Black Bob Donkin

My great grandfather on my father's side was a man called Robert Donkin, known by all in Dewsbury as "Black Bob". As a child all I knew about him was that he was the first man to ride a coach and four over Chantry Bridge in Wakefield and that he came to a sticky end. Recently I was passed these three newspaper cuttings from the Dewsbury Reporter (which seems to have been called "The News" in the 19th century). The news items that recall his death and inquest were found by my cousin Ian who passed it to my nephew Matt, who passed it to me and I passed it on to my Aunty Kath, Bob's last surviving granddaughter.

As a youngster I often passed the place where he died and knew the people who lived in the house, but never knew of the connection with my family history.

THE NEWS
(Dewsbury Sat 14th Oct 1899 Page 7)
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SHOCKING FATALITY AT DEWSBURY
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A Cabman Killed in Halifax Road

Yesterday, Robert Donkin a cab driver well known in Dewsbury as “Black Bob” drove Major Taylor to the Dewsbury Infirmary (where the coroner had arranged to hold two inquests) and after delivering his fare he had the misfortune to lose his life.
Donkin was in the box turning the horse round after the coroner had alighted when the blinkers came off and the horse dashed down Halifax Road at a terrific pace.
At the corner of Commercial Street the cab overturned and Donkin was pitched into the top of some palisadings, which surround Mr W. Ineson paperhanger’s shop.
Chief Inspector Campbell of the Dewsbury Borough Police was near when the fatality occurred and at once hurried to the scene accompanied by police constables Hargreaves and Pickering.
When the officers arrived they found the unfortunate driver wedged between the pailings and his cab with his right arm stuck through the spikes of two of the rails which were broken off by the force of the man’s fall.
Chief Inspector Campbell lifted the deceased’s arm off and despatched the two constables for Dr Beattie and the home surgeon at the infirmary.
Dr Beattie was at the scene first and restored Donkin to consciousness for a minute or two. He was then put into the cab but breathed his last on the way to the infirmary.
Deceased leaves a widow and an upgrown son and daughter. He was a native of Bridlington District and was formally in very comfortable circumstances. His brother is at present the proprietor of very flourishing livery stables in Bridlington.
The cab, which is the property of Mr Edwin Box, was very badly damaged. If the coroner had not had the good fortune to leave the vehicle before the driver attempted to turn round, he might also have been killed.
Major Taylor is reported to have said after the accident that he has no desire to attend his own inquest!
It was expected that the coroner would hold the inquiry on Donkin’s body immediately on the conclusion of the inquests at the infirmary but he did not do so.


THE NEWS
(Dewsbury Sat 21st Oct 1899 Page 6)
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THE LATE “BOB” DONKIN

The remains of Robert Donkin a Dewsbury cab driver, who met with a shocking death last Friday, were interred at Dewsbury cemetery on Monday. A large number of sympathizing friends were present including every cabman in the town. The horse and cab, which the unfortunate man was accustomed to drive followed the hearse empty and without a driver. It was decided to open a subscription list for the widow with the result that the handsome sum of £22 was handed to Mrs Donkin on Thursday by Mr Edwin Box who acted on as the secretary. The money has been subscribed by cab drivers, the people whom Donkin has been accustomed to drive and the general public. The cabman much appreciated the kindness shown towards their deceased’s comrade’s widow.


THE BATLEY REPORTER
(Dewsbury Fri 20th Oct 1899 Page 6)
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INQUEST ON ROBERT DONKIN

Major Taylor and a jury sat on Saturday morning at the Dewsbury and District Infirmary to enquire into the circumstances attending the death of Robert Sykes Donkin aged 57 a cab driver of 31 Victoria Road who was killed on Friday last after driving the coroner to the infirmary. The particulars of the accident appeared in our last impression. Deceased it will be remembered was returning into the town from the infirmary when the blinkers fell from the horse’s head and animal ran away. Donkin was thrown from the “dickey” against the palisading in front of the premises of Mr Ineson paperhanger, Halifax Road and was wedged between them and the cab. He was picked up by Chief Inspector Campbell and conveyed to the infirmary, where he expired. Chief Inspector Campbell in the course of his evidence described the accident- Two of the spikes on the top of the pailings upon which deceased was thrown were broken. In answer to Mr. C. A. Ridgway who appeared on behalf of Mr Box who employed deceased. Witness said deceased had been always looked upon as the most capable and steady driver in the town. Police Constable Hargreaves said when the horse was turned round at the infirmary; the animal stumbled and ran with its head against the opposite wall. The blinkers came off and the horse bolted. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death. Donkin’s remains were interred at the cemetery on Monday, the funeral being attended by nearly all the cabmen in the town.

