‘Good afternoon, Mr Phinn!’ the whole school chorused.
‘Good afternoon, children,’ I replied.
‘You know, Mr Phinn,’ continued the nun, ‘not only are these children such lovely readers, they are also very good singers as well. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Sister Brendan!’ the whole school chorused.
‘I’m sure you would like to hear them.’ I nodded ostentatiously. ‘So we will start off with one of our favourite hymns, “I am Walking in the Footsteps of Jesus”.’ And the children sang and sang and the hall was filled with the most happy music.
‘Did you enjoy that, Mr Phinn?’ asked Sister, at the end.
‘It was delightful,’ I replied.
‘Mr Phinn wasn’t singing, Sister,’ came a small voice from the front of the hall.
‘Not singing, Mr Phinn?’ remarked Sister in mock surprise.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know the words,’ I responded a little shame-faced. ‘It’s not a hymn I know.’
‘Then we must teach you,’ replied Sister Brendan. ‘Rebecca, will you come out and teach Mr Phinn the words?’
The little girl stood in front of me, slowly mouthing each word. ‘I – am – walking – in – the – footsteps – of – Jesus, I – am – walking – in – the – way – of – the – Lord.’ She then added, ‘Say them after me.’ I struggled through the verse.
‘Perhaps you would like a quick run-through by yourself?’ asked Sister, a mischievous glint in the small dark eyes. My heart sank when I heard ‘the wonderful Mrs Webb’ start up on the piano.
‘No, no!’ I replied quickly. ‘I think I’ve remembered them.’
‘But we haven’t taught you the actions yet,’ said Rebecca.
At the end of assembly, as the children dispersed quietly, Sister Brendan turned to me beaming with pleasure. ‘That will teach you to come in unannounced, Mr Phinn.’
Before I left the school, Sister Brendan took me to her office. She talked about the needs of her children, many of whom came from deprived homes, how important it was to build up their confidence and self esteem, to lift their aspirations, to unlock their energies and talents.
‘I can see that God has been very good to you, Mr Phinn,’ she concluded. ‘You had caring parents I guess, grew up in a loving home surrounded by books, and now have a very comfortable life style.’ I nodded. ‘You’ve got a well-paid job and you clearly enjoy your work.’ I nodded again. ‘You have the inestimable opportunity of seeing children every day. My goodness, you are a lucky man. What more could anyone want?’ I continued to nod. Suddenly she asked, ‘Are you married?’
‘No, Sister, I’m not married.’
‘Well, that is a pity. You would make a wonderful husband and father.’
‘Thank you very much, Sister.’ I resisted the temptation to say that she would make a wonderful wife and mother, but instead replied, ‘I will certainly know where to come for a recommendation.’ I then added, ‘This testimony, Sister, sounds like a preface to something.’
This time it was her turn to nod. She slid a cardboard collecting box across the desk. ‘I feel sure,’ she said, her dark eyes twinkling, ‘that you would like to help those less fortunate.’ I reached into my pocket. ‘In the form of a silent collection.’
‘A silent collection?’
‘The rustle of five pound notes.’
‘Sister, this is blackmail.’
‘I know,’ she chuckled. ‘The charity is called CAFOD – Catholic Aid For Overseas Development – and it does wonderfully good work all around the world. It helps those in the developing countries to earn a living. When I started teaching, it was called “Penny for the Black Babies” and each week the children would bring a copper or two to school for the missions. We stopped calling it that when our first little West Indian boy arrived and I overheard a child in the playground tell him: “We’ve bought you, you know.” ’
Before getting into my car I looked across the playground enclosed in a high wire-mesh fence. How different this scene was from Winnery Nook with the large picture windows and the view up to the high moors. I looked across to the tall black chimneys and ugly warehouses, wasteland and cramped terraced houses surrounding St Bartholomew’s. Then I caught sight of Sister Brendan waving from her office and I heard little Rebecca pointing me out to her mother.
‘He’s called Mr Grim,’ she said, ‘and he’s a spectre!’
