Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad

by Phinn, Gervase

  'I can't, sir,' I told him.

  Mr Williams looked perplexed.

  'Why ever not, boy?' he asked.

  'I'm a Catholic, sir,' I said, 'and I'm not allowed to attend Protestant services. The Deputy Head Boy has to read the lesson in assembly and take part in the Christmas carol concert at the parish church.'

  'Is that the only reason?' he asked.

  'Yes, sir,' I replied, sadly. I was on the point of tears.

  He thought for a moment and then, reaching into the drawer of his desk, produced a small yellow enamelled shield which he pinned on my lapel. 'Let me deal with that,' he told me. Then he shook my hand and congratulated me. I walked back to the classroom on clouds.

  One day, when I was in the fourth year, Mr Williams stopped me in the corridor. He looked at me with striking earnestness with those pale, all-seeing eyes before asking, 'Do you go to the theatre, young Phinn?'

  'I've been to the Regent, sir,' I told him.

  'To see what?'

  'The pantomime and some of the variety shows.'

  'Pah! Pantomime, variety shows,' he repeated dismissively. 'Have you seen plays, proper plays? Shakespeare, Ben Jonson? Marlowe? Ibsen?'

  'No, sir,' I replied.

  'Why not?'

  'I don't know, sir.' I met his gaze steadily.

  He drew in a slow breath. 'You ought to go to the theatre. Never mind the television and the cinema; it's the theatre - the window on to the world.'

  'Yes, sir,' I said as he disappeared down the corridor, his black gown fluttering behind him.

  I thought no more about it, but the following week Mr Williams stopped me again after assembly. 'Two tickets here,' he said, thrusting an envelope into my hand, 'for the Sheffield Lyceum. You'll enjoy it.'

  Spruced up and with a rather reluctant friend in tow, I took the bus to Sheffield the following Saturday night to see a production of Sheridan's classic comedy, The Rivals. I had been in a theatre before, when I had been taken to the pantomime as a small child and to the end-of-the-pier shows at Blackpool, but I had never been in a theatre as grand as the Lyceum. I was overwhelmed by the gaudy splendour of the great building with its ornate painted plaster ceiling, red-velvet-covered seats, great crimson curtains and highly decorated arch above the stage. The floodlit stage, the sparkle and glitter, the chattering audience that surrounded me, the actors in their colourful costumes and outrageous wigs, intoxicated me. I entered a different world.

  Mr Williams sat several rows in front with the school secretary, Mrs Atkinson (whom he later married). He nodded when he saw me. At fifteen I had my first real experience of theatre and sat on the edge of my seat, fascinated by the scenery, the language and the characters. There was bluff Sir Anthony Absolute, and the poisonous Sir Lucius O'Trigger, who mistakenly believes he is conducting a romance by letter with the luscious and headstrong seventeen-year-old heiress Lydia Languish when in reality it is with her elderly aunt, Mrs Malaprop, a woman who is to the English language what a mincer is to meat. Lydia is destined to discover in Mrs Malaprop's immortal words that 'all men are Bulgarians'.

  It was that small encounter and the intervention of Mr Williams that started my love affair with the theatre, and soon I was a regular theatre-goer. I would catch the bus to Sheffield to see the touring companies at the Playhouse and the Lyceum or watch the Rotherham Rep at the Civic Theatre. I saw classic dramas and farces, musicals and period pieces, and would often see Mr Williams in the expensive seats nodding at me approvingly.