Kick-starting the day the Telegraph way

I'm one of those people who finds it hard to start the day without coming across something that raises my blood-pressure. It is why I read the Daily Telegraph. The FT has plenty of informative articles but it doesn't stir the blood anything like the Telegraph.

Most newspapers are designed to feed the prejudices of their readers. The Telegraph, long known as the Torygraph, concentrates its news coverage on items that will stir the interest of its middle class home counties bedrock. I am middle class and live in the home counties. Yet I must confess that much of the newspaper's coverage makes me heartily sick. It's not the anti-government, anti-Labour stories that get me going , it's the right-wing spin that's applied to every one of them.

Perhaps it has something to do with my northern working class roots, but I have tried hard all my life to adhere to a socialist, liberal ideal (so why are most of my friends Tories? One of life's oddities, I guess). It explains why I objected to a reader's letter yesterday, praising a news story that referred to "firemen" rather than the politically correct (always used in a disparaging sense in Telegraph stories) "firefighters."

I would like to see that reader arguing his point one day as he is hauled out of his burning house by a fire fighting woman who has undergone the same training and passed the same rigorous physical tests as a man. For sure, there are not many of them, but they do exist and for that reason alone, the collective term, firemen, can no longer apply if it is used assumptively.

I understand the reader and I know dozens of people who would nod their heads in agreement with his letter. But that does not mean that they are right.

In today's newspaper I noticed that the story about the nine-year-old girl, Shannon Matthews, missing from her home in Dewsbury, the town I come from, was down to a paragraph on an inside page.

Contrast this with the acres of news coverage on Madeleine McCann. The difference is that the chattering classes who write the columns (all home counties, middle class) in our broadsheets cannot begin to relate to Shannon's council estate upbringing in Dewsbury. Whereas every one of them will have a view on whether it is right to leave sleeping children alone on the kind of holiday that is probably beyond Shannon's dreams.

So why don't I drop the Telegraph and get the Guardian? You must be joking. I don't want a newspaper that treats anglers and shooters like war criminals. The Independent? Too sterile. The Times? I don't like Rupert Murdoch (although he does fish, mostly big game).

The Daily Mail? Apart from the Keith Waterhouse column I wouldn't give it house room. The Daily Express? No redeeming features. The Sun? The Daily Mirror? They serve their readerships but I can't agree with the way they go about finding - or "creating" - news. The Daily Star? Does it still exist?

I am a fan of the Metro because it's free and my children read it. I would always buy an Evening Standard over a handout because it just lasts the journey home from London.

But please don't ask me to change my Telegraph. I hate it and love it in the same breath. I appreciate the way it stands up to big government whatever its hue (although I wish the UK had signed up to the Euro). I love Boris Johnson's deliciously prejudiced and wonderfully written drivel, much of which I support although he would never get my vote. Its sports coverage is superb, although a bit overdone and its quirky blend of eccentricity and Englishness defines the breed for me. I suppose that's it. The Telegraph represents John Major's unchanging England of "warm beer and cricket" and there's something I like about that.

If you find any of this difficult to understand let me invite you to examine your attitudes to the BBC. The Telegraph readers love and loathe the BBC, but from a right-wing perspective. They love the institution and the quality of its output, but they loathe trendy liberals (are there untrendy liberals? Can I be one?) who, as the aforementioned reader stated, would insist on referring to a fireman as a firefighter. We all have our differences. It's what makes the world go round.

Archbishop rings alarm bells

I wonder how many of those engaged in pillorying Dr Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury for his remarks on sharia law in Britain have actually listened to his speech or read the text?

His argument is so dense and diffuse that it was bound to be interpreted in simple headlines as "Archbishop wants sharia law in the UK". The problem with such headlines is that for most people in the UK sharia law carries with it one meaning: a draconian system that advocates extreme punishments such as the stoning of women for adultery and the cutting off of the hands of thieves.

