Now, here I was again with Harry, the Job’s comforter par excellence, describing how once again I had put my foot well and truly in it. ‘Tha’s probably just pulled down a building of gret ‘istorical hinterest,’ he remarked casually.
‘It was derelict,’ I said feebly.
‘Sometimes we get American Methodists dropping in to t’village to have a look at it. I don’t suppose they’ll be calling in to view a wall even though it used to be an ‘istorical shrine.’ I was speechless. Then Harry rubbed more salt in the wound. ‘On t’anniversary of Wesley’s death, t’local minister, Reverend Jessop, held a service up here, as I recall. Old Mrs Olleranshaw, who ‘ad cottage afoor thee, was very big in t’chapel and asked t’minister to come out and conduct a special service. They do say that Wesley himself preached ‘ere and that –’
‘Mary Queen of Scots slept here on the way down to her execution and Guy Fawkes hid in the cellar!’ I cried in desperation.
‘I don’t know owt about that,’ said Harry, looking puzzled. ‘But I s’pose they might ‘ave.’
‘Please, Harry,’ I pleaded, ‘don’t go on.’
‘I reckon you’ll be having a visit from George Hemmings. He’s on t’Parish Council tha knaas and is very keen on preservation. Then I expect ‘istorical people from York will be up to see thee. And it won’t be long afore Horace Wither-spoon starts tekkin up t’case, pokin’ his fat nose in and causin’ trouble. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if tha were prosecuted and fined.’
‘Harry!’ I snapped. ‘Please do not go on about it. I’m feeling pretty bad about this as it is.’
‘I won’t say another word,’ he said, ‘but I reckon tha’ll be even more unpopular in t’village when they ‘ears abaat this.’
‘Yes, I suppose I will,’ I sighed.
‘They’ll be thinking that tha wants t’school closed so tha can knock it down to use t’bricks for an extension to t’cottage.’
13
‘Well, I must say, you might have done your homework, old boy.’ It was Monday morning in the office and I had just told Sidney and David about my disastrous weekend and the demolition of the Methodist chapel. Sidney was his usual unsympathetic self and I soon wished I had kept the whole sorry business to myself. ‘This county is crammed full of old ruins,’ he announced, leaning back on his chair and placing his hands behind his head. ‘You can’t turn a corner without finding an abbey or priory or castle or some medieval church or other. It’s not Milton Keynes, you know. You should have guessed this charming and antiquated little construction would be of historic interest.’
‘It was a ruin, Sidney,’ I told him, ‘not a charming and antiquated little construction, as you put it. It was a broken-down ramshackle building with two walls and no roof. I’ve looked through the deeds of the cottage and there is nothing about any Methodist chapel on my property.’ I was trying to convince myself that I was blowing things out of all proportion. ‘It’s called an outbuilding and if it were a listed building it would say so – wouldn’t it?’
‘It’s in the National Park, your cottage, isn’t it?’ remarked Sidney, leaning even further back in his chair.
‘Yes, it is. Why?’
Sidney sucked in his breath dramatically. ‘Well, they slap preservation orders on everything from a pigsty to a cesspit in the National Park. You can’t change a tile on your roof without permission. You know, I did warn you, Gervase, before you bought that crumbling pile that you would be far better off in a smart riverside apartment or a modern town house in Fettlesham, within walking distance of the office. Now, I’m no expert on the matter –’
‘Well, there’s a first,’ remarked David, looking up from his papers and over the top of his spectacles. ‘You’re an expert on every other blessed thing.’
