Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad

by Phinn, Gervase

  I was not a whole lot better at metalwork with Mr Blowfield (Gerry). He was a patient, good-natured man with fluffy outcrops of silver hair and a round rust-coloured face. He was never seen out of his steel grey overall. On playground duty or in assembly, on sports day and on parents' evenings, he always wore his overall. Mr Blowfield had a display cabinet too, and my brother Alec's bronze figure had pride of place within it, among all the masterpieces created by the most talented pupils over the years. After a year of cutting, filing, rasping and polishing I managed to produce a garden trowel (the handle later fell off) and a poker. The poker survived many years of constant use and proved an excellent implement when my father was making holes in the ground to plant his seeds.

  I was a very indifferent scholar when it came to science. I recall little of Nobby Clark's lessons, but I do remember when one of the pupils (I shall save his embarrassment by not naming him) was sent to the Rotherham abattoir to collect some cows' eyes for dissection in the lesson. The boy kept a few of the eyeballs back and secreted them in a girl's pencil case. At the beginning of the lesson, reaching for her pen, the poor girl picked up a large, slimy, bloodshot eyeball and screamed blue murder. Unfortunately for the prankster, he was discovered and for his pains received three strokes on the backside. But he felt it was worth it.

  It was at secondary school that I started to enjoy mathematics. This was because the teacher, Mr Duffield (Ted), made the lessons interesting and unthreatening. He was an even-tempered, immensely patient and good-natured man who used a very adroit and successful teaching technique. He would explain a mathematical concept clearly and slowly on the blackboard, twirling the chalk around in his fingers, and then ask, 'Put your hand up if you have understood what I have just said?' Of course most teachers would ask the opposite, 'Put your hand up if you do not understand,' and it would take a pretty confident pupil to raise a hand and display his ignorance to all the class. Mr Duffield's question was clever. One or two hands might be raised tentatively from the more confi-dent among us. He would then ask a pupil to come out to the front of the class and teach the lesson again, stepping in on occasions to tweak or elaborate on the explanation. Then he would ask again. 'Put your hand up now if you understand.' It might take several re-runs of the lesson but in the end we had a firm grasp of the concept.

  I started getting really good marks in maths. My mental arithmetic improved: 'Practice makes perfect,' Mr Duffield would say, 'so never miss an opportunity of working things out in your head at the shops, on the bus, before you go to sleep.' I soon mastered logarithms, sines and cosines, trigonometry and mensuration and found geometry fascinating.

  But then, with O levels looming, I had to face my bete noire - algebra. I just could not get my head around it. I would sit there at the table staring at the equations but not knowing where to start.

  Express b in terms of A, a and h

  My brother Michael would try to help and sit with me going through the problem, but to little avail.

  A few months before I sat my O levels I was on prefect duty in the yard when Mr Duffield approached. 'We have to do something about your Achilles' heel,' he said.

  I glanced down at my feet, never having come across this expression before.

  'Pardon, sir?'

  'Your vulnerable part,' the teacher explained. 'Your weakness. Algebra.' The very word made me shudder. 'Once you have grasped the idea it's relatively easy, but we need to work at it. What about spending a few lunchtimes going through some problems with me?'

  It was the last thing I wanted, but how could I refuse? 'Yes, sir,' I agreed, unenthusiastically.

  'Tuesday suit?'

  'I have chess club,' I explained.

  'Wednesday?'

  'I'm on prefect duty, sir.'

  'Thursday?'

  I could see I couldn't wriggle out of this one. He was nothing if not persistent.

  'Thursday's fine, sir.'

  The following Thursday I duly presented myself at Mr Duffield's classroom for my first experience of private tuition.

  Mathematics was taught at the back of the hall. A partition made of wood and glass would be slid across the middle of the hall after assembly and the desks and chairs rearranged to form a classroom. That first session was memorable not because I learnt much about algebra but because I was privy to an altercation between Mr Firth and a recalcitrant pupil who had been caught bullying a younger boy.