Extreme naivety

If Dr Williams is guilty of anything it is extreme naivety if he believed that his speech would create the conditions for a balanced debate on Islamic law in the UK. The visible changes wrought by Islam on so many British communities are creating real anxieties within those communities. Dr Williams should visit towns such as Dewsbury in Yorkshire, or Blackburn and Burnley in Lancashire, where multicultural policies have done little to unite cultures that are as divided as ever a full half century since Asians began settling in the UK.

If he thinks the imams within some of the more radical mosques are debating the merits of religious unity in their communities he is mistaken. There is a war going on and part of that war is being fought in our own backyard.

Two-systems, one country

The vast majority of British muslims want nothing to do with the kind of terrorism promoted by Al Qa'eda. On the other hand there is much broader sympathy for creating a community within a community which might operate to a different set of rules, principles and beliefs on more of a Hong Kong-style, one country, two-systems basis.

Those who have extended Islamic practices in the UK have taken advantage of British tolerance, underpinned by a strong vein of liberalism, that has overshadowed an equally embedded conservatism. Islamic conservatism - dominant in many of the former northern textile towns - however, has shown scant interest in assimilation.

Christian society

I can sympathise with those among Dr Williams' critics, who believe that creating further inroads for sharia law within the UK is the thin end of an increasingly divisive wedge in our society. Britain remains essentially a Christian Society even for those of us who have adopted more secular beliefs.

No I don't go to Church anymore but I feel comfortable with the sound of church bells in my parish. They help define the country I know and love. I want an Archbishop who is less in the thrall of the muezzin and keen to keep those church bells ringing.

Hard Balls

Congratulations to Ed Balls, the UK Government's new Schools Secretary, for promising to tackle the fear of law suits that has led to playground bans against games such as marbles and tag.

I played in the FT football team with Ed who was centre forward and probably our best player after centre half Alan Harper, a much missed photographer who in 1991 was killed in Kuwait with David Thomas, another fine FT journalist.

As school secretary, Ed has his work cut out if he is to reverse the trend towards ever more sanitised playgrounds. I blame mothers who want to wrap their kiddies in cotton wool as much as I blame the so-called "compensation culture."

Pirates

This trend started years ago. I remember playing "pirates" in the school gym when you could swing from ropes and jump over all the gym equipment until some official banned it as too dangerous. It was a great game, of course.

I was less enthusiastic about British Bulldogs where you had to run from one side of a field to the other while some in the middle tried to pick you off your feet. I couldn't run very well so was useless as a chaser and was easily caught when chased.

There was another game - "finger, thumb or dumb" we called it in the Scouts - where three of you crouched in a line against a wall and others would leap on your backs. That one was a bit rough too.

My old school, Carlton Road Junior School in Dewsbury, was typical of its type with asphalt playgrounds, one for the juniors and an adjoining one for the infants. A new headmaster called Gordon Hirst came to the school intent on improving our cricket performances. We didn't even have a school team.

Canon balls

He introduced a "corky" ball in to the play ground. These balls were hard and black with a brown cork outer. They whizzed up off the asphalt like cannon balls. It wouldn't have been so bad except that we didn't wear pads in the playground. You can imagine that those brave enough to bat became good at hitting the ball pretty quickly. There was no choice.

Sometimes a ball would be cracked over in to the infants' playground, flooring some poor tot who had been playing ring-a-ring of roses, fell down, then didn't get up.

The upshot was that we won the Dewsbury junior schools cricket cup for two years running. At the same time we cleaned up on the swimming trophies too. My cousin Andrew and I were good swimmers and I have already mentioned Melvin Holmes, the third member of our swimming team, here.

Should we go back to the old days? It never did me much harm. A much greater evil in playgrounds is bullying and sometimes the rough games worked against the bullies where they were exposed, away from their little gangs. It's remarkable what you can get away within an organised game - an elbow here, a set of studs there. There would be retribution later but sometimes it was worth it.

Grammar bug

The last two blogs harking back to my school days have prompted some thoughts on the latest Conservative Party rumpus involving the resignation of Graham Brady as European spokesman in protest at David Cameron, The Tory leader's decision to abandon the party's traditional commitment to the grammar school system in favour of city academies.

I don't know much about the academies but I do have experience of grammar schools. I went to Wheelwright Grammar School for boys in Dewsbury and, when my two oldest boys were ready, I sent them to the Royal Grammar School, Guildford.

