Road to the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  It sounds extremely daunting at first, but I soon learned that ‘his bark was worse than his bite’, that Mr Firth was a bit of a showman with unflinching opinions about the events of history. He was above all a performer, always master of his audience, always in command of the stage. Theo, like many impressive teachers, was something of an actor. I am sure he knew we were mimicking him when we were out of his sight, copying his rituals, his gestures, his way of speaking, his mannerisms, and I guessed he played up to his caricature.

  I well recall his description of the Battle of Culloden. The ill-equipped and bedraggled clansmen were dragged from their homes in feudal observance to their chieftains to follow Bonnie Prince Charlie. Armed with only claymores and farming implements, they met the long ranks of heavily armed and disciplined English redcoats, who knocked them over like ninepins. Several pupils were asked to come out to the front of the class with rulers to represent the bayonets of the English troops and the claymores of the Scottish. Theo demonstrated that each English soldier had been instructed to bayonet the opponent to his right, who would be lifting his sword arm and thus exposing his body. In my mind I saw and heard the vivid picture of the English army in crimson jackets marching in strict order, bayonets fixed, the periwigged officers on white horses, the skirling of the Highland pipes and the wild rush of the tartan-clad clansmen.

  Three incidents relating to Mr Firth remain in my mind. The first was when I was in the fourth year. A new boy arrived. We never found out exactly why he had suddenly appeared halfway through the O level course, but it was rumoured that he had been expelled from the grammar school for pinning a large bed sheet to the front of the school with ‘FOR SALE’ written in large letters on it. I shall call the new boy Desmond Smith, to save his embarrassment if he ever gets to read this. I guess now he is a highly successful businessman, entrepreneur or captain of industry, or some very upright judge or distinguished doctor. He was obviously very clever and the work he was set and the questions asked were no problem for him. But Desmond was a real handful, and I guess he had what these days a psychologist might diagnose as Attention Deficit Hyper-active Disorder. He just couldn’t sit still for a moment or keep his mouth shut. From the start the new boy didn’t seem at all in awe of Mr Firth. He would shout out, make comments and offer his unsolicited views, much to the teacher’s irritation. The quiet calm and orderly routine of his classroom was disturbed and the teacher did not like it. In fact Theo looked somewhat unnerved on occasions and grimaced angrily. When he was in trouble with Mr Firth, which was most of the time, Desmond would be made to stand at the front where he would shuffle, fidget and pull faces. Amazingly, Mr Firth never hit him.

  On one occasion Desmond returned to school after a few days’ absence. He sauntered into the classroom, the last in the line, and took his place next to me at the front.

  ‘And why were you off school, Smithy?’ enquired Mr Firth.

  ‘I was ill, sir,’ came back the reply.

  ‘Nothing trivial, I hope,’ said Mr Firth, reaching for a stick of chalk.

  On another occasion Mr Firth remarked rather caustically after he handed back our essays, ‘You know, Smithy, keep up this standard of work and you have a promising future behind you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Desmond, smiling widely as if he had been given a rare compliment.

  On one occasion the teacher asked the class why it was decided that Admiral Lord Nelson should be buried in Westminster Abbey. Desmond raised a hand. ‘Because he was dead, sir?’ Even Theo had to smile.

  Desmond seemed unperturbed by the sometimes scathing wit of the teacher, but he must have been waiting for the moment to strike. We were all to discover that Desmond had this amazing skill. He could throw his voice. On one memorable morning, when Mr Firth turned to write his copious notes on the board, there was a clucking noise. The teacher swung around and glared.

  ‘Who was that?’ he demanded. There was an eerie silence as the teacher surveyed the blank faces staring back at him. ‘I said who was that?’ he repeated, raising his voice. He scanned the room. ‘Who made that silly noise?’ There was still no answer. ‘Was it you?’ he asked Desmond, who had been placed next to me at the front where the teacher could keep an eye on him.

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ replied Desmond in the most outraged voice. ‘I don’t even like chickens, sir.’

