Burgess, Blather and Binder String

 In Coningsby, as in many other places, at the chapel anniversary every year, it was the custom to invite someone special to speak at the evening service. It was usually a preacher of note or some local celebrity who would be likely to draw in a bit of a crowd. A ‘nice spread’ would be put on by ‘the ladies of the church’ for tea-time, around five o’clock, to be followed by the service at six. My mother along with the rest would be roped in to make sandwiches, cakes and pastries at the weekend for this event. She wasn’t a cake baker but could make a decent scone (of the fruit or cheese variety as the occasion demanded) and was a dab hand at sausage rolls. The chapel was next door so mum would be nipping back and forth most of the afternoon with things hot from the oven. One of the most memorable anniversaries as far as I was concerned was when we were entertained by a legend of Lincolnshire dialect, Mrs. Edith Burgess. By the time she visited us she must have been in her late seventies but still as chipper as ever. I gather she’d been invited on several occasions but it had taken us literally years to get her to come. I think I am right in saying she wasn’t merely a celebrity but had been actively involved in the church as wife of a Methodist preacher for many years so she could have delivered a message filled with spiritual guidance and insights but, to our delight, she didn’t do this. Instead she told us about her life as a young girl growing up in a north Lincolnshire village and her love for poetry and tales of Lincolnshire folk and history. Every now and then she would slip effortlessly into her dialect voice to regale us with words and phrases that were familiar but from a bygone age. She had recorded several pieces of poetry in dialect most notably several of the works of Alfred Lord Tennyson, like ”The Northern Farmer, The Spinster’s Sweet-Arts and Owd Roa (Old Rover).

A few years back I heard a woman from Osgodby called Titch Rivett talking on the radio about the demise of words in the Lincolnshire dialect. Among other things she attributed this to developments in modern farming methods; like the arrival of the tractor in place of the carthorse. Many dialect words were terms associated with farms and their animals especially horses. She also blamed the moving population. She felt that 'frim folk' (people from other areas) had come to the county whilst many Lincolnshire folk had also moved out and taken their voice with them. In 2004 she was busy trying to keep Lincolnshire's dialect alive by running courses on the subject and making audio recordings of its quirky expressions, such as wozzle (root vegetable) and gimmer (a ewe which has never given birth), sneck (metal hook), blather (mud on clothing) and dowking (wilting). But when she was speaking in 2004 her course was in danger of being cancelled due to lack of interest. She was saying that she was aware that it was almost a different language but if folk didn’t sit up and take note like old farm buildings falling into a state ‘beyond repair’ that language would be lost forever . As she said at the time, “Once that's gone you can't come back and say 'we'll have it now' because it's been lost.”

One poem I’m sure I remember Mrs. Burgess reading, and very possibly Titch Rivett knew it too, was one entitled, “A bit o’ binder string.” I’m not sure whether this originated in Lincolnshire but Mrs Burgess adopted it. I ran across it recently, although I can’t swear (and neither could Mrs. Burgess!) that her version and this were the same. I suspect some phrases have been southernised:

                                             

                                                      A Bit of Binder String.
Dost mind Bill Bates as used to work for Drake at Badgers End?
There weren’t a tool about the farm this feller couldn’t mend
From a hayfork to a harvester or any mortal thing
Old Bill could always fix it with a bit if binder string.

One day a Friesian bull got out and raged and tore around
Nobody dared go near ‘im as he roared and hooked the ground
Till Boss shouts “Bill” the bull’s got out and been and broke his ring
An Bill lassoed the beggar wi’ a bit of binder string.

Bill courted Mabel seven years an’; then he said “Let’s wed”
I’ve got a table an’ some chairs an’ Granny’s feather bed
Ther’s half a ton o’ taters up in the field as I can bring
An’ I’ve made some handsome doormats out of thic’ there binder string.

Well Mabel said “ We’d best get wed before they cut the hay
So they had a slap up Wedding on the seventeenth of May
But when they got to the church Bill found he had gone and lost the ring
So he had to marry Mabel with a loop of binder string

Next year a little daughter came to bless the happy pair
Wi’ girt blue eyes and a tuft of ginger hair
And Bill, he says to Parson at the baby’s Christening
Zee, ‘er be just the colour of a bit of binder string.