I guess this suggests I'm a big fan of grammar schools but this is not the case. I think they had some good points but there were a lot of flaws too.

My secondary education was based on getting through the 11-plus lottery which did nothing more than measure your ability to perform to a certain standard in a basic intelligence test. It didn't measure commitment, enthusiasm, ambition or hard work. It didn't seek to find out whether you were a well adjusted human being, nor try to discover anything about your table manners, your passing skills at soccer, your health and well being, your loyalty, honesty, integrity, affability or eagerness to learn. All it did was score your performance on a single day in a single test.

Oddballs and misfits

That this test allowed all kinds of oddballs, misfits and undesirables in to the system while excluding some honest hard-working young people who deserved a better break in life, should be a source of regret.

In a working class town like Dewsbury to pass that test was everything. To fail was to be branded for life at the tender age of 11, to walk, metaphorically at least, through a door marked "second class education".

In fact the door should have said "third class" because even the state grammar schools could not match the quality offered by the best of the public schools.

The shame about those state grammars is that they simply tried to copy the public schools, almost slavishly. One thing I hated about them was the way they made visible distinctions between the teaching staff. If you held a university degree you could wear a gown when teaching whereas those who only had teaching certificates were condemned to wear their "civvies".

My school had some fine teachers, not all of them degree holders. It also had some pretty bad ones, particularly in languages and mathematics. I was lucky enough to study under the best maths teacher who rarely had failures at O-level. Unlike modern GCES that seem to give a grade for almost any level of work, it really was possible to fail an O-level and to get a distinction meant far more than it does today.

There was the odd sadist too but that was normal for the time. The chance of catching a well-aimed board rubber on your temple was an everyday hazard that kept you on your toes.

One of my best teachers was a man we called "Bert" Throp although Bert wasn't his real name. He would play Judy Collins records in lessons. He introduced us to the work of northern writers like John Braine, Stan Barstow and Keith Waterhouse.

Gritty stuff

These people were writing about our own back yards. It was gritty, contemporary stuff that meant something to us. Bert would speak our own language, swearing sometimes, and talk to us as young adults. He didn't think much to grading. Some English teachers would try to stimulate our writing by setting essays designed to stir our imaginations with titles such as "the day the world ended". Bert would ask us to write from life. There was a big difference.

In effect, he was saying to us: "Your lives matter just as much as the lives of those rustics in Thomas Hardy novels or the grand families portrayed by Jane Austen."

He got through to boys who might have had problems at home that were effecting their work and self-esteem. One boy went from bottom of class to the top in one term. Whether either position was deserved is neither here nor there. The fact is that boy had been a bully because he had been bullied at home. Bert's recognition gave him confidence. It made the rest of us feel better too and he started to make friends.

Educational straight jacket

For those of a non-conformist nature, as I was, the discipline of grammar school was a straight jacket. John, my eldest son, feels his school engaged far too much in spoon feeding the pupils, stimulating little creative thinking.

I loved poetry but recall blanking completely in a lesson that tried to explain metering. I just didn't get it. In fact everything that tried to make language or art conform to rules I found a real turn off. Today I have no no great understanding of grammatical structures and arrange words instead in a way that seems natural. It works just fine.

This is probably too critical of grammar schools. I think that overall I had a reasonable foundation in school education that stimulated efforts at self-education later on outside the academic system. But a love of reading that has probably been of greatest benefit came from my family background, rather than school.

Instinctively a co-educational system seems healthier than all boys' or all girls' schools. George goes to a co-educational school and has no difficulty getting on with girls. A former grammar school friend who went in to the education system where he has been able to compare different delivery systems at first hand, has retained no great love of grammar schools. My own experience is tinged somewhat by nostalgia. I had some good times at school, some bad times too. But it wasn't what I would call a formative experience and that's a pity.

Grammar schools should stay for those who choose them but I don't think they should be presented as a model for the future. We can do better than that.

Old friends

An unexpected consequence of running my own web site and blog has been the occasional messages I get from old friends who I haven't seen for years. A couple of weeks ago I heard from Melvin Holmes, station manager at Mirfield Fire Station. You have to have brains and brawn for that kind of job and Melvin is lacking in neither.

We first met at Carlton Road infants school in Dewsbury when Melvin beat me up in the playground. After that we were inseparable for six years. Well, not quite. I was also great friends with my cousin Andrew who also beat me up on one occasion although that was more of a full blown fight. Andrew and Melvin tried to beat each other up once. I recall it was quite a bloody affair, not much quarter given.