  ‘Humph,’ grunted the teacher. Then he addressed the class. ‘I shall ask again, who made that silly clucking noise, and if the boy responsible does not own up, you will all remain in during break.’ Of course, we all knew who the culprit was but we kept quiet. No one likes a sneak in a school. So that morning break we were all made to stay in. The following lesson, each time Mr Firth turned his back on the class, there came the clucking noise. No one dared laugh but inside we were weeping with laughter. We remained in the classroom again at morning break. After he had kept us in for the fourth consecutive break, Mr Firth had to concede that this was not the best means of flushing out the phantom clucker because as soon as the bell sounded for the end of break we would all rush out to the toilets and then arrive late for the next lesson. Clearly Mr Firth’s colleagues had convinced him that there was a more effective method of discovering the mischief-maker.

  The next lesson and the one after that Mr Firth, much to our surprise, ignored the clucking. I guess he knew it was Desmond but the noise seemed to come from the back of the room, which must have confused him. Mr Firth made certain that there were few occasions when he had to turn his back on the class, for when we arrived at the history room for the last lesson of the week we found the notes already written on the blackboard. As we copied them into our exercise books, Mr Firth glowered at the front, legs apart, arms folded over his chest. Desmond was obviously getting to him. But sometimes during that lesson the teacher forgot, and as soon as his back was turned the phantom clucker struck again. The very next lesson was on the Monday morning and, through sharp observation, Mr Firth discovered the culprit. He was patrolling the room, clutching a large textbook and ostensibly looking over our shoulders to ensure we were writing neatly, when there was a faint ‘Cluuuuckkkk, cluuuuckkkk, cluuuuckkkk.’ Mr Firth ignored it and continued to stroll from desk to desk. ‘Cluuuuckkkk, cluuuuckkkk, cluuuuckkkk,’ came the noise again. By now, after several lessons of clucking, we pupils had all got quite used to the noise, so we carried on writing. ‘Cluuuuckkkk, cluuuuckkkk, cluuuuckkkk,’ came the noise again just as Mr Firth arrived at Desmond’s desk. The teacher raised the great tome and brought it down with a resounding thud on the boy’s head with the words ‘Cock-a-doodle-do!’ That was the last we saw of Desmond. The next lesson Mr Firth warned us, I think with a twinkle in his dark eyes, ‘And anyone else who has the mistaken belief he is a chicken or any other farmyard creature, I suggest he thinks on.’

  The second memorable moment was when a parent came up to school to ‘get him’. I was in the fifth year and a prefect on duty after school, standing at the top of the stairs by the science labs making sure the pupils kept to the left, didn’t run and left the school quickly and quietly. Most of the pupils by this time had gone home and I was about to go to the art club when the excited voice of another prefect came up the stairs.

  ‘Oi, Phinny, tha’d berrer come and see this!’

  I ran down the stairs, three at a time, to see a teacher blocking the door as a very large and angry man, furiously red-faced, attempted to enter the school. Mr Price, Head of Religious Education and a very inoffensive and quiet-natured man, was attempting to reason with the aggressive visitor.

  ‘I’ll cut ’is throat!’ the man was shouting. ‘So ’elp me, I’ll cut ’is throat! I’ll murder t’bastard!’ Then, catching sight of me, he ordered, ‘Thee theer, thee wi’ bloody badge on thi blazer, go and tell that theer Mester Firth to get down ’ere now. I wants to see ’im! When I gets ’old of that bastard, I’ll cut ’is bleedin’ throat, I swear I will.’

  ‘You will do no such thing!’ snapped Mr Price in my direction.
‘Go and fetch Mr Williams, and be quick about it.’

  I rushed up the stairs, three at a time, down the top corridor and into the school office where I managed to gabble out to Mrs Atkinson, the school secretary, what was happening. Mr Williams, who had clearly heard my account, emerged from his office which was the adjoining room, putting on his black academic gown in the process. He told Mrs Atkinson to call the police and to gather any other male members of staff who might still be on the premises and tell them to report to him at the school entrance. The headmaster then strode along the corridor and down the stairs, his gown billowing out behind him, to confront the aggressive visitor, with me at his heels trying to keep up. I wasn’t going to miss this for the world.

