Danger, hero

River Ribble at Church Deeps

I suppose we all have some place that has an air of mystery and darkness about it. Mine is a real place, somewhere along the River Ribble in Preston, Lancashire, at a place called (in the vernacular), ‘t’ Church Deeps’. It is a place where the river cuts in under the bank causing dangerous currents to flow and forming a place where unwary swimmers could become trapped.

The day I heard about this place was a pleasant enough day. I wasn’t swimming but a few hard souls were splashing about in the far from pleasantly warm water. It was then that I overheard someone talking about t’ Church Deeps. I have a certain inbuilt distrust of water, no matter how charming and inviting it might seem, and when I looked across to where t’ Church Deeps was, it looked very dark and sinister. A place I would never go near.

It was further said in my hearing that there was one particular chap (who happened to rear whippets) who had rescued a few people who had got into difficulties over at t’ Church Deeps. Also, that he had even brought one person out, several days after he had drowned there. Apparently the poor soul had been wedged in between some tree roots, and had not been able to free himself.

I went home and talked about it with my family. Nobody seemed particularly interested in my bit of news I seem to recall, but Dad felt it opportune to add his warning about the dangers of river swimming. He needn’t have worried as water and its environs has to reach a very high standard indeed before I’ll venture in.

Some years after this event I read in the paper of a fellow who had rescued a person in danger at t’ Church Deeps. I can even remember a photograph of him; there he was with a whippet at his heels. He was a very ordinary chap, but then again real heroes often are, aren’t they?

Dennis Crompton © 1998

The spinsters' code

 

Across the street from our home in Pump Street, Longridge, was a pebble-dashed house in which two spinsters lived.

(Swallows built their nests each year under the eaves of this house. They came in spring and left in autumn, and there was a constant swooping and diving in smooth, graceful sweeps back and forth across the street by these beautiful birds. It was always sad to see them leave but they would return, we always knew.)

The two spinster ladies were a bit of a mystery to me; I can’t remember ever having seen them clearly in full view, and I certainly never saw them outside of their home. I did catch occasional glimpses of one or the other of them, behind the white, lacy curtains across their windows. But nothing more than glimpses; nothing substantial. They did use what I thought was a code to communicate with our neighbours on the right, Mr and Mrs Wilks. I discovered this code quite by accident one day as I sat in one of the favourite places I had for playing, reading or whatever, the broad, wooden window-sill of our window looking out onto the street.

Things were fairly quiet on this particular day when I heard the sudden clatter of wooden clogs from next door, and scurrying across the street to the spinsters pebble-dashed house went Mrs Wilks, apron strings and hair flying in the wind. She cut a fairly dashing figure as I recall. A sash window opened briefly at the spinsters’ house, something was said, then back across the street Mrs Wilks came, faster I think than she went. The spinsters’ window was slid quickly down and I just caught sight of a small white card being whisked away from the upper section of the window that had opened. That was the code. Whenever the spinsters required something from the shops, a small, strategically placed white card would bring a speedy response from the two furiously pumping legs of Mrs Wilks.

I would then picture the activity of Mrs Wilks next door: a quick flick of a comb through wispy, grey hair before her hat, now nicely warmed after the cat had been evicted, was placed on her head with a quick downward thrust of both hands. Her ears had disappeared and you could only just make out two eyes peering out from under the brim. Almost ready. I would imagine Mrs Wilks mentally ticking items off her checklist of ‘things to do before I go shopping for t’ ladies across t’ street’, then off she would go, the front door slamming behind her, the rapid clatter of her wooden clogs, the blur of her form bent forward like a sprinter in a race as she flashed past the window. The sound of her clogs grew fainter as she rounded the corner of the street towards the shops, until all was quiet again. The message had been received and understood, and the latest mission for the spinsters was under way.

I wondered if those two spinsters knew of some deep, dark secret concerning Mrs Wilks and were threatening to expose her is she didn’t cooperate. (My boyish mind sought answers down some rather strange pathways at times, I can tell you.) The truth was probably much simpler, that Mrs Wilks received some small financial reward for her kind services rendered.

Whatever the situation, she was a goer, and active with it, our Mrs Wilks.

Dennis Crompton © 1994

Another chance

Eric Morecambe statue, Morecambe, Lancashire

*

Chance saw me born an Englishman

at no time was I consulted

regarding place or country kith or kin

glimpsed not a glimpse of any plan

just born into the Lancashire clan.

*

I would like to have been an Arab

adventurous bold and free

wearing romantic flowing robes

riding the crests of desert sands

the leader of a Bedouin band.

*

Or possibly an Eskimo

dressed in thick warm reindeer furs

skimming my fast and sleek kayak

through the melting cold ice packs

the hunter of my Inuit tribe.

*

Or perhaps even Japanese

they're small but very clever

brought up to eat with chopsticks

walk the streets in a business suit

manager of a Mitsubishi plant.

*

But I was born an Englishman

now I no longer feel insulted

it's really not been all that bad

for Arab, Eskimo and Japanese sad

they'd not been born...a Lancashire lad!

Meself as a Lancashire lad

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

George, and leaving England

Here’s a picture of me as a happy chappie working at Ribble Motors workshop, Frenchwood, Preston, where I worked alongside (George) Jersey Fijalkowski from Radom, Poland, over two years from 1952-1954. He was very important in my life at the time because he was the one who pointed me in the direction of New Zealand.

One day George brought me a cutting from the Lancashire Evening Post, regarding the Royal New Zealand Air Force seeking recruits from amongst ex-British Service men.