9
It was a chilly day as I drove along a twisting ribbon of a road on my way to a small rural school set in the depths of the Dales. On such an autumn day, the colouring of the scene was unforgettable: long belts of dark green firs glistening in an ocean of crimson heather, great walls of rusty-coloured rock rising sheer, russet bracken slopes, grey wood smoke rising to the pale purple of the sky. It was a cold, bright and silent world.
Suddenly there was a loud crack and my windscreen shattered. I screeched to a halt. Climbing from the car I realized that the long road was quite empty of traffic, the air still and the scene undisturbed. I discovered the cause of the shattered windscreen – a large pheasant lay prone on the bonnet of the car, its claws sticking skywards. I was about to remove the bird when a rotund, red-cheeked character with a great walrus moustache and hair shooting up from a square head appeared from behind the drystone wall. The figure was dressed in bright tweeds – Norfolk jacket, plus fours and deerstalker hat – and carried a large shotgun under his arm.
‘I say!’ he boomed. ‘Are you all right?’
I assured him that I was only a bit shaken but no damage had been done apart from the windscreen.
‘Good show!’ he roared.
‘It came from out of nowhere,’ I said. ‘I was –’
‘Came from out of the sky actually,’ corrected my ruddy-cheeked companion. ‘I bagged it. It’s the October shoot. Lovely day for it. Plenty of game. Good sport. You’re on my land, you see.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I apologized, ‘I thought this was a public road.’
‘It is, it is. It’s just that it cuts through my land. Didn’t you know it was the shoot?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied.
‘Well, everyone hereabouts knows it’s the shoot. Out of county, are you?’
‘Yes …’
‘Anyway, not too much damage. Drive your car, can you? Garage in the next village. Send the bill to me. No need to bother with insurance and that ballyhoo. Get in touch with the Estate Manager at Manston Hall. I’ll tell him to expect your bill. I’m Lord Marrick, by the way. Take care.’
Before I could respond, he disappeared back behind the drystone wall. I stared after him for a moment and then reached for the pheasant.
‘I say!’ The tweeded figure re-appeared through a gate in the wall, marched straight past me, snatched the pheasant from the bonnet of the car and made off with the aside: ‘My bird, I think!’
I met Valentine Courtnay-Cunninghame, the ninth Earl Marrick, Viscount Manston, Baron Brafferton MC, DL properly some weeks later when I joined the interview panel for the appointment of the Headteacher of High Ruston-cum-Riddleswade Endowed Church of England County Parochial Junior and Infant School. I arrived at the school at a time when a lively debate was taking place between the governors.
‘Cost us a pretty packet just to place the advert in the paper!’ boomed Lord Marrick as I entered the school’s only classroom, which had been set out for the interviews. ‘All those words in the name and every one to be paid for. Can’t see why we can’t just call it the village school or Ruston School, that sort of thing.’
‘It’s tradition, Lord Marrick,’ responded the cleric to whom he was talking – a large, balding individual with a genial face and great bushy side whiskers. ‘The school has always been known as High Ruston-cum-Riddleswade Endowed Church of England County Parochial Junior and Infant School as long as I can remember.’
‘No, no, vicar, it used to be even longer,’ added a diminutive, busy-looking woman in tweed suit and brogues. ‘In
grandfather’s time it was High Ruston-cum-Riddleswade by Lowerwatersthwaite and Chapelwatersthwaite Endowed Church of England County Parochial Junior and Infant School.’
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Lord Marrick.
‘And a goodly number of the children walked the three miles from Lowerwatersthwaite and Chapelwatersthwaite to attend the school. That was before their own school was built in the Dale. So it wasn’t that long ago that those villages were included in the name of the school. Quite a mouthful. I remember grandfather joking once that –’
‘I’m all for tradition, vicar,’ interrupted Lord Marrick. ‘Traditions such as keeping to the King James Bible and the Ancient and Modern Hymnal in the Church of England – which I have to say your young curate at St Philip’s seems to have abandoned in favour of the Good News Bible and those happy-clappy, sing-along tunes – but I can’t see the sense in this. I like things to be short and to the point.’ Lord Marrick was still dressed in the tweeds I had first come across him in, but he now sported the largest bow tie I had ever seen. It was huge and a vivid green colour with various assorted pheasants, partridges and grouse flying in every direction.
