From our front window

Number one Pump Street, Londgridge, was where I spent the happy years from 1936 until about 1940. The front window looking out onto this street had a broad window-sill, long and big enough for me to play with my small toys and keep an eye on whatever activity might take place on the street at the same time.

Monday was washing day, and several women began their day by fastening their clothes-lines from one side of the street to the other. Over half the street could have sheets, pillow cases, towels and other items hanging out to dry from about mid-morning until late afternoon. My mates and I would sometimes enjoy ourselves by running through these sheets, feeling the soft wetness of the washing on our faces, smelling the lovely freshness on our way. It wasn’t long before an irate neighbour would come running out telling us to go and play somewhere else…which we did; we did as we were told back then.

Then there was the milkman delivering milk with his horse called Billy, harnessed to a milk-float which had two large wheels, a seat on the inside rear corner of the float where the milkman sat. He was a kindly man and treated Billy with gentle compassion and respect. As soon as the milk float entered the street and turned round ready to leave; women would walk over to the cart with their milk jugs and watch as milk was carefully ladled into them.

There was a short pause when all had been served before a lady from the big house on the corner opposite our house would come over with either a slice of bread or an apple. These she presented to Billy as she spoke softly to him. Billy had the softest mouth, a surprising contrast to his great strength.

The next part of the process always fascinated me as a boy, for the milkman would fill his pipe and have a smoke during which he spoke to Billy: ‘Come on now Billy. Good boy. Come on now…’ Sometimes what was required of Billy came easily. Sometimes it took more coaxing before Billy responded. He’d move one big back leg a little further back, then his other leg, another pause, more coaxing…then slowly, Billy would lower his enormous willy and a stream of his pee would flow onto the gravel of the street. When all was finished, off they’d go at a steady plod back onto the road that took them to their next delivery.

I found it very pleasing that a man and his horse understood each other so well. They were a good team and I always felt so pleased that they visited our street when I was a boy, and I could watch it all from our front window.

Dennis Crompton © 1994
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)