Hatfield

Hatfield

Hatfield is a small town South Yorkshire straddling the A18 to Goole and Scunthorpe. To describe it as a backwater would be to overstate its significance in the great scheme of things. Nevertheless the battle of Hatfield Chase fought on October 12, 633 was a decisive victory for the Welsh and Mercian’s: and led to the temporary collapse of the Northumbrian state. But by now that event was over thirteen hundred years ago and apart from the draining of Hatfield Chase by the Dutch engineer Vermuyden not much had happened since.

We drove into Hatfield and presented ourselves at the Vicarage. We were greeted by a cheerful welcoming man in Denim with a Golden Retriever at his side. This was the Vicar Ted Greathead. We were welcomed in, tea was made, the rapport was instant and I knew that Harold Wilson was right, if I was to survive a curacy in the Church of England then it would be under the tutelage of this unassuming, humble, yet immensely gifted and generous man.

Then the doorbell rang. The visitor, we were told, was Dr Waters and it was at his house that we were to stay for the weekend.

Ash Hill Lodge was a lovely Queen Anne style house on the edge of Hatfield and we invited to follow Bill in his VW as he literally raced through the village and onto the gravel drive of Ash Hill Lodge. As he drove the VW into the garage I glimpsed the classic radiator grill of an R Type Bentley in the garage.

Janet and I were stunned, speechless, panicking and just a tad overawed. But this was nothing as we were introduced to Jean Waters. I had a sense of being in the presence of Royalty. Jean was simply the most gracious hostess I have ever known. Her table was never less than generous, the food was beautifully prepared and served, the house was as elegant as our hostess and yet comfortable, warm and welcoming.

I just wished that my Jeans and Jacket had been chosen with a little more care and that my Polo neck sweater was a little less worn. But we were welcomed as important guests and the Water’s girls appeared from time to time with prayer books and hymn books aimed I guess at making us feel at home.

Bill quizzed us thoroughly as only an expert diagnostician can, but with no hint of prescription. He prepared us for another side of my future Vicar, the parish new nothing of the plan to invite a curate, there was no house or accommodation and when I was introduced on Sunday morning it was as a friend of the Water’s family, that part had already become true over the course of the Saturday.

As the weekend drew to an end and I indicated my enthusiasm to accept the offer of a first curacy with Ted I was reminded that I had another interview in Sheffield on the way home. This was with Ian Griggs in the parish of St Cuthbert, Fir Vale and important, successful and thriving parish in Sheffield.

Ted spent our last session over a cup of tea at his kitchen table trying to convince me of the merits of Ian Griggs and the Parish of St Cuthbert, Fir Vale, where I would be sure to learn so much more than he could ever teach me.

Fir Vale came and went. It was Leeds again, slightly more hospitable, but the same listings of duties and responsibilities, days off, services to be attended, youth groups, scout troops and visiting lists and each day’s activities to be reported at Evening Prayer. There was simply no comparison with the previous week-ends discussions; our hopes; our attitudes to sex, music and poetry; our dreams, our hopes and aspirations as young people coming of age in the sixties. If we wanted to prepare for ministry in the Church of the past rather than the church of the future then certainly Fir Vale would offer excellent preparation. It is interesting that later Ian Griggs became a Bishop as did one of his successors, indeed Ian Harland became my Bishop in Carlisle.

So my last days in Salisbury were spent preparing for Ordination and life in Hatfield. As usual it was a time of practical planning, physical effort, fun and risk. My best man Pete Dunk was also moving to Sheffield and so we rented a small pickup truck and with a friend, we loaded our bits of furniture into it and set off to Sheffield. Our furniture such as it was went into store because our first home was to be a caravan on the Vicarage lawn.

This was the housing solution that had been arrived at in the process of a three way correspondence between me, Bill and Ted. Then Janet and I drove North again stopping in St Albans for the occasion of Janet’s older brother’s marriage, we then went first to Manchester where Janet stayed with my parent’s whilst I attended the Ordination Retreat, joining me in Sheffield after my Ordination for the final stage of the journey to Hatfield.

When I left my job at twenty years of age, in 1965 to take up a place at the Bernard Gilpin Society I was earning approximately £60 per month as a clerical officer in the Civil Service. My first monthly stipend cheque as a Curate in Hatfield, after four years of study and training, was £60. Clearly Janet’s Fathers warning to her before he died, that if she married me she would always be poor, looked as though it would be true.

From then to now, we have spent a lifetime robbing Peter to pay Paul, other people sometimes appear to be managing better, sometimes they appear to be managing less well, but everything we have done has been paid for by us, there was no inheritance, no houses left to us, nothing but our own efforts and for the largest part with a single income as Janet considered, as indeed did I, that bringing up children was a full-time job. But also from 1969 when I was ordained until 1980 when our youngest was born, she seemed to spend the whole of a decade, bare foot and pregnant.

Hatfield turned out to be a good place to learn my new trade. There were characters everywhere. From Jimmy Merchant in the Windmill who traded in old cars, rebuilt rotting ‘R’ Type Bentley’s into road going convertibles and who could build a Rudge Ulster special for racing from the parts hanging on his garage wall; to the farmers out on the fens, the RAF Station at RAF Lindholme and The Borstal the parish had a wide variety of experience to offer and a wide variety of knowledge to be gained.

