At Holmdale Junior and Infant School, situated deep in a secluded dale in the heart of the North York Moors and surrounded on all sides by rugged moorland, the local Baptist minister, an evangelical young man wearing a T-shirt with ‘Fight truth decay – study the Bible every day’ on the front, re-told the parable of The Lost Sheep. I had once recounted this story myself in an assembly at Winnery Nook Nursery and Infants School. In fact, Christine – the school’s headteacher – has never let me forget and bursts into laughter every time it is mentioned. I was therefore interested to see how the young man would get on. He started well, immediately capturing the children’s interest. The great majority of his audience came from farming families so at the mention of sheep all ears pricked up.
‘When Jesus was alive,’ he told them, ‘sheep were very important in the lives of people.’
‘They still are,’ said one rosy-cheeked girl, sitting near the front.
‘Yes, indeed,’ continued the minister. ‘And in those days, sheep provided meat and milk and cheese. But pasture was poor on the hills –’
‘Not too good up here, either,’ said the girl.
‘No,’ agreed the minister. ‘So pasture was poor on the hills and the shepherd had to move his flock from place to place to find grass for his sheep. Unlike today, the shepherd at the time when Jesus lived, did not drive his flock in front of him but led it and he knew each of his sheep personally and they answered to his call.’
There were several sceptical looks and furrowed brows at this point. ‘How many would he have in his flock, then?’ asked a boy of about ten or eleven with a shock of red hair.
‘Well, in the parable I’m going to tell you in a minute, the shepherd has a hundred sheep,’ replied the minister.
‘He’s not likely to know an ‘undred sheep personally,’ observed the boy. ‘Cows, mebbe, but not sheep.’
‘Well, I… the shepherd… he probably would have known his sheep very well.’
‘But not an ‘undred!’
‘Let’s make a start on the story and then we can talk about it afterwards, shall we?’ said the minister, looking a little uneasy. I could see from his expression that he was unused to members of his congregation shouting out and commenting at every turn. This was clearly not his usual captive audience. ‘Now, if any of those sheep strayed, the shepherd would search for them until he found them.’
‘He wanted a good collie-dog,’ said the red-haired boy. ‘Save a lot o’ time and trouble.’
‘Aye,’ nodded a few of his companions.
The minister carried on regardless and speeded up his delivery, hoping by doing so to discourage any further interruptions. ‘The shepherd protected his sheep from wild animals and thieves by using a catapult and a wooden club –’
‘Shotgun would ‘ave been better,’ remarked a child.
‘And at night,’ continued the minister, ignoring the observation, ‘the shepherd kept his flock in a stone-walled sheepfold topped with thorns and he would block the entrance by lying across it.’
‘I can’t see my dad doing that,’ said the girl at the front, laughing.
‘Now this parable is called The Lost Sheep and it was told by Jesus nearly two thousand years ago.’ The minister took a deep breath, rubbed his hands, smiled and began. ‘There was once a shepherd and he had a hundred sheep. One day he discovered that one of the sheep had strayed. He could have said, “Ah well, I have ninety-nine so why should I bother searching high and low, hither and thither, for just one sheep? If I leave the other sheep they will be at the mercy of wolves and thieves. Anyway, the lost sheep might be dead by now.” But the shepherd did not say this, for every single one of his sheep was precious to him. So he went in search of the one lost sheep.’
‘Hardly worth the effort, price of lamb being what it is at t’moment,’ commented the rosy-faced girl.
‘This was quite a long time ago,’ the minister informed her, still managing to retain his smile. ‘So, the shepherd left the ninety-nine and went in search of the one lost sheep.’
‘What breed o’ sheep were they, then?’ asked the girl.
‘Breed?’ repeated the minister.
‘Aye, what breed?’
‘Well, does it make a difference?’ he asked.
‘It makes an ‘ell of a lot o’ difference. Some sheep are docile, others are reight frisky. If you’re talking ‘erdwicks, they never shift, they’ll stop where they are till t’cows come home. We’ve got ‘erdwicks. They may be small but they’re a tough breed and eat owt that’s going – grass, heather, couch grass – owt. Now, if t’shepherd left a flock of ‘erdwicks, he’d still find ‘em theer when he got back.’
‘I see,’ said the minister lamely and wrinkling his forehead into a frown. ‘Well, I shouldn’t imagine that the sheep were Herdwicks.’
‘But if you’re talking Leicesters,’ continued the girl, ‘they’ll be leaping all ovver t’show. They’d be off as soon as shepherd’s turned ‘is back.’
‘That’s why tha needs a good collie-dog,’ insisted the boy with the red hair.
‘So what breed were they?’ asked the girl.
‘Well,’ said the minister, having a sudden flash of inspiration, ‘these were Palestine Blues, a very lively breed.’