I was a very good swimmer as a child but Andrew was always a better swimmer. Melvin couldn't swim much at all when I met him. Then he learned and became good enough to beat me. Has any of this left me psychologically scarred, cast in the role of perpetual loser? I think it probably has which explains why I have a dog in order to know what it is to exercise some power. Except that the dog ignores me most of the time. He's made it pretty plain that he's a dog, not an underdog.

Melvin's message had me thinking about Arch Dyson. Melvin and I went to different schools when aged 11 and picked up new friends along the way. In the new school I found myself sitting close to someone called Arthur Dyson who had become Arch Dyson by the sixth form.

Arch never beat me up. He wasn't a beating up kind of guy even though he could have packed a punch had he been that way inclined. He used his wits, and wit, to keep on the right side of the bullies.

Everyone, apart from the loners, had their own school "rat pack", kids who hung out together. Arch was part of mine in early secondary school, a little less so in the sixth form when he had formed a band that elevated him to rock star status at least within the school bounds.

In those early years, along with Arch, there was Geoff Crummock, Simon Dormand and Andy Bullivant. Geoff went in to graphic design, Simon is a school head now and Andy is a finance director. Arch got a job shifting the stage props around on Noel Edmonds' Swap Shop. The next thing I knew he was producing Top of The Pops.

He invited me down to a recording once. I was wearing a pin-striped suit and with my grey hair looked far too old to be gyrating in front of camera. I couldn't believe how small that set was. There were camera booms crossing the tiny dance floor all the time, knocking down dancers like nine pins. It's amazing what they achieved with a lot of smoke and mirrors. Arch went on to produce the Paul Whitehouse Experience and he's still working in light entertainment as far as I know.

In fact I Googled him and saw that he had produced a game show called "Classic Comeback" for TV Gold. Someone wrote this about him: "We recognise the director credit for Arch Dyson, a proven master of turning low-budget programmes into entertainment, and it's great to see that he's lost none of his magic."

With the others we did a lot together as kids. School would let us out at lunch time and we would roam around looking for things to do. We found a dilapidated farmhouse once and set about demolishing it. We'd taken down a few of the walls using a big beam as a battering ram before a farmer appeared at the other side of the field who did not seem to appreciate our efforts. So we left the scene quickly. But what a great way to let your hair down. I suppose there'd be a law against it now. I suppose there was then.

Another source of amusement was to climb through a trapdoor in the geography room and walk around in the eves. You could even get out on to the roof. One of the boys, Steven Gray, known to everybody as "Gibber", went up there one day and painted "Gibber" on the roof. It didn't take the most painstaking of detection work among the teachers to identify the culprit. Happy days.

Another ripper

The five women found dead near Ipswich, all prostitutes, all murdered within a few days of each other, has brought back memories of the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe. I was working on Yorkshire newspapers at the time. I covered some of the attacks and attended the press conference in Dewsbury when the police announced that they had their man.

It was a dark time when women were afraid to walk out alone. Sutcliffe should have been caught much earlier. Much has changed in the interim. Card indexing files have been replaced by computers. There are many more CCTV cameras around today and DNA testing has come of age. It is inconceivable that the killer of these young women will be at large for long.

I heard a woman speaking on the radio this morning, saying that the victims should not be described as prostitutes but as "sex workers". It was a silly argument. She was suggesting, and I understand what she says, that the word "prostitute" has become loaded with derogatory baggage.

But should you avoid words simply because of the meaning they convey in the minds of some people? That some will make certain judgements about prostitutes is not going to disappear if you take away the noun and replace it with a different noun. Prostitutes sell sex. It's what they do whether we approve or disapprove.

The more important point is that there should be no distinction between the life of a prostitute and that of any other citizen. While the law upholds this point, I know that, in reality, not all will agree. Even the police, at times, can betray a "hierarchy of worth."

Many years ago I was assaulted on a train. When I was interviewed by a police officer he rang through to another force in an attempt to secure an arrest. Describing me on the telephone , he assured his fellow officer that I was "no toe rag". Presumably toe rags, whoever they may be, can expect a lower level of justice.

But I don't believe that such judgements will apply in this case. The public and police want this killer caught. The prospect of another Yorkshire Ripper is unimaginable.