On one expedition in the heat of midsummer the party of sixth-formers, led by Mr Taylor and his wife, trekked up a lonely moorland hill on the North York Moors, through the soft couch grass and sweet-smelling heather. Arriving at the brow, we peered down at the panorama before us and there on a soft grassy bed was a pair of lovers in a passionate embrace, the sun beating down on their naked limbs.
As we were ushered away from the summit by a red-faced Mrs Taylor, one cheeky student asked her husband, 'Is that what is meant by first-hand experience, sir?'
For my local study I chose the relatively affluent area of Sheffield called Broomhill. As the date for the deadline for handing in the project approached, I spent most Saturday mornings in the Sheffield public library researching, poring over old maps and newspapers and making notes. In the afternoon I would take a bus up to Broomhill and walk around the area taking photographs, visiting factories, parks and shops, undertaking residential and industrial surveys and interviewing people who lived and worked in the area. This was the part of the course that I really enjoyed.
I remember interviewing the manager of the Snuff Mill, a large prepossessing figure in a tweed suit who punctuated his answers by taking a pinch of the toxic powder between finger and thumb from a small silver box and sniffing it up his nose, below which was a small brown stain where the snuff had lingered. He then produced a large coloured handkerchief and sneezed into it loudly.
'You seem like a likely lad,' he told me when I had finished asking my questions. Then after a heavy clearing of his throat he asked me, 'Do you fancy a career in snuff?'
I replied that it had never occurred to me. 'You could do worse,' he told me. And I thought, yes, and I could do better.
On another occasion I was taking a photograph of a large imposing villa when the owner, an elderly man in a threadbare cardigan and old trousers, approached me and asked me what I was doing. When I said I was working on a geography project for school, he insisted on explaining to me the geological features of the area before disappearing into his house and returning with a booklet about Sheffield and its environs.
'You can have this,' he told me. 'It might be useful.' Then he added, 'I wrote it.'
I discovered later that the man in question was a former lecturer in geography at Sheffield University.
Mr Taylor was waiting outside the examination room to see how we had all found the A level paper when the big day arrived. I had revised pretty thoroughly and felt I had performed reasonably well, but I was disappointed that the one question Mr Taylor had predicted was very likely to come up - to 'discuss the reasons for the decline in the cotton industry in the southern states of the USA' - had not appeared in the paper.
'But it did,' he told me when I mentioned this to him later.
He opened the paper. The question read: 'King Cotton is dead! Discuss.' I learnt then just how tricky language can be in examinations and how the wording of a question can cause problems for the candidate in a totally unexpected way. I had never come across the expression before. I remember thinking it must be a famous American industrialist I had never heard of and went on to the next question.
It has been my unquestionable good fortune to have been taught by Miss Wainwright and Mr Taylor, to have had my mind stretched, my aspirations raised and my love of literature and the world around me developed. Whenever, as a schools inspector, I observed an outstanding sixth-form lesson, I often thought of those two teachers; I shall be forever grateful and remember their warmth, encouragement and commitment.
I returned to my past through an unexpected door. When my first Penguin book had been published and appeared in the best-seller list, I was invited back to present prizes and speak at my alma mater. It was strange walking down the echoing corridor at Oakwood with the headteacher, the familiar school smell of floor polish and disinfectant still lingering on the air, and up on to the stage. It was even stranger to be introduced as one of the school's most distinguished and successful former pupils.
The day I left the sixth form I accompanied my mother for the Stations of the Cross followed by Mass at St Bede's. Father Hammond, moving from one plaster tablet to another, each depicting Christ's journey to the Cross, genuflected and intoned:
Jesus who for love of me
Didst bear Thy cross to Calvary,
In Thy sweet mercy grant to me
To suffer and to die with thee.
It was a weekday and there was a sparse congregation largely composed of elderly women telling their rosary beads and muttering. Mum strode purposefully down the central aisle and sat in the very front pew, just as Mr Ryves had done years before. Her presence was unmistakable to Father Hammond, when he emerged from the presbytery and ascended the altar steps and began Mass. At each response my mother answered loudly and clearly. We went to communion together as the organist played the hymn, 'O, Bread of Heaven'. Father Hammond held up the host, paused, and placed it gently on my mother's tongue. She said later it was like coming home.
At the end of Mass we went together to the small Lady Chapel at the side of the altar and lit a penny candle. We lit it together and fixed it on a spike on the brass candleholder and made our silent prayer - for me it was to be successful in my exams. I guess my mother knew that the priest would send for her and he did. An altar boy approached us and told her that Father Hammond would like to speak to her. My mother walked with a determined step into the presbytery, and before the priest could utter a word she told him that I had now left school and she would be receiving communion once again. He could no longer forbid her to take the Eucharist.
The priest looked nonplussed.
'I was just going to ask you, Mrs Phinn,' he said quietly, 'if I might prevail upon you to play the piano at a Union of Catholic Mothers meeting next week.'
My mother and I laughed all the way home.
The following week there was another chance encounter with Mr Firth in All Saints' Square.
'Fancy coming to the Isle of Man again?' he asked. 'You could help supervise the lads and get a bit of practice in at being a teacher.'
