Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad

by Phinn, Gervase

  'You will do no such thing!' snapped Mr Price in my direction. 'Go and fetch Mr Williams, and be quick about it.'

  I rushed up the stairs, three at a time, down the top corridor and into the school office where I managed to gabble out to Mrs Atkinson, the school secretary, what was happening. Mr Williams, who had clearly heard my account, emerged from his office which was the adjoining room, putting on his black academic gown in the process. He told Mrs Atkinson to call the police and to gather any other male members of staff who might still be on the premises and tell them to report to him at the school entrance. The headmaster then strode along the corridor and down the stairs, his gown billowing out behind him, to confront the aggressive visitor, with me at his heels trying to keep up. I wasn't going to miss this for the world.

  I remember the headmaster was incredibly calm as he informed the furious parent that Mr Firth had gone home and that the matter about which he was so upset could be discussed and resolved when he had calmed down. The man was not placated and told Mr Williams, stabbing the air with a finger, to 'move out o' mi way or I'll move thee!' The headmaster informed the man calmly that he would have to get past him to get into the school and he stood his ground. I could see Mr Price tensing up for a fight. Disappointingly, no fight ensued. After more shouting and cursing, fist-shaking and spitting, the man departed.

  It was the last history lesson before we went on study leave to revise for our O levels. We lined up as usual, filed into the room, sat at our desks, took out our books for the last time, and then there was a sudden eruption of laughter from the boys nearest the window. There, flying merrily in the wind at the very top of the flagpole, was a large pink bra.

  'Quiet!' boomed Mr Firth, striding to the window. He turned to face us and we all went quiet. We expected him to explode with anger but he didn't. He pointed to the smallest boy in the class. 'Johnny, go down to that flagpole and remove that offending piece of lingerie.'

  No one, in my experience, argued with Mr Firth and the boy dutifully ran out of the classroom.

  A minute or two later Mr Firth opened the window, stuck his head out and shouted, 'Lower it down!'

  'Can't, sir,' came back the reply from the boy, 't'rope's bust.'

  'What?' roared the teacher.

  'Rope's been yanked off, sir. I can't gerrit down.'

  'Well, climb up the flagpole and remove that brassiere!'

  The idea today of a pupil shinning up a flagpole is unthinkable, but in those days no one gave it a second thought.

  We had to remain in our seats but eventually the boy's head could be seen appearing at the window as he shinned up the pole. We were itching to get out of our seats to get a closer look. The boy fastened himself like a limpet to the top of the flagpole and reached up to get the bra. In one great yank he pulled it loose and held it up in triumph. This was accompanied by loud cheers.

  'Quiet!' ordered the teacher.

  The bra was brought back to the classroom and placed on Mr Firth's desk. It was a substantial garment of a bright salmon pink, and as it lay before the pile of books it looked like two mountains. The boy who had retrieved the garment was smirking fit to burst but Mr Firth ignored him. 'Does this belong to anyone?' he asked, holding up the bra. There was a strange quaver in his voice.

  Trying desperately to stifle our laughter we all shook our heads and replied in unison, 'No sir.' Then there was a splutter from the back, a stifled giggle and a snuffling as we all tried to stem our mirth.

  Then something quite amazing happened. Mr Firth blinked, his jaw tightened, he bit his lips momentarily and he forced a small smile. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. It was a loud, deep-throated belly laugh and we all joined in. How we laughed that morning. It was so loud and spontaneous that Mr Williams, on his ritual tour of the school, appeared at the door. We stopped laughing immediately and sat up at the sight of the headmaster. Mr Williams entered the room. We all stood. He caught sight of the large pink bra and looked baffled.

  'Is everything all right, Mr Firth?' he asked.

  'Perfectly, headmaster,' came the reply. 'Perfectly.'