‘As for keeping to the King James Bible and the Ancient and Modern Hymnal in the Church of England, Lord Marrick,’ responded the vicar looking rather peeved, ‘I should say that this is a matter which the Parochial Church Council –’
‘Shall we … er … make a start,’ announced the Chairman of Governors, a worried-looking woman, turning in my direction. ‘I don’t think our school inspector has come all the way from Fettlesham to hear us squabble about the name of the school or to hear about the selection of hymns at St Philip’s. Let me do a few introductions. I am Mrs Dingle-Smith, the Chairperson of the Governing Body.’
‘Chairperson, I ask you!’ grunted Lord Marrick. ‘What’s wrong with Madam Chairman? There’s another instance, you see, of loss of tradition.’
‘Oh please, Lord Marrick,’ pleaded Mrs Dingle-Smith, ‘let’s not go over all that again. We did discuss my title at the last governors’ meeting.’ Before the earl could reply, she sallied on. ‘I believe you are acquainted with the Rural Dean, the Very Reverend Bernard Braybrook?’
‘We met at my interview,’ I said, nodding and praying that we would not get into the discussion about Janus again. The cleric held out a pale hand and smiled benignly.
‘And over here is another of our governors.’ The diminutive, busy-looking woman in the tweed suit and brogues shook my hand with amazing force and gusto.
‘I’m Mrs Pole,’ she said. ‘Spelled P-o-w-e-l-l.’
‘I’m Mr Phinn,’ I replied. ‘Spelled P-h-i-n-n.’
‘And our other foundation governor,’ continued Mrs Dingle-Smith, ‘is the Earl of Marrick.’
‘Met before!’ roared the earl. ‘Good to see you, Mr Phinn. Car all right, is it? Splendid, splendid. I move we get on with this interview, Madam Chairman, otherwise we’ll be here all night at this rate. Things to do and all that.’
Surprisingly Lord Marrick said very little during the interviews. He stared rather menacingly at each of the candidates, grunting occasionally or nodding his head in approval on hearing the answers. When it came to his turn to ask a question he snapped: ‘Do you believe in standards?’ All three candidates for the position of Headteacher assured him that they did indeed believe in quality education and that they would do everything to encourage excellent academic, sporting and moral standards within the school. Having heard such positive responses, the earl nodded vigorously and growled, ‘Glad to hear it!’
The last candidate was a rather intense, nervous young man, immaculately dressed with highly polished shoes, crisp white shirt, sober grey suit and dark blue tie. The stare on the earl’s face became even more fixed. He inspected the candidate closely as if looking for dirt and then he suddenly asked, ‘What’s that on your tie?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the startled candidate.
‘The creatures! You have little animals all over your tie.’
‘Oh, I see,’ replied the candidate. ‘They’re natterjack toads.’
‘Toads?’ repeated Lord Marrick. ‘Natterjack toads?’
‘The natterjack toad is the emblem of CAPOW.’
‘Of what?’ snapped Lord Marrick.
‘The Countryside Association for the Protection of Wild-life,’ explained the candidate. ‘One of my hobbies is the preservation of endangered species.’ Feeling a little more confident he chanced his arm. ‘I see that you too like wildlife. I notice that your tie depicts a variety of birds indigenous to the area.’
‘Oh, these?’ replied the earl casually, lifting the tie to look at the pattern. ‘I shoot ’em.’
It was a week later that a memorandum arrived from the Chief Education Officer requesting me to take a group of governors round some infant and primary schools to give them an insight into the workings of the curriculum. On the list was Lord Marrick of Manston Hall, and I was asked to drive him in my car.
A couple of days later, therefore, I collected his lordship from the Small Committee Room at County Hall and explained the programme of visits I had planned.
‘Splendid! Splendid!’ he cried eagerly.
