Oddities

 
I’d seen them before, a twosome usually but sometimes with an addition, walking down the streets of our small town. Strange people I thought, certain too that other normal people would think the same. (I can really be very arrogant in my thoughts at times! Just as well others can’t read them.)

Anyway, the most outstanding of these two was the man. Tall, with a shaven head and two small piercing round eyes looking out from a most pugnacious face. No shirt, or jacket, even on the coldest of days; just a singlet showing off his somewhat skinny chest, narrow hips and long thin legs with great lace-up boots on his feet. His bulk seemed to increase too as he drew nearer. I could feel the animosity that came with him as he approached me. He bristled with it; ominously. And his look, when his eyes met mine, was quite belligerent. The message his look conveyed to me was, Ugh! You pathetic looking wimp. I should squash you with my boot, and watch it, ‘cos I just might!

I would sometimes proffer a timid greeting, given in a casual light-hearted way, in an attempt to inculcate his favour, if there was any favour to incul if you get my drift. Sometimes he answered! Fiercely, with eyebrows furrowed and knit tightly together looking down on me, surprised as if expecting a sudden attack from a pathetic looking wimp who had the audacity to address him. But I could never catch what it was he said as it was forced through clenched teeth. Perhaps it was just as well.

Sometimes I was spared the effort of a greeting as he was busy throwing words over his shoulder at the slight form of femininity trudging behind him. At times I thought he might have been completely stoned. But here’s the thing: he was the same person I had seen as a schoolboy, just a few years’ ago during my years as a teacher. There was a strangeness about him even then, when, despite being dressed as other schoolboys in his uniform he was never lost in the crowd. Something indefinable in his walk, his look, the way he held himself, together with a strange aloofness (bordering on the cloud-nine variety) suggested to me – vaguely – that something was out of kilter somewhere.

How easily I, at times, have thus appraised my fellow men. I wouldn’t say I judged them; more that I was able to assess or sum a person up fairly quickly. Of course I’ve also been wrong at times, and I certainly wasn’t sure in this case.

I saw this man again another time fairly recently, with the slight form of femininity. This time though it was different. This time they walked together, side by side, and he held her hand. And this time, in his other hand, he held a tiny bundle close against his chest. His look was still fierce but it was the fierceness of a man who has fathered a child. And should anyone have dared to challenge him about the baby being his I do believe his very look would have turned them to stone…

For me – and I’m sorry to have to say this, but – for me, I felt something was wrong. The picture just didn’t ring true. His eyes still lacked something; something that I would describe as the light and warmth of true fatherhood. Both of these qualities were missing, and I must confess my heart froze slightly with that realisation. Would what I thought of him as a person be passed on to the child? Wasn’t the pride I saw only there for himself? Was he really a father? Or had he simply supplied the male sperm that fertilised the egg?

Well, down the street they went. A brief and moving picture of three human souls that passed me on the street that day. Of their background, heritage and future fortune, I knew nothing, but I have thought much since then of the small bundle in that man’s arms. What of its life? Would the mother be a mother; the father a father? Would the child experience all that a human father may bestow – of warmth, love and care?

The strange man was there on the street again today, walking with another man (who appeared to be quite normal) and chatting as they walked. And she, the slight form of femininity, was back a pace or two as they walked before. No babe I saw, and I felt concerned by that. As I was about to turn away from the scene, still wondering, my eyes saw that she had stopped, head down, looking at her feet, while the two men walked on a little way. And do you know…the strange man noticed she was not following and he stopped too. Then pausing only a moment, he walked back to her and, placing his arm around her shoulders quite gently it seemed to me, leaned forward and spoke softly to her. They held each other briefly, before holding hands and joining the other, and they continued down the street.

It was then I thought this: could it be that I am the odd one out?

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Walks with my dad

 
A few scenes with my dad are rather special to me. Times when I discovered something about how he felt; things that helped shape the way I see and feel about things today. I was about eight years of age at the time of the following events.