  I think it was round about the time I was fifteen that the Broom Valley Lectures began, and Mr Williams encouraged the older boys in the school to attend these improving activities. These lectures, organized by a scholarly and good-humoured man called Mr Chislett, were given by celebrities and distinguished local people and held in the hall at my former primary school. Some of the lectures were mind-numbingly boring, others were way over my head, but others, like the lecture given by a great bearded doctor who growled from the stage, I remember well. Illustrated with wonderfully gruesome slides, he took his audience through a whole pathological journey describing the various deadly diseases. Another memorable lecture was given by Sir Mortimer Wheeler, one of the best-known British archaeologists of his day. He was a great believer that archaeology needed public support, and was assiduous in appearing on television and radio to promote his passion as well as touring the county lecturing. He stayed after his lecture to talk to the young people in the audience. I had never met a knight before and he appeared every inch what I imagined one would look like. There was Lady Isobel Barnett, a stalwart of the popular television programme What's My Line?, the local Member of Parliament, whose name I forget, and George Cansdale, the television vet. The lecturer who made the most impact on my young mind was the larger-than-life commentator, journalist and television pundit Malcolm Muggeridge. I recall his strange way of speaking - like a member of the Royal Family being strangled - his remarkable facial contortions, his incredible self-assurance and the way he spoke extemporaneously. He was a great orator, and his speech, like all memorable speeches, depended for its impact on telling little comments and anecdotes that seized the listeners' attention. There are phrases which still stay in my mind and which I wrote down, like, 'All of us admire people we don't like and like people we don't admire,' and 'People do not believe lies because they have to, but because they want to.'

  At about this time I started to write a weekly journal, a sort of writer's notebook, which I still have. If I am asked by children to give them some tips on how to become a writer I tell them: 'Read, read and read, for on the back of reading is writing, and keep a notebook to record things. And persevere.'

  In the notebook I kept, most of the speakers at the Broom Valley Lectures merited a few cursory entries but I must have been fascinated by Malcolm Muggeridge, for I scribbled a good page. Everyone seemed to come in for his acerbic comments: politicians, the royal family, the Russians, the Americans, the Church of England - he savaged them all. When quizzed from the floor about his unconventional views, he leaned back, pulled an incredible face as if he was suffering from chronic constipation and replied that he had never been 'conventional', for 'only dead fish swim with the stream'.

  Those lectures gave me such an insight into public speaking - how the presenter has to gain eye contact, pepper his or her talk with some humour, tell an anecdote to gain the listeners' attention, use timing and pace and vary the voice, be aware of the audience and, most importantly, if the audience starts to fidget and look bored, sit down. Public speaking, I learnt, is like drilling for black gold: if you don't discover oil pretty quickly, stop boring.

  35

  Mr Williams was what one might call 'a successful deviant'. I mean this in the kindest way. He was out-of-the-ordinary, a bit eccentric, certainly not your typical 1950s headmaster, severe and distant, whom you only saw when you were in trouble. T.W. was a teacher at heart and one who passionately believed in education, particularly for those pupils who happened to be ill-favoured or disadvantaged. He had a confirmed belief that all young people, whatever their circumstances, could be inspired by and deserve good-quality education, and he would constantly reiterate in assembly, 'Believe in yourselves, boys. Work hard and the world is yours. Anything is possible, if you really want to do it and you are prepared to strive for it.'

  Tim Williams started life in a Welsh mining village and possessed that 'hwyl' in no short measure, along with an extraordinary air of authority. Every pupil recognized this and was in awe of him, because he rarely stayed in his room and could be seen all around the building and, impressively, he knew the name of every boy in the school. He would pass a boy on the corridor and comment loud enough for all to hear.

  'Well done in the football yesterday afternoon, Kelly. I hear from Mr Davies that you played a corker.'

  'How's the piano coming along then, Sinclair? Another grade under the belt yet?'

  'Bit more effort I hear is needed in science, Braithwaite. Buck up, bo
y.'

  'I would like a quiet word with you, Mortimer. Morning break, my room.'

  In trying to recall my schooldays at South Grove I contacted my former geography master, Alan Schofield, who wrote back to me with a memory of Mr Williams:

  For me he was the very best headteacher I ever worked for. He was excellent at delegation, trusted his members of staff and had a genuine passion for education. There are many instances of his generosity I could mention but one in particular sticks in my mind. He and I were going to an evening meeting and crossing the church square in Rotherham when we came across a fairly disreputable-looking character. As we passed, the man stood up straight and said, 'Hello, sir.' Tim immediately recognized him as a former pupil and stopped and chatted to him affably until I reminded him that we were to attend the meeting and were running late.

  'Have you eaten?' he asked the man.

  'No, sir,' came the reply.

  'Then get yourself a good hot meal,' said Tim and pushed a ten bob note into his hand.

