Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill (30 page)

 

Becoming Famous

Do You Know Who I Am?  

I was once asked by a self-important councillor with whom I had crossed swords: ‘Do you know who I am?' I wish I had summoned up the courage to reply, ‘No, and frankly, I couldn't care less who you are,' but I bit my lip and merely replied that I did not.

I really have to smile when I hear that ridiculous question. A Mr Don Mudd of Nantwich was waiting patiently in the queue at the check-in counter at Auckland Airport. The single attendant was attempting to deal with a long line of exasperated passengers when one loud and angry man pushed his way to the front, slapped his ticket on the counter and informed her, haughtily, that he was in first class and insisted on being dealt with before the rest. The attendant explained that there was a queue of people before him and asked if he would mind waiting his turn. Undeterred, he shouted at her: ‘Do you know who I am?' Without hesitating, the young woman picked up the public address system microphone and announced: ‘May I have your attention please. We have a passenger who does not know who he is. If anyone can identify him, could they please come to Check-in 14?'

There's the story of Margaret Thatcher who, when Prime Minister and at the height of her power, visited Yorkshire with Bernard Ingham and a handbag. She was touring a residential home for the elderly and, of course, the residents were keen to meet her. There was one exception; one lady continued reading her book, apparently oblivious of all the fuss.

The Prime Minister, intrigued, approached her. ‘Hello,' she said.

‘Hello,' replied the woman.

‘And how are you?'

‘I'm all right. How are you?'

‘I'm fine,' replied the Prime Minister. ‘And are you enjoying it here?'

‘Mustn't grumble,' came the reply.

‘And have you any children?'

‘Two – a boy and a girl. Grown up now, of course. Have you?'

‘Have I?' asked Mrs Thatcher, rather startled.

‘Children,' repeated the woman. ‘Have you any children?'

‘Yes I do,' said the PM. ‘I too have a son and a daughter.'

‘And what are they called?' enquired the elderly lady.

‘Mark and Carol. Tell me dear,' said Mrs Thatcher, looking the woman in the eyes, and asking, with a sympathetic smile on her lips: ‘Do you know who I am?'

‘No love,' replied the old lady, ‘but Matron will tell you.'

As a visiting professor of education, I lecture at various universities. At one university, when the examination period came around, lecturers were told to be extra vigilant and keep a keen eye out for any cheating or ‘flouting of the rubric'. One of my colleagues, invigilating an examination, explained to the students sitting their finals that, when he told them to stop writing, they must put down their pens immediately. One young man continued writing after the order had been given and, when he came to hand in his paper, the invigilator refused to accept it.

‘You were still writing,' he told the student, as he collected together a huge pile of papers.

‘I was merely writing my name,' explained the student.

‘Nevertheless, you were writing and your paper will have to go to the Dean of the Faculty for his decision.'

‘Do you know who I am?' demanded the student angrily.

‘No, I do not,' replied the invigilator.

‘Take a closer look,' said the student. ‘Do you know to whom you are speaking?'

‘No!' snapped the invigilator. ‘I do not know who you are!'

‘Thank goodness for that,' said the student, and pushed his paper into the middle of the pile.

Celebrity Status

I was recording my fourth Dales book in Bath, and booked into the hotel near the studio where the readers usually stayed. Behind the reception desk, signed photographs of famous actors and celebrities who had stayed there were displayed, each with various complimentary comments scrawled across them.

‘You have a studio booking?' the pleasant young receptionist enquired.

‘Yes I do,' I replied.

‘And you'll be at the recording studio all day tomorrow?'

‘That's right.'

‘Could I ask you a favour?'

‘Yes, of course.'

She gestured behind her, to the hall of fame. ‘It's just that we usually have signed photographs of the famous people who read at the studio displayed on the wall.' Above her were signed photographs of distinguished actors and politicians, broadcasters and television stars.

‘I should be delighted—' I began.

She cut me short. ‘We've got Greg Wise staying at the hotel.'

‘Who?' I asked.

‘You know, Greg Wise, the actor. He's married to Emma Thompson.'

‘Yes, of course,' I said, recalling the dashing, darkly handsome Mr John Willoughby in the film version of
Sense and Sensibility,
the man who rescues Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslet) when she gets caught in the rainstorm and sprains her ankle. He turns out to be a bit of a cad and later deserts her to marry for money.

‘Well,' continued the receptionist, ‘he's staying here and he's recording at the same studio tomorrow. Could you ask him if we could have a photograph? I just went weak at the knees when he booked in. I was lost for words.'

‘I'll see what I can do,' I replied. It was clear that there was little chance of my photograph joining the great and good on the wall behind reception.

Greg Wise was a most charming and unassuming man, and readily agreed to the request to have his photograph taken. In fact, he was extremely courteous when people approached him for his autograph or to tell him how much they enjoyed the films and television programmes in which he had appeared.

‘I suppose it's part of having an easily recognisable face,' he confided in me. ‘A little tiresome at times when you want to get about your business and people keep on coming up to you. But I don't mind really.'

One evening, as we ate a meal in the hotel restaurant, I was conscious of people staring, pointing and discussing him and, as we got up to go, several approached him for his autograph.

‘Are you his agent?' one man asked me.

‘No, I'm not,' I replied, rather peevishly, ‘and I'm not his father either.'

It was the last day of recording and we were setting off for the studio when two elderly women caught sight of us crossing the small square to the front of the hotel. I saw one of them point at us and another scrabble in her handbag for a pen.