There always seemed to be so very many people in Lune Street, Preston; a busy, bustling street with so much to see and take in. I guess we had gone about a quarter of the way along it when I heard the sounds that roller skates make as they move across flagstones – a sort of click-clack as the wheels cross the join between two stones.

The sound quickly got closer, and suddenly there he was: a man aged about 55 with thin, grey hair, scuttling in between the legs of the passersby whilst seated on a square, padded piece of wood with small metal wheels at each corner. He propelled himself along with the aid of two short sticks, his hands protected by pieces of cloth. Very skillfully he manoeuvred himself around, and was gone as quickly as he had appeared.
There was something else about him, something that only registered in my mind after he had passed by. The man had no legs, just two short stumps also wrapped in pieces of cloth. I was just about to as Dad about him when we came across this next scene.

An elderly man was seated on a box in a doorway to our left. His fingers were moving slowly across the page of a large open book that he held on his knees, and he was talking at the same time. The man was blind, and he was reading from the Bible which was in braille. On the ground at his feet was a cloth cap into which people had thrown a few coins. Dad dropped something into it too as we passed by, and the man paused in his reading to quietly say thank you.

When we had gone a little way down the street I asked Dad what had made the man blind (because Dads are supposed to have the answers to many questions, aren’t they?). “I don’t know, lad,” said Dad as he stopped and looked at me. “But every time I see him there like that, it makes me think how fortunate I am and I thank God that I have my sight.”

Those two encounters have stayed with me all of my life.

Dennis Crompton © 1994

A surprising reversal

We brought nothing into this world and it is certain that we shall carry nothing out of it. However, the bit in between immerses us in many variations. I once watched a plain piece of metal being silver-plated. The process didn’t seem to take long. The piece of metal was lowered into a tank. I saw a few bubbles rise to the surface and when the piece was lifted out it was gleaming with a thin silvery coating. We could liken various stages of life to that kind of process.

In my collection of discarded books from local libraries I have a New Zealand Almanac in which I found several pages of obituaries. For one month there was mention of:

• a chief electoral officer;
• an air vice marshall;
• a chairman of  New Zealand  company;
• a leading horse breeder;
• a paramount (Maori) chief;
• and three others, including a former pilot, a recipient of a heart transplant, and the youngest at 2 1/2 months old was the unsuccessful recipient of a liver transplant.

Those and the rest of the obituaries were for people considered to be of some significance, the kind you’d expect to be there in the Almanac. Because I’m stimulated by thinking outside the square, I wondered then who ought to have been in those pages but were not. For instance, there’s a great deal of hype and ballyhoo surrounding sport today. Fifteen make up a rugby team yet it’s the one who scores the try or kicks the conversion who gets the most recognition. It’s the same in most team sports of course. Everyone can’t be mentioned but surely there could be a more balanced appraisal?

The same applies in the wider field of life. I smile when I recall something said one day by the headmaster of the school I attended from the age of 10. It was winter, the cold was biting into our lightly clad bodies as we were lining up to get into the classroom where it would be warmer. As usual, muscle power or the threat of its use, saw the bigger lads in the front. The headmaster looked at us, his long thin nose red from the cold, sporting a small but distinct dew-drop. “Quiet everyone,” he called. And quiet there was. The boys at the front, now with a perceptible forward lean, poised on their toes ready for their motion into the classroom. But then the headmaster said, “Everyone turn around. The first shall be last and the last shall be first. Now, the boy at the back move first and lead the way around into the classroom, and the rest follow him.”

Oh, with what childish delight we, at the back, marched past those bigger lads. When we were settled into the classroom, the headmaster looked at us and said, “If you care to read St Matthew’s Gospel, chapter 19, verse 30, you’ll find the origin of the rule used outside today.” Hes smile was only just outdone by the lads who’d marched past the bigger lads. From that time on, the headmaster kept us guessing as to what he’d come up with next as regards the order of things. It stimulated our thinking no end, and in doing so, he won my admiration and allegiance.