‘But, what I will say,’ continued Sidney blithely, ‘is that I well recall the hoo-hah when they knocked down those derelict outside toilets at the little school at Tarncliffe. You know the school, Gervase, next door to the rather attractive little grey-stone Primitive Methodist chapel where John Wesley was reputed to have preached. They were pre-Victorian, by all accounts, these privvies, and the only examples of their kind in Yorkshire, possibly in the country. Everyone thought they were an eyesore – the headteacher, Miss Drayton, her assistant, that rather fussy Mrs Standish, all the governors and parents. They were small, smelly, damp and disgusting and they harboured rats, just like your old building. Well, no sooner were they down than up jumps the local historical society and claims they were unique and had been used by many a famous person passing through, if you will excuse the unintended pun, on their way to York and were of unimaginable historical importance. They were hoping to put up one of those blue plaques saying, “Emily Brontë sat here”.’
‘Take no notice, Gervase,’ David reassured me. ‘Nothing will come of it, mark my words. He’s just winding you up. You might give old Perkins in the County Architects’ Department a ring, though, to be on the safe side. He’s a very good-hearted sort is old Perkins. Been in the county for ever. He’s big on old ruins, Fellow of the Royal Historical Society and he’s a Methodist lay preacher. If anyone will know about this chapel, he will.’
‘I would advise you to keep very quiet,’ said Sidney. ‘Mentioning it to someone like old Perkins is inviting trouble. If I were you, I would admit nothing or blame vandals. They’ve managed to incapacitate the nuclear fall-out shelter in Colling-ton, from what I hear. A chapel would be a piece of cake for them after that. I would just plead ignorance.’
‘I don’t know what has got into you today, Sidney,’ said David, smiling. ‘You freely admit you are not an expert and then you start pleading ignorance. Are you on some sort of medication?’
Sidney didn’t deign to answer.
‘I seem to be having a real run of bad luck at the moment,’ I told my colleagues. It was true: first it was King Henry’s, then the Hawksrill school closure, then the rats, then the chapel and my knee was no better either. Whatever next? I hadn’t long to wait.
The first visit of the week was to Manston Church of England Parochial School, a quaint, two-storey stone building which nestled in a small village on the extensive estate of Lord Marrick. Valentine Courtnay-Cunninghame, 9th Earl Marrick, Viscount Manston, Baron Brafferton, MC, DL, was one of the most colourful and unusual characters it had been my pleasure to meet; a delightfully cheerful, good-natured and somewhat eccentric peer who loved the Dales as passionately as any farmer. This portly, red-cheeked character with his bombastic walrus moustache and thick hair shooting up from a square head looked as if he had walked straight out of the pages of an historical novel.
The last time I had visited the school I had accompanied Lord Marrick, who was the Chairman of the Governing Body. The children had been fascinated when this outlandish-looking figure had marched through the classroom door, moustache bristling, and thundered, ‘Morning, children!’ We had sat together beneath a small marble plaque bearing the name of one of his distinguished forebears – the Dowager Countess Marrick – who had endowed the small school a century or so earlier.
As I sat in the corner of the same classroom now, beneath the same marble plaque, making a few preliminary notes on the state of the building and the display of work, I became conscious of a small boy, aged about seven or eight, observing me from a little way away. I could feel his eyes taking in every detail of my appearance. Eventually he approached me.
‘May I ask you what you are doing?’ he inquired.
‘I’m writing about your school,’ I replied, looking up and smiling.
‘I see.’
‘I’m a school inspector.’
‘Yes, I know. Our teacher told us you would be visiting us today and that you would be looking at our books and listening to us read.’
‘I’m Mr Phinn,’ I told him.
‘Oh, I’m Benedict,’ he replied, holding out a small hand which I shook formally.
‘Well, Benedict, shouldn’t you be getting on with your wo
rk?’
‘I’ve done it. When we’ve finished our writing, we’re allowed to select a book from the Reading Corner. I was on my way there when I thought I’d stop and say hello.’
His manner and speech were amusingly old-fashioned for one so young.
‘Well, that’s very nice of you, Benedict,’ I said.
‘Mrs McGuire – she’s our teacher, but you probably know that already – well, Mrs McGuire says there are much better words to use than “nice”.’
‘I’m sure she’s right,’ I said, chuckling. ‘I’ll try to remember in future.’