I jumped at the chance. So, along with two friends from the sixth form, I joined the South Grove School party. I shared a small room with the other two sixth-formers and we were allowed infinitely more freedom, treated very differently by the teachers and given more responsibility. By this time, pending the necessary A level results, I was about to study for my degree and certificate in education and make teaching my career. Mr Firth was right. The experience of supervising the younger boys, checking the rooms, lending a sympathetic ear to the homesick, reading stories to the first years, refereeing the football and rugby matches, organizing board games and running the tuck shop was invaluable.
One meeting I shall never forget. I was on my way back from Port St Mary one early evening and passing the Station Hotel, when I saw Mr Firth, sitting by himself, his arms comfortably crossed on his chest, his head tilted towards the sun and with a pint of Guinness before him.
'Gervase!' he called out. 'Come and join me.'
I was no longer Phinny. I felt very grown-up.
I sat next to this incongruous figure in his baggy brown shorts, old walking boots, shapeless shirt and jungle hat. 'Ah,' he said, 'the unadmitted pleasure of solitary contemplation.' He took a gulp of beer. 'Results out soon then,' he said.
'Yes, sir.'
'Nervous?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You'll be all right,' he said, then asked, 'Are you eighteen?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then I'll treat you to a drop of the black stuff - an early celebration.'
It was my first half pint of Guinness and I didn't like it at all. It tasted bitter and unpleasant, but I sipped slowly and we sat there in silence for while. I wanted to say something but the words got caught in my throat.
'So,' he said, 'you are going to be a teacher?'
'Yes, sir, if I get the grades.'
'You'll get the grades.'
'Hope so.'
&nb
sp; He took another huge gulp of his Guinness and leaned back in the chair, the sun on his face.
'I'm glad you decided against becoming a bloody accountant. There's too many of those buggers about.'
I smiled. 'I think I maybe have something to offer as a teacher,' I said.
'I'm sure you have. You're good with the young ones. I think you'll make a fine teacher. You have the personality for it. You study for your degree and your teaching certificate, be determined, single-minded, don't let anything or anyone distract you from that course. At college you'll find many temptations and people a lot cleverer than you are and maybe sometimes you will feel like giving up, Well, don't.' He looked at me for a moment. 'And what do you think makes a good teacher?'
'Someone who believes that all children matter, whatever their background and ability,' I told him. 'Someone who builds up their self-esteem and expectation. I guess someone who likes the company of children and tries his best to make the lessons interesting. And someone who keeps an orderly classroom. A teacher like you, sir.'
Theo nodded but said nothing.
'Well, I had better be getting back,' I said. 'I'll not finish the Guinness if you don't mind. It's not really my cup of tea.'
Theo nodded.
'And thank you, sir,' I said.
'My pleasure.' He smiled. 'It's your round next time.'
'I meant thank you, sir, for all you have done for me. I always enjoyed your lessons and wouldn't have done as well in my exams without you. You know, I should never have gone in for teaching had you not persuaded me to stay on - ordered me to stay on, rather. I owe you a lot.'
He rubbed his chin. I could see he was moved by what I had said. This tough, frightening, eccentric figure was on the verge of tears. 'Well, you had better get back,' he said. 'Good luck with your results.'
That was the last time I saw Theodore Firth, sitting alone in the sunshine with a glass of Guinness in his hand.
I couldn't go into school to get my A level results and I had arranged that my friend Philip would send them on to me. I had never really felt a part of Oakwood. I was glad to leave and really didn't wish to return. I guess I always felt something of an outsider in the school, and saw my studying there as a stepping-stone to college to get a degree and train as a teacher. If I stayed the course in higher education, and I knew I had the determination and the perseverance to succeed, I would model myself on teachers like those at South Grove who worked tirelessly to restore self-esteem in those who considered themselves failures. They were men and women of vision and humanity dedicated to learning, ones who had made such a powerful impact in my life.
In the sixth form I had taken no part in the sports, attended none of the social activities, nor had I made much of an effort to mix with the other students. I had kept my head down and worked hard. I must have appeared a retiring, uninteresting and rather lonely figure. I was, of course, immensely fortunate to have had outstanding teachers like Mary Wainwright and Alan Taylor and shall be forever in their debt.
The A level results came as a great surprise. I got the highest grade in the group for English (a coveted grade A) and was awarded the English prize, and I achieved a grade B in geography, with a distinction in the project. Many years later I received a letter from my former geography teacher. In it Alan Taylor wrote:
I only allowed the most talented pupils to attempt historical geography pieces of work since having studied the reconstruction of place in time at university I knew the techniques and knew how difficult the study was. You succeeded beyond all expectations and set a standard that I expected other students to follow in any project that they attempted. Suffice it to say that I ultimately became the Chief Examiner in Geography for the JMB. You taught me, and set me standards for which I am eternally grateful.
It is difficult to describe my elation on hearing what I had achieved, and I felt that Mr Williams and the staff at South Grove Secondary Modern had been fully vindicated in having faith in youngsters like me who at eleven had been considered to be non-academic.