That got me thinking. Did I want to stay in this life, or forge a new life for myself? Here were some of my thoughts at the time as I continued working with my colleagues amongst the noise and bustle of the Ribble Motors workshop:

• I had all sorts of chats and discussions with mates on the floor of the bus chassis reconditioning team, including a chat with Paddy who told me that, ‘All the world’s a stage. Do you know that Dennis?’ Paddy was someone who made Shakespeare come alive before my very eyes as he quoted, danced and acted, on the shop floor;
• Pat, well he was a thinker, a philosopher and my first ‘university teacher’, teaching me to think beyond myself;
• Tony was in charge of our work bench and was my immediate under-boss; a quiet and ordinary, patient, likeable man, who encouraged me;
• Another round-face jovial type (whose name I forget) who ‘annealed’ the copper tubing which carried grease around the chassis of the bus; he annealed the tubing by throwing it onto a heap of red-hot embers then dumped the piping into cold water. This then made the piping soft and pliable ready to be replaced around the chassis to take grease to vital points such as the brake pedal and clutch pedal;
• Plus others who gathered around our work bench for stolen moments to chat, exchange ideas or plan to walk somewhere on Saturday in the country together to enjoy each other’s company. We had some hilarious times together, with many of us joining Harry Freeman’s group as we planned where to take our August holiday that year…;
• Harry Freeman was a secondary-school teacher who led a group of young people at a Boys’ and Girls’ Mixed Club. He taught us that an interesting world lay outside Preston, a world comparatively easy to travel around, proving that by having a group at his home once a month to decide where, for how long, and how we would manage a holiday away. And we did just that in 1951 by having a week’s holiday at a big house that we felt looked like a castle at Lochgilphead, in Scotland. We had a great time, showing ourselves that we could escape the grime and humdrum life of Preston as we began to explore the world around us.

This picture of George is exactly were he used to stand re-assembling the diesel motors, while I, to one side stripped them, placing the parts in wire baskets for Jock to put through the degreasing plant. Skilled and semi-skilled side by side were great boosters to me 'shifting miself' so that when the question came: 'Why don't you go to New Zealand?' I was ready.

• Lastly, as mentioned, there was 'George' (Jersey Fijalkowski from Radom in Poland), who must have seen my wonderings and mind wanderings as I questioned my work mates, increasing my general knowledge on a whole range of subjects. He took an interest in me and decided it was about time I lifted my sights; it was time to move on. I didn’t know where to think about going until George asked me: ‘Why don’t you go to New Zealand?’ And he handed me the clipping from the Lancashire Evening Post….

George's home town of Radom in Poland

Looking back, I know I was the lucky one in our street who escaped to New Zealand. Thank you George.

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Financial enterprises

I'm sure you've heard it said that, 'Money makes the world go around’; usually by those who have plenty. We of the, 'Never have enough to go around’ brigade also know that money has to be earned before it can be spent. Or does it? Examples abound of people using a variety of methods to get their sticky hands on someone else's hard earned cash. Believing in the law that there is one born every minute, they operate, I'm told, under the guise of second-hand car salesman, consultant, solicitor and accountant. You probably know some of them.

I must have been about nine or ten when I learned to use my ‘thinkery’ to get some money. It was spring. The weather was warm and sunny and none of my friends were in sight. I was alone. Something was needed to put an end to the feeling of despondency growing within me. An ice-cream would help, that, or some lollies. I did torment myself at times. But I was still a few years from puberty, you see, and my stomach was sort of stand-in for what I came to know later, as my sex-drive. It's not so far fetched. Satisfy the stomach and you've got a happy male. It's also true with sex, I'm very pleased to say. The thing was, I had no money. No one I knew had money for such luxuries.

The decision to walk slowly down the street looking closely at where the pavement ended in a gutter for rain water was my first attempt. My thinking told me that this was a regular bus stop from where I lived then for a seven mile bus ride into the main town, Preston. Folks getting onto the bus sometimes dropped a coin or two as they fumbled in their purse or pocket and didn't always find all the coins lost. Great place to start I reckoned and if I told you that I'd only gone a few steps when I found my first penny, you'd probably raise an eyebrow and question my memory. But it's true. There it was, round, copper-brown and lovely, just off the footpath. It was instant happiness the moment I picked it up. Oh yes. I resisted the impulse to dash to the shop and splash out and with head down continued on down the street and found another penny. There was no stopping me now. I took to my heels for a real splurge. I don't remember what I bought but I enjoyed the experience very much. There was such a selection. Chocolate walnut whirls, Spanish rolls, liquorice sticks, sherbert dabs, and assorted toffees to chew until my jaw ached. And the rest of the day went very well. Oh yes!

I didn't tell anyone else, that would have meant a decrease in the potential for success later. I did discover another way of getting my hands on some sticky money. At that time on most streets where I lived, each house had a cellar. The cellar had a window and to let in some light a metal-grating was fixed into the footpath above the window. Sometimes, if you looked down through these gratings you could see the odd coin amongst the accumulated rubbish. More, if the gratings were in front of shop windows. It was a case then of having some collateral to start you off on a new financial enterprise. You had to have some chewing gum, some chewing gum and a stick, the stick had to be long enough to poke down through the grating; now, with the chewing gum at one end of the stick you were in business. Find a shop, sweet or cakes shops were usually the best. Look for a coin, lower the stick down through the grating, pop the sticky end onto the coin and carefully lift it up. It works. I've done it, several times. The shop-owners don't like it. They move you on, sharpish like. 'Come on now. Don't stand there cluttering up the footpath. You make the place look untidy. Off you go.' The truth is, they don't like to see their fringe benefits being whisked away from under their noses by kids.

But for enterprise and cheek, one kid I saw outside a shop took some beating. As a youngish woman came his way, he started crying, with real tears. The woman stopped and asked him what he was crying for. He pointed down the grating, sobbing that he'd lost the sixpence his grandmother had given him to buy some bread. The young woman opened her purse and gave him sixpence, patted his head, smiled and walked on. He must have pocketed quite a nice little sum in the short time I watched. It ended abruptly as his last victim was opening her purse. Another lady hurried over from across the street. Seized the boy and boxed his ears soundly, explaining as she did so that she had watched him pull the same trick for the past ten minutes.

I don't know if the boy stopped earning money that way. If he did, it would be because he'd come up with a better scheme for getting ladies to part with a portion of their house-keeping, without getting his ears boxed. Today, he's probably the chairman of some corporate business organization, pension fund, or employed as a financial consultant for the government. I'll tell you this though, if he is, he'll never get his hands on any of my money. I don't make enough you see. Well there's P.A.Y.E., G.S.T. tax on savings and numerous other taxes whilst I'm still alive. And it doesn't stop when I pop off; then there'll be death duties, the undertaker's fee and plot fee, and in order to ensure I stay where I'm put, the family will likely insist on a headstone. For a fee of course and another for keeping it free of moss and lichens. The list is endless.

