Chips was a fictional school master in the novella Goodbye, Mr. Chips, who devoted his life to the boys in his charge. He worked at the school as a housemaster and classics teacher and generations of old boys at the school revered him – he was remembered with affection by all of his boys. Chips personified what a housemaster of the old school should be: kind, fair, straight talking, slow to anger, quick to forgive and always with your best interests at heart. And our old housemaster, Guy, was all of these.

Whenever I think of Guy, it is either leading evening Prayers and giving out house colours in the table tennis room in our house, Manor, or on the touchline dressed in his Cambridge blue scarf or blazer. And of his smile, which he wore so often. I have always been incredibly grateful to him. He showed us an example of decency, good humour and quiet authority. A thunderous look from him spoke volumes and we never wanted to incur his displeasure, mainly because you knew that of you did, you had disappointed him and so let yourself down in some way.

I was reminded of this when my friend, Neil, with whom I shared a dormitory in the IVth form (14/15), asked if I remembered a wall punching competition between us one night after lights out. I did. We took it in turns to hit the wall opposite our beds as hard as we could with our fists. The idea being, either one of us would punch through the wall or break our knuckles trying. I stepped up. I threw my punch and, my guardian angel taking charge, hit straight through a weak point where the wall had just been plastered over. A false wall. Guy, doing his duty rounds, heard the noise, came in, turned on the light, saw us standing there looking guilty, looked at the hole in the wall and the shards of plaster strewn on the floor and simply asked “Why?”. He put out the light and left. We had no answer and went to bed, shamed.

Guy also knew when to look the other way. One evening, when everyone had gone over to tea in main school, I snuck into a bathroom with my then girlfriend. Carried away with passion, we had forgotten that this bathroom was directly above Guy’s study. He must have been working downstairs and heard us. In a heart stopping moment, we could hear him ascending his private staircase, come through the fire door and along the corridor to the bathroom door. We had locked the door but lay, entwined and terrified. We held our breath. Guy just stood outside the door for a moment, his face against the door. We could hear him breathing. Then went away. He didn’t even try the door handle. That is all he had to do. As his footsteps retreated back to his study, we let out our breath, reassembled ourselves quickly and quietly snuck out of the bathroom. We never did that again. Guy could have rumbled us and made a big deal of it. We would probably have been expelled and he knew that. So he just made his presence felt. Message received and understood.

Guy was old school, in all the right ways. Gentlemanly, interested in everyone, dedicated and both academic and sporty – the public school ideal. I remember being very impressed that he had a Cambridge Blue. And that he had gone to King’s College. And that he played cricket for Lancashire. And football for England. And – most confusing of all – was magic at mathematics. A word of encouragement from him meant the world and you wanted to do your best for him. Because he always did his best for you, and you knew that he did. When Guy retired from being a housemaster in 1981, his replacement had very big shoes to fill. Which he didn’t. He couldn’t have.

In Manor, we were incredibly fortunate for the four years we had Guy in charge. The environment he and Tan, his wife, created was safe. You could be yourself and not be scared. Not true in other boarding houses at the time. Manor was fun, lively and happy. And that was entirely down to the environment the two of them created. I will always be grateful to Guy and the nurture he provided. We called him “Boooky” in homage to his Lancastrian vowels – we were a Yorkshire school, after all. But he was, and always will be, our very own Mr. Chips.

The later arrivals in my childhood television viewing were Mr. Ben the fancy dressing adventurer, Parsley the Lion and his fellow herbs (who gave all my children the password Herbidaceous for entry into any walled garden but particularly the one in the Bishop of Fulham’s Palace) and the Oliver Postgate masterpieces: Ivor the engine, Noggin the Nogg and the Clangers. His voice was the sound of my Sunday evenings and after school treats at five minutes to six when children’s programmes led into the serious grown up business of the 6 o’clock news on the BBC.

All these programmes were brilliant. They did not talk down to children (well, Andy Pandy did, but it was the oldest of the lot and still stuck in the 1950s) and they used adult vocabulary. Oliver Postgate in particular stressed the fundamental importance of using adult words to pique the curiosity of his viewers – a philosophy which worked. As I watch his episodes now with my little girl Emily I feel the delight in language he started when I hear his voice narrate The Clangers with words no contemporary children’s tv programme would dare to use.