‘Here we go again,' said Greg. ‘I'm really sorry about this.'

The elderly couple approached, but looked past my companion and straight at me.

‘It's Gervase Phinn, isn't it?' said one of the women.

‘It is,' I replied.

‘I thought it was you. I said to my friend, that's Gervase Phinn.'

‘We heard you speak at the Women's Institute AGM last year,' said her companion.

‘And we've read all your books,' added the other. ‘Do you think we could have your autograph?'

I turned to Greg Wise. ‘Ah, what it is to be famous,' I said smugly.

Didn't They Do Well?

I was greeted at the entrance of the exclusive Simpson's in the Strand by a member of staff, a young woman in a smart grey suit.

‘Mr Phinn?' she enquired.

‘Yes,' I replied, surprised to be recognised.

‘The manager would like to see you in his office, sir, if you would like to follow me.'

I was at this sumptuous hotel to speak at the ‘
Oldie
Luncheon' for Richard Ingram, along with Barry Cryer and John Julius Norwich, and could not for the life of me think what the manager wanted.

‘Me?' I asked. ‘He wants to see me?'

‘Yes sir,' she said.

‘Do you know what it is about?'

‘No sir. He just said it was important that you see him.'

In his plush office, the manager rose from his chair and smiled warmly. He was elegantly dressed in a dark jacket, pin-stripe trousers, crisp white shirt and grey silk tie.

‘Mr Phinn,' he said, holding out a hand. ‘How very good to see you.'

‘Thank you,' I said, intrigued.

‘Do sit down,' said the manager. He smiled. ‘You don't remember me, do you?' he continued.

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm afraid I don't.'

‘Stephen Busby. You used to teach me.'

‘Stephen Busby,' I sighed. I saw in the man's face the child I taught some thirty or so years before – that small, bright-eyed, good-natured little boy who sat at the front desk. It's a cliché, I know, but I knew he would go far.

‘I always enjoyed your lessons,' he told me. ‘My sister Ann is coming down later this morning to see you. You taught her as well.'

I remembered Ann, my star pupil, whose work was imaginative, beautifully neat and accurate. She went on to get top grades in her examinations.

‘She works for the BBC World Service now,' my former pupil told me. ‘She's really looking forward to seeing you again.'

Teachers always feel that small tingle of pride when meeting former pupils who have done well in life. They feel perhaps they have had some small part in their successes. I have to admit that I guess I have not had such a positive influence on some of my other former pupils.

Some weeks later, I was shopping in Rotherham when I was approached by a bear of man with a tangle of curls and a great bushy beard, sporting a selection of aggressively colourful tattoos on his arms. He was holding the hand of a small boy of about eight or nine.

‘Hey up, Mester Phinn,' he said. ‘Does tha remember me?'

I remembered this former pupil only too well. He was often in trouble for fighting, answering teachers back, failing to do his homework, truanting and being generally a real nuisance. Teachers tend to recall the difficult and demanding youngsters and I certainly recalled this particular wayward and disobedient young man.

‘I do, it's Johno, isn't it?'

‘Aye, that's reight. Does tha remember when I answered thee back and I got caned?'

Oh dear, I thought, this might get ugly. ‘I don't,' I said, feebly.

‘Aye, well I do, and it bloody well hurt.'

‘Well, you see—' I began to try and explain.

‘I deserved it, reight enough,' he interrupted. ‘Oh aye, I deserved it, all reight. I were allus in trouble for one thing or t'other and I'll tell thee what, Mester Phinn, if teachers today were like t'ones I 'ad when I were at school, stricter like, then we wunt 'ave all this yobbish behaviour. It never did me no 'arm.'

‘Perhaps you're right,' I agreed. I was not inclined to argue with the giant. ‘And who is this young man?' I asked, smiling at the glum-faced little boy staring up at me with large wide eyes.

‘Him? This is our Kyle,' I was told. ‘Mi grandson.'

‘Grandson?' I repeated.

‘Aye, I've got eight.'

‘Eight,' I mouthed. I suddenly felt very old.

Digging the Garden

I was positioned at the very entrance to a massive bookshop, sitting at a small table, surrounded by towers of books and feeling not a little embarrassed. People passed and glanced in my direction but not a soul stopped to talk to me or to buy. Then an elderly couple approached. They observed me for an inordinate amount of time, as if I were some rather strange specimen in a museum case.

‘Are you anybody?' asked the woman eventually. She was dressed in a thick black coat with a multicoloured headscarf wrapped around her head and tied in an enormous knot under her chin.

‘I beg your pardon?' I asked pleasantly.

‘Are you anybody? 'Ave you been on anything?'

‘No,' I replied simply.

‘Do you know who he is, Ron?' the woman enquired of her companion, a small man in a flat cap with the face the colour and texture of a mouldering russet apple.

‘No, I don't,' he replied.

‘What's it about?' asked the woman, picking up my book and flicking through the pages.

‘It's about my life as a school inspector in the Yorkshire Dales.' She screwed up her face. ‘It's a humorous account of the children and teachers I have met – sort of gentle, life affirming, observational writing. There's no sex and violence and bad language,' I added.

‘Doesn't sound my cup of tea,' remarked the woman, putting down the book.

‘Cookery books sell,' the man told me.

‘And gardening books,' added the woman. ‘Person they 'ad 'ere last time wrote one of them gardening books and there was a queue right out the door and round the corner.'