There must be some way of getting a bit of it back, surely. If I could only contact the young lad I saw that day; he may have already passed on of course, if he has, I'll bet he came up with something really novel, like earning a steady income from passers-by at the cemetery, dropping coins into a slot he had fixed into his headstone, with the words:

'Need a friend on the other side? Your donation will help.'

Which I think is the last word on the matter, until we get to the other side, that is. Goodness only knows what awaits us there.

Dennis Crompton © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home

The interior of Shepherd Street Mission School showing a class in session

Here's some more information on the Shepherd Street Mission, Preston, Lancashire, the organisation that ran the Children's Home where I spent the first six years of my life, along with my two sisters and brother after our mother died. Our father was eventually able to take us home again, more of which I have written on my blogsite. The text in this post is taken from the website, listed below.

In 1876, Joshua Williamson, a Preston grocer was so moved by an encounter with two homeless children that he resolved to tackle the growing issue of destitution in the town. Joshua established a Mission, holding non-denominational meetings in Rose Street. The organisation rescued children and provided temporary accommodation for homeless adults.

In 1879 the charity acquired an old weaving factory in Shepherd Street which could accommodate a hundred people. Just a year later it was extended to accommodate fifty more.

The charity, initially called the Shepherd Street Mission, grew rapidly as the need to rescue children from the dangers of homelessness and poverty became critical. The mission was not state-aided. It maintained itself with subscriptions and donations from the Preston public, along with initiating and operating its own firewood business.

In 1900 Joshua Williamson gave up his business in order to devote himself to looking after the children. The charity by now had acquired property to accommodate the needy - both adults and children - in Laurel Street, Berry Street and Oxford Street.

Crow Hill House, in Oxford Road became the primary children's home and underwent much adaptation through the vast social changes of the last century.

The main premises were eventually sold to the NSPCC in 1989. The Shepherd Street Mission became the Shepherd Street Trust.

A committee was now formed to manage the Trust funds raised from the sale of the Mission's assets: the achievement of the people of Preston.

For more information, go to www.shepherdstreettrust.co.uk

The Trust is still very active, assisting those in need, under age 21, within a 50 mile radius of Preston Town Hall.

A bruised reed

This is written about my older sister, Jean.

*

In the strongest metal there’s a point that’s weak

when fatigue or constant grinding tension

slowly drains the soul out of the metal

dissipating whatever strength is left.

 *

She was strong, could face up to situations almost overpowering

but underneath, inside, the daily battles took their toll.

I, her brother, close enough to advise her

could not prevent his hold over her;

she later married this head and feet of clay.

 *

Oh, it was fine at first, displaying supposed married love;

alas his strength was in his arm, not in his head, and

as a brute drunkenly abused, a bruised reed did make her;

until she finally left, that old so sad and familiar story.

 *

I went to see him, angry yet quite in fear of him one day,

he towering above me listened as I talked him down to size.

I threatened him and even as I trembled I took strength,

for he was near weeping as I warned him not to offend again.

 *

Later, travelling with her on a late night bus,

I sensed some vital spark had been submerged or lost,

still tried to comfort, reassure, suggesting

the future still held promise, that not all was lost.

 *

I wondered then, how such men could answer to that name,

to use their strength to subjugate a weaker frame;

from liquid daily his false courage drew,

his mates joined in and so the monster grew.

 *

Her hair is white now, her step less firm,

her heart still beats, and though oft the memory stirs …

around her feet, her offspring brighten up her day,

all was not lost to so-called manhood on that wedding day.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Layers of bricks

My father was a builder, mostly using bricks. I watched him do this quite a few times and always enjoyed his clever skills. This piece is written with a bit of artistic licence at the end…

 *

Six of sand and one of lime

mixed into a pyramid pile;

now with spade have a dibble

make a hollow in the middle;

into this some water pour

with one of cement, mix all together.

*

I’ve watched all that when I was young,

how clean and neat it was to me,

how effortless it seemed to see

Dad’s spade slice smoothly through wet mix

with dark and white bits here and there;

a bit like chocolate making, right?

*

There’s nothing quite like the sound

of spade cutting cleanly through that mound.

It’s ready…now watch the bricklayer

plonk with his trowel a dollop of mortar

onto square board with handle underneath;

walk to the brick wall next course to begin.

*

Each brick receives with such a neat little flourish

mortar on three sides before being placed on

the bed of mortar already spread

top of last row of bricks the bricklayer laid.

*

By gum, they’re clever at their trade,

mortar mixers, bricklayers and builders, yes...

all of them chapses that plans and erectses,

places where us folks now comfortably liveses.

*

Dennis Crompton© 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Oh, to be older!

This has to do with men’s hair, whistling and long trousers...

World War II was only a few months away when I became aware of the older boys in our area suddenly seeming to appear more grown up. I tried to figure out why and reckoned it must be the long trousers. Yes, that was it, the long trousers made them look taller, and the trousers weren’t sloppy-looking, they had creases. How did they get those creases so sharp and neat, I mused. They did it, I discovered some weeks later, by turning the trousers inside out and rubbing a thin piece of soap down each line inside. When the trousers were turned back again, and ironed, the soap helped to create those keen edges. Neat eh? There was a problem when it rained, however; the trousers came out in quite a lather with the disastrous knack of the creases coming apart at embarrassing moments.

There was something else that drew my attention to and admiration of the big boys; they whistled a lot, and sang too, popular songs of the day, usually in groups of three or four. It sounded great and sometimes made the hairs on the back of my neck tingle, so that I enjoyed it all the more. On top of that their voices were deeper than mine, more manly I thought. I’d stop whatever I was doing just to hear them better. Then I tried to imitate them but it only made my throat sore, annoying me no end.

To crown all this off, these young men plastered their hair with hair-creams; they thought it made them look slick and they’d give me a nod of the head as they passed me in the street. When they did that, boy it made me feel good inside. I’d been recognised you see, by the big lads. I’ll nod at the younger lads too when I get older, I promised myself…oh, to be older!

p.s. And here I am turning 84 this year…oh, to be younger…

Dennis Crompton © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Crompton Crompton, the grocer from Farrington

 
Here is a photograph of my great grandfather; his name was Crompton Crompton. It shows him standing outside his grocery business in Farrington, a few miles from Preston. The family connection is thus: he was the father of Lazarus Crompton who was my grandfather, and Lazarus was the father of my father, Fred Crompton. (I write about my great grandfather again in the poem on this blogsite: 'My great grandfather'.)
Crompton Crompton was born in 1834 in Over Darwen, near Blackburn. Apparently there is a Lower Darwen and an Over Darwen as well as just Darwen, and I believe a railway line or a river caused these divisions.