‘Never ‘eard of them,’ commented the girl sulkily. ‘What do they look like?’
‘Oh, big and woolly and white,’ began the minister feebly. He pressed on quickly to prevent any further interruptions and awkward questions. ‘What joy the shepherd felt when he found his lost sheep. He put it on his shoulders and hurried back to tell everyone his good news and invite his friends to share his happiness.’
‘And were his other sheep still there?’ asked the boy with the red hair.
‘Indeed, they were, and the shepherd was very happy. Now, in the same way, there is greater rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who turns back to God than over ninety-nine people who see no reason to repent. Remember, children, none of us is a lost sheep in the eyes of God. Did you enjoy that story?’ he asked, facing the sea of little faces.
There was a long pause. Then the little boy with the red hair gave a great heaving sigh. ‘It were rubbish,’ he said simply. ‘Nowt ‘appened. I like a story wi’ a bit o’ action.’
‘Most sheep are big and woolly and white,’ started the rosy-cheeked girl sitting at the front. ‘What I want to know, is this. Are these Palestine Blues –’
Without pausing, the minister clasped his hands together and said very quickly, ‘Let us pray,’ thus putting a stop to any more comments from the sheep experts in the hall.
‘I think I’ll pick Matthew 10 for the next assembly,’ remarked the minister later in the staff-room. ‘You might recall the words of Jesus about the sheep among the wolves. I was eaten alive in that assembly, wasn’t I?’
‘If I may offer a little advice, minister,’ I said, ‘to someone new to the county. Stay away from stories about sheep. When I once related the same parable, at the school where my wife is the headteacher, I asked the children the question: “Why do you think the shepherd risked losing all his other sheep just for the one which was lost?” and some bright spark replied, “‘Appen it were t’tup.” ’
The last school on my programme was St Bartholomew’s School. The headteacher, Sister Brendan, was most intrigued by the initiative and quizzed me unmercifully about it.
‘And how does one go about assessing something as intangible as spirituality?’ she asked, fixing me with her small, dark eyes. ‘Surely, like a love of poetry or an appreciation of music, it is something which is impossible to evaluate.’
‘Well, it is difficult, Sister, but –’ I started.
‘It’s rather like the question on my niece’s recent religious education examination: “Explain the concept of the Trinity.” Theologians have argued about that for centuries. I should imagine that the Pope himself has some problems explaining that one. I’m so sorry, Mr Phinn, do go on. You were about to elucidate just how you are t
o inspect spirituality.’
I endeavoured to explain but felt on very shaky ground. Eventually, I extricated myself from her room, having prevailed upon her to let me sit in on the rehearsal for the school play on the life of St John the Baptist.
Sister Brendan’s assistant teacher, Mrs Webb, was in full flow when I entered the hall. On stage a large, shaven-headed boy holding a paper crown and a large plastic sword was staring impassively at the teacher.
‘Now, Herod,’ said the teacher, ‘when Salome brings on John the Baptist’s head, you look very sad. You really didn’t want to have him killed but had to keep your promise to Salome that she could have anything she wanted.’ The teacher caught sight of a small boy at the side of the hall, holding a large papier-mâché plate. ‘John,’ she said irritably, ‘where is the head?’
‘Pardon, miss?’ asked the child.
‘Where is John the Baptist’s head? It should be on the platter.’
‘I haven’t got it, miss,’ replied the child. ‘No one has given it to me.’
‘Peter,’ the teacher instructed another child, ‘go to the staff room and fetch the bleeding head.’
The boy returned moments later with Sister Brendan.
‘Did you wish to see me, Mrs Webb?’ asked the nun.
Dr Sadler examined the knee. ‘Quite a nasty knock,’ he said. ‘Whatever were you doing?’ I explained. ‘Have you banged this knee before?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but that was some years ago when I used to play rugby.’
‘And it’s been fine since?’
‘Well,’ I told him, ‘I have had a few twinges and it aches a bit when I’ve been on my feet for a long time.’
My heart sank when he said, ‘Well, I think I need to refer you to a specialist. The swelling should have gone down by this time. I’ll give you a prescription for an elastic stocking. In the meantime, try and take the weight off it as much as you can and don’t stand for long periods.’
Chance would be a fine thing. That very evening I was to speak at the Farmers’ Dinner. All spruced up, I was limping for the car when I caught sight of Harry Cotton taking his terrier for her constitutional. There was an icy wind blowing in my face but I just could not wait to tell him about the chapel.
‘Good evening, Harry,’ I called out.
‘Evenin’,’ he replied. He gazed up at the sky. ‘Gerrin a bit nippy, in’t it? When t’badgers get theer beddin’ out, t’weather’ll be mild. That’s what my owld dad used to say. Well, they haven’t got it out so I reckons we’re in for a spot of cowld.’