The first school we visited was a grey-stoned village primary school. Lord Marrick was something of a talking point when he entered the small classroom and with his red cheeks, great walrus moustache and hair shooting up from his square head it was not surprising. The bright tweeds added superbly to the effect. He was introduced to the very nervous Headteacher who was taking the class, and then sat down solidly, legs apart, on a tiny red melamine chair designed for very small children.
After a while he was approached by a small girl who stared and stared at his round, red face and bristling moustache. Then the following conversation took place.
‘What is it?’ asked the little girl.
‘What’s what?’ retorted Lord Marrick.
‘That on your face.’
‘It’s a moustache.’
‘What does it do?’
‘It doesn’t do anything.’
‘Oh.’
‘It just sits there on my lip.’
‘Does it go up your nose?’
‘No.’
‘Could I stroke it?’
‘No.’
‘Is it alive?’
‘No, it’s not alive.’
‘Can I have one?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, little girls don’t have moustaches.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they don’t.’
‘Can I have one when I grow up?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because ladies don’t have moustaches either.’
The little girl thought for a moment, tilted her head on one side before answering. ‘Well, my grannie’s got one!’
‘Really enjoyed that visit,’ Lord Marrick enthused, as we drove away. ‘My goodness, these little ones are bright as buttons, aren’t they?’
At the next school Lord Marrick joined the lower junior class for mathematics. As he sat at the back of the classroom an interested pupil approached him and asked: ‘Can you do add-ups?’
‘Yes,’ replied the peer. ‘I’m very good at add-ups.’
‘And take-aways?’
‘Good at those as well.’
‘And timeses?’
‘Excellent at timeses.’
‘And guz-inters?’
‘Guz-inters?’ repeated Lord Marrick looking stumped.
‘You know, two guz-inter four, four guz-inter eight.’
‘Ah, guz-inters!’ laughed the peer. ‘I’m outstanding at guz-inters.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be sitting here,’ said the boy. ‘You should be on the top table.’
I got to know Lord Marrick well over the next few weeks. He was an immensely warm, generous, supportive and rather extravagant figure who loved the Dales as dearly as any farmer. There was one famous
occasion when I accompanied him to a school on his own extensive estate: Manston Church of England Parochial School. He was a well-known figure there and the children were clearly quite delighted when the larger-than-life figure strode through the door and boomed, ‘Morning, children!’ We sat beneath a marble plaque placed on the classroom wall by his forebear which stated that the small school had been ‘endowed by the Dowager Countess Marrick of Manston Park in the North Riding of Yorkshire’.
A chubby little individual came to talk to us with a bright ‘Hello’. I let him chat on for a while and then I asked him the sort of question that adults usually ask small children.
‘And what would you like to be when you grow up?’
I was expecting one of the stock answers: fireman, doctor, policeman, train driver – but received a most unusual reply.
‘The Earl of Marrick,’ he announced without hesitation. I stared for a moment at the sunny countenance of the present incumbent of that title, wondering what on earth his reaction would be, and was surprised when he roared with laughter and patted the boy’s head affectionately before the child returned to his work.
‘Good lad, good lad,’ he chortled.
‘You are quite a hit, my lord,’ I observed as we walked to the car. ‘It’s a pity that the little boy will never achieve his ambition.’
‘Nonsense!’ Lord Marrick roared back. ‘That’s the grandson!’
10
‘It’s Lady Macbeth on the phone!’ Julie called as she saw my scurrying figure disappear from the office one morning at the beginning of November.
‘Who?’ I asked puzzled, coming back into the room.
‘Mrs Savage and it’s urgent – but then again, everything’s urgent to her.’
I snatched up the telephone. ‘Hello, Gervase Phinn here.’
‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ said a calm, unhurried voice. ‘Brenda Savage here, Dr Gore’s personal assistant. The Chief Education Officer would like a word with you.’
The soft clear tones of the Chief Education Officer came down the line a few seconds later. ‘I’ve been trying to have a word with you, Gervase, for the past few days but without success. I wonder if you could call over and see me tomorrow at about five o’clock?’
The Other Side of the Dale Page 9