  39

  I considered myself very lucky as a boy because, unlike some of my friends, I had two holidays in summer. There was my week in Blackpool, and then I went with the school on summer camp to the Isle of Man for a full fortnight. A hundred boys aged eleven to fifteen, ten members of staff, some with their wives and families, the school cooks and Vic Globe, the school caretaker, with his wife Dorothy and children Ray and Jane, would set off in three coaches from the top of Alma Road and journey to Liverpool, where we would take the ferry to Douglas, then another coach to Port Erin, and spend two memorable weeks on the small island. There were no seat belts on the coaches and the smaller boys sat three to a seat. Teachers would be locked up these days for such supposed irresponsibility, but this was in the 1950s and there was little said about health and safety.

  If you were on Mr Dyeball's coach or Mr Clark's you had a full three-hour journey to chatter, play games or sleep (we had to set off at the crack of dawn to miss all the traffic). We only sang ('Ilkley Moor Baht 'at', 'She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain' (the clean version), 'Ten Green Bottles' and 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm'), on the way home. Eddie and Nobby sat in the front seats with their wives, and provided we didn't get out of our seats, block the driver's rear view mirror, wander up and down the aisle or make too much noise we were left alone. It was a different matter in Mr Firth's coach. He would commandeer the microphone from the driver and give a running commentary all the way, pointing out places and buildings of historical interest.

  'We are now passing from the White Rose County to the Red. Some of you will recall what I taught you about the Wars of the Roses. The bloodiest battle of the war took place at Towton near here where the river ran red with blood'; 'It is said that Cardinal Wolsey, on his journey south to meet Henry VIII after his unsuccessful attempt to arrange a divorce for the King, stopped at Caywood Castle which is a stone's throw from here.' Much as I liked history, this was too much like school. On one journey to Liverpool the bus driver must have been equally irritated by this constant stream of historical information and surreptitiously flicked the switch, turning the teacher off. Mr Firth, oblivious of the fact that no one could hear him, rattled on regardless while behind the seats we all played our games and whispered to each other.

  I have never found it at all surprising that many people have a nostalgic feeling about islands. In their minds these bits of land set in vast empty oceans have a mystique all of their own. The Isle of Man was as different from Rotherham as any place could be, with its clear azure seas, great towering cliffs, quaint stone cottages, great castles, long promenades, miniature steam trains and cats without tails.

  On the ferry from Liverpool to Douglas we sometimes faced high seas. While most of us were leaning over the side or in the toilets heaving and splashing, with the sea heaving and splashing outside, Theo would be in the bar with a bacon sandwich and a pint of Guinness. On route from Douglas to Port Erin we passed over the Fairy Bridge. We all had to shout, 'Moghrey mie, Vooinjer Veggey - Good morning little people,' or we would have rotten weather. On our way back, after two gloriously sunny weeks, we would have to chant, 'Fastyr mie, Vooinjer Veggey' - 'good afternoon little people' and then, 'Gura mie - Thank you.'

  We stayed at Castle Rushen Primary School, a squat, grim, grey building at the crossroads to Port Erin and Port St Mary, sleeping in the classrooms. The teachers' rooms, down one end of the corridor, and the cooks' rooms, down the other, had iron bedsteads, squares of carpet and curtains at the windows. We had none of these luxuries. Our accommodation was basic to say the least. The classrooms had been cleared of the heavy lidded desks, hard-backed chairs and cupboards and we set up our canvas camp beds in rows on the hard wooden floor. There was no place for modesty and no chance of privacy, and any peeping Tom so inclined could peer through a classroom window at any time of day or night to see twenty boys in different stages of un
dress.