In 1856 on the 5 July Crompton Crompton married Mary Morris who was born one year after him. He lived a very long life (for those times): he lived until the age of 86, and died in July 1867. An uncle, Frank Crompton showed me Crompton Crompton's grave once. It’s in a corner of church graveyard, under a big tree.

So, Crompton Crompton had these children:

Julia, born 1858;

Louisa, born 1860;

Crompton Crompton, who died young at the age of 7;

Mary Elizabeth, born 1864;

Lazarus (my grandfather) born 1865;

Crompton Crompton (the second child to be named as such), born 1868;

Albert Edward, born 1870 died 1879;

and Benjamin, born 1874.

So there’s a small snippet about my great grandfather and a great photo of him, whiskers and all. It’s not a great picture but it’s the best I have, and I guess I’m lucky to have it.

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

The fair

 

A fair of some kind came to the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home in Preston where I lived for a time when I was young. These were the days when members of the public were given the chance to see inside the fair, into the inner workings of the people and their place. It was a strange day for me and I guess for some of the others of my age who hadn't been there for other such days as this.

All the boys were herded into the large laundry room on the boys’ side of the Home. I assumed the bigger lads knew what it was all about, but I didn't, making the prospect of staying all day in the laundry room a long and dreary one. There was nothing to do in the laundry, just large glass windows looking out on the area below set out with stalls and other things I couldn't make out.  I think sandwiches were brought in for us and tea to drink, but I could tell the bigger lads were all bursting to get out and mingle with the crowd, so I guessed I would be doing so too, eventually. But we didn't. The door was kept closed and the day dragged on.

Then about mid-afternoon, when many of the visitors had gone, we were allowed out. There were a few stragglers and, I think, stall-holders packing up to go, but a brass band was seated in a circle, in uniform, with brass instruments gleaming and they were playing. It was magic to me. I went up close and stood right behind a chap playing a brass instrument, it was a bigger version of one my daughter Vivienne playing at some time (an E flat horn), and I got ‘personal’ with him. While he was playing I became absolutely fascinated with his hair; it was thinnish and black and slightly curly. Then I became aware that the fingers of both my hands were touching it and letting it slip slowly through my fingers. I was only four or five years old at the time.

As far as I know the chappie never missed a note. I guess he was as equally fascinated by this young lad's close attention. There’s probably a family member of this bandsman who still remembers this happening, with humour and some delight. I do hope so, for I still do.

Dennis Crompton © 2012
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Night sounds

The Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home where I was placed at the age of two years and six months had around 60 people living in it when I first went to sleep in a small room above the entrance door. My room was separated from the rest of the building by a series of passages and storerooms and as only the staff running the home went there it was usually a quiet area during the day.

I remember clearly the sounds of the night from the street below during the summer evenings as my young mind began to distinguish one particular event from another. The only sounds that I could hear clearly came from outside at night: probably not very late at night though as I was such a young chap I would have gone to bed early. Thus my mind was able to concentrate first on the sound, then on what caused that sound.

—That was a bicycle, just the faint whirr of the tyres on the road and an occasional tinkle of the bell.

—Then a car, (although I wonder now who would have had a car to drive down that particular street since those were the days of the Depression); and sometimes there could be at least two or three, sometimes more. The engines had a distinctive note to them, rather a soothing one to me, with a Paah! Paah! of a motor-horn now and then. Those were the mechanical sounds.

—There would follow a time of hardly any noise at all. For quite a time, just as I was dropping off to sleep, I’d hear the low murmur of people talking to each other, accompanied by the sound of their wooden clogs on the pavement. Faintly at first, then gradually increasing as they came nearer, then passing by before growing quiet again. With some, there was an air of business-like urgency in their steps, while others would stop and talk to someone they knew standing at their front door before continuing on or going into a house close by. I’d strain my ears to try and catch what they were saying but I was never able to get both sides of the conversation which I found very frustrating.

—What was that? A hand-bell? Yes!

—And now, the slow rumbling of a hand-barrow wheels blending with that of people. A happy, cheerful sound, sounds I enjoyed the most.

—Then a man’s voice calling: ‘Parched peas! Parched peas! All lovely! Come and get ‘em!’; or the call could be: ‘Get yer baked peraties; baked peraties here’; or maybe even: ‘Hot crumpets! Lovely hot crumpets!' Oh delicious sounds they were to me for people came running and laughing and calling out to each other, all warm and friendly Lancashire sounds, and I’d give a little laugh as I caught their delight. Such simple comforts from cleverly designed little hand-barrows with their individual touches crafted to suit their wares. They were enterprising; the souls who made their way up and down the smoke-grimed streets at night.

They will never know that they gave me such pleasure as a young chap; I lay in my bed and listened to them all going about their lovely Lancashire lives, while I shared it with them in a small measure of a way.

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

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)

The dreadful being knocked at the door...

I've always been glad that humans possess imagination giving us the ability to extend and colour our knowledge. Where would we be without it?

As a young boy I was honing my imagination by continuing various dramas in my head well after the film had ended, the book was closed or the radio switched off. One story I heard on the radio called, ‘The Monkey's Paw’, was one that I'd have been better off not hearing. I sat listening with the grown-ups around me, pulling my feet closer and closer towards me and the storyline developed. I was in a pretty scared state already before the real horror began and, '…the dreadful being knocked at the door'. Help! Fortunately my dad noticed how it was affecting me and hurried me off to bed, sharpish. But, alone.

I was still well tuned in to the story as I made my way up the stairs in double-quick time, and leaped from the door straight into my bed. I switched off the light and tried to sleep. If I didn't move and breathed quietly, I could still hear the radio downstairs, and a variety of increasingly terrifying and tantalising sounds began to do their work on my imagination. Then, from the radio, I heard more frantic knocking on a door, and the agitated murmurs of grown-ups, mingled with the most awful sounds.  

How can they bear to listen? Are they not terrified themselves? At least they've got each other to scream with, but what about me?!