And now I have been introduced to an entire world of parallel programmes that my wife grew up with during her childhood in the Soviet Union. Our daughter is now being reared on a combined bilingual diet of 1950-1970s children’s programming which, to us at least, exemplify the simplicity that a childhood should comprise. We do not hold with the knowing wink and a nod to adult audiences and ahead of their years American slickness and sexuality of modern Disney films. Nor do we like the artless computer generated animation and auto produced narrative soundtracks of cheap cartoons that seem to have flooded YouTube to date. We like the crafted skill, intelligent storyline and proper production values of the classics, most of which are available with English subtitles. Cheburashka , Hedgehog in the Mist, the 1950s Soviet version of the Snow Queen and Bambi (I know, we never thought of the Soviets sharing the same stories, but of course they did!). Just you wait! with a wolf and a hare in constant conflict (like Tom and Jerry but without the violence). Soviet Multiki are Russian cartoons, funny (judging by our daughter’s laughing reaction) and often very quaint and sweet.

It has been such a wonderful discovery to realise that there is a world of cultured, clever, inventive children’s programming out there beyond the Received Pronunciation of the BBC archive. We tend to pickle our childhoods in aspic and think no further than the horizons of our own glorious, forever golden youthful experiences to define what is good and what is not. A real blessing of being married to someone not from this country is the hammer blow it wields to shatter such misconceptions. I have discovered too many cultural treats to list here – thought they are covered in other blogs about Russia – but watching Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker with Emily pirouetting around the room in homage and hearing her sing the culturally ingrained songs from my wife’s youth is a joy. Even I recognise many of them now: Gena’s song on the accordion from Cheburashka, Yolichka (New Year’s song) and Buratinas (Pinocchio to you and me).

For my part, I have introduced Tanya to The wind in the willows, which she loves. Secretly, this is my most important accomplishment – Russians are much better versed in English literature than we are in theirs. There isn’t a child brought up in Soviet life who does not smile at the memory of ‘Vinnie Pooh’ or Alice in Wonderland. Or Holmes and Watson. Or Dickens’ characters. Jerome K. Jerome’s Three men in a boat is universally loved and my wife can recite virtually the whole cannon of Kipling. So to introduce her to a book which has hitherto escaped her and the entire Soviet educational system’s attention is a rarity. And a joy. I had been looking forward to introducing my daughter to Ratty, Mole and Badger, but especially to Toad. However, Emily will have to wait. I am currently reading The wind in the willows every night to Tanya. The Edwardian language, descriptive, lyrical, slightly elaborate, transports her to a gentler age.

As we read, our sofa becomes a punt, moored in the reeds as the carpet river floats gently by. The fellow feeling she has with Ratty and the friendship with mole appeal to her sense of loyalty and communal good. My affinity with Toad’s excesses and love of the descriptions of riverbank picnics and roaring fires, allied to her appreciation of the language and the soft English countryside make every page a delight to share. So it has been the best Christmas present of all to find a book we both enjoy so much and to unwrap it page by page in front of her eyes, brand new and undiscovered. I am sure it is a present she will return to again and again. I hope so, anyway.

“Are you alone?”, she asked.

“I am – why do you ask?”, I replied.

“I wanted to apologise for all the heartache I have caused you.”

“Why?”

“We thought we could get away with anything then. I think I learned to think that way in Oxford. We were wrong. “

Catastrophically wrong. Naive. Stupid. But mother was genuinely contrite. For a woman who took the Wallace Simpson adage “never apologise, never explain” and turned it into a way of life, this was a terrible reckoning, a real deathbed confession.

“Why now?”

“I have been sitting here thinking.” She sounded weary, sad, drained.

“It’s alright, mummy. Don’t worry. Thank you. I forgave you a long time ago.

I do not know if at the other end of the telephone the absolution lifted her heart. I thanked her anyway. If you knew my mother, you would understand how enervating that would have been for her and if you saw her at the end, before the stroke that put her into hospital, she was that pathetic – full of pathos – character: head bowed, wringing hands, a tick of gum-baring. All traits of a tormented being. She was a pitiful sound all alone with her remorse. I could picture her in her chair. Grey, stooped, battling on when from day to day she had no company.

