,

  Don’t go backon the road

  For I’m still walking,

  I’m still walking,

  And life for me aint been no easy road to walk.