The darkness now concentrated my thoughts on where I was…alone, completely alone, in the dark, and with potential horrors all around me. With my hearing now on full alert I was certain that something was stirring in the wardrobe, creeping up the stairs or slithering about under my bed, where, oh horrors! I'd failed to check. It was too much for me! I'd heard enough! Really scared now, I curled myself into a ball and pulled the bedclothes tightly round me. At some point, thankfully, my Sunday-school teacher's beliefs must have kicked in, for I imagined, "bands of angels gathered around me as they sang me gently to my rest." That was enough for me to find some peaceful relief, and I fell, gratefully, into those angels' arms and slept in a tight ball 'til morning.

I'll never forget that, and the fear I felt, all alone. Still, a scare is good for you sometimes, isn't it? Gets the adrenalin pumping, adds a bit of zest to life now and then.

Dennis Crompton © 1996
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A step into reality

There was one August Bank holiday in England that stands out very clearly in my mind as a nine year old boy. It was 1938, and the once a year passenger train would travel up the line from Preston to Longridge for the event; a distance of about seven miles. At all other times, only goods trains travelled the line.

By gum, it’s quiet, I thought to myself as I walked over to the style in the stone wall across the street from where we lived, the vantage point where I kept my eye on things. It was about 9.15 in the morning, it was a Saturday in August, and the weather was warm. There should have been people about; they couldn’t all be sleeping in, I thought.

Then my ears caught the faint shrill sound of a distant train whistle and I turned to face the direction of the railway line. Yes, there it was, pulling up the slight incline with a line of carriages behind it; puffing and panting, smoke and sparks flying out of the engine funnel. Of course! The realisation now came to me; it was the Holiday Train, come to take the folks of Longridge to Preston and then on to Blackpool holiday resort by the sea.

I remember suddenly getting quite agitated thinking of who I could ask so that I might be able to go too, knowing deep down that it wasn’t possible but my mind just wouldn’t let go of the idea. My excitement at seeing the train made my brain think fast and furiously: ‘What could I do to make it possible for me to go?’ Then the train whistle sounded again and…oh…it’s coming back down again! Little sounds of frustration bubbled up from my stomach and throat, in small, panicky snatches as I hopped from one foot to the other. It was all so unfair, I thought to myself very close to tears now.

The train was slowly picking up speed as it moved down the incline, its carriages crammed full of people leaning out of every window, waving or holding long, coloured streamers of paper and calling out happily to other people leaning out of their windows. As their journey began, they were unaware of the lonely boy standing on the style, watching them go with a very heavy heart, taking another step on his journey into the world of reality.

All too soon it was quiet again; there was no one else around and my mind turned over the various reasons why it wasn’t possible for me to have gone to Blackpool too. It was all very clear, really. We just couldn’t afford it. I knew that if it had been possible Dad would have made sure that I was on that train.

I didn’t tell anyone how I felt at that moment; we all had to face such times of disappointment; so I wiped away my tears and after a while found something else to occupy my mind.

Dennis Crompton © 1996
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A sentimental mood

‘Are you in a sentimental mood?’ asks Sir William Schwenck Gilbert in the 'Mikado', and then goes on to say, ‘I’ll sigh with you,’ (which is rather nice of him I think).

Most of us can get sentimental at times, especially at Christmas. I do; it’s the suitcase crammed with photographs, you see. It’s the time I usually get them out, to sift through and reminisce. One of them will start me off; I’ll smile, then shed a tear or two and sigh.

One such photograph shows four youngsters gathered round an open fireplace with one peering up the chimney; the fire is out, stockings hang from the mantelpiece and the caption reads: ‘Waiting for Father Christmas’. The year is 1934; the place is a home for children in Preston, Lancashire, England (the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home)…and I am the boy peering up the chimney. This brings back memories because that was the first time that the meaning of Christmas, Father Christmas and presents began to seep through to my understanding.

A few days after the photograph was taken, all the children in the Home were gathered together in the main room. Let’s imagine we are there…It is evening. Christmas decorations, holly with cheerful red berries, a Christmas tree and candle-light, have all transformed the normally drab, uninteresting room into a warm and happy place to be. In a semi-circle sitting cross-legged on the floor are the children, a steady murmur rising from their midst. At the front sit the two sisters who looked after us, lovely in their crisp white uniforms. On their right, the dark-suited superintendent sits with his rather severe bespectacled wife who keeps an eye on the girl’s wing, and behind them, several members of the committee who run the Home…

(Generally life had its predictability: the boys were separated from the girls except for meals and church-going; the boys big from the small; and on visiting days, some going off with relatives while the rest went nowhere, making the days monotonously and long.)

Today was exciting, even though I’d learned it wasn’t wise to get too excited about things; sometimes it was all for nothing and the expected event didn’t happen. But this time it was different. This time we were all together and for the first time something about the meaning of the word ‘home’ became more real and emotionally satisfying.

We had games, and after that we sang carols, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I heard the boys and girls singing up close. It was wonderful, with a kind of magic in the air because everyone was happy.

Then came the big event: Father Christmas arrived, and after a few friendly words he opened the big sack in front of him and began calling out the names on each present he brought out. A steady stream of boys and girls walked forward, received a gift and returning smiling to their places. The good folk of Preston and the surrounding districts tried to make Christmas as cheerful as they could for all of us children in the Home, despite the Depression, with unemployment or poor wages being widespread throughout most countries of the world. Thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of such things at that time.

Meanwhile, back in the main hall, I was still waiting for my name to be called and the sack was looking decidedly limp, while almost everyone around me was buzzing with excited chatter as they compared gifts with each other. I was still waiting and getting worried. A short time later Father Christmas asked if everyone had received their present. I said nothing, my face burning as I felt too left out and shy to speak up. My friends nudged me and whispered, ‘Speak up, our Den!’, but I didn’t; I was too close to tears. Father Christmas called again, turning as if to put his sack to one side, and from somewhere inside of me I found the gumption to call out in a voice that sounded a long way off, ‘I ‘aven’t got one’. A hush fell, or so it seemed to me. The two sisters knew immediately who it was that had spoken; they’d looked after me since I was two and a half years of age, and one of them whispered something to Father Christmas who looked around and smiling called, ‘Who was that?’

