Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad

by Phinn, Gervase

  Like most children I loved collecting things: postcards, toy soldiers, Dinky cars, coins, stamps, cigarette cards. All my friends would save the cards out of Brooke Bond PG Tips and cigarette packets, and we would swap them at school and stick them in a book you could send away for from the manufacturer. There were Birds of the British Isles, Animals of the British Isles, Flags of all Nations, Great Sporting Heroes, Kings and Queens of Europe, Great British Regiments. We would spend breaktimes at school bartering, and we were always envious of the boy who managed to complete the set first. Then there were the free gifts in the cereal packets. At the bottom of the box would be plastic figures to collect, badges and little coloured plastic submarines which when filled with baking powder sank to the bottom of the glass and then surfaced. In the comics (Eagle, Beano and Dandy) there would be free gifts - a cardboard Snapper which made the sound of a bang, a special agent's badge, 3-D glasses, cut-out models and posters. By collecting the labels on Robertson's jam and marmalade jars you could send off for a little enamel golliwog badge and it was every boy's ambition to get the full set.

  In 1953 all the children in the country were given a Coronation mug and a crown, a shiny five-shilling piece in a small plastic box. I wasn't bothered about the mug but I treasured the large silver coin showing the young Queen on horseback. This started my interest in coin collecting and over the years I built up quite a collection. Mrs Harrap at the post office put aside anything that might be of interest to me, such as foreign currency or coins which were out of circulation which she had inadvertently accepted, and friends of my parents and neighbours were also dragooned into looking for unusual coins for me.

  Some Saturdays I would take the bus to Sheffield and walk up Glossop Road to Ford's Antiques. There was a small rack of trays in a side window displaying a selection of coins, each with a small circular tag on which was written in careful, spidery writing the monarch's name, the denomination and the price. The elderly owner, who smelt of mothballs and wore a stiff white collar, was always pleased to see me and would take out the tray of coins and tell me about the various kings and queens depicted. Charles I was shown with long curls and in elaborate clothes, Oliver Cromwell plain and dour, the aged George III with a great bull neck. Victoria, who reigned for sixty or so years, was represented in different issues as a young, middle-aged and old woman. 'You learn a great deal about the character of a particular king or queen from the coinage,' I was told. Further up Glossop Road was Jameson's Antiques, and I always called in on the offchance that the owner might have some coins. There were never any customers in the shop when I called, just Mr Jameson behind a large desk, poring over a book. He always smiled when I entered the shop and shook his head when I asked if he had any coins. One memorable Saturday he smiled and as I turned to go told me I was in luck. He produced a small canvas bag of coins.

  'Five bob?' he asked.

  I held the bag, heavy with coins, but didn't look inside until I was home. I rushed upstairs and emptied the contents on the bed. It was a treasure trove.

  There were several Roman coins, a well worn George III shilling, some small silver sixpences, assorted pennies and four huge dull metal coins with the profile of George III on the obverse (I learnt later that these were called 'Cartwheel' two-penny pieces weighing exactly two ounces and were the largest British coins ever minted). There were also four or five tokens, a small silver medal, several American cents and dimes, a silver dollar and a thin brass coin with a shield like a spade on the reverse. The following week I visited Rotherham public library and scoured the coin catalogues. My heart was in my mouth when I discovered what I imagined one of the coins might be. On my way home I called in at Mason's jewellers. It took me a time to summon up the courage to enter the shop. I stood beneath the large clock at the entrance rehearsing what I would say. The interior was elegant and cool, with cabinet after cabinet full of rings and watches, bracelets and necklaces.

  'May I help you, young man?' asked a young woman.

  'I have a coin,' I said nervously. She arched an eyebrow and waited. 'I ... I think it might be gold.'

  She smiled and disappeared into the back. A tall man in a dark jacket emerged, took the coin from my hand and examined it with a small magnifying glass.

  'It's what is known as a spade ace guinea,' he said. 'George III mintage, in fine condition, dated 1797. They were very common in their day and often forged in the form of gaming tokens. The brass copies often had "In memory of the good old days" on the reverse. But this is genuine.'