Once back from the Isle of Man, there followed a week of gentle teasing at home. I just could not take the smile off my face. Michael started referring to me as 'the prof ' or 'brainbox' and Alec, on a visit home from Ireland, talked to me in a mock affected accent, telling me I was now far too important to share the time of day with him. My father said little, but I could see in his eyes and expression how very pleased and proud he was of me. He had saved a cutting from a national paper which I still have today. It was written by the journalist Peter Laurie, who wrote in 1965 that 'to have been consigned to the limbo of the secondary modern is to have failed disastrously and very early on in life'. I, like many other youngsters who failed the Eleven Plus, some of whom I have met over the forty years I have been involved in education, proved him wrong.
My mother baked a date and walnut cake to celebrate and invited Mrs Rogers to join us for tea.
'I always knew he was artificated,' she said, raising the cup of tea to her lips.
45
Like many students wanting to earn some extra money, I worked on the post during the Christmas holidays. This was my first experience of the world of work. The Post Office employed casual labour at this time of year to help deliver the vast quantity of cards, posters, calendars and parcels and, along with many other students, I arrived early at the Central Post Office in Rotherham to be assigned a patch.
On the first day I accompanied the postman, a small, redhaired, jolly little Irishman with a pale moon face, around the area I was to take over from him for a couple of weeks. Paddy had an untipped cigarette almost permanently lodged between his lips, so when he spoke he hardly opened his mouth. He was good company, although I sometimes found it difficult to decipher what he said what with the Irish accent and the limited movement of the lips. Paddy showed me how to carry the heaving postbag without 'putting my back out', what buses to catch, the short cuts to take, about the difficult residents I would encounter and the dogs of which I should be wary. I was fortunate with my 'postman'. Other students were not so lucky with their mentors; some were very grumpy and unpredictable individuals and one, a 'joker' who liked to play tricks on the green students, was reputed to have put a couple of house bricks in the bottom of the postbag of his student replacement and the poor lad carried them all around the area until he discovered them underneath all the letters. Rumour had it that the boy in question had, the following day, after the prank and in a fit of pique, posted all the letters down a grate and spent the morning in the Ring o' Bells cafe in Rotherham.
My area was Brinsworth, a part of Rotherham I came to know very well, as four years later I was to secure my first teaching position when I qualified as an Assistant Teacher of English at the purpose-built Brinsworth High School. Brinsworth was one of the most desirable rounds, a short bus ride away from the town centre and blessedly free of hills and isolated dwellings. It was a densely populated area of well-kept semi-detached houses, older more modest terraces and council-owned prefabricated structures, so I didn't have a long trek. There was a small arcade of shops and the one public house: the Three Magpies.
On the second morning delivering letters I suffered my first injury. While posting a card through a letterbox the dog, no doubt crouching in wait, grabbed the envelope as I fed it through, pulling my hand with it. The sharp spring on the letterbox snapped on my fingers like the teeth of a shark. The following day I had a cunning plan. I selected the biggest and most impressive card, slowly fed it through the letterbox, waited until the dog got a grip, then yanked it back, smacking the beast's head on the door. Inside I could hear the creature going wild and ripping up the cards, followed by the shouts of the irate owner.
At one house where I was to deliver a calendar, the door was answered by a small boy in vest and underpants.
'Is your mummy in?' I asked him. He shook his head.
'Is your daddy in?' There was another shake of the head.
'Is there anyone else in beside you?'
I asked.
'There's our Joan,' he told me.
'Could you go and get her?'
'No.'
'Why?'
'I can't lift her out of the cot.'
There was a crescent of sheltered bungalows on my round. Each morning an elderly woman (I can't recall her name after so many years so I shall call her Mrs Smith) would be waiting at the door of her house to ask if there was anything for her. There never was. She was a friendly old lady, clearly very lonely, who just wanted to pass the time of day and have contact with another human being. I would be offered a drink but would politely refuse, explaining that I had a lot of cards to deliver. One very cold morning I had a smaller postbag than usual, had made good progress and could have just done with a warm drink, so I accepted Mrs Smith's offer. I was shown into a cluttered room with a stale and mouldy smell. There was a small artificial Christmas tree in the corner and on the mantelpiece was a line of Christmas cards. I knew, of course, that none of these had been sent that year.
Listening to this elderly lady talk, and hearing about her memories of the war, I realized that it is a truism that every one of us has a story to tell. They might not be massively exciting stories, dramatic, full of incident and intrigue, but nevertheless they give fascinating insights into the lives of ordinary people and should be preserved. Sadly many are not.
Mrs Smith had lived in that part of Sheffield which had suffered the greatest at the time of the Blitz of 1940 and 1941. She had vivid memories of when the Luftwaffe bombed the steelworks in Sheffield. Her street had been largely demolished and her house and all her possessions with it. She was able to describe accurately the scene of destruction, the terrible loss of life, the panic and terrible sense of loss, but there were moments of rare humour. For example, in a hurried effort to get dressed and into the air-raid shelter at the sound of the sirens she had put both legs through one opening in her bloomers and fell helplessly on the floor, totally incapacitated, until her calls for help attracted a neighbour who came to her rescue.
Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad Page 39