Thus encouraged, I spoke again. ‘Me, I ‘aven’t got a present yet’. A sympathetic murmuring rippled around the room as Father Christmas called out, ‘Come on then, young Dennis. Let’s see what I’ve got here for you.’ Everything was sorted out, of course. I got my present and a special hug from the two sisters along with kisses, in front of all those people too; and it made feel heaps better.

In 1965 I was living in Auckland, New Zealand, and I learned from a friend that the two sisters who knew and cared for me at the Home when I was a boy were living a short distance away, and would like to meet me and my family. My friend gave me their address and phone number, and yes, they were same two sisters: Sisters Mary and Anne Smith. After the hugs and greetings, and cups of tea, they gave me a photo of our time at the Home. It’s a large black and white photo showing a group of boys and girls playing in some sand; Sister Mary Smith along with another adult, sat on two chairs keeping watch over us. I stand out as the boy with a small patch of ring-worm on my scalp, while a short distance away, my sister Jean is playing there too. We had a great reunion with Mary and Anne Smith, who became firm friends of my wife and honorary aunts to our daughters until the sisters died…and of course, now I’m in a sentimental mood all over again.

Me, third boy from the left. My sister Jean, centre front girl, sitting on her knees. Sister Mary Smith, centre seated at the back.

Dennis Crompton © 1996
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Nymphs, indeed!

When you’re young, moving from one district to another has a certain excitement about it. My seventh birthday had come and gone some three or so months past, and while I did enjoy the change in surroundings in the street where we went to live, starting at a new school was another story.

It was a cold blustery winter’s day in 1988 when I stood again on the pavement opposite the school. The school still stands three-quarters of the way up Berry Lane in a village called Londgridge, seven miles from the industrial town of Preston, Lancashire. It still looked the same as it had 50 years ago; an impressive building of stone, with an air of strength and permanence about it. My camera captured it, I’m pleased to say, as progress had already obliterated too many other scenes from my past to lose this one too.

For once, though, I was disappointed that the doors were closed; they never had been closed when I was a schoolboy there. The classrooms, I remembered, were large with high ceilings and dark, varnished woodwork adding a somewhat sombre feeling to my first days there. Sea shells, coloured and smooth, were placed before me to perform some simple calculation, which I couldn’t figure out how to start, and which grew more hateful the more confused I became that day. Somehow I survived; we do, don’t we? The elasticity that comes with youth thankfully enables us to ride these daily ups and downs of life, and we move on.

Some weeks before I moved to the ‘big’ school next door, Miss Cranford the Head Mistress, poor soul, had an idea which involved our class in particular. It was around that time that pupils in Manchester a few miles away from us became popular for their rendering of a song called: ‘Nymphs and shepherds’. I’d never heard of nymphs before that time, had you? Despite what follows, I still enjoy hearing children sing that song, which is quite amazing really, when you consider what I have to tell you.

It was like this you see: Miss Cranford began to appear in our classrooms more often than previously and seemed anxious to improve the way we spoke. It was at this point that she encountered the first barrier to her scheme. A tall elegant woman, I felt she had a point, and listened carefully to what she had to say, trying hard to talk nicely with disastrous results. The first time I spoke using ‘The Cranford Improved Speaking Approach’, or CISA for short, my friends dissolved in laughter and wanted to hear more. At first it was a bit of fun but later as I continued my efforts they began to shun and ignore me, saying that I was becoming too ‘stuck up’ and ‘talking too posh’ to mix with them and to:

‘Tek t’ plum out of me gob and talk reet’.

It became too much when they mentioned Coventry. I didn’t want to be sent there, where-ever it was.
I guess pupils in other schools discovered the folly of the CISA method and joined all the others in silent and sullen action; Miss Cranford’s efforts were resisted, bringing a temporary lull in the engagement. I say temporary, for Miss Cranford was made of sterner stuff and was merely taking time off to marshal her resources. As it turned out, she would need them, every last one of them, bless her.

We had a few days to recuperate and our vocal chords appreciated the rest. The tension eased, laughter was heard again and smiles appeared on children’s faces… well, where else would they appear? Then Miss Cranford returned, with a smile that was not really a smile on her face, and I sensed the inevitable clash of minds. In a way I felt sorry for her, she meant well and there was no doubt that many of us would have benefitted greatly from learning to speak clearly and more distinctly. (As a matter of fact I did so myself, and am grateful for it.)

Now we come to the second barrier. Our Miss Cranford had an ulterior motive; if we could learn to speak more clearly we might just possible learn to sing also, with the same clear, pristine quality as the school children from Manchester. Those children, innocent thought they might have been, have more to answer for than they ever realised. I wonder how many other schools throughout the land were being put through the same tortuous, mind-bending, voice-straining, third-degree session as we were? Day after day, the words of ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’ were pinned up at the front of the class for us to follow.

“Nymphs and Shepherds come away,

In the Groves let's sport and play,

For this, this is Flora’s Holy day.

Sacred to ease and happy Love,

to Dancing, to Musick, and to Poetry:

Your Flocks may now securely rove,

whilst you express your Jollity.”

(Lyrics by Thomas Shadwell, music by Henry Purcell)

A teacher, pressed into service, sat hunched over the piano keys; the conductor, who else but Miss Cranford, stepped into the arena, ruler gripped tightly in her fist, the smile that wasn’t a smile hovering around the corners of her tightly-pressed lips. Gradually the conditioning process took over.

We would rise on signal, hardly a foot daring to shuffle, desk to creak or cough to even threaten the silence of that dreaded moment when her hand would come down for the first note of yet another encounter.

We sang, oh how we sang for you Miss Cranford, like angels attempting to soar to the same majestic heights as those blasted kids from Manchester. Blood would have been shed in large quantities had we ever met them. ‘Let’s sport and play’ went the words of the song, sport and play indeed; and surely ‘Flora’ could have had her holiday without all that damned fuss! And who was she anyway? It was fortunate that no pupil from our school was named Flora, I can tell you.

As time went on, we played merry havoc with those words in the playground, creating our own version. Had it been possible for Thomas Shadwell to have heard what we did to those verses he had hatched from his creative mind, he would no doubt have wished he’d written something quite different, thus denying us the opportunity to be somewhat creative ourselves. Miss Cranford went distinctly red in the face during those last few sessions and it crossed my mind that perhaps she heard our revised version and was trying desperately to block it from her mind.