I also discovered that whilst I had much to learn, there are skills to everything from visiting, to conducting weddings and funerals and to preaching. It seemed I had a way of doing things that came naturally and to which people responded.

On my second day, dressed in my ‘uniform’ of jeans and a sweater I went to order my Newspapers, The Times and The Morning Star were the daily papers, The Church Times was a weekly. The newsagent was friendly and we chatted, laughed and I left the shop. Later that day I received a ‘phone call from Ted. He had called in himself later in the day to be told in no uncertain terms that it was unreasonable and unfair, I had been in the shop, she had no idea that I was the new curate and I had embarrassed her. She had treated me as a ‘normal’ customer. But I am a normal customer I protested, yes Ted agreed but you are also the new curate and perhaps you should have introduced yourself.

Good advice.

The two years in Hatfield were eventful, Janet became pregnant almost immediately that the Parish in the shape of Bill and a local builder, Geoff Norman, bought the curates house. They waited for Ted to go on holiday and then acted, decision making was not Ted’s strong suit. Geoff Norman’s words became a by-line for us for a few years. ‘Do you like the House he asked?’ We did. ‘Give ‘em a cheque’, he said to Bill Parker the Treasurer.

22 Marton Grove was our third home in a year. A pattern was being established.

We lost the first Baby and that was traumatic. Janet was at home with a neighbour whilst I was visiting the widow of a man who had just died that night and wanted to talk to me about how her faith was challenged by his death, he was in his late seventies.

As I say: a pattern was being established.

When I got back somewhat after mid-night Janet was asleep but at about three in the morning she woke to realise that she was bleeding heavily. We called Bill, who was also our family Doctor. He arrived within half an hour, immaculately dressed in a suit and tie and within minutes had called an ambulance.

Later when I visited Janet in Hospital she was in tears, distressed not so much by the miscarriage as by the treatment in the hospital. She was in a Gynaecological Ward in a side room. Apparently the senior Nurse had accused her of inducing the mis-carriage and told her that she was a disgrace, and that the other women in the ward had lost babies they wanted.

The misunderstanding arose because she looked very young and pale and because advised by the ambulance driver, she had removed her wedding ring, but mainly because her first visitor was Mavis, Ted’s wife. Mavis was the Medical Almoner, now she would be a Social Worker, who worked with unmarried mothers in the Doncaster area. I was furious and laid into the staff making my feelings clear. Whilst their subsequent treatment of Janet was a little better there was never an apology.

Once home we received what passed for counselling in those days. You ought to try again as soon as possible, said Doctor Bill. There was no unkindness or lack of sympathy just practical advice because life goes on. If you leave it, nerves can play a part, if you are not relaxed you may not conceive, the problem is made worse.

We did try again and in the January of 1971 our first born Molly arrived on the scene. She changed our lives completely. We were new parents, completely inexperienced. Somewhat nervous and Molly just knew how to play us.

The events surrounding her birth were a story in themselves. Janet was overdue and was booked into the Hospital to be induced. The date was the date of the first Post Ordination Training week. I contacted the Diocese to explain why I couldn’t be there. The response was, you are a deacon, if you want to be priested, you will be there. So I was left with little choice I took Janet to the Hospital, drove to Whirlow Grange in Sheffield, signed in, attended the first session, drove back to Doncaster for visiting and spent the rest of the week played hookey on and off.

Today when even the Prime Minister and leader of the Opposition take paternity leave it is hard to even believe that the Church could behave in such an unfeeling, uncharitable and hard way. But it did. I was left with little alternative than treat the authorities with the absolute dis-respect they deserved.

Interestingly my Ordination to the Priesthood was nearly compromised after a service where the Station Commander of the local RAF Station objected to prayers I led at the time of the American incursion into Cambodia. Too political! He left the church slamming the door, and it was a big door, and wrote to the Bishop.

However before he could open the letter the Bishop had a stroke and it

was only a week or so after my Priesting that the Archdeacon read the letter and called me in to say that if the letter had been opened it might have caused me some problems if the Bishop had seen it.

Again a pattern was being established.

But these attitudes were not only to be found in the Church. The mid-wife sent me away from the hospital at six in the evening of the 27th January 1971 saying the baby will not be born tonight. I went to the Vicarage where Ted’s wife Mavis made me a bacon sandwich. Then we rang the hospital at about eight before I set off back to Sheffield to be told that I had a daughter. I managed to see her on my way through back to Sheffield.

Those were the days when men were men and women loved them for it. We can only be thankful that those attitudes and intolerances have been addressed and changed.

Living opposite us in Marton Grove was a young Flight Lieutenant and his wife, Mike and Jo Sweeney. They had a new baby, Fiona and whilst not exactly Mums at the school gate, Janet and Jo developed a friendship which has turned into a life-long friendship.

It was Jo and Mike who, forty years later, stepped in and took responsibility when Janet was admitted to Hospital whilst we were staying with them in Virginia Beach.