Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad

by Phinn, Gervase

The priest was of the opinion, prevalent at that time, that in certain circumstances and in certain places, children should be seen and not heard. During Mass, if a baby cried or a toddler was noisy, the parent was informed by Father Hammond to take the offending child out of church. Times have fortunately changed. I was thinking of Father Hammond when I attended Mass recently. The young priest, on seeing a parent leaving the church with a noisy infant, asked her to return to her pew and then recited a little verse he had been given by his tutor during his training:

  Though picture books may fall beneath the pew,

  And childish voices rise above the prayers,

  Spare them rebuke, for God's house is their own

  And his incomparable gifts are theirs.

  Being a collector of interesting snippets and verses (you never know when they will come in handy), I prevailed upon Father Devine (what a wonderful name for a priest) to have a copy.

  Once Mass started, the back door of the church was closed and bolted. Father Hammond would not allow anyone to come in late. One Sunday there was an almighty banging on the back door just after the priest had intoned, 'In Nomine Patris ...' The door was hastily opened and there stood Mr Ryves, a large and formidable man, leaning on a sturdy walking stick. 'No one bars God's door to me!' he shouted, and entered the church to the amazement of the priest and the congregation. He limped slowly down the central aisle to the very front pew, his usual seat, genuflected with some difficulty, made the Sign of the Cross and stood looking the priest in the eye. This was theatre at its best. There was an unearthly silence, with all eyes fixed on the priest's stern face. Then Father Hammond coughed and proceeded with the Mass. I wondered what the priest would have to say when Mr Ryves next went to Confession, what penance he would dole out. Some years later I met Mr Ryves's son, Peter. He came to teach at the same school and we became good friends. We would reminisce about our schooldays. Peter told me that the priest never mentioned the incident, but neither did he lock the back door of the church again to his father or anyone else.

  Sometimes Mass was equally entertaining. When Father Hammond processed around the church at High Mass, he would splatter holy water to the right and left, dipping the aspergillum (a brass stick with a round knob on the end) in the receptacle and proceeding to drench the congregation. He seemed to do this with a vengeance, spattering faces and clothes with liberal amounts of water. On one occasion, he thrust the brass stick into the holy water and had begun to splash everyone when the ball on the end shot off. Rumour had it that one of the altar boys, noticing that the knob screwed on to the top of the stick, had unscrewed it so that it was held on tenuously by a single thread. The brass ball flew through the air, and with a resounding crack hit an elderly woman telling her rosary beads smack on the back of her head.

  'Jesus, Mary and Joseph!' cried the old woman, falling to her knees. 'I've been struck!'

  Such was Father Hammond's authority and hold on his congregation, no one dared laugh. He continued to process, apparently unperturbed by the interruption. The following week I noticed that the aspergillum had been replaced by a sort of pastry brush.

  24

  I made my First Holy Communion at seven, the time judged by the Catholic Church when children have reached the age of reason and can tell right from wrong. Dressed in my new blue suit, white shirt, white ankle socks and new black shoes, I joined the back of the procession down the central aisle at St Bede's with a bevy of little boys dressed like me and girls looking like miniature brides dressed in white silk with veils. With my hands pressed firmly together I knelt at the altar rails and stuck out my tongue ready to receive the Body of Christ in the form of a small dry round wafer, which we were told not to chew but to swallow whole. The priest's breath smelt of the sherry my mother sometimes put in the trifle at Christmas. In his magnificent green silk vestments and bearing a silver chalice before him, he processed down the line of children repeating, 'Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen,' again and again. Under my chin a grave-faced altar boy in red and white put a silver plate in case the priest dropped the host.

  On the way out of the church people pressed coins into my hand, ruffled my hair and patted my back. Back home there were sausage rolls and scones and cakes. That night I knelt with my mother beside the bed and said my prayers and felt very grown-up.