  'It's gold?' I asked.

  'It is,' he replied. 'Are you considering selling it?'

  'No, thank you,' I said, taking it from him. On the way home, I walked on clouds.

  Later that week I saw an advertisement in Exchange & Mart. My brother Michael, who was always building things, took this magazine and I was idly skimming through the pages when I came upon a small boxed item: 'Old U. S. Currency Urgently Required. Good prices paid.' I wrote to Major Monte B. Lambkin, who was based at an American air force base in North Yorkshire, sold the cents, dimes and the silver dollar for three pounds, eleven shillings and sixpence, and made a new pen-friend. Years later the golden guinea was made into a pendant for my wife Christine. It has been her favourite piece of jewellery, and whenever she wears it I recall the time I discovered it.

  30

  My parents were great day-trippers and most weekends found us - Mum and Dad, my two brothers and sister and myself - in a green Morris Oxford heading for the coast. It was always the seaside. Mum would pack the box of sandwiches and fruitcake and fill the flasks, Dad would check the car - tyres, oil, water - and we children would be waiting excitedly, crammed into the back seat of the car, keen to be on our way. We left the smoke and grime of Rotherham behind us and headed for Thorne, Driffield and Market Weighton. It was usually my brother Alec who would ask first, 'Are we nearly there yet?'

  One Saturday morning we were late starting. Mum just could not find her false teeth. Each night before bed, she would leave them soaking in a glass of water on the small shelf in the bathroom. The next morning the glass was empty of water and teeth. We searched everywhere. Then Michael remembered that in the night the amorous meowing of our neighbour's tomcat had woken him up. He had leaned out of the bathroom window and thrown a glass of water at the noisy feline. The glass had contained our mother's false teeth. So a search was started and the garden combed for the missing dentures. It was Christine who spotted the teeth in the guttering.

  'Bit early for cleaning windows,' observed Mr Evans, our next-door neighbour, when he spotted Dad up the ladder.

  'No,' replied my father casually, 'just retrieving my wife's false teeth.'

  As we sped along on our trip to the seaside Dad would be full of fanciful tales. On the way we always passed under a low bridge, and Dad would tell us about the driver of a double-decker bus who, misjudging the height, sheered off the top of the vehicle. 'And every single passenger on the bus was decapitated,' he told us. On the way home in the shadowy darkness we would pass over a small hump-backed bridge. As we approached he would tell us of the great green hairy monster which lived beneath, with its dripping fangs and redrimmed eyes. He would slow down and nearly stop at the brow of the hill and announce in a mock-frightened voice, 'We've broken down.' We would all howl.

  Once at the seaside we made straight for the quay for a trip around the bay on the Bridlington Belle. Another of Dad's stories was of how the leaking vessel had sailed to Dunkirk to rescue the stranded British troops. I have an idea that this particular story was true.

  If it was Filey it would be a stroll along the Brigg, followed by fish and chips, smothered in salt and vinegar, eaten out of newspaper as we sat on the harbour wall. Sometimes we would go further afield: to Staithes, where time seemed to have stopped; Sandsend, where we would search for fossils and walk along the great stretch of golden sand; Robin Hood's Bay, where we would explore the narrow entries; Runswick Bay, where the cluster of cottages seemed to cling
precariously to the cliffside; and of course, Whitby with its quaint streets, picturesque quay and imposing abbey. One memorable Sunday my parents insisted we visit St Mary's Church, situated high on the clifftop. We were told there was a magnificent view over the harbour from the church and we could see the famous box pews and the three-decker pulpit. We were deeply unimpressed until Dad mentioned Count Dracula. It was just off the coast, he told us, that the ship bringing his remains to England had been wrecked, and in the graveyard he still roamed at midnight. One hundred and ninety-nine steps later, we arrived at the church but were not overly interested in the famous box pews and three-decker pulpit. We were in search of the vampire. When the vicar, a tall, thin, white-faced individual in a flowing black cape, appeared at the door of the church I was very impressed.

