Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill (2 page)

‘When I Was a Lad'

 

 

Growing Up

A Singular Sort of Town

Rotherham, the town where I was born and in which I grew up and went to school, has always had a bit of an image problem. It is viewed in the popular mind as a gloomy, depressing, industrial place, full of dust and dirt, of noisy steelworks and ugly pitheads. Comedians make fun of the town with jokes like ‘Rotherham doesn't have a twin town – it has a suicide pact with Scunthorpe' or ‘Rotherham's like Barnsley without the carpets'. The celebrity chef, Jamie Oliver, on his television programme about healthy eating, did the town no favours either and, on the screen, Rotherham lived up to its unattractive stereotype.

In educational circles, Rotherham is seen by some, who probably have never visited the town, as a deprived and impoverished part of Yorkshire, as unlike Harrogate as chalk is from cheese. I recall once a speaker at a conference remarking that teachers should pay particular attention to the most ill-favoured and vulnerable children. ‘The Gervases of Eton will inevitably achieve, be successful and have the best of support and encouragement,' he told his audience, ‘but it is the disadvantaged and underprivileged Jasons of Rotherham who are in most need of the teachers' attention.' I did point out to the speaker later that
I
was called Gervase and hailed from that particular town, and that not all children there are ‘ill-favoured and vulnerable'. Growing up in Rotherham in the 1950s, I certainly didn't feel in any way ‘disadvantaged and underprivileged'. In fact, I thought I was very lucky.

Rotherham is not as bad a place as it is sometimes painted. In the 1950s, the town was bustling and interesting, with a real Yorkshire gritty character to it – solid, uncompromising, unostentatious – a vibrant, friendly, hard-bitten part of ‘God's own country', and there was nowhere in England where the inhabitants were warmer or more hospitable. I grew up surrounded by people with an unflagging generosity, a sharp humour and a shrewd insight into human nature which I learnt to love.

When I was young there were, of course, the smoky mornings, impenetrable smog and the unpleasant odour which sometimes emanated from the canal, but a bus ride out of the centre of the town, with its magnificent red sandstone medieval church and the rare Chapel-in-the Bridge, took me in minutes into open countryside. In the school holidays and at weekends I would explore the area around the town, setting off in the morning on my bike, with a bottle of pop and a sandwich, and cycle into the country.

One of the favourite destinations on my weekend jaunts was Conisborough Castle, the great white stone Norman fortress set high on a mound between Rotherham and Doncaster. After I had read Sir Walker Scott's epic story
Ivanhoe,
I cycled out one bright Saturday morning to where the novel is set. I recall sitting on the perimeter wall, staring up at the imposing edifice and imagining knights in glittering armour, gallant Crusaders, dastardly villains, jousting and sieges, dark dungeons and great battles.

Another favourite spot was Roche Abbey. I would cycle out to Wickersley, famous for the grindstones used in the Sheffield cutlery trade, through the mining town of Maltby, eventually arriving at the crumbling remains of the magnificent Cistercian abbey. It was such a quiet, atmospheric place and I would sit amongst the crumbling stones in the sheltered valley and imagine the abbey in its heyday.

My mother, like my pals' parents, encouraged me to ‘get out from under my feet' on Saturdays so she could do the cleaning and washing. There was no sitting inside watching the television or playing on the computer. We had to be out of the house and would not be expected back until it began to get dark. My parents never worried that I would be abducted or set upon and, unlike some overly anxious parents today, never thought there was a paedophile hiding behind every bush ready to pounce. It seemed to me a safe, warm environment in which to grow up. I had the freedom to play out all day in the street or at the park, something which is sadly denied to many children today. These days so many parents seem so obsessively concerned with giving their children long and happy childhoods, with keeping them safe from harm and injury, in need of constant protection, away from potential risks, that they underestimate their offsprings' abilities and resilience and deny them the great sense of freedom I had. The children of my generation were happy as crickets, unhindered by adult restraint.

A Boy Called Gervase

One has to admit that my parents had a sense of humour calling a child born in a redbrick semi in Rotherham, Gervase. In the 1950s when I was growing up, there were Jimmys and Terrys, Michaels and Ronalds, Martins and Kevins and one or two Alberts and Harolds but, to my knowledge, no Gervases. The first Gervase I came across was in Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales
– he was the blacksmith in the raunchiest of the stories. Now, of course, children are given the most unusual, not to say bizarre, names. Brooklyn and Romeo Beckham, Peaches Geldof and the other children of the rich and famous are not alone in their unusual appellations.

Over my years as a school inspector, I collected quite a list. I have met Barbie, Kristofer, Buzz, Curston, Randy, Mykell, Charleen, Kaylee, Scarlet, Egypt, Heyleigh, Jordana, Aztec, Blasé (pronounced Blaze), Gooey (spelt Guy), a child whose surname was Pipe and first name Duane and a child called Portia but spelt Porsche for, as the teacher explained to me with a wry smile, the girl's father had always wanted a Porsche car. I've come across Demi, Dayle, Shalott (pronounced Charlotte), Precious, Roxanne, Tiggy, Trixie, Terri, Cheyenne, Billi-Jo, Tammy-Lou, Princess, Duncan Biscuit and Eileen Dover, a boy named Gilly and a girl called Barney. In one school there were two sets of twins from the same family, aged ten and eleven respectively, named after great tragic heroines: Cleopatra and Cassandra, Desdemona and Dido. Then there were the brother and sister, Sam and Ella, whose names, when said at speed, sounded like food poisoning. I have met Hadrian Wall (with a father called Walter Wall), Victoria Plumb, Sunny Day, Holly Wood and Justin Finnerty. I have never met them, but was told by a teacher that she had had the pleasure of teaching a Teresa Green, an Annette Curtain and a Poppy Field.