Well time went on an’ old Bill died an’ came to Heaven’s Door
He heard them all a singing there and he was worried sore
An’ he says to good St. Peter, “Zir I’ve never sung before
I were always kep’ so busy mendin’ things wi’ binder string.”

“Don’t worry Bill”, St. Peter said “The Good Lord understands
He’ve been a carpenter and likes to see folk use their hands
An we’m very happy to see ‘ee here, we’ve plenty who can sing
But we need a handy chap like thee, has ‘ee brought some binder string?

So Bill do bide in Heaven now, he’s very happy there
He’s got a liddle workshop round behind St. Peter’s chair
An’ while the Angels play their harps and all the saints do sing
Bill mends the little cherub’s toys with bits of binder string. "

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Anyone coming to the Bull's Head?

We all have experiences in life that we would prefer to forget or at least draw a veil over whilst they have the potential to cause us some embarrassment. I was recently reminded of an occasion when I was guilty of committing a faux-pas that for months afterwards caused me such discomfort that friends only had to ask the question, “Anyone coming to the Bulls Head?” and I would flush pink. Now, some fifteen years after the event, the time seems right to enter the confessional.

  Working in a residential special school in the centre of the county there has always been an emphasis on practical activities as preparation for adult life. In those far off days, before ‘domestic science’ was repackaged as ‘food technology,’ and long before things were complicated by the national curriculum, I found myself teaching cookery. I was charged with helping the kids prepare a range of basic recipes drawing on straightforward ingredients they could find in every store-cupboard. Nothing fancy or cordon bleu; we were simply making cakes, biscuits, pastries and a range of easy meals. Once in a while I introduced a few recipes from my own childhood, raspberry buns savoury pinwheels, cheese and bacon pie, sausage rolls and a fruity flapjack called Tyzan. In the days before learning support assistants apart from the occasional student on work experience, sent in for a taster session, I was on my own. I learnt from my own mistakes and experiences as a single man cooking for myself. Then one of the school governors, in fact the chair of governors, offered to come in and help out for a couple of hours once a fortnight. Things went well. We became more adventurous extending our range of foods and trying out recipes from other countries.

I was a little nervous however when we heard that we were going to have a local authority inspection. The governor, Sara, normally dropped in on a Friday for the period between morning break and lunch. However, a fortnight before the inspection was due Sara mentioned that she may not be able to come in the following Friday as she was probably having to attend the local magistrates court where she periodically sat on the bench. Instead she said she would try to pop in sometime earlier in the week if she could find the time. I thought little more of this until the following week when having just started a lesson with my own tutor group I spotted Sara through the window walking across the playground towards the cookery room. The children and I greeted her and, not having time to chat beforehand, started handing out the aprons and doling out the equipment to make cheese and parsley scones. The lesson ended and as we were washing-up I asked Sara if she could possibly give me a lift down to the local village as I needed to pop in home. I arranged to meet her in 5 minutes time by her car parked which I knew was just inside the iron gates to the school. After locking up my room it wasn’t long before we were both travelling back into the village. Although I asked her to drop me near the turning to my cul-de-sac she insisted on taking me right to my door and waiting for me. I explained I just needed to pick up my wallet before meeting up with colleagues for a bite of lunch at the Bulls head , the nearest pub, before returning to school for the afternoon session. She said she might as well take me down to the pub car-park as it was virtually on her way home. Having thanked her I entered the pub, ordered a half pint and sat in down in our usual corner by the fire. After waiting some 15 minutes or so I realised my colleagues must have got delayed or had been called into some impromptu meeting that had arisen back at school.

I therefore finished my drink, left the pub and walked briskly back to my house to grab a sandwich in lieu of the pub lunch I had missed. It was then that I happened to spy the kitchen clock…

I expected the time to be somewhere in the region of 1:00 but instead the clock was showing 11:45. Funny, must have stopped I thought until I noticed a similar time on the oven-clock. I grabbed my jacket and fairly sprinted the 3/4 mile back up the hill to the school, arriving in the playground as the bell rang for the 12:00 lesson changeover. I ran to my classroom meeting a mesmerised group of year 7 students standing by the door.