Mother was always meticulous about her appearance. By now, even that pretence had dropped away. Since dad died, she lived a life from bed to electric stair to the meagre breakfast laid out the night before. Her sciatica was agonising and in my last few trips to stay in her hushed home, I could hear her wince as she ascended the stairlift. It was a hollow way to end, in pain and perpetual fear of falling. A fate shared by millions, it seems. This was the woman who had commanded and commandeered hearts. The woman who…well, who retreated into a child world of Jeremy Fisher toys and the memorabilia comfort that was uniquely her life. Whatever she was, whatever she was thinking about, for me she was marvellous.

As the song goes: these foolish things remind me of you.

Swathed in cashmere, angora, mohair and alpaca. Jaeger coats. Ocelot. Hermes scarves threaded through that silver slatted ring. Calleche parfum.

The powder compact with the diamond latticed, silver exterior. The Chinese lacquered atomiser with gold spray. Chocolate pudding. Scarlet lipstick. Tissues blotted with lip imprints where you sealed the Estee Lauder Pure Colour Envy. Brian Leslie hairdos. Shampoo and set. Terry’s Bitter Chocolate. Neopolitans.

That pink skirt suit with brocade you wore in the photoset when you won me back.

Mink. Ocelot. Long fingers spread and tracing out the piano keyboard across the restaurant table top impatient for service. Monogrammed handkerchiefs tucked up your sleeve. Two platinum wedding rings – one thick, one thin. Married twice and proud of it. Emeralds. Vodka and tonic. Soft, fur lined leather gloves. Handwritten letters, every day. The Kenwood mixer. Standings the grocer. Dunlop Greenflash. Your Dunlop Maxply tennis racket.

Cookery books, especially the blue and yellow floral design soft cover book with your personal favourite recipes in it. The Box Tree for my 14th birthday and Poole Court. Linton Springs and the tramp we always saw wandering around there every summer on the way to Rosie Johnson’s place to go swimming and drink Dandelion and Burdock. Egon Ronay – required reading and always in the car. Car sweets in those tins, caked in icing sugar and stowed, ever at hand, in the glove compartment. Cordon Bleu. When I was at Oxford. Wigs. Hairbands. The quilted pink Housecoat. The orange tie die-esque playsuit. The black leather hot pants. The ankle length cotton nightie with scarlet sash. Those naughty photos – so you and dad. Smoked salmon. The bell you used to summon Miller, the gardener. You driving gloves. The square cake tin, yellow, half peeled-off paper depicting the brand, repurposed to ferry birthday cakes to school. Strawberry and walnut gateaux – Joyce Hartley’s recipe. Your hostess trolly. Lunch at the Red Lion in South Stainley with Granny Wilkinson and that Uriah Heepish waiter you liked who wore a ginger toupe. Avocado delice and coffee with cream in the ground floor room at the Drum and Monkey. The order taken by that feisty, rather brusque and bitter Irish bar woman.

Allan’s of Harrogate. Brill’s of Leeds. Callard and Bowser’s orange creams. Fry’s Chocolate Cream. Austin Reed in Albion Street where you bought that all grey painting of a becalmed boat that I liked for £40, which was a small fortune. Pink wallpaper in your bedroom. The green silk watermarked wall paper in the drawing room. Schoefields, where we parked. Your painting lessons with Marcus Ford. Bridge lunches with Beryl Barnett , Silvia Hansen and Caroline Blackmore. Bolton Abbey’s hole in the wall. Winter picnics with Thermos flasks of Heinz tomato soup and chicken sandwiches. The wooden toadstool salt and pepper shakers. Green and pink floral bone china tea cups. Your record player – stereo. Beyond the Fringe. Pete and Dud. Not only but also. Sitting at one end of the sofa, feet tucked up and underneath.