  I have never forgotten that act of kindness and the episode, for to me it symbolized his attitude to all people.

  Mr Williams was well ahead of his time in that he took bullying extremely seriously. The prevailing attitude in the 1950s was that if you were bullied you should 'hit him back and he'll leave you alone'. It never worked for me and I guess it didn't work for a whole lot of other children. Those who were bullied often kept quiet and endured the taunts and the violence in case they were thought of as being weak or cowardly. They avoided secluded parts of the school and stayed within sight of a teacher whenever they could, spent the lunch hour in the school library, arrived at school early, before the bullies, and delayed their walk home. I was lucky in that my bullying was only in primary school, was short-lived and I had an elder brother to defend me. At South Grove I can't recall any incidents of bullying. I'm sure there were some, but it just seemed to me to be a very happy place in which to learn.

  Prefects and House Captains took their responsibilities seriously, and each would have a group of boys to watch over and be a point of contact for. This mentoring system was way ahead of its time. Most bullying, Mr Williams must have been aware, would take place out of the teacher's orbit, so he was a stickler for staff being on yard duty and for constant checking of the pupils' toilets. The Head Boy and his Deputy would patrol the school at breaktimes and lunchtimes and each prefect would have an assigned area to supervise.

  When I worked as an OFSTED inspector, the toilets seemed out of bounds for teachers in some schools. I remember that in one large secondary school I visited the boys' toilets, which were disgraceful: there was no paper in the cubicles, no locks on the doors, no soap or paper towels and the place stank. On the back of one of the cubicle doors was a long list of names. 'Sign here,' it said at the top, 'if you think the head is a stupid or contemptible person.' It was, of course, the colloquial terminology that the graffiti writer had used for 'stupid or contemptible person', which I will not repeat, but I am sure you get my drift. I have to say that I was sorely tempted to add my name to the list.

  If there is to be smoking, drug-taking and bullying it is most likely to occur in the boys' toilets and Mr Williams knew this. Many was the breaktime when the headmaster would stride in to ensure we were there for the purpose for which the facility was intended.

  T. W. walked the school each morning after the registers had been taken, peering in through each classroom window to ensure that the scholars were working and the teachers teaching. He would repeat this practice just before lunch and near the end of the day. Sometimes he would stride through the classroom door and ask the teacher what we were doing and occasionally he would join in the lesson, to recite a poem, tell us an interesting fact related to the subject or ask a question. I suppose there must have been 'supply teachers' in those days but I cannot recall any. If a member of staff was away, Mr Williams invariably 'filled in'. I loved his quick wit, his wry sense of humour and I marvelled at his ability to tell a story. In those lessons he would take the opportunity to get to know about us and to discuss current affairs. Sometimes he would recite a poem, predictably by a Welsh poet - R. S. Thomas, Edward Thomas or Dylan Thomas - at other times he would relate a folk tale or tell a story.

  In one lesson he related the story of the duck that waddled around the farmyard quite content. A bemused visitor enquired why the duck didn't fly away. It seemed in good health, with the wings to fly, but it made no attempt to take to the air. The farmer explained that as a duckling it had been tied to a post. At first it had tried to fly but the cord held it down. After many, many attempts the duck gave up. When it was free of its restraining cord the duck never tried to fly. You see it did not think it could. 'It's the same with you boys,' said Mr Williams. 'Never assume you are incapable of doing something. You must always try, have a go, chance your arm, try your wings. You might surprise yourself.'

  I still see him now, with his pale face, dark smiling eyes and silver hair, and hear that deep resonant voice filling the classroom. Mr Williams was a generous, good-natured and dedicated man and will be remembered with great affection by the many pupils who attended South Grove.