A head teacher told me once that she taught three sisters called Paris Smout, Vienna Smout and Seville Smout, all, no doubt, conceived after three particularly memorable trips abroad. ‘It is just as well,' she told me, ‘that her parents didn't go on a weekend break to Brussels.'

In one infant school in Bradford, I came across a large girl with a plump face, frizzy hair in huge bunches and great wide eyes.

‘What's your name?' I asked the child.

‘Tequila,' she replied. ‘I'm named after a drink.'

‘Tequila Sunrise,' I murmured.

‘No,' pouted the child. ‘Tequila Braithwaite.'

Perhaps she had a brother called Bacardi in the Juniors.

I was told by the head teacher of a Catholic school that it was the practice in the Church for children to be named after saints, and he was at school with a boy called Innocent, a name adopted by a number of popes.

‘I suppose it must have been difficult having to live up to the name Innocent,' I observed.

‘It certainly was,' he replied, ‘and something of a cross to bear. His second name was Bystander.'

‘I cannot say that modern parents are very well acquainted with the Bible,' a vicar once told me. ‘Gone are the fine biblical names like Hannah and Simon. Instead, parents want their offspring named after pop singers, film stars and footballers. I draw the line though when I get requests for Jezebel, Salome and Delilah,' he bemoaned. ‘It's very difficult explaining to the parents who these women were and what line of work they were in. One child very nearly went through life with the exotic name of Onacardie. I asked the parents at the christening: “And what do you name this child?” The mother replied loudly, “Onacardie.” I had just begun sprinkling the water over the baby's head and intoning: “I christen this child Onacardie,” only to be quickly interrupted by the irate mother. “No, no, vicar!” she hissed. “On 'er cardy. The name's written on her cardigan. We want her to be called Siobhan.” '

‘I have a pet theory about first names,' another head teacher told me. ‘Over the many years I have been in education, I have come to the conclusion that Shakespeare got it wrong when he said that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. I learned very early on that boys called Richard tend to be well-behaved, quiet children who work hard, Matthews are very polite and thoughtful, Dominics are little charmers, Damiens have far too much to say for themselves and Kevins are accident-prone. Penelopes tend to be lively and interested, Jennys tend to be sporty, Traceys too big for their boots and Elizabeths little darlings.'

‘And what about the boy called Gervase?' I asked.

‘I have never taught one,' she told me. Then she thought for a moment. ‘However did you manage,' she asked, ‘growing up in Rotherham, with a name like that?'

Famous Forebears

There's a television programme which investigates the family history of celebrities. It has revealed some amazing facts and fascinating characters. Some of the forebears were rich and illustrious, others dark and villainous, which surprised, horrified and sometimes moved to tears their celebrated descendents. When I was young, reading adventure stories and blessed with an over-developed imagination, I thought that I might one day discover I was descended from someone great and good and that I would inherit a grand fortune.

A friend of mine has been researching his family history and discovered that he had many a distinguished ancestor, including the first professor of mathematics at Cambridge University and friend of Prince Albert, a number of eminent vicars of Dent and possibly General John Lambert of Calton Hall, Kirkby Malham, architect of the Cromwellian Protectorate. On a recent literary-themed cruise, a fellow author and speaker was Lucinda Dickens-Hawksley, the great, great, great granddaughter of Charles Dickens and one who could rattle off a veritable plethora of famous forebears. Then there was the young man in a school in Harrogate who told me he had much to live up to, being the direct descendant of Scott of the Antarctic.

My father-in-law has traced his family back several generations and has found a number of illustrious ancestors, including the Methodist preacher and theologian Joseph Bentley, author of
How to Sleep on a Windy Night
. I can certainly vouch for the veracity of the title; the collection of sermons put me to sleep in minutes.

I did once think I might be related to the great and the good when I received a letter from a Miss Marjorie Mangham-Phinn, in which she claimed kinship. Having researched her own family history, Miss Mangham-Phinn had discovered that one of her most famous ancestors was Thomas Phinn, an eminent Victorian philanthropist and worthy. She maintained that Trollope based his character Phineas Finn, the decent, strikingly handsome young heartbreaker who charmed himself into polite society, on her distinguished ancestor. Thomas Phinn, she informed me, was the Member of Parliament for the elegant city of Bath from 1852 until 1855. She had an idea we might be related since Phinn is a most unusual name.

When I was asked to speak at the Bath Literary Festival, in the magnificent Guildhall, in 2005, I had the opportunity of meeting my supposed ancestor. His marble bust had a prominent place in the entrance of the Guildhall. Styled as a Roman statesman with luxuriant curls, large honest eyes and prominent nose, he did bear a striking resemblance to my brother, Alec. I was introduced to my audience, on this occasion, by the present MP for Bath, Don Foster. Later, he very kindly researched Thomas Phinn for me in the archives of the Houses of Parliament.

 

Thomas Phinn. Hall – Staircase, Inner Temple, London. 41 St James's Street, London. Brook's and Reform. Born at Bath 1814, the son of Thomas Phinn of Bath, Surgeon, by Caroline, daughter of Richard Bignall, Esq. of Banbury. Unmarried. Educated at Eton and Exeter College, Oxford where he was 1st class in Classics 1837. Was called to the bar at the Inner Temple in 1840 and joined the Western Circuit.

 

The impressive entry in
The Who's Who of British Members of Parliament, Volume 1, 1832–1885
continues to describe the glittering, if rather curtailed, political career of Thomas Phinn, QC, Liberal Member of Parliament, Secretary to the Admiralty, who was fiercely in favour of ‘vote by ballot and the fullest development of free-trade principles'. It was he who voted for an inquiry into Maynooth, the Irish seminary from which so many missionary priests came over the water to England, so I guess he must have had some Irish connections.