Road to the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  Secondary school was very different from the Juniors. Not only were there more pupils and bigger buildings, no girls and a uniform, but we studied subjects rather than topics and had homework. All the boys were addressed by their surname and in the morning the form master would mark the register by shouting out our names, to which we would answer, ‘Here, sir.’ There was only one boy in the school who was referred to by his first name and that was John Balls.

  Some writers, describing their schooldays, dwell on their unhappiness at the hands of bullies and the cruelty at the hands of teachers. They speak of board rubbers thrown across the classroom, trouser bottoms smoking after a vicious caning, sarcastic, incompetent and sometimes sadistic teachers. Well, my schooldays were very different.

  Of course, being the only Roman Catholic in the entire school taught me what it felt like to be a member of a minority. My faith (and my name) certainly gave me a sense of being different. I found myself excluded from both R.E. lessons and daily morning prayers. Father Hammond was quite clear when speaking to my mother that I should not attend Protestant services. I laughed a little more heartily than other listeners when I heard a joke many years later, for there was a tad of truth in it.

  SISTER MARIE-CLARE: Now, my child, what do you hope to become when you leave the convent?

  SCHOOLGIRL: A prostitute, sister.

  SISTER MARIE-CLARE (shocked): Good gracious, my child, you can’t aspire to that.

  SCHOOLGIRL: I’ve always wanted to be a prostitute, sister.

  SISTER MARIE-CLARE (relieved): Thank the Lord. I thought for a moment you said Protestant.

  It seems bizarre nowadays that such a restriction for Catholics, prohibiting them from attending non-Catholic services, was in place at that time. Was it thought by some priests that by attending a Protestant service Catholics might very well be lured away from Rome or that they would be somehow tainted? If this was the case, it was not in the spirit of the Vatican Council of 1959, which reshaped the face of Catholicism for the better. Pope John XXIII, who instigated this reformation, wished to break through the barriers that divided people, to strengthen the bonds of mutual love and help people to learn to understand one another. He was a remarkable and innovative Pope. Towards the end of my teenage years this began to bear fruit. Some years later, when Robert Runcie was enthroned in Canterbury Cathedral as the archbishop, Cardinal Hume took a formal part in the service and read the Epistle. No one could have envisaged such a thing when I was growing up: a Cardinal taking part in a Protestant service. Cardinal Hume, in his address, made reference to the unprecedented fellowship between the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church and referred to one of the many tombs in the great abbey, the one shared by the Catholic Queen Mary I and her sister, the Protestant Queen Elizabeth I. ‘Two sisters,’ he said, ‘estranged, not on speaking terms, misunderstanding each other.’ He continued, ‘Should we not learn from the inscription on their joint tomb, which bears the words: “Consorts both in throne and grave, here we rest, two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in hope of one resurrection”?’ I guess Father Hammond was turning in his grave. Sadly, in the 1950s there were few such inter-Church relations.

  Frequently I had to explain to the other boys why I was not allowed into assembly, and why I spent my time sitting in the English room reading or in the corridor when it was time for R.E. I found it difficult and at times embarrassing to do so, for at that age I wanted to be one of the group, the same as they were, not this boy with the funny name and the strange religion. When I was a school inspector, I felt a deep sympathy with the child whom I would discover in the school library sitting alone, not permitted by his or her religion to attend school services and assemblies.

  There was, as in all secondary schools of the time, a rigid streaming system in operation. Boys were grouped according to their academic records sent from primary school, their Eleven Plus results and the battery of tests that the new boys were given in the first week. Top form boys had to be pretty good at every subject, good all-rounders. There were four streams, and at first I was placed in Form 1B. I settled in well and was quite happy there but my mother was not. Despite my protests, she made an appointment to see Mr Williams, told him I could cope in the top form and asked him to give me a chance. She must have been immensely persuasive, because give me a chance he did, and one Monday morning I arrived at school to be told by my form teacher to take my things into the next classroom and join Mr Schofield and 1A.

  In the corridor later that morning Mr Williams stopped me. ‘Now, lad,’ he said, his eyes taking on an unmistakable intensity, ‘don’t you be letting your parents and me down. Endeavour, perseverance, industry, that’s what’s needed. You have to earn that place in the top class.’

  At home that evening my mother explained that I had to prove her right, to work hard, apply myself, do my homework and not let her down. It is interesting to read my school report at the end of each year, which shows my mother’s confidence in me was well-placed. I worked hard and flourished under the direction of talented and enthusiastic teachers, remaining in the ‘A’ stream right through my secondary school career. I invariably came top or near the top in my favourite subjects of English, mathematics, history and geography, and the teachers’ comments informed my parents that I was making ‘excellent progress’, that I ‘continued to give 100 per cent effort’, and that I ‘read widely and intelligently’ and ‘would do well’. My final school report from Mr Cooper, my form master, indicates how I thrived and was determined to succeed in my studies.

  Gervaise (sic) has worked extremely hard in all the subjects that he takes and has achieved excellent results. He studies with intelligence and common sense and has the ambition necessary to succeed. His examination reports are most praiseworthy. He is a most painstaking and fastidious worker and is never satisfied with anything below his best. He takes a most lively and active part in all form and school activities, takes all his responsibilities as Deputy Head Boy most conscientiously and is a valued asset to the school. His cheerful co-operation is much appreciated.

  I always felt at secondary school that the headmaster took a particular interest in me. On his daily walk around the building he would often stop to talk to the boys and would enquire of me how I was getting on with my work and what I was reading at the moment. He was a lover of poetry and would frequently declaim snatches of verse.

  In the final year at the school the prefects were selected and I was told to report to the headmaster’s room. To my surprise I was asked to be Deputy Head Boy.

  ‘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, boy.’

  ‘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 shoul
d ‘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.