The intense tuition took its toll; Miss Cranford’s hair lost its sheen; her elegant form slumped around the middle and the smile-that-wasn’t resembled more of a grimace as the last session ended. One had to admire the manner in which she left the classroom that day; maybe she’d had a snifter or two of some drink, liberally laced with a single lady’s pick-me-up before making that last supreme effort to draw from our class the clear, pure, dulcet tones she had so set her heart on.

Never mind, Miss Cranford, you did your best, and as I said earlier, I still enjoy Nymphs and Shepherds as sung by those delightful children from Manchester. I have the record you see and can play it whenever I wish. Sometimes when the mood takes me, when I’m feeling a bit naughty like, I put the record on and just as those smarty kids reach the first note they are to sing, I switch if off and have a damned good, throat-clearing cough and laugh, both together. Nymphs, indeed!

Dennis Crompton © 1996
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

My brother, Fred, part 2 - A letter to Joyce

A few weeks after my brother Fred died, I wrote this letter to his wife, my sister-in-law, Joyce. It follows on from my previous post 'My brother, Fred'.

*

Dear Joyce

Now that a little time has passed since Fred’s death and things will gradually be returning to something like normal for you, here are a few things I would liked to have said to you in person that time and distance didn’t allow.

Fred was always a kind and loving brother, helping me understand and come to grips with various things that happened to us in good times and those not so good through circumstances beyond our control. With sadness and concern he had to leave us in 1942 enlisting in the Royal Navy. Then I did my best to write my letters to him and through my schoolboy efforts I tried hard to express my thoughts to him through those times.

He had a generous heart and always surprised us when he came home on leave carrying kit bags loaded with tinned foods and other things from Canada, something that cheered us during rationing wartime England.
As my brother, we had so little time together, so on my last visit to UK in 2001 he took the opportunity to join me in visiting Southport in search of information about the plans our mother drew for the house built by Dad. We got so close but some obstacle or other prevented us from obtaining copies for our family history. Still, we were together when [your son] Brian drove us around looking at the home Dad built for us in Cottam, and I’m thankful that the nostalgia of that time with Fred by my side is still with me.

That my big brother has had a very happy and contented life with you Joyce as his wife and partner, along with Brian and his family, means so much to me and my family, not forgetting our big sister, Hilda in Preston. I hope these few words will ease things for you as the days come and go for you Joyce.

As I said before, I will miss him more than I can say.

Much love then, from Dennis

Dennis Crompton © 2012
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

My brother, Fred

FRED CROMPTON Obituary

On August 14, 2012, died peacefully at St. Catherine's Hospice aged 88 years. The dearly beloved husband of Joyce, much loved dad of Brian, dear father-in-law of Andrea, and a devoted grandad of Sara. Brother of Hilda, Jean and Dennis. Loved and remembered always.

*

I've written before of our 'fractured childhood', caused through circumstances to my mother and father who had no control over the events that befell them through those Depression years. Dad was doing well building houses, the plans for which my mother drew up. Though Fred and I went in search of those plans at various places, we were unsuccessful. They existed in one place we visited, the storage department of Preston County Council, but for one reason or another we were not able to obtain copies.

In the midst of their success, Florence, the mother I never knew, died of cancer in 1930, twelve months and a few days after I was born.

So of my early years at Cottam with my Mum and Dad, sisters Jean and Hilda and brother Fred I have no remembrance, save for odd pictures in my mind of things told me of those days. That they were happy days I have no doubt, and when Dad and I were alone together a few times I'd ask him quietly, ‘What was my mother like, Dad?’ I so desperately wanted something to give me a picture of her that I could hold on to. Her photograph wasn't enough; one I have shows her seated in the open on a grey kind of day. Poor Dad, he just couldn’t get anything out except, ‘She was a lovely woman and companion, a great cook and mother…’, and tears would fill his eyes and he just couldn’t go on. Soon after that I stopped asking; I could see it caused him too much pain.

When I moved from the infant section in the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home to the boy's wing, the first boy to greet me was this big boy with a warm smile and face to match. ‘Hello Dennis, I'm your brother Fred. Remember me?’ I didn't, but I liked him and felt really glad that he was my brother in amongst all those other boys who were strangers to me. He went on to tell me we had two sisters, Hilda and Jean, in the girl's wing, and that our Dad would be in to see us when he could. This was all news to me and I was somewhat bewildered by it, and also by other things I'd been told had happened in the family a few years before. So, from sometime in 1932 until 1936 I was alone in Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home, until I found out I had a family.

My big brother Fred kept an eye on me, and I felt good about that. Then a few weeks after I turned seven, Fred told me quietly that we'd soon be leaving the home and going to our home. His quiet excitement was infectious and I began to feel like a person in my own right, not just one of a whole bunch of boys. We had a Dad who came to see us from time to time, just for an hour or two when his work permitted and he was going to take us to live with him and we'd be a family again. Fred did much to make sense of all of this for me. Then, our time at Longridge, after we left the Children’s Home in 1936, were happy days for us as a family. Though war was brewing in Europe, we lived in peace and for a short while enjoyed a time of good food, a happy home and healthy living together. We had about ten years together before separation again.
Came 1939 and Fred joined the Home Guard. His photograph in uniform of that time shows a young boyish figure.

aged 18 years, in Home Guard Uniform

I began to worry that he might have to leave us and go to war as he wasn't called up until 1942. Then, he was sent to join HMS Raleigh, a shore bound Royal Navy station near Portsmouth, I think.  My emotions were in turmoil as I thought of scenes I'd seen of war in some magazines Dad had of WWI, and I dreaded my big brother having to face any of that. He didn't seem too concerned about things; he enjoyed the Royal Navy, the camaraderie and adventure of it all, and came safely through the war to start life again in Preston.

He began to spend more and more time in dancing at the Tower Ballroom, Blackpool, where his blue eyes and dancing feet took him straight to a certain Joyce Hargreaves. They danced a lot there, and I was quite chuffed at him having this delightful young lady to go out with. They married of course, and they married in Blackpool and have had a happy time together ever since with their only son Brian, who is now married to Andrea with their daughter Sara to keep them on their toes. Like me, Fred had a gentle and sensitive nature, which, I like to believe, came from our dear mother.