He was an ordinary man. The kind, I like to think, who when it came time for him to leave the stage of life, would have heard the words, “The last shall be first, come on in!” And I reckon that all manner of ordinary people would be close behind him.

Dennis Crompton © 1999

The rent man

We lived in a stone cottage in Preston in the 1930s – two up, two down – and shared an outside loo with the folk next door. So the rent wasn’t much, one shilling a week, but it still had to be found in the days of the Depression.

The rent man was pleasant enough, with a voice that seemed too quiet for such a big chap. He would arrive on his push-bike, remove the cycle clips from the legs of his trousers, then placing them in his raincoat pocket. I thought he had rather big feet, but never said so. He also wore a Trilby hat, “a little ahead of his time,” according to my father, who wore either a flat cap or a bowler, depending on the occasion.

Once inside the house the rent man would remove the rent book from his jacket and open it on the table. Each time he did so, my eyes were taken by the neatness of the columns of figures and signatures in his book. The money was picked up and placed carefully away, then, writing his signature in the rent book and, after a few friendly comments, on would go his hat, his cycle clips, and off he would go.

There were one or two times when he was not able to collect the rent, either that, or we just didn’t have it for him when he came. He never got angry or raised his voice. I’m sure he understood the difficulties we faced as a family. He would just say in his quiet way to my father, “Perhaps next week then, Fred?”

I took the rent to his home on two occasions. His wife opened the door and led me through to the living room. She was rather house-proud; dust dare not settle while she was around and if it did it wasn’t there long. Everything was where it should be but it didn’t seem comfortable to me. I wriggled in my seat, a big, padded armchair. My feet kicked the base and the sound reverberated around the quiet room. The rent man’s wife looked at me and shook her head. It happened again – my feet kicked the base. This time her look was icy. I hated that chair and the house and was glad when I finally left to go home. I felt sad for the rent man to be married to a lady like that – it didn’t seem right to me.

We didn’t have much in the way of padded armchairs and the like, but our rented house was a home and it felt good to be there.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

The man behind the photograph

He was very pleased that he’d followed her advice. The photograph turned out fine. Just the right angle and lighting, with the colouring and setting adding to the dignity. In the best magazine and newspapers too!

A few things had worried him though. He hadn’t altered his hairstyle. Martina, his dear wife, suggested that he should part his hair down the middle. The remembrance of that brought a chuckle bubbling up from his stomach. It felt so good that when the chuckle turned into a laugh, he let it out – at full rip. “Man, that was great!” he murmured, wiping his eyes and seeing his happy, relaxed face reflected in the mirror. He moved up closer and whispered confidentially to the mirror, “You should laugh more often, Reggie.” The imitation of his ‘special friend’ as she’d wiped the lipstick evidence from his cheek after a recent council meeting, was spot on.

As expected, the photograph didn’t please Martina at all. No middle parting of his hair. The shirt he wore was his favourite, not the one she had bought for him at the men’s outfitters her daddy frequented. But the tie, well the tie was the last straw. Martina was furious about that. She left town some weeks’ later – destination unknown.

Her daddy moved in with Gerald, from the men’s outfitters.

As the newly elected mayor, Reggie got together with his special friend to thank her for the recommendations she had made, with regards to the photograph. And for the tie. Yes, of course, the tie!

Dennis Crompton © 2000

Passing time

“Now lad, you don’t want to go wishing your time away. It’ll go fast enough without that.”

That was the comment I got from my father when asked what I was thinking about one day. I must have been wishing it was the next day and then I could…..whatever. Anyway, he’d sown another seed in my mind, and I’ve thought about time ever since, at varying intervals, exploring the whys and wherefores of it all. But it was only a few days ago that I linked my thoughts about time with chance, and it opened up a whole new world of possibilities, which I have found both exciting and depressing.

I mean, I could have been born 4,000-odd years back in time, when man was still a hunter. Perhaps the discovery in 1991 of the Ice Man’s body, high up in the mountains between Austria and Italy, started that train of thought? How I have admired and respected the courage of that man, our unknown ancestor. Where was he from? Where was he going? Why? Who had he left behind? And of course, what did they do when he didn’t return…?