  I remember the headmaster was incredibly calm as he informed the furious parent that Mr Firth had gone home and that the matter about which he was so upset could be discussed and resolved when he had calmed down. The man was not placated and told Mr Williams, stabbing the air with a finger, to ‘move out o’ mi way or I’ll move thee!’ The headmaster informed the man calmly that he would have to get past him to get into the school and he stood his ground. I could see Mr Price tensing up for a fight. Disappointingly, no fight ensued. After more shouting and cursing, fist-shaking and spitting, the man departed.

  It was the last history lesson before we went on study leave to revise for our O levels. We lined up as usual, filed into the room, sat at our desks, took out our books for the last time, and then there was a sudden eruption of laughter from the boys nearest the window. There, flying merrily in the wind at the very top of the flagpole, was a large pink bra.

  ‘Quiet!’ boomed Mr Firth, striding to the window. He turned to face us and we all went quiet. We expected him to explode with anger but he didn’t. He pointed to the smallest boy in the class. ‘Johnny, go down to that flagpole and remove that offending piece of lingerie.’

  No one, in my experience, argued with Mr Firth and the boy dutifully ran out of the classroom.

  A minute or two later Mr Firth opened the window, stuck his head out and shouted, ‘Lower it down!’

  ‘Can’t, sir,’ came back the reply from the boy, ‘t’rope’s bust.’

  ‘What?’ roared the teacher.

  ‘Rope’s been yanked off, sir. I can’t gerrit down.’

  ‘Well, climb up the flagpole and remove that brassiere!’

  The idea today of a pupil shinning up a flagpole is unthinkable, but in those days no one gave it a second thought.

  We had to remain in our seats but eventually the boy’s head could be seen appearing at the window as he shinned up the pole. We were itching to get out of our seats to get a closer look. The boy fastened himself like a limpet to the top of the flagpole and reached up to get the bra. In one great yank he pulled it loose and held it up in triumph. This was accompanied by loud cheers.

  ‘Quiet!’ ordered the teacher.

  The bra was brought back to the classroom and placed on Mr Firth’s desk. It was a substantial garment of a bright salmon pink, and as it lay before the pile of books it looked like two mountains. The boy who had retrieved the garment was smirking fit to burst but Mr Firth ignored him. ‘Does this belong to anyone?’ he asked, holding up the bra. There was a strange quaver in his voice.

  Trying desperately to stifle our laughter we all shook our heads and replied in unison, ‘No sir.’ Then there was a splutter from the back, a stifled giggle and a snuffling as we all tried to stem our mirth.

  Then something quite amazing happened. Mr Firth blinked, his jaw tightened, he bit his lips momentarily and he forced a small smile. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. It was a loud, deep-throated belly laugh and we all joined in. How we laughed that morning. It was so loud and spontaneous that Mr Williams, on his ritual tour of the school, appeared at the door. We stopped laughing immediately and sat up at the sight of the headmaster. Mr Williams entered the room. We all stood. He caught sight of the large pink bra and looked baffled.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mr Firth?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfectly, headmaster,’ came the reply. ‘Perfectly.’

  39

  I considered myself very lucky as a boy because, unlike some of my friends, I had two holidays in summer. There was my week in Blackpool, and then I went with the school on summer camp to the Isle of Man for a full fortnight. A hundred boys aged eleven to fifteen, ten members of staff, some with their wives and families, the school cooks and Vic Globe, the school caretaker, with his wife Dorothy and children Ray and Jane, would set off in three coaches from the top of Alma Road and journey to Liverpool, where we would take the ferry to Douglas, then another coach to Port Erin, and spend two memorable weeks on the small island. There were no seat belts on the coaches and the smaller boys sat three to a seat. Teachers would be locked up these days for such supposed irresponsibility, but this was in the 1950s and there was little said about health and safety.

  If you were on Mr Dyeball’s coach or Mr Clark’s you had a full three-hour journey to chatter, play games or sleep (we had to set off at the crack of dawn to miss all the traffic). We only sang (‘Ilkley Moor Baht ’at’, ‘She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain’ (the clean version), ‘Ten Green Bottles’ and ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’), on the way home. Eddie and Nobby sat in the front seats with their wives, and provided we didn’t get out of our seats, block the driver’s rear view mirror, wander up and down the aisle or make too much noise we were left alone. It was a different matter in Mr Firth’s coach. He would commandeer the microphone from the driver and give a running commentary all the way, pointing out places and buildings of historical interest.