‘And that there are much more interesting words to use in our stories than “said”. Do you like stories, Mr Phinn?’
‘I do,’ I replied.
‘Would you like to see some of mine?’
‘Perhaps later, Benedict,’ I told him. ‘I’m a little busy at the moment.’
‘Righto, I’ll get along then and choose a book. I like poetry, you know. I love the rhymes.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Do you know, Mr Phinn, we’ve had a very interesting conversation, haven’t we?’
‘We have, Benedict,’ I replied, ‘indeed we have.’
He then patted me gently on the arm and said, before departing for the Book Corner, ‘We must do lunch sometime.’
*
One reason for my visit that morning was to see the recent changes which had been made to the building to accommodate a disabled pupil who had recently started at the school. Ramps had been built, doors had been widened to allow the wheelchair to pass through, classrooms had been re-arranged and a disabled toilet and a stair lift had been installed. It all looked very impressive and the headteacher and her assistant were well pleased.
I met the child in question over lunch. She was a small girl of about seven or eight, a cheerful, chattery little thing with curly red hair and a wide smile. I soon discovered that she was as bright as a button.
‘Mr Phinn, are you very important?’ she asked between mouthfuls of lasagne.
‘No, not very,’ I replied.
‘Mrs McGuire told us that you were a very important person.’
‘I think she was exaggerating, just a little bit.’
‘My grandpa’s a very important person,’ the child told me.
‘Is he?’
‘He wears a wig, you know, and a long red dress.’
‘Does he?’
‘And shiny shoes with high heels and big silver buckles on the front.’
‘I see.’ I had visions of a drag queen but I suspected I knew what her grandfather did.
‘He’s a judge, you know,’ she informed me.
‘Yes, I thought he might be.’
‘And he locks naughty people up.’ She took a gulp of water from the plastic beaker. ‘My daddy’s not a judge, but he’s very important.’
‘Is he?’
‘He cuts people up,’ the little girl said, nodding gravely.
‘I see.’ Now I had visions of Jack the Ripper but I guessed her father was probably a surgeon.
‘He’s a sort of doctor, you know,’ she told me.
‘Yes, I thought he might be. But what about you?’
‘Oh, I’m not very important,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Well, I think you are and I bet your teachers and your parents think you are too and that grandpa of yours. I reckon he thinks you are very special as well.’
‘My first name is India and I’m named after a country,’ she told me.
I leaned across the table and whispered confidentially, ‘Well, my first name is Gervase and I’m named after a yoghurt.’
The child giggled. ‘You’re not really named after a yoghurt, are you? People aren’t named after yoghurts.’
‘When my mother was expecting me, India,’ I told her, putting on a very serious expression, ‘she had a passion for a particular French yoghurt called “Gervais”, and for broccoli. I think I did pretty well with the name she picked, don’t you?’
‘I know what you are, Mr Phinn,’ said India, giggling and pointing a little finger at me.
‘Do you?’
‘You’re like my grandpa, Mr Phinn. You’re a tease. He takes me for long walks and tells me about all sorts of things, my grandpa, and sometimes he teases me, like when he said he was swallowed by a whale and it took him to the South Seas and he was stranded on a desert island and met these pirates. He’s a lot of fun, my grandpa.’
I bet he’s not a lot of fun in the courtroom, I thought to myself, in his wig, long red dress and buckled shoes. There would be no teasing then. ‘And do you like to be teased, India?’
‘Yes, I do rather, it’s fun. That’s if it’s not cruel. Grandpa says you shouldn’t tease people about the way they look.’
‘No, it’s not nice to tease somebody in that way,’ I agreed.
‘Mrs McGuire says there are much better words to use than “nice”, Mr Phinn.’
‘So I believe,’ I replied. ‘Benedict’s already had a word with me about that.’
‘And grandpa says that we’re all different and that’s why the world is such a wonderful place. “Big or small, short or tall, black or white, dark or light, God loves us all.” That’s what grandpa says.’