But the most interesting thing for me is this: we and our immediate ancestors reach back as far as that man, and then even further back still. We can link with him. Our bodies may have developed slightly differently since then, but our essential make-up is the same. Our minds may contain more information, but wouldn’t he think as we think? He’d think about what was around the next bend of the river, and over the top of the hill. He’d love and hate, laugh and cry, and wish it was tomorrow, up there alone on that mountain top as it was getting dark. He’d wish that it was light again so that he could resume his journey. And, of course, he’d think about life and death.

We’ll never know his true thoughts, but we do know that the cold, intense and bone-chilling, finally overtook his ability to remain alive. Then he had no time left. When he was found in 1991, his spirit and personality had long since gone; only what was left of his clothing remained. That, and his wonderfully crafted creations of tools and weapons, and the sense of his courageous effort in beginning his journey so many years ago. Time and chance had worked against him.

For all that, he didn’t die in vain, because I’m sure that throughout the world, where people have heard of his story, imaginations have been lit which will set a course for many an adventurous soul. And thus it has been ever since man first walked upright on this earth.

And I think my father was right: we shouldn’t wish our time away.

Dennis Crompton © 1996

Balance

If there is a beginning, then there has to be an end,

that’s logic says the learned man, with a slight nod of his head;

yet that annoying statement leaves too much to be desired

and so throughout the age of man more speculation’s been applied

to the penetrating question of what life is all about.

*

“We’re here today and gone tomorrow,” says the easy-going chap

“My granddad reckons that is so, ’cause he’d been told it when a lad.”

“There ain’t no more to life, so might just as well live it up!”

“No! No!” cries the local vicar, in a pulpit higher than the pews.

“From where I stand I’ll have you know there’s a very different view

there’s the theological question of what life is all about!”

*

Now if I’d had the patience, and been assured by what he’d said,

I’d most likely have agreed with him, as I lay back thinking on my bed;

fact is, I couldn’t stand the way he reckoned he knew best:

confess and get things off my chest, and follow what he said on

the religious set of questions on what life is all about.

*

The world is getting smaller, day by day I know it’s so

for mass communication presents so much more for me to know;

there’s religions, creeds and churches, some good and some that stink

and most that tell me what to do, and just a few that make me think

about the spiritual question of what life is all about.

*

I dreamed last night I’d floated to the space high above the earth

where my view was clear, unimpeded by the happenings below;

there was balance, there was beauty, a harmony of colour and of form

no sign of any discord from the hostilities I’d known, caused by

the all-embracing question of what life is all about.

*

Awaking the next morning, feeling fresh and full of life

I resolved that I’d tell no-one of the things I’d dreamed about;

that I’d simply get on with my life, while life was mine to hold

believing that eventually these things would all work out.

That’s what I think, anyway….is what life is all about.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Competitors

‘Share and share alike’ was one of the things taught to us when we were young. I found it difficult at times but in the presence of older people it was best to comply. There were a few times when uncensored, I’d surprise myself by sharing something, prompted by a spontaneous surge of generosity from within. I’d feel quite saintly for a while and believe I should have been treated more kindly by folk, had they but known.

I can’t remember when it started but it probably began with a simply unhygienic sharing at school. My mate had an apple. I did not. So placing my arm around his shoulder as I’d seen other boys do, I said to him, “Give us a bite then, Jim?” And without any further persuasion, I enjoyed my first bite. Later, on observing other boys, I added, “Save us t’core too, will ya?” Over a period of time, the bite or the offer of the core would be shared as naturally as others had shared theirs. (I never extended my request to share oranges though. It was far too cold where I lived to be eating those anywhere but in the warmth of home. I also confess to an inbuilt aversion to tasting the juices of an orange watered down with the dribblings of a runny nose.)