‘You know the Methodist chapel you were telling me about –’ I started.
‘See that holly tree,’ he said, pointing at a little tree in the nearby hedge. ‘No berries. If there were berries on t’holly tree, we’d be bound for a soft winter ‘cos t’birds only feed off t’berries if there’s cowld weather a’comin’. I’ll tell thee what –’
‘Harry,’ I said, ‘the building at the back of the cottage wasn’t a Methodist chapel, after all.’ I rather expected him to dispute this and then I would have the pleasure of putting him right and relating my conversation with Jasper Perkins.
‘Aye, I know,’ he said to my surprise.
‘You know?’
‘Aye, I know. I was goin’ to pop up and tell thee. I got it wrong. I was talkin’ to Albert Tattersall last week in t’Golden Ball and ‘e put me right.’
‘Well, we all make mistakes,’ I said. I felt pretty smug.
‘No, it weren’t a Methodist chapel at all. It were Quaker. I knew it were summat of t’sooart. Built in seventeen ‘undred and summat, mebbe earlier according to Harry. Them Americans I was telling you about, dropping in to t’village to ‘ave a look at it, they was Quakers not Methodists. Very pacific people are your Quakers, can’t be doin’ wi’ violence and the like. I remember in t’war they were conscientious objectors. Some of ‘em were locked up in Richmond Castle, tha knaas. I allus respected ‘em. Nice people they were. So, it’s just as well for you that they’re a peaceful lot because they’ll not be dead chuffed to see what thy’s gone and done to their meeting ‘ouse. Anyroad, it were not Wesley what preached ‘ere, it was a man called Fox and on t’anniversary of ‘is death, this minister from York and not Reverend Jessop, ‘eld a service up ‘ere. That there building you demolished were a Quaker meeting ‘ouse, even rarer than a Methodist chapel, so Albert Tattersall were telling me.’ I was lost for words. ‘I ‘eard from yer missis that you ‘ad a bit of an accident when you were demolishin’ it.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘I did.’
‘Still limpin’, I see.’
‘Yes, still limping.’
‘Could be divine providence that,’ said Harry, ambling off. ‘’Ave a nice evenin’.’
I was really not in the mood to give an amusing after-dinner talk that evening but cheered up when I saw Jacob Bannister waiting to greet me outside The Marrick Arms, a great beaming smile on his face. He was a small, wrinkled individual with wisps of white wiry hair combed across his otherwise bald pate.
‘Ee, it’s grand to see thee,’ he shouted at me as if I was a good distance away. ‘Find us all reight, then?’
‘No problem,’ I said.
‘Come on in an’ I’ll sooart thee out wi’ a drink.’
I followed him through a noisy throng of largely stout, red-cheeked, healthy-looking men until we arrived at the bar where I was introduced to Jacob’s cousin, ‘our Barry’.
‘This is t’speaker, Barry!’ roared Jacob, looking up at the round red face.
‘Oh aye,’ replied his cousin.
I had never seen any other human being as large as ‘our Barry’. He was mountainous: six foot six at least, broad as a barn door, arms like tree trunks and a huge round pudding face. The pint glass looked like a thimble in his massive hand.
‘What are you ‘avin’, Mester Phinn?’ shouted Jacob.
‘Just a half of bitter, please,’ I replied.
Jacob roared down the bar making the glasses rattle. “Arf o’ bitter ‘ere, Jack, for t’speaker an’ another pint for our Barry and one for me!’ He then turned round, nudged me with his elbow and looked up at his cousin.’ ‘E’s a big bloke, in’t ‘e, our Barry?’ he asked.
‘He is,’ I agreed.
“Is mother, mi Auntie Betty, were a big woman, wunt she, our Barry?’
‘Aye,’ replied the huge man.
‘Wonderful woman, she were. ‘Eart o’ gowld, do owt for anybody, wunt she, our Barry?’
‘Aye,’ nodded Barry, before polishing off half the pint in one great gulp.