  I had just started on a question with Mr Duffield - one of those deeply uninteresting and problematical kinds: 'A man goes into an ironmonger's shop and buys 4lb (four pounds) of rivets at 3/2 (three and tuppence) per pound; in a second shop he buys 2lbs (two pounds) of similar rivets at 3/6 (three and sixpence) per pound. What was the average price in shillings per pound paid for the rivets? How many pounds of rivets could be bought for one pound at this average price?'

  Being of an imaginative disposition, my first observation was why would the man want to buy the same rivets from two different shops? Secondly, when he found that the second iron-monger charged more for the very same rivets why didn't he complain or return to the previous shop and buy his rivets there? These mathematical questions about dripping taps and fish swimming against the current always seemed to me to be silly.

  This lesson to me was far from riveting until there was an almighty crash against the partition. The wood shuddered, the glass rattled and from the side of the structure came Mr Firth's booming voice.

  'I'll teach you to bully people!' came his thunderous tones. Thump, bang, rattle, shudder. 'It's not nice to be bullied, is it?' Thump, bang, rattle, shudder. 'You touch him again and I'll have your guts for garters!' Thump, bang, rattle, shudder.

  A moment later a round red head appeared around the door.

  'I trust I didn't disturb you too much, Mr Duffield?' asked Mr Firth.

  'No, not at all,' replied Mr Duffield calmly. 'Now, young Phinn, let's get back to the rivets.'

  36

  Cliff Davies, the P.E. and games teacher, was a muscular little individual with a real smoker's habit. His white moustache was edged with a brown nicotine stain, and many was the time I saw him with an untipped, harsh, ill-named Woodbine ('coffin stick') dangling from his lips. He was a remarkably agile man and in P.E. he would demonstrate handstands and flick-flacks, rope climbing and vaulting in his baggy blue tracksuit before we were encouraged to try. He took up golf when he was fifty and won every trophy at Sitwell Golf Club. I tried at P.E. but was pretty useless. I could just about manage a handstand, a forward roll, a clumsy leap over the vaulting horse and a slow climb up the ropes, but I could do little else. I could never emulate my friend Peter's feats of athleticism, but my incapacities never incurred criticism from Mr Davies.

  South Grove had no playing fields, just a tarmacadam yard at the top of which were the old air raid shelters in which we changed for P.E., which took place in the all-purpose hall. There were no showers, so after our physical exertions there was quite a smell of sweaty bodies in the classroom.

  For games we trekked through town and up to Herring-thorpe playing fields, come rain or shine, to use the pitches there. When we came to a road Mr Davies would march into the middle, hold up his hand and stop the traffic so we could cross. I enjoyed football but, as Mr Davies described me on my report, I was 'a boy who always tries his best but is a middling player'. His assessment was on the generous side. I was not a middling player, I was a poor player, a blundering liability in the team, always in the way of a pass or unintentionally blocking an open lane. Wearing my father's old football boots with the long laces and bulbous toe caps and leather studs, baggy black shorts and an old T-shirt, I galloped up and down the field on scraggy legs like a frightened rabbit, chasing a ball with which I never seemed to come into contact. The more I tried the more I was ignored. Many of the other players were really good, in fact several went on in later life to play for professional teams, but I always ended up in what they called 'the scrags', the last few to be picked by the team captains
. I would stand there with the small, the fat, the clumsy and the apathetic and always be placed as a full back, out of the way, where I could do least harm. I still recall that heavy sodden leather ball arching its way through the air towards me and Mr Davies shouting from the touchline, 'Get stuck in, Phinn! Boot the ball, lad!' I was slow, clumsy and not over-keen on tackling the big lads wearing massive boots like Desperate Dan's in the comics. It was my distinction that after five years of playing football once a week, I never scored a goal.

  It was quite a common occurrence when the match was in full play for a woman pushing a pram to take a short cut across the playing fields and walk straight across the pitch, weaving in and out of the players quite oblivious of the danger. We often had a stray dog join the game and run round the field after the players and ball, barking madly and causing mayhem until it was chased off.