  We had roll call at 8.30 a.m. and by that time had to have made our beds, tidied our rooms and be washed and dressed and in the school hall for a hearty cooked breakfast. Then the day was ours to do whatever we wanted, provided we arrived back at the school for roll call at 5.00 p.m. During the day there would be a member of staff on duty at the school and he would organize football, tennis, cricket and various other games for those boys who preferred to stay. I was always keen to be out and about with my friends. There was so much to do: travel around the island on the miniature steam trains, sunbathe on the beach, ride on the Laxey Wheel, visit the castle at Douglas, swim in the sea, take a fishing trip out in the harbour, explore caves, climb up the cliffs to Bradda Head, hire a bicycle and cycle (without a helmet) along the narrow country roads. Such a holiday these days would be unthinkable. Every school trip organizer now has to be qualified, have first aid training and carry out a rigorous risk assessment prior to any school trip taking place. The idea of letting 100 unsupervised adolescent boys loose on a small island for two weeks in this day and age is frankly laughable. And yet nothing happened in all the five years I went on summer camp. No one got into trouble with the police, there was no vandalism, bad behaviour, serious accidents or drunkenness. No one scrawled graffiti on walls, stole from the shops or caused a nuisance. It was expected that we would behave. The very thought of having to face Mr Firth, now in his holiday gear of knee-length shorts, thick leather belt with silver buckle, khaki shirt and jungle hat (it was rumoured he had been a commando in the war and had seen off a whole troop of Japanese soldiers single-handedly with the knife he used for sharpening pencils in class), with his round weathered face and piercing eyes, was enough to keep us out of bother. Of course, Mr Firth's graphic description of what happened to miscreants on the island should they come before the Manx courts and be sentenced for punishment - a severe thrashing with a thin cane called a birch - might have had something to do with our exemplary behaviour.

  At 6.30 p.m. we ate a substantial meal and spent the evening playing board games, watching black and white films on the old projector, reading, writing letters and postcards home, drawing, playing Bingo (it was then called Housey-Housey) or just talking. There were no television, computer games or mobile phones.

  My parents warned me before I set off for the Isle of Man to be careful and try not to have an accident - as was my wont. I did try, but one year I was swimming in the clear blue waters of Port Erin Bay when pumping its way towards me I saw this huge mass of translucent jelly, purple in the centre and with long stringy tentacles. I had never swum as fast in my life, and thrashed towards the shore closely followed by the other swimmers. One of the tentacles, however, attached itself to my arm and later my hand and wrist swelled up, turned a strange blue colour and started to hurt. My friends were fascinated but entirely unsympathetic, predicting that it would not be very long before my arm withered and fell off. Mr Firth took me to the doctor, who prescribed the appropriate medicine. After a couple of days the swelling went down and the colour faded. Rather than warn us all of the dangers of swimming in a sea inhabited by such dangerous creatures, Mr Firth informed those on his dinner table that evening that life was full of risks and then gave a very informative lecture on the life cycle of the Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish.

  When three boys arrived back at the school after the first day looking like cooked lobsters and complaining of sunburn, Mrs Clark smeared them liberally with calamine lotion and that was the end of the matter.

  Another year my brother Alec came into the school after a day's fishing off the pier carrying a huge conger eel that he had caught. Another feared creature with its razor-sharp needle teeth, like a huge black and slimy snake, this predatory creature lived in the shallow coastal waters of the island. One snap of its massive jaws and you could lose your fingers. Rather than telling my brother off and warning others not to fish off the pier in case such a monster of the deep might be caught and could maim them for life, Mr Firth and the teachers dined off conger eel that evening, cooked to perfection by the cook. Alec was given a taste and half a crown for his efforts.

  It was with a great sense of excitement that I visited the Isle of Man nearly forty years later. In 2001 Pat Corrin invited me to speak at a charity luncheon in Douglas and I jumped at the chance to revisit the island. Jack, her husband, a true-blue Manxman and former Deemster (high court judge), took me on a nostalgic tour. I was made to feel so welcome. A year later I was back, this time at the invitation of the Senior Primary Education Adviser, to run a course for teachers, and I was able to visit Castle Rushen Primary School. It was very different now. Although the squat, square, grey stone exterior had changed very little in the intervening years, inside, the building was unrecognizable. Gone were the hard wooden floors, the metal-framed windows, the long cold green-tiled corridors, the wooden desks and the small, rather smelly toilets. I stood with the headteacher in this bright, welcoming and cheerful entrance, the walls covered in children's writing and paintings, and was taken back forty years, to when I stood on that spot, an eleven-year-old with his little case and an apprehensive expression. It seemed a world away.

  40

  I was susceptible to girls since reaching double figures, but it was only when I was fourteen that I first started seriously thinking about them. I found out all too soon that I had a habit of falling for those who showed little interest in me, unlike my best friend Peter, who had his pick. Even when the girl had never met me the relationship seemed to flounder.