Wimbledon fortnight, curtains closed. Undisturbable. The Carl Ecke mini grand piano: “I should think there are a lot of things you’ve never heard of” – your pensee sur l’escalier retort to the school enemy who said she had never heard of your make of piano. “Bovril warms like winter woolies”. Second prize in the national competition. Lunch times at Granny Wilkinson’s flat. Geraniums – a whole greenhouse full at Scarcroft. Hateful Skelfield, beloved Calder Hall. Harewood garden before it was commercial – the owls sentinels on the brick summerhouse, weather-worn and faces wearing away, and the seemingly huge waterfall that wasn’t huge at all. M&S in Harrogate and your regional pride: “it’s one of their flagships where they try out new things”. Grandways, the first supermarket. Trying the new diner at Wetherby Turnpike – Wimpy burgers, new and excitingly American in 1969. Horton & Hollander’s toy shop in Wetherby. The Wetherby library for the latest Elizabeth Jane Howard. Saddle soap. Bird tables and gentle garden nature – though you were sometimes a hawk. Mrs. Mulrooney’s sweet shop in Linton…or was it Collingham? Mrs. Hilda’s sweet shop in Collingham…or was it Linton? The playground at Valley Gardens in Harrogate. The duck ponds at Canal Gardens in Leeds and the helter skelter in Roundhay Park. Walks around the little lake, too. Open prawn sandwiches -– so Scandanavian and modern – in Leeds. Betty’s in Ilkley. Uncle Bill Shackleton’s house – the rotund (one legged?) uncle you were so fond of as a girl. I suspect he spoiled you. The Boat Race – a calendar fixture and rooting for your beloved Oxford. John Schlesinger, the boyfriend that nearly was. Bright colours, fashionable, femme fatale. Peaseholm Park in Scarborough. Trips to Kirby Misperton’s Flamingo Park to see ‘Cuddles’ the killer whale. Your visits to Aysgarth and walking along the road between the grassy bank where we played British Bulldogs and the Masters’ accommodation house. The kitchen at Scarcroft. Your Kenwood mixer. The oven you hated. Your walk in wardrobe, where Father Christmas hid his bounty. Jewellery. The Barr emeralds. Aunty Claire. The frost on your relationship with your sister Margaret, who was prim and inhibited and married to that great career army bore, Peter. A man so stupid he requested to join the US Army to go fight in Vietnam and lost a full rank in the process. The hugs and your tears when we departed. Yours and dad’s favourite seats by the fire in the bar at the Sportsman’s Arms. Ramsgill. Where we took our leave and left you to run away on the burbling brook as we trudged back to live on without you.

You went gentle into that good night. You wanted to go, although you hesitated at the last because you were scared, I suspect. Now you are gone and we know when you’re around because playing in the background is ‘The way you look tonight’. In Rotoroa, in that utterly charming tea room in the old Spanish Baths that you and dad would have loved, I asked the pianist to play that tune in your memory. It was our moment together after you’d gone. Together with the grand daughter you never met but who you would have absolutely loved. And she, you.

As Ella Fitzgerald put it.

A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces
An airline ticket to romantic places
And still my heart has wings
These foolish things remind me of you.
A tinkling piano in the next apartment
Those stumblin’words that told you what my heart meant
A fairground’s painted swings
These foolish things
Remind me of you.
You came,
You saw,
You conquered me
When you did that to me
I knew somehow this had to be
The winds of march that made my heart a dancer
A telephone that rings but who’s to answer
Oh, how the ghost of you clings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
First daffodils
And long excited cables
And candle lights
A little corner table
And still my heart has wings
These foolish things remind me of you
The park at evening
When the bell has sounded
The pier in france
With all the gulls around it
The beauty that is spring
These foolish things
Remind me of you
How strange,
How sweet,
To find you still,These things are dear to me
They seem to bring you near to me
The sigh of midnight trains
At empty stations
Silk stockings thrown aside
Dance invitations
Oh how the ghost of you clings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
Gardenia perfume
Lingering on a pillow
Wild strawberries
Only seven francs a kilo
And still my heart has wings,
These foolish things,
Remind me of you
The smile of garbo
And the scent of roses
The waiters whistling
As the last bar closes
The song that crosby sings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
How strange
How sweet
To find you still
These things are dear to me
They seem to bring you near to me
The scent of smoldering leaves
The wail of steamers
Two lovers on the street
Who walk like dreamers
Oh how the ghost of you clings
These foolish things
Remind me of you.

Love you, Mummy x