  ‘We are now passing from the White Rose County to the Red. Some of you will recall what I taught you about the Wars of the Roses. The bloodiest battle of the war took place at Towton near here where the river ran red with blood’; ‘It is said that Cardinal Wolsey, on his journey south to meet Henry VIII after his unsuccessful attempt to arrange a divorce for the King, stopped at Caywood Castle which is a stone’s throw from here.’ Much as I liked history, this was too much like school. On one journey to Liverpool the bus driver must have been equally irritated by this constant stream of historical information and surreptitiously flicked the switch, turning the teacher off. Mr Firth, oblivious of the fact that no one could hear him, rattled on regardless while behind the seats we all played our games and whispered to each other.

  I have never found it at all surprising that many people have a nostalgic feeling about islands. In their minds these bits of land set in vast empty oceans have a mystique all of their own. The Isle of Man was as different from Rotherham as any place could be, with its clear azure seas, great towering cliffs, quaint stone cottages, great castles, long promenades, miniature steam trains and cats without tails.

  On the ferry from Liverpool to Douglas we sometimes faced high seas. While most of us were leaning over the side or in the toilets heaving and splashing, with the sea heaving and splashing outside, Theo would be in the bar with a bacon sandwich and a pint of Guinness. On route from Douglas to Port Erin we passed over the Fairy Bridge. We all had to shout, ‘Moghrey mie, Vooinjer Veggey – Good morning little people,’ or we would have rotten weather. On our way back, after two gloriously sunny weeks, we would have to chant, ‘Fastyr mie, Vooinjer Veggey’ – ‘good afternoon little people’ and then, ‘Gura mie – Thank you.’

  We stayed at Castle Rushen Primary School, a squat, grim, grey building at the crossroads to Port Erin and Port St Mary, sleeping in the classrooms. The teachers’ rooms, down one end of the corridor, and the cooks’ rooms, down the other, had iron bedsteads, squares of carpet and curtains at the windows. We had none of these luxuries. Our accommodation was basic to say the least. The classrooms had been cleared of the heavy lidded desks, hard-backed chairs and cupboards and we set up our canvas camp beds in rows on the hard wooden floor. There was no place for modesty and no chance of privacy, and any peeping Tom so inclined could peer through a classroom window at
any time of day or night to see twenty boys in different stages of undress.

  We had roll call at 8.30 a.m. and by that time had to have made our beds, tidied our rooms and be washed and dressed and in the school hall for a hearty cooked breakfast. Then the day was ours to do whatever we wanted, provided we arrived back at the school for roll call at 5.00 p.m. During the day there would be a member of staff on duty at the school and he would organize football, tennis, cricket and various other games for those boys who preferred to stay. I was always keen to be out and about with my friends. There was so much to do: travel around the island on the miniature steam trains, sunbathe on the beach, ride on the Laxey Wheel, visit the castle at Douglas, swim in the sea, take a fishing trip out in the harbour, explore caves, climb up the cliffs to Bradda Head, hire a bicycle and cycle (without a helmet) along the narrow country roads. Such a holiday these days would be unthinkable. Every school trip organizer now has to be qualified, have first aid training and carry out a rigorous risk assessment prior to any school trip taking place. The idea of letting 100 unsupervised adolescent boys loose on a small island for two weeks in this day and age is frankly laughable. And yet nothing happened in all the five years I went on summer camp. No one got into trouble with the police, there was no vandalism, bad behaviour, serious accidents or drunkenness. No one scrawled graffiti on walls, stole from the shops or caused a nuisance. It was expected that we would behave. The very thought of having to face Mr Firth, now in his holiday gear of knee-length shorts, thick leather belt with silver buckle, khaki shirt and jungle hat (it was rumoured he had been a commando in the war and had seen off a whole troop of Japanese soldiers single-handedly with the knife he used for sharpening pencils in class), with his round weathered face and piercing eyes, was enough to keep us out of bother. Of course, Mr Firth’s graphic description of what happened to miscreants on the island should they come before the Manx courts and be sentenced for punishment – a severe thrashing with a thin cane called a birch – might have had something to do with our exemplary behaviour.