  'Are you Count Dracula?' I asked innocently. My red-faced parents hurried their little boy down the steps and back to the car.

  Scarborough was a favourite holiday destination. I loved making sandcastles on the soft sandy beach, the donkey rides, steering the chugging smelly little motor boats on the boating lake, listening to the music at the Spa, walking along the promenade with lips sticky with candyfloss and the sweet pink sticks of rock which lasted for hours and hours. I loved the climb up to the castle and later, hungry from the walk, fish and chips with bread and butter and a pot of tea in the cafe on the front. I remember one holiday we stood outside the entrance of the palatial Grand Hotel. We marvelled at the Gothic splendour: cast-iron balconies, corner domes with porthole windows, the red and orange terracotta and the great Corinthian columns.

  'When I win the football pools,' I remember my father saying, 'we will all stay here.' Sadly, that was never to be.

  Most of the year I would be free of accidents and mishaps, save for the odd scraped shin, cut finger and bruised knee, but when it came to the holidays it was a different matter. I seemed to attract accidents like a magnet. At the age of seven the family had a rather cramped week in Auntie Nora's four-berth caravan, sited overlooking the sea near Flamborough Head. The year before I had managed to get a piece of popcorn wedged up my nose and had ended up with my father at the hospital. The doctor had managed to extract the foreign body with a long silver needle-like instrument with a tiny hook on the end. My mother told me many years later that when I arrived back from the Casualty Department she had asked me what had happened to the popcorn.

  'I ate it,' I announced.

  Then I swallowed a marble, pretending it was a sweet, and made a return visit to the hospital. I had to take this pink, foul-tasting viscous medicine. Sitting on the toilet the next day there was a clunk and I announced loudly that I had got my marble back.

  As she unpacked the bedding in the caravan at Flamborough, Mum warned me to stay out of trouble. 'And no accidents,' she said. Sadly I didn't oblige.

  The holiday ended with another incident. I had been paddling at the sea edge at Filey, looking for crabs and shells and interesting pebbles. Suddenly I ran out of the sea screaming. My mother wrapped me in a towel but she couldn't see why I was so distressed. I was in agony and began rubbing my foot madly. Mum looked but could find no cut or bruise. I continued to writhe and scream and all those around on the beach began to gather around. I was carried to the first aid point and an ambulance was called. Mum went with me to Scarborough hospital while Dad looked after the other three children.

  The conversation between Dad and the attendant at the first aid post was related in graphic detail later when I was home.

  'I know what it is,' the individual who managed the first aid station had announced as Dad watched the ambulance disappear with siren sounding. 'He's gone and trodden on a weaver fish.'

  'Whatever is one of those?' Dad asked.

  'Horrible creature, the weaver fish,' he told my father. 'Ugly as sin, with three sharp spines in their backs. When it's cold, they bury themselves in the sand and when the sun comes out they come to the surface and put up these great sharp spines to catch their prey. Oh yes, I've seen quite a few in my time. I've seen six-foot policemen weep with one of these spines in his toe. Very painful.'

  My father wanted reassurance, not a running commentary about the life and times of the weaver fish, and asked if I would be all right. The man sucked in his breath and shook his head. 'Could be ... then again, they're very nasty poisonous fish.'

  'Why doesn't someone warn people about these fish?' Dad asked him.

  'If they did that,' replied the man, 'nobody would go in the sea.'

  At the hospital my foot was plunged into a bowl of hot water and the spine was extracted.

  Some years later I attended a talk at Broom Valley School. It was part of a lecture series intended to improve the minds of youngsters and a varied programme was presented throughout the year. The marine biologist who spoke about the wonderful world of the ocean showed some slides of the most unusual and dangerous creatures of the deep. I was fascinated.

  'And this,' said the speaker, showing a slide of an incredibly ugly-looking fish with great fat lips, large protuberant eyes and three sharp spines on its back, 'is the Great Weaver. They are extremely shy and it is very unlikely you will ever see one.'

  I raised my hand and announced proudly, 'I've trodden on one of those.'