How I got through the next lesson I’ll never know. It gradually dawned on me what I had done. With Sara turning up on a different day and at a different time to help with cooking, I had completely forgotten what day it was. She’d come at 9:15 on a Thursday instead of her usual 11:00 a.m. visit on a Friday. When the lesson finished at break time (10:30) I had assumed it was the 12:30 lunch break. To make matters worse I had persuaded the school governor, a week prior to a school inspection, to take me down to the local pub midway through a school morning. Luckily I hadn’t been missed at school as I luckily had a free period between break and the final lesson on a Thursday morning.

 I ought to have left things at that but I was young, naïve and didn’t know any better so, when lunch time arrived, I compounded the situation by going down to the pub with my colleagues as originally planned. I might have known. I was greeted by the landlord with the words, “what are you doing here again?” Accordingly I found myself recounting what had happened to my colleagues and the effect was immediate. They started rolling about, tears streaming down their faces almost choking on their ham cobs. Needless to say by the end of the school day everyone in the staff-room, including the Head, had heard about my mid-morning foray down to the Bull’s head with the Chair of Governors. I did try to spit out some feeble explanation of my behaviour when I met up with Sara a few days later and but she claimed that she hadn’t noticed -bless!  

Shock Tactics

One of the joys of living and working in a small village community is being able to walk to and from work.  I’m lucky to live about a mile away from the school where I have worked for over thirty years. It’s an uphill journey each morning and in the winter months given the chilly weather I admit to being very grateful for the occasional lift. In the summer months however it’s very different and the journey is certainly no hardship. Each day I pass an Edwardian terrace with their immaculate cottage gardens then a pair of tall, Victorian villas clad in Wisteria. Next I walk alongside a newly planted copse and a couple of farms before crossing the road for a short walk alongside crumbling stone walls. After that it is through a tunnel of trees which mark the boundaries of the school estate. It’s not your standard school but a Victorian country house converted into a special school some 50 years ago. The Hall itself is little changed, it still has original mullioned sash windows and steeply- pitched, Swithland slate roofs.  The purpose-built school buildings are nothing remarkable, most are of the pre-fabricated variety dating from the 1980s. However, the grounds still boast a lot of the original outbuildings from the days of the farm estate. There is a kitchen block fronting a double courtyard. At one end is the blacksmith’s forge now converted into a workshop whilst at the other the laundry building and servants’ pantry have been transformed into a library and small museum area. The crowning glory is the recently restored turret clock that rises up from the roof of the boiler house surmounted by a bell under a lead cupola. In earlier times this was employed to notify the folk out in the estate fields when it was time for lunch or to knock off at the end of a long days work. A few of the old  farm buildings have survived like the pigsty and apple-store which are now used classrooms and the stable block which serves as a canoe and outdoor pursuit’s store.

We are in fact a special school for students with special educational needs with a unit catering for students on the autistic spectrum. Still a local authority school we have survived several changes of local government and national policy by the skin of our teeth. Why? well I like to think because we do a damn good job but that’s not what I want to talk about. I simply wish to set the scene for a tale of plotting and counter-plotting, of intrigue and of sweet revenge…

     “You don’t have to be mad to work here but it certainly helps.” I can’t tell you how often I cringed as my old head trotted out that line to visitors and new staff. He ran a disciplined and happy ship, in spite being a closet Morris dancer with some rather eccentric ideas. He advocated shoe-cleaning every Friday and the use of fish knives whenever the school canteen served up plaice. Nevertheless he had a heart of gold and a mischievous sense of humour, not quite “Carry on Matron” more like “Summer Wine”, but it still infected students and staff alike. In the 1980s, being a school with boarders as well as day students, the teachers were expected to fulfil regular evening duties alongside the care staff.  It made for good social relationships but there was nevertheless a conspicuous, friendly rivalry between the two staffs that surfaced during sporting events like the “It’s a Knockout” afternoon and the annual skittles evening. Both groups were constantly vying to score points over each other with an array of pranks; all on the understanding that you didn’t involve the students in any of the stunts. It’s hard remembering now all the shenanigans that went on but I recall the night we scared one of the house-mother’s (indeed that’s what they were called) witless by placing the bonfire guy in her bathroom; so that when she returned to her flat there, in the shadows, (we’d removed the light bulb), was this tramp-like figure sat on the lavatory. The same house-mother lost her lime-green Fiat Uno the night we put it in the kitchen garden disguised as a small haystack with bales we had ‘borrowed’ from our farmer neighbour.