  Since I was so poor at sports and gymnastics, it came as a surprise in the fifth year when Mr Davies told me I was to be Captain of House. There were four houses at South Grove, named after four stately homes, Chatsworth, Welbeck, Sandbeck and Wentworth, and I was told I would be Captain of Chats-worth. Despite my protestations that I was unfit for such a position, being a pretty hopeless sportsman, I was given a little green metal shield to pin on my blazer lapel with 'House Captain' on it. Mr Davies explained that the position of house captain was more than just competing in the various sporting events. He wanted someone reliable, well-organized and popular with the other boys, who was able to 'rally the troops'. I felt very uncomfortable in this new role, particularly since the other house captains were extremely good at sport. What I found remarkable was that there was no resentment from boys much better suited than I to hold such a position. They were generous in their congratulations.

  The only sporting contest I took part in was the swimming and I hardly distinguished myself, coming in second or third in most events. I did come first by sheer chance in the breast-stroke once when the swimmer streaking out in front (he literally did streak out in front) suddenly slowed down because his trunks slid down his legs and, much to the spectators' amusement and his embarrassment, he stopped to retrieve them.

  I recall one boy at a swimming gala asking Mr Davies, who was dressed in a blue blazer and white flannels for the occasion, if it was allowed for the swimmers to breathe underwater. Mr Davies shook his head and sighed. 'And what do you think would happen, you silly boy, if you were to breathe underwater?' The youth thought for a moment. 'Would you be disqualified, sir?'

  Cliff Davies was in charge of making sure everyone was in school uniform. I knew there were boys in the school worse off than myself and they had free school meals but I wasn't aware of any great differences - certainly not in the way we dressed. This was in part because Mr Davies made sure every boy in the school was well turned out, and he would frequently remind us that in the street we represented the school and needed to look smart. He would check the uniform religiously and, I learnt later when talking to one of my former teachers, would provide a black blazer with red badge, black and red striped tie, flannels and black shoes to any pupil whose parents couldn't afford them. This made sense, for I remember once taking a parcel wrapped in brown paper from home addressed to Mr Davies. When I enquired of my mother what was inside she didn't tell me. I guess it must have contained some of my school clothes that I had grown out of. In his room Mr Davies kept a box with shoe polish and brushes, and any boy wandering around the school with scuffed shoes was obliged to go and polish them.

  Bert Gravill, a former army major, with a spine as straight as a gun barrel, was in charge of music. In assembly he would sit on the stage behind the old upright piano banging out a hymn tune. I would stand outside the hall hearing the stirring music and loud singing, wishing I could be a part of it. I would hum along with 'Onward, Christian Soldiers' and 'Fight the Good Fight' and wonder why Protestants had all the best hymns.

  Mr Schofield was in charge of geography. He was a sensitive, tolerant man, always willing to listen but not a soft touch. He was never too preoccupied to talk informally to the pupils at breaktimes or too impatient to go over an explanation again if we were unsure. His classroom, decorated with great coloured maps, posters, newspaper cuttings, postcards and photographs, was kept neat and tidy. We would line up outside in silence, file in, stand behind our desks, wish him a 'Good morning, sir', and then be told to sit. Trained as a primary teacher, I guess he never possessed the letters after his name but he was a natural teacher who enjoyed teaching, handled dissenting voices with humour and always made us feel valued. Those of us who have been teachers know only too well how daunting it can be to stand in front of a group of large, volatile adolescents, not accustomed to sitting still and listening, and attempt to engage their attention and get them to do as they are told. It is important to appear strong and fearless, even if it is an act.

  Many years later Mr Schofield, then in his eighties, came to hear me when I appeared on stage at the Strode Theatre in Street. I sat in the bar after my performance with his wife and family and we reminisced. He reminded me of the time he joined in with the laughter when a boy by the name of Paul Watson asked about a particular rock that his father had sent into school to be identified. It had traces of a coloured metal in it.

