Open Writing

To identify people who have made a real impact on me, outside the family, is difficult but they do exist. That is not to belittle the impact on my life that my mum and dad, four sisters and brother made. Their contribution was huge, but I was never able to tell them so. To do so would have been hugely embarrassing both to me and for them.

That’s said, and consequently I have tried to be more open in expressing my affection for my children and my grandchildren. Although I must confess that I found it easier with my grandchildren than I did with my own children. I suppose that’s down to genetics.

Mr. M

Mr. Mwas a VIP in the local Methodist Chapel and the owner of a very old-fashioned retail emporium in the village. One day I was in the shop when a scruffily dressed little boy came in. He was dancing from leg to leg, probably because he wanted the toilet, when he dropped the money he was clutching in a grubby little hand.

Together we hunted for it among the sacks of potatoes, mounds of chopped firewood bundles and crates full if miscellaneous bottles that were piled on the floor.

Mr. M came in and the little boy gave him his very crumpled and grimy shopping list. When Mr. M totted up the bill, the little boy was 1½d short. With tears running down his face, he tried to explain to Mr. M that his mother had given him the right money and that he had dropped it onto the floor.

In spite of the fact that I came in on the boy’s side, Mr. M would not believe him. This really annoyed me as Mr. M knew me from Chapel. His only advice to me was, “You stay out of this, David. I’ve met lads like him before.”

I’m sure he had, but he had never met this lad before, although as I discovered later, he did know the boy’s mother, who shopped there regularly. The 1½d could have taken the lad on trust.

So I learned never to judge a person by their appearance. It is so easy to do, and I confess that my brother still does it. To him every teenage lad wearing a baseball cap back to front is a hooligan - and I could go on!

Mr. Hopkinson

A different but equally valuable lesson I learned from Mr. Hopkinson, the Superintendent of the Methodist Chapel I attended. He was a wonderful man.

Shortly after I had been accepted at university he asked if I would like to do a sermon at one Sunday’s evening service. The preacher on his list had become ill, and he must have had his reasons for asking me. When I had a rough draft of the sermon I was to go through it with him and we would identify a suitable biblical text to tie my sermon to. My suggested heading was “Living the Faith - Hypocrisy and Trust”.

He looked at me and suggested that I put Mr. M out of my mind. The last three words of my title had to go, but “Living the Faith” was acceptable. There were a few people in the congregation who still managed to look uncomfortable. The sermon wasn’t a success and I think that Mr. Hopkinson was a bit embarrassed.

When the congregation had gone out we sat down together and talked. He said, “You know, David, I can still remember being 17. Things were still very much black and white, but I think I was beginning to see tinges of grey. Try to spot them. They are usually there.”

How right he was. I now try to look a little deeper into issues before shouting my mouth off. Sadly I have to confess that I sometimes fail - but I do try.

Miss Cutts

My third person has to be the dreaded Miss Cutts, who beat me so hard in infant school that she made me cry - the very worst thing a boy of six could do in the classroom. All this for not being able to recognise the word THE.

The lesson she taught me however was to stay with me all my professional life. Listen to what the children say. Sometimes they tell the truth. Always listen to both sides of an argument.

When Kirklees Local Education Authority told me I must not allow the Navy to bring a Sea King helicopter onto the school playing field because it had nuclear capability, I decided to ask the Sixth Form what they thought of the instruction. Their views coincided with my own, so the helicopter came and was a huge success. I can’t say that I even felt the slap on the wrist I received from the LEA.

Later in the year I was talking to a group of the same Sixth Form girls about why they had been so scathing of the LEA’s instruction. To my surprise their attitude had nothing to do with Kirklees anti-nuclear policy. It had everything to do with getting some young, fit and hopefully attractive Naval officers into the school. In the words of today’s young-speak, “How gullible am I?”

Katie Jo Avison

Katie taught me to be careful what I say to anyone, child or adult. Unfortunately this lesson didn’t come in time to save me from committing a faux pas with my recently acquired mother-in-law. Jean and I, just recently married, were having tea with Jean’s Mum, Dad and sister. Mum was to attend some fancy do at Dad’s workplace, the Ellerman Wilson Shipping Line, and for the occasion had bought a new hat which she was keen to show Jean and me.

It was a nice hat and it suited her. It had a single feather in it, set at a jaunty angle. I made some facetious remark that if she was ever invited to a fancy dress do she could go as Robin Hood.
So much for opening my mouth before thinking.

Mother never wore the hat - ever. And no matter how much humble pie I ate, no matter how many times I tried to convince her that the hat really did suit her, the damage was done and the hat spent its days in a big black bag in the attic.

But to return to Katie Jo Avison. Her first day at the ‘big’ school. And it was big - just over 1800 pupils when she arrived with the other 300+ first year pupils. On that first day only the First Year (Year 7) came in. Another thing hugely successful that the LEA didn’t like.

I didn’t know Katie Jo at all at that time, but her father, Bob Avison, told me later that Katie Jo had been very apprehensive. Come lunchtime, I did my normal prowl around the dining room. I noticed a table with a spare seat so I wandered across and asked the girls, “Do you mind if I sit here?” I took their open-mouthed bewilderment and a few head shakes to mean that they didn’t mind.

The little girl sitting on my right was a frail little thing, very nervous, with ash blonde hair. Conversation was not easy. In the end I said to her, “Those chips look very nice. Do you mind if I have one?” I took her astonishment to be an invitation, so I pinched one of her chips and then another.

When I stole the third chip, the atmosphere round the table had noticeably eased, and one little girl said, “Sir, you shouldn’t be stealing chips. You’re the headmaster,” as if there was a direct correlation between rank and the act of stealing chips.

“You’re correct,” I said, “I’ll do something about it.” I went to the dinner queue and obtained a spare plate of chips. My antics had amused the dinner ladies, and one of them asked me if I knew the little girl. When I replied in the negative, she said, “That’s Katie Jo Avison. I live next door. Her dad is one of your new governors.”

I returned to the table and said, “Thanks very much, Katie Jo. It was very kind of you to share your chips with me. Here are a few extra for you to share around.” With that I smiled and left.

Some years later Bob Avison and I had become friends, and he was a great verbal supporter in Governors of the first day becoming a Year Seven day only. I’m sure it was his strong support that persuaded the entire governing body to approve this unusual and somewhat illegal act.

When I thanked him for his support he admitted that it was my chip-stealing incident that persuaded him. Katie had come to school on that first day dreading the experience. She had made six new friends and had met the headmaster. When asked what she thought of me she replied, “He’s a nice man, and he’s funny. Did you know he goes around stealing chips?”

That incident meant nothing to me, but it coloured the attitude of the entire first year as, inevitably, the story got round. So, in the words of the song, “Little things mean a lot.”