The teachers didn’t have it all their own way, on occasions the care staff came up trumps with some A1 mischief of their own. There was the time we received a phone-call, purporting to come from our neighbour, that he’d spotted a snowy owl in a tree overhanging our chicken pen and that he’d already lost several hens to the same predator. We spent ages outside before discovering the owl was in fact a plastic bag flapping wildly in the branches where it had become entangled. The care-staff were nearly wetting themselves with laughter by the time the rest of us returned red-faced to the staff room.

In only my third year of teaching one particular housemother skilfully concocted a letter purporting to come from County Hall stating that the Director of Education himself had heard great things about my use of dramatic role-play in assemblies and wanted to observe me in action. I was so naïve at the time that I spent more hours than most people do in a pre-Ofsted frenzy getting my assembly technique perfected only to discover the ruse as the entire staff filed for my “performance.”  I should have been on my guard after this but only a few weeks later I was caught out by this selfsame joker in another rather childish prank.  

The boys had had iced buns for supper and there was one left over, which I reserved for myself when I came off duty after lights out at 9:30. The housemother decided it would be a wheeze to fill some of the buns with English mustard. Unfortunately one of the senior boys sent down to the laundry just before bedtime sneaked into the servery and pinched the contaminated bun intended for me. His loud protestation on tasting the added ingredient could be heard throughout the building. He was admonished for his deed and so was the housemother when the matron (yes we also had a matron) found out what had occurred.  Our pranks were curtailed for several weeks after the bun incident.

But the truce between that housemother and I didn’t last for long. One morning she and her husband had spotted me walking up the road from the village towards the school. They normally parked their rusty Volvo estate by the verge outside their cottage, about 100 yards below the school gates. As I approached the school I crossed the road below their cottage and was forced to skirt around their parked car. What I didn’t realise was that they had already spotted me whilst I was still a way off and had reclined their seats in order to lay flat and conceal themselves from view . As I drew alongside their vehicle they both shot to an upright position yelling like banshees, causing me to scream like a schoolgirl and throw the entire contents of my briefcase and lunch box into the adjacent ditch.

Now I don’t think I am vindictive sort of chap but needless to say these events served to focus my mind on the sweet notion of revenge. I didn’t have to wait long. Three weeks later crossing the kitchen-yard playground I spied the purple Volvo belonging to my colleague, pulled up outside the back entrance to the school. There, sat in the passenger seat, was the house-mother in question wearing her familiar brown duffel coat, seemingly nodding off in the warm spring sunshine, oblivious to the rude awakening that was about to rouse her. I crept forward furtively, like the cat Sylvester after Tweetie Pie, and then rose stealthily up the side of the passenger door. With a deafening shriek I presented my best gurning face to the car’s side window as the startled hooded figure spun round. Imagine my shock as the face that confronted me was not my work-colleague but that of a young woman who I’d never seen before! She screamed back at me, understandable in the circumstances I suppose, and I reacted by screaming at her a second time. It was like something out of a teenage horror flick. I tried to make my apologies but my attempts at an explanation did not seem to help. She wouldn’t unwind the window to allow me to apologise so what could I do? What made matters worse was that I later discovered the young lady , who turned out to be called Naomi, had come to the school for the first time that day to attend interview for a job as night-sleeping staff. She had been spotted by my colleague walking up from the bus-stop in the village and given a lift the rest of the way. Arriving at school a good ten minutes early she had chosen to wait in the car to collect her thoughts before going in for her appointment with the head of care. If this wasn’t all bad enough I also discovered, weeks later I might add, that she had only recently recovered from a nervous breakdown after leaving her previous job as a dental hygienist. Needless to say, she didn’t get the job but personally I don’t think she would have coped well with everyday challenges that school would have thrown up!