Time and experience have brough competition to bear. There were other mates without an apple, so I set about acquiring skills to cope with the situation. It wasn’t long before I would hone in on an apple breathed on and being polished by a schoolmate as naturally as a female Codling moth’s antenna could pin point the male she sought. My oral seductions for a bite and the core had to be pruned and tamed; and they were.

After a bout of measles I was forced to wear spectacles, and the bottom dropped out of my persuasive approach, finely honed. Overnight I became a has-been mate, with four eyes. Then the school bully took to calling me ‘Skenner’, everyone laughed and I was relegated to a small group of forlorn no-hopers. My self-esteem plummeted. I was the last to be picked for soccer played with an empty tin – exciting within the four walls of the school yard where it was banned. I stood on the furthest boundary for cricket (played with a ball made from rags), if I was picked at all. No wonder I lost something of the bubbling infectious enjoyment of just being with my mates, especially when I we tried to see who could pee the highest up the wall in the boys’ loo (I could only reach the half-way mark). As a competitor I’d become a non-entity. A dreadful label for anyone.

I decided I’d become a monk. I’d be safe behind the cloistered walls of a monastery. I could have, if I’d lived in the Middle Ages… Many of my ideas and inspirations sprang from, “I could have, if…..” The monk idea didn’t last. I looked up the word in an encyclopaedia and pictures of them put me right off. They all looked so woe-begone, and it was obvious they could only reach the half-way mark too.

Anyway, it didn’t take me too long to accept being called four eyes, or Skenner. There seemed to be nothing I could do about it, so I’d grin and make some humorous comment…and in the process I gained a couple of great new mates. No point being woe-begone if I wasn’t even a monk, I thought.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Enlightenment

Still life by Dutch painter Floris Gerritsz van Schooten  1590 – 1655

England, in the spring of 1574, saw a greater number of monks and pilgrims than usual, making their way from one shrine to the next in search of religious enlightenment. Many of them called for food and shelter at abbeys, monasteries and religious houses dotted throughout England. Waltham Abbey, in the country of Hertford, came in for its share of travellers, where a ready source of helpers came from the Refuge for Orphans, which was part of the abbey community.

Austin Kilby, a name given to him when he first arrived at the abbey nine years before, was one of these orphan helpers. His father, Raymond Kilby, was killed aged 27 whilst felling a tree, while his mother, Beatrice Kilby, died of consumption aged 32. Austin was their only child and was initially taken into a Church of England Home of Compassion where he learnt the alphabet and extended his knowledge a little of the written word. Then, no longer willing to care for him, the Home of Compassion sent him to Waltam Abbey. Now in his fifth year as pot-boy in the abbey kitchen he survived from one savage day to the next, amidst the kicks and blows from Jane Macey, in charge of the kitchen, and Edwin Cox, the cook. There was nothing unusual in the treatment the boy received in that environment ―dedicated to Christianity though it was ― it would take some time for enlightenment of any kind to reach those dark corners.

It was Thursday, two weeks before Easter, and preparations for the evening meal were well under way. In just over two hours the guests in the great hall would be served. The boy felt the tension in the two or three steps he’s taken on returning to the kitchen before a fierce grip took a sudden held of his shoulder. As he was spun around, he caught a glimpse of a female face distorted in anger, and something clenched in her fist, but it was too late to avoid the blow. Then the pain began to explode around him. It was his bad luck to have dawdled too long in feeding the kitchen scraps to the fowls. Jane Macey was in a vicious mood and the blows from the heavy wooden spoon caught him full across his face and around his head and shoulders.
“That’ll teach yer to get back quick when I tells yer. Now get them pots on the bench cleaned up afore I fetches yer another reminder.” She stamped off breathing heavily but smiling grimly, pleased with herself that she’d given the brat something to think about.

Thinking was not on Austin’s mind just then; only that he felt a grey cloud descend upon him and consciousness slip away as he fell with a thud to the cold stone floor. Nor was he aware that the cook grabbed his collar and shoved him into the cellar, slamming the door without another thought as to the boy’s condition. And that’s where he stayed for the next few hours. No one cared. He was entirely and completely at their mercy. And mercy was something Jane Macey, Edwin Cox and almost everyone within the boy’s small world knew nothing about.