  Being at a non-Catholic school, I had to prepare for my First Communion by attending a class on Sunday after Mass. The lessons were taught by a sweet-faced woman. She was a good-humoured and sympathetic teacher, with bright eyes and a ready smile, who made us feel special, as though each one of us was the one person she wanted to see. She brought biscuits and cake, which the few children receiving instruction would eat after the hour's session. She would tell us about Jesus and how he died for our sins, and read the parables from a children's Bible, which she explained. I didn't mind attending her class at all, for she was kindly, could tell a good story and answered my questions. For homework we had to learn sections from our small penny catechism and colour in pictures from a large colouring book featuring characters from the Old Testament and the life of Jesus.

  Occasionally Father Hammond would appear to test us on what we had learnt. I have always been able to remember things, and even when I did not understand the content could rattle off a piece of text parrot fashion in such a convincing manner that it would appear that I was knowledgeable.

  'Who made you?' the priest would ask.

  'God made me,' we would chant.

  'Why did God make you?'

  'God made me to know Him, love Him and serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him for ever in the next.'

  'To whose image and likeness did God make you?'

  'God made me to his own image and likeness.'

  I recall that once we were asked about the Blessed Trinity and Father Hammond singled each of us out in turn. This was a real ordeal, because we had to stand in turn and answer the question that was directed at us. He never shouted or looked angry if we got it wrong but it was clear from his eyes that he was displeased. There was a rather grubby boy in the class who had an unusual name like mine. His name was of the good Catholic variety like Ignatius or Xavier and he attended irregularly. No one wanted to sit near him because he smelt. I remember Miss Martin being particularly kind to him and smiling as he wolfed down the biscuits and cakes. I wonder now if he came just for food, for he rarely bothered learning his catechism. The poor lad was not only unfortunate-looking, with jug-handle ears, a face full of spots, cross eyes and a long thin neck, but he had a speech impediment.

  Once the priest asked us why it was important for us to be quiet in church.

  'Because people are trying to sleep?' enquired Ignatius innocently.

  Father Hammond's eyes looked heavenwards and he sighed.

  On another occasion we were told by Miss Martin, 'We must all be good children and aspire to be like Jesus.'

  Ignatius scratched his head. 'Well, I don't know about that, miss,' he said. 'Jesus was a good boy and look what happened to 'im!'

  'What is the mystery of the Three Persons in one God?' Father Hammond asked me one Sunday in the class.

  'The Mystery of the Three Persons in one God is called the Mystery of the Blessed Trinity,' I replied smugly.

  Father Hammond nodded. Then his eyes settled on Ignatius (or Xavier). 'What do we mean by a mystery?' he asked.

  The boy spluttered something completely unintelligible.

  'I have no idea what you are talking about,' said the priest.

  'That's because it's a bleedin' mystery, innit?' the boy replied.

  Sometimes the curate, Father Delaney, would join the class and talk to us. I liked Father Delaney because he smiled a great deal and told interesting stories. Once he told us about when he was young in Ireland, living on a farm in the middle of nowhere and always wanting to be a priest, something we might later want to consider, that is, if God called us. I prayed that God didn't go callin
g on me. I had my sights set on another career.

  On one occasion Father Delaney asked us if there was anything we wanted to know about the life of a priest. 'Why was he called "father" when he had no children?' he was asked. 'Why didn't he get married?' 'Had he met the Pope?' Then Ignatius (or Xavier) piped up. 'It must take you ages to go to the lavatory,' he said. There was a stunned silence before the teacher snapped, 'That's not the sort of question to ask Father,' she said.

  The priest smiled. He knew exactly what Ignatius (or Xavier) was thinking. His black clerical garment had a long line of small buttons down the front.

  'It's a fair question,' said the priest, laughing. 'Even priests have to go to the lavatory.' He turned to us. 'This, children, is a cassock,' he explained, 'and I don't have to undo every single button to remove it.' He demonstrated by unhooking the top. 'There are small hooks at intervals down the front. Most of the buttons are there just for show. So I don't have a problem when I want to spend a penny.' The teacher's face was scarlet.