  The Punch and Judy show fascinated me when I was young. Punch, with his hunched back and gigantic curved nose, was naturally bad-tempered, argumentative, un-cooperative and no respecter of authority. He was the anarchist of the puppet world, laying into the policeman with his truncheon, hitting the baby, clunking his wife and sorting out the crocodile, and when he appeared he would be greeted by wild cheers from the children. I guess today he would be regarded as politically incorrect and far too violent for small children.

  One day when we were spending a weekend in Scarborough, Alec took me, on the pretext that we going to see the Punch and Judy show, to see the beauty contest. We had asked Mum if we could go and she had refused, saying it was not seemly for young women to parade semi-clad in public. When we arrived at the outdoor bathing pool, long-legged girls in one-piece swimsuits and high heels carrying before them heart-shaped cards on which their competition number was displayed, were already promenading around the side, competing for the coveted sash. When Dad found us we were sitting between a group of ogling men, their Brylcreemed hair glistening in the sunshine, following the progress of the bathing beauties as they paraded before us.

  'Come along, you two,' said Dad grinning, 'and don't let on to your mother where you've been.'

  My mother was a bit strait-laced about these things and would never let us linger outside the shops to read the wonderfully rude postcards - we would have to sneak back when she was out of sight. The brightly coloured cards, many by Donald McGill, always seemed to feature vastly overweight women in tight striped bathing costumes, extremely shapely blondes and small harassed-looking men. One showed such a man poking at a shell and the woman commenting, 'He always has trouble getting his winkle out.'

  The incident with the rock bun and the seagull still makes me smile. The family was having afternoon tea at the cafe on the seafront. Tea was served in heavy silver pots, and there was a matching heavy silver jug full of hot water for topping up and a heavy silver jug for the milk. The teapot was really hard to pick up because the handle got very hot. The cups, saucers and plates were equally large and heavy and were made of thick white pottery. Mum was in a bright summer dress, Dad (unlike many men, who were quite happy walking along the promenade or on the pier in vest and braces, some with knotted handkerchiefs over their heads) wore a linen jacket and flannel trousers. I have an old black and white picture of him strolling along the promenade with Mum on his arm and the four children and he looks very dapper. The sandwiches in the cafe were tasteless, the cakes sickly sweet and the tea weak and watery. Alec had a large rock bun which certainly lived up to its name. It was like a big lump of concrete with a few currants stuck in the top, and he kept picking at it and flicking bits at me.

  'L
ook,' said Dad, 'if you're not going to eat it, throw it to the gulls.'

  So my brother threw the rock bun as hard as he could and, amazingly, it hit a low-flying seagull. The bird plummeted and disappeared under the sea with a great splash.

  'Good shot!' said a man at the next table, and a group of holidaymakers started to clap. 'They're a bloody nuisance them seagulls,' continued the man.

  'They are the spirits of dead seamen,' said a woman at another table. 'It's bad luck to kill a seagull.' I immediately thought of The Ancient Mariner and the fate of the crew when the old seafarer killed the albatross.

  Fortunately the gull reappeared, no worse for its ordeal, and started to attack the bun with a vengeance before flying off.

  Quite a lot of the time my brother Alec and I made our own entertainment at the oily brown square of water fancifully called the boating lake. For a shilling my brother and I would, for half an hour, take it in turns to steer a noisy little boat round and round until the man in charge shouted out, 'Come in Number 4.' The boating lake was a really good place to go crabbing. We would beg a few bits of bacon rind from the butcher when Mum bought the pork pies for lunch, and spend hours with a length of string and a couple of buckets seeing which one of us could catch the most crabs. We sat on the edge of the pool dangling our string down into the murky brown water, waiting for the gentle tug that signified we had a catch. The trick in getting the crabs into the bucket was to pull on the string really slowly. The crab would dangle by one pincer and be pulled in slowly and carefully. They were usually only small catches, two or three inches across, but occasionally Alec would manage to land a big one. People would then crowd round. My brother was an expert at prising off the crab, which clung on tenaciously to the bacon rind. He would grasp the crab with thumb and forefinger behind the front pincers and pop it into the bucket.