When consciousness returned, his tongue – sore and tender – explored his lips and gums, cut and bruised by the beating. A little later, his fingers moved carefully over his swollen cheeks and ears; felt the dried blood around his nose and mouth, and though he tried, he failed to hold back a sudden flow of tears that began streaming down his face. For a few months his slight frame shook with sobs. Then, somehow, in the midst of all his misery, lying there in the darkness he allowed the flicker of a smile to cross his face as he thought to himself: Just as well she’d been too busy to give time to the beating. Austin knew he’d come off lightly this time, for he’d suffered far worse in the past.

The knowledge that he would be safe there until they opened the door was some consolation. The second time he’d been flung into the cellar after a beating, he’d found several vents around the top of the wall that enabled him to hear interesting conversations. Behind that wall was where the Rector, Edmund Busby, taught the privileged children of the abbey community. So Austin, eager to acquire knowledge where he could, set himself to learn as much as possible, and concentrate on what was being taught. He discovered his mind was like a sponge, taking in and comprehending information as rapidly as it was delivered. He took to going down there whenever the opportunity arose, learning to think and use his brain and memory to fill in the gaps, and jogging his memory to the early teachings he’d received as a child at the Home of Compassion after his parents died. He had to use his memory, for he’d neither paper to write on, quill to write with, nor books to read. The process helped him forget his aches and pains, and his time spent in the cellar ― by choice or as punishment ― saw that he received almost as good a foundation in Latin and other subjects as any of those privileged to be with the Rector. Quite some time would pass before he found anyone with whom he could talk or discuss the things he’d learned. To everyone around him, he was just an ignorant pot-boy, yet he was rapidly becoming the most enlightened among them.

Austin began to see himself differently. He knew that by keeping his ears and eyes open and using his mind he could learn as well as most of the residents who dined in the great hall of the abbey or travelled through on some pilgrimage or other business. It was this aspect of his character which, Owen Roberts, librarian at the abbey, discerned when the boy was brought before him one day.

It happened that Austin had been helping to unpack some baggage for a group of monks on their way to Lambeth; a task he’d been given now that he was older and that he didn’t mind since it meant that he was out of the kitchen for a while. At some point he’d paused to glance through a book left open on one of the bags. It so entranced him that he failed to notice Clifford Baldwin, the assistant librarian, observing him with keen interest from a window above. Jane Macey was also watching him as she walked past, with a dark look of venom on her face. The look gradually changed to a sneer as she headed for the kitchen. It was obvious she had something bad in mind for him as she flung open the kitchen door. The cook, Edwin Cox ― though used to her tirades ― was taken by surprise, as red in the face, she launched into an angry outburst.
“I’ll do for the brat this time, Edwin! I just seen im poking his nose into books as belongs to is betters. Now what do ‘ee think o that? There’s something about im as tells me ees got ideas above is station. I’ll fix im, see if I don’t!” And out she stormed, heading in the direction of the library.

The following day, Jane Macey watched Austin with narrowed eyes as he was taken from the kitchen and hustled off in the direction of the library. After his face was given a quick wipe with a damp cloth he was made to stand before the librarian.

“Well now, Master Austin, do you know who I am?”

Austin glanced up briefly, look the speaker in the eyes, and nodded respectfully before lowering his gaze again.

“It seems you’ve been deceiving us all. What’s this I hear about you reading books? Is it true?”

The voice of Owen Roberts was matter of fact, and conveyed only that he didn’t believe what he’d been told.

“Come on lad, speak up!”

Austin had never been addressed as ‘Master’ before, and found some encouragement in the fact as he answered: “I…I…Well, I suppose it must be true. Yes, sir.”

“Now what kind of talk is that? You mean to say you don’t know if you can read, when my assistant clearly saw you reading only yesterday? Come now, what say you?”