  I was really pleased to see that it was Father Delaney who was to hear my first Confession. I was frightened of Father Hammond and didn't fancy telling him what I had been doing wrong. In the Sunday class we had practised what we would say on the special day and had to have a sin ready to confess. On Saturday morning those receiving instruction sat in a line on the pew opposite the confessional. It was like a big black wardrobe, was the confessional, with small curtained windows and a heavy brass handle on the door. When it came to my turn, I took a deep breath, entered the dark stuffy box and knelt facing a grille. I could hear the priest breathing on the other side.

  'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession,' I whispered.

  'Speak up, my son,' said Father Delaney.

  I waited. I wasn't sure whether I should begin or not. 'Shall I start, Father?' I asked tentatively.

  'Yes, my son,' came the voice from the other side of the grille.

  'I've used some rude words, Father,' I said.

  'I see,' said the priest. 'And do you know why it is wrong to use rude words?' he asked.

  'Yes, Father. The teacher told us that every time we swear, Jesus weeps.'

  'That's right,' said the priest. 'What did these rude words begin with?'

  'I used the "b" word, Father and the "h" word,' I told him.

  There was long pause. 'The "h" word'?' said the priest.

  'Yes, Father.'

  Looking back, I guess the priest was very curious as to what the 'h' word was.

  'What is the "h" word?' he asked.

  'I'd rather not say, Father, it's very rude.'

  This must have been even more intriguing for him. 'Whisper it through the grille,' he told me. His voice was hardly audible.

  Leaning closer, I replied, 'Harse.'

  Father Delaney made a little snorting noise. 'Harse,' he repeated and I saw him hold a handkerchief up to his eyes. He looked as if he were crying.

  My bottom lip began to tremble. I had made the priest cry. I didn't realize it was so serious a sin. 'I'm sorry, Father,' I whimpered, 'I won't ever say it again. I promise.'

  Almost choking, the priest told me to say one 'Our Father' and three 'Hail Marys' and make a good act of contrition, which I did whilst wiping my eyes.

  'Ego te absolvo in nomine patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,' he managed to say before holding up the handkerchief again to his eyes. Then he added, between sobs, 'Pray for me, my son.'

  When it came to my confirmation some years later, Father Hammond informed my mother outside church after Mass that I would need to attend Saturday morning classes in preparation.

  'There's really no need for that, Father,' my mother told him. 'My daughter Christine will be teaching him.'

  'He needs instruction from a teacher qualified,' said the priest. 'I am afraid a relation, however well intentioned, cannot prepare the boy sufficiently well for confirmation.'

  'Father,' my mother replied. 'My daughter Christine is a fully qualified teacher and holds the Catholic Teaching Certificate with distinction from Mount Pleasant Roman Catholic Teacher Training College in Liverpool.'

  Father Hammond never approached my mother again, neither did he quiz me on my religious knowledge.

  The Bishop confirmed me on a bright Sunday at Mass. A photograph of me on the day shows a rather gangly, self-conscious boy of fourteen in a smart suit and white tie, posing outside the church with a parent on either side. I took the confirmation name of Benedict and was presented with a missal, a book of texts used in Catholic Mass, by Mum's friend Mrs Gill, some black shiny rosary beads by Christine, money by my brothers and a large crimson-covered book illustrated in vivid colour called Stories from the Bible. Some years later, when I was a school inspector travelling round the schools of Yorkshire, I read from this large crimson-coloured volume given to me on the day of my confirmation.

  'This book was given to me when I was a boy by my mother and father,' I told the children in a school assembly. 'It is a very special book, full of wonderful stories which were told by a very special man. In the story I am about to read, which is called "The Story of the Lost Sheep", Jesus tries to help us understand how we should feel about the poor and weak.'

  I read the parable and then I explained how such stories taught us all how to lead better lives.

  'And what would you say to Jesus,' I asked, holding high the red book like some preacher of old, 'if he were to walk into the hall this morning?'

