A Somerset Lad

Outside of your family, adults were divided into two categories: there were those addressed as “auntie” or “uncle,” many of whom were not family members but were given the titles as a sign of their close friendship with your parents; and there were those addressed as “Mr” or “Mrs” or by their professional title, such as “Doctor” or “Major.” (The one exception to the formality of professional titles was a retired brigadier general in Long Sutton who was referred to as “Brig,” perhaps when you have attained such a rank, you can afford a little informality).

That was it, there was never a thought that we might Christian names. There were two lovely ladies who lived on our road, next door neighbours and the closest of friends, and yet I never ever heard them address each other as anything other than “Mrs Brooks” and “Mrs Cullen.” There seemed a profound respect for each other in the way they spoke to each other, a statement of great regard in their politeness. It was only recently that I discovered Mrs Brooks’ Christian name. Even had I known it in adult life, it would never have occurred to me to say anything other than “Mrs Brooks.”

Perhaps we were excessively formal, perhaps we put up with prejudice, mistreatment and discrimination in the name of respect, but in a search for equality we threw out politeness and courtesy. It is striking to see how other societies still preserve traditions that demonstrate respect.

In France, conversation with adults is governed by clear rules of respect. Children may address each other as “tu,” but to address an adult as “tu” rather than “vous” is a breach of etiquette, a lack of respect. Similarly, in Germany, “du” may be used in a family, but others are addressed as “Sie.”

Further afield, the courtesy is even more marked. Visiting Rwanda and Burundi a number of times, there was a deep culture of respect for those who were older. People address each other with a great formality and no-one would speak without being invited to do so and without speaking of their respect for those with whom they are meeting.

Politeness doesn’t mean a return to a deferential society where some people regarded themselves as superior and expected others to look up to them, it means showing everyone proper respect because you see everyone as having dignity, no matter who they are and no matter what their background may be. Courtesy and respect are radical ideas.

Pushing my hand into my pocket for my car keys, I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and it was my Dad looking back. With the passing years, I realize how much like him I have begun to look and how even my mannerisms are inherited from him.

If it is not possible for behaviours themselves to be transmitted genetically, then there must be some element within the genetic coding that predisposes a person to behave in a certain way.

If there is an abiding image of him, it is of him standing in the kitchen, ready to take my mother somewhere. He is wearing a pale blue windcheater, an open necked shirt and pale grey cotton trousers. He has his wallet and his car keys in his hand, and is impatient to go. He has been ready to leave for at least half an hour before it was necessary. It is an image that expresses much about him that I seem to have inherited.

Dad was always early, sometimes absurdly early. If he was planning to catch a ferry, he might be at the port three or four hours before boarding commenced. He would always insist that time must be allowed for potential traffic jams or accidents. He hated cities because he hated traffic, he would drive miles extra to be able to roll along at a sedate forty miles per hour. He would listen to the traffic news on the BBC local radio stations and seize upon reports of congestion as evidence of the need to leave even earlier than he had planned.

Holding his wallet and keys meant that they could not be mislaid or forgotten. Dad developed routines for doing things, places for keeping things, because he knew he had a capacity for forgetfulness. An image returns from the summer of 1989 when I had gone to visit them, his watch and wallet and change and keys set beside each other overnight.

The capacity for forgetfulness seems to be hereditary. This afternoon, I went to Sainsbury’s for bread and returned with milk, tomatoes, breakfast cereal and cheese, and no bread. The obsession with earliness seems similarly to have been passed down in the blood. I would always prefer to be an hour early than to arrive five minutes late. Arriving at school at seven o’clock each morning, I am always delighted to have avoided the traffic.

Dad lingers in unexpected ways.

Miss Rabbage and Miss Everitt always dressed sensibly. Cardigans, blouses, skirts, flat shoes, their attire in the late-1960s was that from a former generation. At secondary school, there were signs of fashion among younger members of staff, wider ties, brighter coloured shirts, flared trousers, but the senior staff members remained suit and tie men. Even at sixth-form college, jackets were still the order of the day for male lecturers and jeans were not be seen.

I have often wondered about what message the way you dress sends out.

Sometimes male teachers look like plain clothes police officers. I remember seeing one such officer on a June evening at a school in the Dublin mountains.

He had lowered his newspaper and had turned and watched us as we pulled into the car park.  Closely cut silver, grey hair, a good quarter inch clear of his ears; a neat grey suit, white shirt, plain tie: was he a former soldier or had his whole  career been in special branch?  Satisfied with whatever he had seen of us, he had returned to his newspaper.

There had been no need to notice the “CD” plate on the back of his grey Mercedes; this man made it clear to anyone present that he was there and that he had noted their presence.  Walking from the car park, thoughts had arisen as to whether his jackets would be cut in such a way that the holster under his left arm did not spoil the line of his suit, or in more peaceful times would there be no .357 revolver to carry?

There had been no pretence at being undercover, even the car had appeared  armoured, at least against gunshots, the thickened glass gave the windows a deeper hue than normal.

The man used his appearance, his car, and his presence to convey a clear message, “I’m protecting a child from the British Embassy, don’t mess with me.”

Does the way teachers dress suggest a protector role? Shouldn’t there be something more poetic?

I once attended a poetry seminar led by two academics which prompted thoughts about how people dress makes a statement about the how they think.  The woman speaking had unstyled greying brown hair that hung at waist length, her baggy black tee shirt and matching trousers were worn for comfort.  The man wore an open necked shirt and pale trousers with a tweed sports jacket, his mane of grey hair was brushed straight back from his forehead; at the side it was tucked behind his ear,s but strands at the back of his head pointed in random directions.

A clear message of the way they dressed was, “we are not worried about how we appear, what is important is what we say.”  What they had said had been excellent.

Perhaps there is a compromise, a synthesis, a middle ground. Of course there is a need to be a protector, but there also needs to be a message that creativity and originality are possible.