“Well sir, it’s true I did look at a book. I didn’t mean any harm or disrespect by it, sir, I … I didn’t.”
“Could you tell me anything about this book you looked at, Master Austin?”

“Yes sir, I read from one of the psalms, from the Bible.”

As he questioned further, Owen Roberts could scarcely believe the astute answers given by the pot-boy, and felt in his heart that he could in no way admonish the lad, now close on 14 years of age, he’d been told. His voice softened as he said, “Right then, Austin. I want you to choose a book from these on my desk. Open it and read something to me.”

With no mention of punishment in store for him, Austin began to relax. He picked up a book and began to read:

“Eighth August, 1501: Christina O’ the Grene, by spe..cial favour, has licence to marry, for which the lord, wai..ving the cus..to..mary mer…chet, is pre..pared to accept only 12 pence. William Pictor, who has pre..vi..ous..ly done fealty, and ack..now..ledged his services, now produces a char…ter, by which he an..ces..tors held their an..cient te.ne..ment. In return…”

“Yes, that’s fine, Austin. Now tell me, what is that extract from?”

Austin was confused, and must have looked it.

“I meant to say, look back through the pages and find the title for that piece. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” Austin replied, pleased that he understood what was required of him. He looked back through the pages, then said, “It’s an extract from the Rom…sley Court Rolls, sir. Though I do not know properly what that means. I’m sorry, sir.”

Owen Roberts sat back in his chair with warm delight; a quiet, amused smile on his face. Never had he met with such an open and honest display of intelligence. Something would have to be done about Austin Kilby. He posed a danger ― a danger to himself and a danger to the abbey community ― should his desire and ability for learning exceed the bounds of the narrow acceptability that reigned therein. Such learning as the pot-boy exhibited could easily give rise to rumours that it must be of the devil. He must take pains to prevent that happening, for the likes of bright young Austin Kilby, seldom, if ever, had been heard of around Waltham Abbey or the whole county of Hertford for that matter.

A few days later, Austin was told to collect his few possessions from the corner of the storehouse where he slept, and was escorted to the gatehouse. No one spoke to him there but a few workers he’d come to know by sight around the abbey looked at him strangely as they came and went about their business. They knew that the sheriff of the county was due to see the pot-boy, but why and what would happen, they did not know. When the sheriff did arrive, he saw his stepson taken over the kitchen with someone from the abbey staff, before calling on Owen Roberts. He left a short time later with Austin and a letter sealed with the Abbot’s seal.

In the kitchen, with the pot-boy taken off their hands (and them none the wiser), Jane Macey and Edwin Cox found their work load had increased. They were not happy. About mid-afternoon, they were suddenly interrupted in their work by a visit from the under-secretary to the Abbot, and another strongly built man. The under-secretary informed them that since they’d lost the services of the pot-boy, Roger Borden, stepson of the sheriff, would fill the post. Though simple-minded he was, if treated right, was pleasant, willing and capable. He’d work a little slower than Austin but he was very thorough, and they were assured he’s had every pot, cooking dish, shelf, floor and wall as clean as ever. Being physically very strong they must never attempt to strike him or raise their voice to him, nor to anyone else who happened to be around when he was there. The abbey authorities would take no responsibility for what he might do to them should they not heed their warning.

Meanwhile, in the coach bearing him towards a private tutor in Hertford, Austin, under the patronage of the Abbot of Waltham Abbey, immersed himself in one of the books gifted to him by Owen Roberts. The sheriff too shared in the dawning enlightenment, but was not to know however, that a few years later on the eve of obtaining his authorisation as head librarian at Westminster Abbey, a stroke would suddenly rob him of his life. An injury he’d received whilst he’d worked, suffered and learned under the savage tutelage that held sway in the kitchen of Waltham Abbey, caused a blood vessel to burst in his brain, and his life was ended in an instant.

In an age crying out for the kind of enlightenment he could have found, he was just another ordinary but gifted human being, where patronage was ignored denied or came too late.

Dennis Crompton © 1994