Childhood thoughts at Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home

My mother died when I was one year old and my dad had to leave us in a children's home for some years during the Depression. These are some of my earliest memories.

Saturday again. Skinny Henry'll be going out with his Mum soon. They'll have a meal then go and see a film and he'll come back with lollies falling out of his pockets. Ee's a lucky beggar. Tommy's Dad missed last week, so, yeah, he'll probably be going today. That leaves 14 of us younger lads. No, there's Freddie, he'll be going out with his Dad too. So that's 13 of us left. At least 10 of them will go out tomorrow. They're the churchy ones.

Weekends can be great or rotten, depending on if you go out or stay in. Most go out every now and then, some more often than others. There's only Sniff Harvey, Leggy Watkins (whose long legs go all the way up to his bum), and me. We haven't been out as much as the others. I would go out ... I mean, my Dad comes for me when he can, but there's a "depression" on, whatever that means. It has something to do with his finding work. That's what keeps him away. He has to go miles to find it and it costs money to come here and take me out.

When my Dad comes to take me out I have to go to Mr Steven's, the superintendent's room and wait for him there. There's a black ruler made of ebony on his desk. The big lads say that's what he uses to hit you when you've done something bad. But I don't believe them. He looks too kind to do that. The big lads say all kinds of things to try and scare you and make you feel afraid. I don't know why though, except it may make them feel better themselves.

When Dad comes for me, we go for walks down by the river and over the old wooden tram bridge. There's a whirlpool under that bridge. Proper scary I'll tell you. I'm glad Dad's with me then. He gives me lollies, though we're not supposed to have them. Sometimes he brings his push bike, he calls it his “sit-up-and-beg bike”. I sit on the seat and steer and he pushes. It's great because he's so close to me then. Nothing else feels quite the same as when Dad and me are together. Mum's dead. I know that much. That's why I'm in the children’s home. I don't know much about Mum; actually I don't know anything. Only that she was my Mum and she died when I was 12 months old. Sometimes I try and remember back to before I was one, to see if I can remember anything about her. But I can't.

Then, it must have been just before I was five, when something like a switch was pressed inside me. I found out I had two sisters in the girls’ wing and a brother, Hilda and Jean, and Fred. They were the ones who were out with me and Dad a few times sometimes, and I just didn't know who they were. Just after my seventh birthday, my brother told me we'd be leaving soon and going to live in a home of our own. You could tell he was excited and I felt excited too. He said I mustn't tell anyone about it ‘til Dad had everything ready. And it was true. Not long after that we went to live at home, in our real home. My brother, two sisters, and Dad and me - all together. My eldest sister, Hilda, tucked me up in bed the first night, and she'd have told me a story but I was too tired and was asleep in no time. Dad said he came up a little later to kiss me goodnight, but I didn't know about that. I woke up early and just lay there feeling all excited and really happy, with all kinds of things buzzing around in my head.

After all these years, those things are still so very clear to me. There is one question that remains, though I know it will never be answered: What was my mother really like?

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(first published on www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2012)