‘He’s a very wise man, your grandpa, India,’ I told her.
‘They’ve put special ramps in the school for me, you know,’ said the little girl proudly.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And a special toilet and a stair lift.’
‘And are you managing to use them all right?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, they’re fine, but the toilet is a bit of a nuisance. You see, they’ve made the toilet seat about as high as the seat on my wheelchair. Well, my wheelchair has foot-rests which are quite high off the ground. That means when I’m sitting on the toilet my legs sort of dangle down. It’s quite uncomfortable. Then the washbasin is on the wall opposite to the towel. I wash my hands and then have to wheel over the other side to dry my hands. I think it would have been a good idea for the builders to have had a word with me before they put the toilet in.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But, I’m very pleased really and everybody’s very nice here – whoops! I mean very friendly. It’s people outside school that get on my nerves a bit.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘I just wish they would believe me when I tell them things.’
‘What do you mean, India?’ I asked.
‘If I’m in my wheelchair in a shop and someone comes along, a grown-up that is, and says, “Are you all right?” and I say, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” then they always say, “Are you sure?” and I say, “Yes. I’m sure.” Then I start to wheel myself along and they say, “Here, let me help you,” and I say, “I’m all right, really. I can manage.” And then they say, “It’s no bother,” and then they push me along.’
‘Well, India,’ I told her, ‘you’ve given me quite a lot to think about.’ And indeed she had.
I have met a number of disabled youngsters over the years and, without exception, they have been good-humoured and extremely positive. The problems faced by India, of course, are not unusual. Access is often denied to those with disabilities and they face a whole raft of challenges and hurdles, in particular achieving the independence they so desire. The difficulties faced by the disabled are not of their own making; they are the result of the way they are treated by the able-bodied.
In my first year of teaching, I remember meeting John, a seventeen-year-old with cerebral palsy. John’s condition made it hard for him to control his muscles and movements and sometimes he would shout out involuntarily. He was a highly intelligent boy with a wicked sense of humour and a permanent smile. He would career down the corridors of the school like a charioteer at the Roman games, totally fearless and at a frightening speed. He took part in as many sports as he could, acted in the school drama productions, sang in the choir and annihilated anyone foolish enough take him on at chess. He despised the word “spastic” with a
ll its negative connotations.
I recall one memorable occasion, in a General Studies lesson, when we were debating the depiction of people on the television and in films. John, as always, brought a fresh perspective to our discussions. ‘How many disabled people,’ he had asked, ‘do you see on the screen? And if they do appear, how many are different from the stereotypical long-suffering, permanently cheerful invalid in the wheelchair who shows everyone else what courage and suffering are really like? And,’ he had continued, ‘how many of these roles are actually played by disabled actors?’
Before going on to university, John received the prize at the school’s Speech Day, for the best examination results in his year. He sped across the school stage, executed a perfect turn in his wheelchair and came to a skidding halt in front of a startled Lord Mayor who was presenting the awards. John received the silver cup, his certificates and a book token for his outstanding academic achievement.
‘While I have this opportunity, your worshipful,’ he had said, ‘may I ask you to use your influence to get a better ramp fitted in the public library.’
The headmaster later remarked that the Cambridge dons did not know what they were letting themselves in for.
During the afternoon break, I wandered around the playground with Mrs McGuire. The children, well wrapped up against the cold, were clearly enjoying the fifteen minutes of freedom from their studies.
‘It’s so good to see the children skipping and playing hopscotch and other traditional games,’ I told her. ‘So many have disappeared.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Mrs McGuire. We paused at the edge of the playground. ‘Every time I look at that view,’ she said, ‘I tell myself how very lucky I am to be teaching here. It’s so fresh and clean and peaceful.’ We stared together at the pale green fields with grazing sheep, stretching away beneath a cloudless blue sky.
Later that afternoon I sat with the headteacher to talk about the day I had spent in the school and India, of course, cropped up.
Up and Down in the Dales Page 19