  'Do you know what it is, sir?' asked the pupil.

  The bright spark of the class, quick as a flash, shouted out, 'It's sedimentary, my dear Watson!'

  Eventually the manager of the theatre had to ask us to leave. Before he left I held my former teacher in my arms and acknowledged him as the great teacher he was. I wanted to repay that fondness and respect that he had showered on me. Sadly, Alan Schofield died the following year.

  Mr Jones was six foot three and a former Welsh Guards officer and only remained at the school for a short time. I guess he must have been filling in until he secured a more prestigious position in some public school, for he was certainly different from the other teachers. He was nicknamed 'Bobbin' John' from his habit of walking briskly down the corridor with a spring in his step, an unusually straight back and his head in the air. He seemed to bob along. He had an inordinately white complexion, bloodless as a bone dug out of a dusty pit, and a wonderfully clipped accent. Everyone said he was a hero and had rows of medals, but we could never get him to talk about the war. He invariably wore a blue blazer with brash gold buttons, carefully pressed flannel trousers, a crisp white shirt, striped military tie and highly polished black shoes. The boys would mimic his 'posh' voice and his straight-backed walk but he never, as he could have, resorted to the cane, the slipper or the metre rule. Mr Jones taught me to play chess, and each weekday lunchtime in the library (little more than a large bookcase at the rear of Mr Pike's English room) there would be pairs of serious-faced boys staring at each other across the tables with chessboards between them.

  In 1961 the boys' and the girls' school amalgamated and women teachers, along with their pupils, made an appearance. Mrs Cartwright was already a teacher in the boys' school and I looked forward to being taught by other attractive and youthful women teachers. The new women staff, however, proved to be something of a disappointment to a youngster full of testosterone. They appeared old and plain. But then there was the consolation of having lessons with girls.

  My favourite subjects at secondary school were English with Mr Dyeball and Mr Pike and history with Mr Firth. Although I passed my O levels (not all with flying colours, I should add), these were the only two subjects in which I showed any distinction. As Miss Greenhalgh had reminded me when I visited my former infant school, I wasn't 'top table' material. I was a plodder, a trier, one who had a reasonable memory for facts, a determination to succeed and a fear of getting into trouble. I guess for most of my teachers I was a very indifferent sort of scholar.

  In the first two years at secondary school I had Mr Dyeball (Eddie) for English. He was a grammarian and a disciplinarian but he was fair, had no favourites and taught us the basics of grammar, punctuation and spelling with
a real enthusiasm. He was a tall, slim man with jet black hair scraped back on his scalp and a neat parting to the side. He was always immaculately dressed, usually in dark suit, white shirt and college tie, and in the form picture taken at the end of my second year (when he was my form teacher) he sits in the middle of the rows of boys, knees together, arms folded tightly over his chest, smiling widely in his Prince of Wales check.

  I used to enjoy parsing sentences - noun, finite verb, limitation of finite verb, etc. - and I was good at it. I can't see the point in mastering such a dry and esoteric practice now, but when you are good at something that others find difficult, you enjoy the success and feeling of superiority. It was the same with logarithms with Mr Duffield in maths. I have never ever in my life found occasion to use them, nor a slide rule, nor a simultaneous equation for that matter, but I enjoyed the challenge and the sense of achievement in getting things right. But I digress. Mr Dyeball gave me a solid grounding in the basics of the language which has been invaluable. He taught me the parts of speech, how to punctuate a sentence and how to spell. Every few weeks he would teach the class a spelling rule and give us a list of words to learn. I still have in my dusty old English book, rescued from the attic some years ago, the list of rules and the accompanying words to memorize, written in black ink and in carefully formed letters. He was a conscientious marker and corrector of work, and in red at the bottom of each of my essays he would write what he called his 'ideas for improvement', using phrases like 'Your work contains a superabundance of expressive adjectives,' or 'You have a good eye for description but don't overdo it.'