‘She nivver missed a service at t’church. Come rain or shine she’d walk all t’way from Durdeyfield Farm up to t’village. One winter, it were thick wi’ snow, drifts up to ten foot deep, rooads like icing rinks, wind that ‘ud cut thee like a sharpened scythe but she made it up t’church. Cooarse, vicar were not expectin’ anybody and then mi Auntie Betty turns up. Only one theer, she were, sitting in t’front pew as large as life. Anyroad, vicar asks ‘er if ‘e should carry on wi’ service like, seeing as she were t’only one in t’church. “Look ‘ere, vicar,” she tells ‘im, “I can’t tell thee what tha should do, but if I went out of a morning to feed t’cows and only one on ‘em ‘ad tekken trouble to turn up, I’d feed it.” He were nonplussed at this, was t’vicar. “Do you know,” he says, “yer right.” And he went ahead with t’service and give one of these long sermons just for mi Auntie Betty’s benefit. He were pretty pleased wi’ hissen afterwards. “I hope you felt it were worth the walk through all that snow, Missis Bannister,” he tells ‘er. “Look ‘ere, vicar,” she replies, “I don’t reckon I know all that much about sermons and the like, but if I went out of a mornin’ to feed t’cows and only one ‘ad tekken trouble to show up, I’d not be likely to give it t’whole lot of feed.” ’
‘It’s a nice story, that –’ I began.
‘She passed on a couple of years back did Auntie Betty, di’n’t she, our Barry?’
‘Aye, she did.’
The beer arrived, was paid for and Jacob continued. ‘When she died, they ‘ad to ‘ave a special coffin made for ‘er, she were that big, and t’grave diggers were paid extra ‘cos o’ size of t’hole. And it were a reight carry on at t’funeral. They’d just lowered ‘er deep into t’ground and t’vicar were startin’ up wi’ ‘is ashes to ashes bit, when one of t’undertakers pipes up. “It’ll ‘ave to come up, vicar.” “It’s just gone down,” says t’vicar. “I know,” says t’undertaker, “but it’ll ‘ave to come up. I’ve dropped mi glasses down t’ole and they’re on top o’ t’coffin.” It were a job and an ‘alf gerrin ‘er up. Coffin were up and down like a bloody yo-yo, weren’t it, our Barry?’
‘Aye, it were.’
‘Anyroad, later on t’vicar says to mi Uncle Stan, that’s our Barry’s dad, he says, “You’ll miss your wife and no mistake, won’t you, Mester Bannister?” “I will that,” he says. “Fifty-two year o’ marriage and not a cuss word. I shall miss ‘er most in bed at neets tha knaas,” he goes on. “Hold on,” says t’vicar, “this is not t’time nor t’place to hear about that sort of thing.” “Nay, vicar,” says mi Uncle Stan, “I don’t mean what you’re a-thinkin’. On a cowld winter’s neet, when wind’s whistling through cracks in t’winder and there’s a reight draught under t’door, she were like a bield wall, my missus, like a bield wall.” Does tha follow mi drift theer, Mister Phinn? Does tha knaw what a bield wall’s fer?’
‘I do,’ I replied, laughing.
I had been told exactly what a bield wall was the previous year by a small boy. It is a short stretch of wall, starting nowhere, ending nowhere, for the sheep to shelter behind in wet and windy weather – a sort of windbreak.
‘Now, mi Uncle Stan were a character and no mistake, wa’n’t ‘e, our Barry?’ continued Jacob Bannister.
‘Aye, ‘e were,’ replied his cousin, finishing the second pint of beer in a great gulp.
‘I was just wondering –’ I began.
‘Once mi Uncle Stan goes and buys this tup – that’s a ram, tha knaas – from Bentham market.’ There was no way I was going to get a word in. ‘Lovely looking creature it were. Texel. Square as a box, four solid legs, beautiful fleece. Anyroad, he puts it in t’field wi’ yows – them are t’ewes – and sits back to watch ‘im do what nature intended ‘im to do, if you follow mi drift. Well nowt ‘appens. Tup just stands theer, then does a bit o’ walking, a bit o’ grazin’, but he’s not interested in any o’ yows. They stand theer waiting for ‘im to mek a move but ‘e’s just not interested. Well, mi uncle scratches ‘is ‘ead and dunt know what’s up. ‘E’s nivver seen the like afoor. So, he sends for t’vet. T’vet’s puzzled an’ all. “I shall tell thee what I’ll do, Mester Bannister,” he says, “I’ve got this ‘ere Dutch medicine which might just do the trick. Just come on t’market.” And he tells mi Uncle Stan to give t’tup one o’ these pills in t’mornin’. Vet gus back on t’Thursday and ‘e asks ‘ow things are goin’. “Champion,” says mi Uncle Stan. “I’ve nivver seen the like. Them theer pills certainly did t’trick. Tup’s gone mad. Chasing anything that moves. Sex mad ‘e is. Nothing’s safe in t’field wi’ ‘im.” We were talking about it in t’pub later that day and I says to mi Uncle Stan, I says, “I wonder what was in them theer pills what t’vet give t’tup.” “I don’t know,” says ‘e, “but they taste of peppermint.”’ The speaker threw his head back and roared with laughter and a smile even came to the lips of his cousin. ‘It’s a good un, that one, in’t it, our Barry?’
Up and Down in the Dales Page 24