  There was not one subject I disliked at school. I loved art with the gently spoken Mr Cooper (Harry), in his old brown overall and polished black shoes. The art room was an Aladdin's cave of skulls, feathers, stuffed animals, old clocks, bits of driftwood, shells, pebbles, rocks, broken pottery, tins, boxes and all manner of objects and artefacts which Mr Cooper had collected over the years and which he thought might be useful when we came to sketching and painting. I recall that once two student teachers from the Rotherham College of Art took us for a week while Mr Cooper was away. With the best of intentions they decided to tidy up the art room and get rid of much of the clutter. Mr Cooper was not best pleased when he returned. It wasn't long before the room was back in its disorganized state. In the after-school art club, when a cleaner commented on the difficulty of cleaning such a messy room, Mr Cooper, tapping the ash from his cigarette (he would always light up after official school hours but constantly warned us of the dangers of 'the noxious weed'), observed that 'Genius is seldom tidy, my dear Mrs Sutton.' What a school inspector would make of that jumble of detritus in this day and age, I can make a shrewd guess, but we produced some excellent pieces, many of which won national competitions and were displayed in the local library.

  It was not for Mr Cooper to have us copy out of books, trace figures, cut out shapes he had drawn, screw up tiny pieces of white tissue paper to stick on an outline of a sheep, or any of the other mindless activities I have sometimes witnessed in schools. We were shown how to mix paints, use a variety of pencils, mould clay, print fabrics and illuminate our calligraphy. We worked in inks, chalks, watercolours, poster paints, pencil, and always from first-hand experience, from the real thing, carefully observing, recreating in sharp detail, mixing the colours exactly.

  Alec, my brother, was his star pupil and went on to art school and a very successful career in painting and music. I remember that once at the after-school art club, when I was in the first year, Mr Cooper looked at my pathetic effort - a clumsy drawing of a green wine bottle and bowl of fruit - with a critical eye, a cigarette dangling from his lips. 'I think the skill with the paintbrush stopped with your brother,' he remarked sadly. When he had moved on to look at John Pacey's work, I screwed up my painting, threw it in the bin and left the room, angry tears stinging my eyes. The next morning a school prefect came to fetch me at registration. I was to report to Mr Cooper. I knew I would be in trouble for storming out of the room and not clearing up all the paints and brushes I had used. I waited outside the art room, rehearsing in my head what I would say to him. The door opened and the teacher emerged.

  'I am sorry for what I said yesterday,' Mr Cooper said quietly and rather shame-facedly. 'I was in the wrong to compare you with your brother. I thought what a foolish thing it was to say as soon as I had said it and I meant to have a word with you at t
he end of the session but you went home. I can quite understand why you left. Anyway, I'm sorry. I hope you will accept my apology.'

  'Yes sir,' I said. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest - a teacher apologizing to a pupil was unheard of.

  'Thank you,' he said, and held out his hand for me to shake.

  'It was pretty poor though, sir, wasn't it?' I asked him.

  'I'm afraid it was,' he replied, smiling.

  A teacher who admits to his mistakes and is prepared to apologize to a pupil gains infinitely more respect than one who is never in the wrong and sees the words 'I'm sorry' as a weakness. Mr Cooper went up greatly in my estimation that day.

  Mr Payne (Chipper), who taught woodwork, never compared me unfavourably with Alec but he kept a constant reminder of how much better my brother was in that subject. Just inside the door of the workshop was a large square cabinet displaying all the masterpieces created by the most talented pupils over the years. There were perfectly executed examples of dovetail and mortise and tenon joints, polished wooden bowls, table lamps, veneered chessboards, ebony paperknives, carefully crafted serviette rings and carved figures. In the centre, in pride of place, was a beautiful inlaid box in different coloured woods with brass hinges and catch. A small label told everyone that this was the work of Alec Phinn. I suppose Mr Payne thought that I would be 'a chip off the old block', but he was soon disabused when he examined my first pathetic efforts in wood. Over that first year the only 'masterpiece' I managed to produce was a shoeshine box in pine. It was a strange-looking container, with a lid and a raised piece in the shape of a shoe and a space beneath for the various polishes, dusters and brushes. 'Unusual' was Mr Payne's assessment when I had completed this work of outstanding artistry. I took it home and proudly presented it to my father, who promptly tried it out by resting his foot on the raised piece. The construction collapsed under the weight, much to the amusement of my brothers and sister, who laughed heartily. I stormed upstairs, refusing Alec's offer to try and repair it for me. I later threw the remains on the fire in the living room, watching the bits of wood crackle and burn.