  A boy on the front row thought for a moment, then raised his hand and said loudly, 'I'd give 'im that book, Mester Phinn, and I'd say, "Jesus Christ - this is your life!" '

  Every third or fourth Saturday morning I went with my sister to Confession at St Bede's. We would kneel outside the dark wooden wardrobe and wait our turn to tell the priest about our transgressions. 'Pray Father, give me your blessing for I have sinned. It is three weeks since my last confession.' I guess the sins of a small boy were tediously familiar to the faceless figure behind the grille. I would tell him the peccadilloes of childhood: I had been bad-tempered, forgotten to say my prayers, shouted at my brothers, not done as I was told - all pretty tame stuff. I sometimes thought of spicing it up a bit with, 'I've had these impure thoughts', but never dared. Imagine if he asked me to go into details. Father Hammond would be there on the altar the next day staring at me and knowing my innermost secrets. I certainly wasn't giving too much away. I often wondered what he would say if I said I had pushed an old woman off the bridge or murdered our next-door neighbour, Mrs Evans, while she was hanging out those big blue bloomers on her washing line. I knew he couldn't tell the police, he was bound by the confidentiality of the confessional. I'd seen it at the Regent Cinema, in an American film where the priest was bound to secrecy.

  On one occasion the rectangle of wood that was slotted into a frame on the front of the confessional box, telling would-be penitents which priest was in residence, was different. Instead of announcing that Fr Hammond was at home, it said that Mgr Wheeler was in situ. The woman in the pew in front of my sister and before us in the confessional stakes was clearly unaware, as I was at the time, what the Mgr (Monsignor) stood for. She entered the box and said in a loud voice, 'Bless me Mugger for I have sinned. It is four weeks since my last confession.' The priest, I discovered later when he emerged stony-faced from the confessional, was an ancient Irishman with little outcrops of wispy white hair. He clearly was not prepared to have a list of bland, venial sins rattled off, for him to dispense the predictable penance of, 'Say one Our Father and three Hail Marys.' He asked her to slow down, speak up and provide more details. Those waiting in the queue were entertained by a most colourful and detailed description of the woman's marital situation, how her over-demanding spouse would arrive home the worse for drink, expect his 'conjungal rights' and not leave her alone. She continued to tell the priest that she had six children and couldn't cope with any more. We all waited in excited anticipation for the priest's judgement, straining our ears.
My sister still relates the story in vivid detail and how, all the way home, she would burst into fits of giggling but not tell me what was so amusing.

  25

  At seven I moved up from the Infants, where I had been very happy and made good progress in my work, and into the adjacent building of Broom Valley Junior School. My school reports, which my mother kept in a blue folder, show that I was 'fairly good' or 'good' in most things and rather better in English. Reading through them now, I get the impression that my teachers saw me as a decent enough boy but one of average intelligence and limited prospects. I am described in tones that strike me as deeply condescending, a way of saying I would not achieve much in life. As can be seen from my final Junior School report, my form teacher's comments and the headteacher's observations are far from extensive. Teachers these days, obliged to write detailed assessments of a child's achievement, effort, progress and conduct which cover a good few pages, must view such an unforthcoming end of school report with a wry humour.

  Broom Valley Primary School Rotherham School Report for Gervase Phinn July 25th, 1958 Class 4

  Number in Class : 43

  SUBJECT Maximum Marks Marks Obtained Comment

  ENGLISH:

  Reading ...... 20 20 Very Good

  Composition ..... 20 18 Good

  Spelling ...... 20 12 Needs care

  Language and

  Literature ...... 20 15 Fair

  Comprehension ........ 20 17 Quite Good

  ARITHMETIC

  Mental ...... 20 11 Must try harder

  Accuracy ..... 50 44 Good

  Problems ...... 30 25 Good

  HISTORY 20 14 Very interested Disappointing result

  GEOGRAPHY 20 17 Very Good

  NATURE STUDY

  SCIENCE 20 18 Very Good

  NEEDLEWORK

  CRAFTWORK Fair

  MUSIC Fair

  ART Fairly Good

  PHYSICAL TRAINING AND GAMES Fairly Good