So this was Fred my brother, I hope some of the qualities that were his have rubbed off on me. I shall miss him more than I can say.

Dennis Crompton © 2012
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Country life

This is a true story and a nice memory to look back on.

We had some friends who had a farm a little way out of the village where we lived from 1936 to 1940, and I reckoned the mother of that family lived such a charmed life. Apart from recalling the gusty, down-to-earth homeliness of the woman and that I saw her many times when I visited the farm, only one thing stands out clearly in my mind today concerning her as a person.

Picture a typical farmhouse kitchen built of stone with stone slabs as a floor and several people seated around a large wooden table which is scrubbed clean and is almost white. They are tucking into a meal with the plates straight onto the wooden top. Several times I would watch the mother perform an ordinary everyday action but in a somewhat drastic heart-stopping manner for me as a young lad of seven or eight. Noticing that someone required another slice of bread, she’d reach out, seize the loaf, place it atop her ample bosom and with the breadknife clutched firmly in the other hand cut and hack away with gay abandon, and the knife, mind you, always moved inwards.

As she handed the slice balanced on the knife to the person requiring it (and it was clear that only the bread had been cut) I’d allow myself to breath more freely, glancing around the table to see if anyone else had been as concerned as me for the for the safety of the mother’s bosom, but no one had. Considering the quantity of bread consumed on the farm, she was one lucky woman and as far as I know she went to the grave intact.
Her husband I didn’t know at all, and all I can recall about him now is that he often wore a pair of brown leather boots, including leather leggings which fastened with two small straps around each leg. They fascinated me and I often wondered what it would be like to wear them.

There were two daughters: Anne, slim, red-haired and pretty and was nice and easy to get on with; and Kate who preferred to be called Kitty, a well-built, robust, warm-hearted and cheerful lady who had the misfortune to have a false leg. What happened for her to lose that leg I had enough gumption not to ask.
The thing is, whenever I was at the farm I spent most of my time with Kate, and as I did everything she told me to do, not fancying a clout from her rather substantial right arm, we got on very well. I would often accompany her on her milk rounds in her three-wheeled van. It was a delight to see her start that thing. Let me explain: The front wheel was attached to the steering wheel: well it would be wouldn’t it? On the top of the steering column were two small levers, one lever advanced the spark to start the engine, the other retarded the spark. It was all to do with the timing, if that’s any help. It was very tricky getting those levers in exactly the right position for the engine to start and run smoothly. Kate usually managed it without much trouble and the van would run steadily in no time at all.

There was a small gap where the one front wheel would have movement to turn and I could watch the road passing swiftly by as I sat on the strange little co-driver’s on the left-hand side. There wasn’t a real door, just a flap of celluloid from the top to just half-way down and it was at an angle, so that one could nip out quickly to deliver milk. It didn’t seem that cold, I guess the excitement of being able to go for a ride over-came that particular aspect of the trip for me.

Off we’d go, the van rumbling slightly with the load of milk cans in the back and it wasn’t long before Kitty would start to sing. I could always sense when she was ready. There’d be a gentle rocking motion of her body to and fro on her seat, like a hen settling down on its eggs. A pause, followed by a few deep breaths, then her hands would take a firm grip on the steering wheel and she’d let rip, full bore; no holds barred, leaving nothing in reserve and with an intense look on her face, her eyes seemingly fixed on some distant star. Kate would sing and sing with such an infectious exuberance that the glow of her enjoyment would flow through to me; normally a quiet, shy sort of lad, I’d blush a little as she began but then I’d find my foot tapping in time to the tune and then my hand on my knee. It was usually a popular song of the day and she kept in time with such thumps of the floor of the little van with her false leg that I felt sure it would go clean through the floor: ‘Come on, Dennis luv, join in,’ she’d say, her face alight with a great beaming smile, and thus encouraged, I’d join in, my high piping notes contrasting with Kate’s deeper ones. I loved it! Feeling warm, happy and with a gay sort of abandon at the same time. I just had to stop for a giggle every now thinking it was all so ludicrous in a nice, warm and funny way.

Just think though, if I hadn’t had the chance to join her on those milk-rounds, how much pure and carefree enjoyment I’d have missed.

Eventually we’d arrive at a place for a delivery. Kate would heave herself out of her seat, grab hold of a milk can and place it where she could ladle out the correct quantity of milk into the receptacle handed to her. She had a really polished way of doing that; hardly a drop of milk went in the wrong direction. Her arm would move up and down in a graceful, somewhat exaggerated motion when she knew I was watching; then she’d look at me and say: ‘That’ll put a fine froth on it lad’ as she handed it to the person waiting with a flourish and grin.

We come now to the ‘accidentally-on-purpose’ part. I suppose there would have been times, when even I, quiet, even-tempered, well-mannered lad that I was back then would get on people’s nerves, and this was one of them. I was fascinated, you see, in watching the milk flow down the corrugated ridges of the milk sterilizer, and it kept me quiet for ages. I was doing this one day whilst Kate and Anne washed the place down. Kate had asked me several times to, ‘Shift thi’ self, lad,’ and the next moment I gasped, as she tipped a large, galvanized bath of cold water over the top of me. I was drenched from head to toe.

‘Oo! I am sorry luv,’ she said, all smiles as she said it and called out to her sister Anne to come over. They discussed together, ‘What’s to be done wi’ t’lad now? Ee’l ‘ave to be bathed proper, seeing as ‘is all wet through, like,’ Anne said, her eyes smiling and wet with tears. And it was agreed without consulting me.

The very same bath was filled with warm water back at the house. I was stood on the bench, unprotesting as my wet clothes were removed and two delighted farm ladies washed and giggled, sponged and giggled some more until I was clean enough for them to stop. Then wrapped in a soft warm bath towel, I was deposited in a chair in front of the kitchen fire until my clothes were dry, which took some time as I recall. From time to time, Kate or Anne would come in and check to see that I was alright, bringing with them biscuits and warm milk, cakes and soft drinks until I could eat no more.

Kate took me home, bless her, and explained what had happened. Everyone wanted to hear the story several times and there was smiles all round. As for myself, looking back, after the shock of the cold water hitting me, I do believe I enjoyed ‘aving to be bathed proper’ by those two ladies I remember now with much affection.

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)