  I was fixed up with a pen-friend by a colleague of my mother's and began corresponding with Katie, who lived in Milwaukee. Her photograph showed a bright-eyed, blonde-haired, all-American girl with a massive smile. She looked stunning. The photograph I sent her was of a dark, brooding, rather plain-looking boy. My letters must have seemed dreadfully pedestrian compared to hers, despite the fact that I embroidered and exaggerated and sometimes invented stories to make my life seem less drab and where I lived more exciting. Katie lived in a place as far removed in my mind from Rotherham as I could imagine. The photographs of the town in which she lived exuded affluence. It looked a clean, safe, wholesome place with long, straight, leafy streets, huge wooden houses with verandas and beautifully tended gardens, a stately white town hall and an imposing hospital. There was a diner with a huge neon sign above it, a grand picture palace, gas stations, a plaza and a high school as big as a castle.

  Katie's letters would tell me about the wonderful facilities at her school, the sports stadium, baseball games, swimming pool, ice hockey rink, running track, the high school band, the cheerleaders, the drama productions, the wonderful student social areas and her academic success. In one letter was a picture of her in a ballgown before setting off for the high school prom. She was on the arm of a tuxedoed boy with a tanned face, a cheesy smile, a huge bow tie, his hair slicked back. Of course, I knew his name just had to be Chuck. What could compare - that I had just summoned up the courage to dive from the first block at the swimming baths? That I had been to see the stuffed animals at Clifton Park Museum? That I had learnt three chords on the ukulele? That I had reached Grade 4 on the piano? Despite my efforts to try and make my life of some interest, it must have sounded to her a pretty dreary existence, and the letters stopped.

  After the disastrous date with Brenda, I was very apprehensive when my best friend Peter suggested that I make up a foursome. He was 'walking out' with a strikingly pretty, dark-haired girl and she had this friend, Jocelyn (I have changed the name to save her blushes), a thin, shy girl with thick straw-coloured hair and as long-legged and languid as a heron. Like many boys my age, I had become very fastidious about my personal appearance and spent a deal of time examining my face in the mirror for spots, brilliantining my hair, dousing my body with my brother's after-shave, scrubbing my teeth and making sure my fingernails were clean. I am sad to admit that it did not have the desired effect.

  For a few weeks the four of us went to the cinema, played t
ennis, took bus rides to Sheffield, drank strawberry milk shakes at the Ring o'Bells Cafe in All Saints' Square, listened to Beatles' records and went for walks around Clifton Park - all very innocent. There was no 'hanky panky' as my Aunt Nora would say.

  I had a sneaking feeling from the very first that Jocelyn only went out with me because she liked Peter and this was a way she could see a lot of him. I noticed the way she looked at him when he was talking and it was pretty obvious after a few weeks that she had a crush on him. Well, what girl wouldn't? He had curly, straw-coloured hair, the looks of the male model and a physique to match, and he was clever, confident and good company. Peter's father was a distinguished alderman of the town, a justice of the peace and a school governor and the family lived in a house overlooking the playing fields. Peter's elder brother was an actor. When my friend tired of Lynne and found another girlfriend, Jocelyn gave me my marching orders, but I can't say I was that bothered and certainly didn't lose any sleep over it. We had little in common - I liked books and reading and she liked dancing and clothes. I did once persuade her to go with me to the Lyceum Theatre in Sheffield to see a production of Julius Caesar, but I guess she only agreed because Peter's elder brother was in the cast.

  In 2005, at the time of writing this account, I was appearing at the Broadway Theatre in Catford as part of my tour, An Evening with Gervase Phinn. I had not thought of Peter for many years, so it was a surprise when at the book signing after the show I looked up to find him there with a great grin on his face. I had not seen him for forty years. Much to his embarrassment and to the amusement of his wife, Andrea, I reminded him of our innocent exploits with the girls of Rotherham in the 1960s and of the string of girls who would queue up to go out with him. With Peter was his young son. Things got even stranger when he told me that the young man's name was Finn.