Geoff Goes To Sunday School

At the age of three, in 1946, Geoff spent each Sunday afternoon playing in the street with his friends. However, just after lunchtime, the older children would disappear for three hours, returning with stories of singing and fun from Sunday School.

Already eager to join them, Geoff learned that the mayor, Herbert Snell, would be visiting the Sunday School one week. “The mayors were very important people back then. There have only been 46 mayors of Colne, and I wanted to see the mayoral chain,” he recalls.

But being only three, Geoff couldn’t make the journey to Mount Zion Methodist Church on his own, and his parents were busy running a pet shop. Luckily, an older boy from across the street agreed to take Geoff along.

Before he could go, his mother had to prepare him. “They would Brylcreem your hair, put on a freshly ironed shirt which they laid out ready on Saturday night, and I had a little grey suit. They even put elastic bands on your socks so they didn’t fall down,” Geoff remembers.

To complete his outfit, Geoff was given a pair of clogs, bought from the last clog maker in Colne, Sam Ansells.

The first time Geoff attended Sunday School was a Sunday in late November. “They were just getting ready for Christmas,” he explains. With all the decorations up, it felt magical. Wooden animals were brought in for the nativity scene, along with many homemade stuffed ones. One animal in particular caught Geoff’s eye. “There was a donkey stood in the corner, and I kept looking and looking at it,” he says.

After Christmas, teachers Vera and Jimmy Heap took down the display while Geoff continued to pester Vera about the donkey. Eventually, she agreed to let him take it home. Geoff still has the toy 78 years later.

Every year at Christmas, the Sunday School children would perform a pantomime. In 1947, the year after Geoff joined, he was chosen to play “Skinny Gaspipe,” with his friend Roy cast as ‘Fat Owl,’ a reference to the popular Billy Bunter stories. The children were supposed to perform their lines in thick Lancashire dialect, but Geoff was too embarrassed. So, the teachers insisted he perform his lines in a posh accent.

“Roy goes on stage first. And he says, ‘Listen to this, Skinny Gaspipe. I’m gonna tell you sommat. We’re right down in coil oil where muck clots up winder. We’ve used all our coil up. We’re right down t’cinder. When bum bailift comes, he won’t find us here. We’ll be right down in coil oil where muck clots up winder.’”

“The man upstairs is very sad; he’s lost his little zebra.”

“Then I had to do the posh bit!” Geoff says. “I was trembling. I was only four, with an audience of a hundred. So I got up. ‘We’re down in the basement where the dust accumulates to the casement. We’ve used all our anthracite. We’re down to the revenue. When the debt collector calls, he won’t find us here. We’ll be down in the basement where the dust accumulates to the casement.’” Geoff delivers the line in his finest posh accent. “The audience loved it! And I did, too.”

Sunday School was more than just about faith; it was about pushing children out of their comfort zones and offering new experiences. “Sunday school was better than school because they didn’t teach you by being angry. They taught you with love and understanding,” Geoff explains. “One day, I had taken a little lead zebra home, and Jimmy Heap came to my house. I remember him saying, ‘The man upstairs is very sad; he’s lost his little zebra.’ So I gave it back. There was no telling off.”

“It was about comradeship, being with your friends every Sunday, and knowing you’d have a good time. There were pantomimes, seaside trips, and day outings—just sheer enjoyment in the name of God,” he adds.

In the summer, the group would visit Ainsdale, near Southport, for a day at the beach. The little town provided a quieter alternative to the busy beaches of Blackpool and Southport, with donkeys and clowns entertaining the children.

“We went to Ainsdale each year for about six years,” Geoff says, pulling out a picture of the Sunday School group in the seaside town. “Everyone got on; they were all friendly,” he recalls, but he remembers the boys along the back row the best. “Freddie Gregson and Shebby,” he points to a boy with short hair. Shebby refers to a bygone style of short haircuts. “And Roy Greenwood, who we named Granny, as he was old-fashioned as sin!”

“Hidden under the stage with matches and bangers, they waited until Francis began his sermon before setting them off.”

For Geoff, Sunday School was just as much about fun as it was about faith, so much so that he was given a prize for regular attendance—a book titled How to Recognise Young Birds. “I loved anything to do with wildlife,” Geoff explains. Unfortunately, just a month after teachers Jimmy and Vera had picked out the book for Geoff, Mount Zion Church burned down, and the group had to relocate to a new venue, where they were taught by a different teacher, Francis Payne, an old army general.

Francis was much stricter than their old teachers, Jimmy and Vera, and the boys, now growing older, were becoming more troublesome.

“We found out we could get under the stage near the pulpit,” Geoff recalls. “We found an old gramophone with songs from the First World War—’It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’. We used to wait underneath until he began his service, then wind up the gramophone and put on a record. He’d go berserk, but he was too big to fit under the stage.”

For his regular attendance prize, which Francis probably wished he hadn’t earned, Geoff was given a Just William book, a series by Richmal Crompton about an unruly schoolboy, which Francis likely thought an appropriate gift.

With their weekly antics, the boys were already on Francis’s last nerve, but they pushed things even further one Bonfire Night. Hidden under the stage with matches and bangers, they waited until Francis began his sermon before setting them off. The boys were thrown out of the day’s Sunday School by a furious Francis.

Fortunately, Francis was replaced by a gentler man named Walter Birkett, and Geoff continued attending Sunday School until he was fifteen and got his first job. “Nobody went once they started work. It all changed. You started seeing girls and going out to the pictures more,” he reflects.

Though Geoff no longer attended, Sunday School left him with valuable lessons for life—kindness, comradeship, and, in line with Methodist teaching on abstinence, he never drinks beer (choosing rum instead!).

ColneLife March/April/May 25