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

Camping in our street

A paved Roman road

An officer in the Roman Army of occupation is said to have named the place where I spent five colourful and informative years of my boyhood. On seeing the whole district from a commanding rise, the officer said, "What a long ridge of hills!" From that time on the place was known as Longridge (a titbit included to add a nice historical dimension to my story).

My time in Longridge was great. I believe now that much of my character was formed during those days. It was common practice for children of one family to visit a friend or mate from other families, usually in the same street, and in the evenings. We called it 'camping'. I studied our neighbours at close quarters and learned a great deal about life this way, broadening my mind and thinking. The content of conversations within different families was an education in itself.

"I'm going over to t' Jamieson's camping for a bit," I'd say as I left the house, and crossing the street I would knock on their door and go in. "I've come to see Peter, is that all right?" "'Ee, that's alright lad, come in and sit thisself down."

If Peter was out or it wasn't convenient, I could either stay and sit with whoever was there or leave and try another mate's house. My mates would do the same when the fancy took them to do a bit of camping.
It was while playing games or chatting with whoever I'd gone to visit that my ear would tune in to what was being discussed by the adults. Unconscious learning, I call it now. When happenings local, national or in our street - ranging from quite serious to the infectiously hilarious - were brought to my attention, I'd listen and store them away in my memory. I extended my vocabulary somewhat too as I asked what such-and-such a phrase or word meant.

A great deal of what was said registered in this way, but now and then something special would cause me to listen more carefully, even to asking questions sometimes. If the adults deemed my ears too tender for the topic being discussed, they'd tactfully suggest it was time for me to leave. Which I would do without my feelings being in the least bit offended.

Sometimes I'd be drawn into conversations as if I was a member of that family. It was great listening to their past experiences, and I never tired of the varied and colourful manner in which they expressed themselves. Quite a few of these communications took the form of charades involving different body movements. Eyes would light up. Hands were slapped upon on a table or a knee. Fingers wagged, heads nodded, all with frequent stops to laugh or mop their brows.

What I particularly liked was when someone would say something and immediately ask someone else to confirm what they'd just said. For example, "Isn't that right then, what I just said, our Henry? You were there when Bert's foot went clean through that board on the stairs?" And the reply would come, preceded by the adjusting of false teeth, a tilting of the head and a squinting of the eyes, "Oh yes, that's right enough, Elsie lass." Then Henry would go on to add his own particular view of that remembrance. "By gum, the air were blue weren't it? I've never heard our Bert express hisself so clearly. A good job t' vicar had already left, eh Elsie?" And Elsie would agree before she or someone else took over, the to-ing and fro-ing conversation.

My memory of those times includes the early days of Word War II. Camping began to decline in our street then. Young men went off to work in the factories. Some would go away and reappear in uniform for a few days before they disappeared, sometimes forever. The black-out came in, and sirens wailed their warning of air raids. On one of those nights I wondered what it might have been like for the invading Roman soldiers when they first came here. What kind of time did they have, camping by the long ridge of hills? And more interesting to me, how a boy of my age would have learned about life while he was camping  there? Now that would be a great thing to discover.

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Step into reality

By gum, it's quiet, I thought to myself as I walked over to the style, the vantage point where I kept my eye on things. It was about 9.15 am on a Bank Holiday Saturday in August, in about 1938, and the weather was warm. There should have been people about. They wouldn't all be sleeping in, would they?

Then my ears caught the 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 funnel. Of course! The realisation now came to me. It was the holiday train, come to take people from Londridge to Preston and then on to Blackpool! (Once a year a passenger train would travel up on the line for the great event, a distance of some seven miles. At all other times only goods trains travelled the line.)

I remember suddenly getting quite agitated thinking of who I could ask so that I could go on the train too. I knew deep down that it just wasn't possible, but my mind wouldn't let go of the idea. My excitement at seeing the train made my brain think furiously hard. What could I do to make it possible for me to go?
The the train whistle sounded again. It was coming back down the line! Little sounds of frustration bubbled up from my stomach into my throat, in small panicky snatches as I hopped from one foot to the other. It was all so unfair, I said to myself, very close to tears now.

The train was now picking up speed as it moved down the incline. Its carriages were crammed full and people were leaning out of every window, waving or holding long coloured streamers 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. My mind turned over the various reasons why it was not 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 at all possible, my Dad would have made sure that I was on that train.

I didn't tell anyone how I felt; we all had to face such times of disappointment. So, I brushed away my tears and after a while found something else to occupy myself. But that is one Bank Holiday that stands out very clearly in my mind, to this day.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Sundays and pastry

We didn't have much in the way of furniture or clothes, etc, during the Depression, but from my point of view we still enjoyed many things as a family. Our Sunday dinners saw the table full of good food and the sideboard loaded with pies or cakes my eldest sister, Hilda, had baked. Hilda faced a daunting task in looking after us. (Note: our mother had died when I was one year old, and when she was old enough, my eldest sister, Hilda, left school to look after us all.)

Hilda had only just turned 14 but she and Dad and felt that we could manage if we all did our bit. For Hilda, it was a very large bit, but she gave it a go. Sometimes the baking or cooking would not be quite right and she would worry about it, and there were probably a few grumbles, but they were few and far between. We dined very well indeed.

Today, sometimes, a tune from the radio will strike a chord and my mind will fill with scenes from the times when Hilda would be baking. First, the dining room table would be scrubbed clean. Then the flour would be weighed, other ingredients added, mixed then turned out onto baking trays or cake tins.

The fire would have been stoked beforehand, or the gas oven set to heat up. The radio would be playing and I knew that soon, deliciously mouth-watering smells would start to fill the room. I helped, along with my sister, Jean, to mix the butter and sugar, clean out the tins and bowls after mixing, and tasting this and that to make sure that everything was right.

Pastry seemed so easy to make watching Hilda. It was allowed to stand before cutting, otherwise it would shrink when it was baked. The pastry would be placed carefully over the plate already greased lightly with a piece of butter, pressed gently down, then, holding the plate up in one hand, it was turned slowly around while the excess pastry was cut from the outsides of the plate, to fall in a long string on the table.

Next, the filling - apples, rhubarb, blackberries, blackcurrants, apricots, or whatever we could gather or find. After the fillings, the top was carefully trimmed as before. Then the prongs of a fork would put in a nice decorative edge to the pie along with three cuts in the middle to let the steam out when it was baking. The pies looked so neat and scrummy lined up on the table ready for the oven. And later, when we sat down to our meal, there would be a spread of good wholesome food on the table, and more on the sideboard, just in case.

Depression there was, all around us. But somehow we, like lots of others, found in the ordinary things of life, something to sustain, delight and encourage us.

As I think over those times today, I marvel at the way my sister, Hilda, managed to cope with all the things that faced her. She did cope, and in the coping made it possible for us to be together as a family in our own home, and for that I am so very grateful to her. And when I think of 'home', the picture in my mind that best describes that word to me is the image of the family times we shared together at 1 Pump Street, Longridge, enjoying food around our table for our Sunday dinner.

Dennis Crompton © 1996

Preston: school and prison

The Wesleyan Methodist School in St Mary's Street was the school I attended when we left Longridge to live in Preston around 1942. Across from the school was a small door set in very high brick wall that was almost a complete square. Inside was the Preston prison, complete with treadmill, for the prisoners to exercise on.

During World War II, on a siren warning of possible enemy action, all the pupils and staff from the school walked across the road, through the small door to the prison and into the air-raid shelters dug into the prison grounds. We never had to use them in the event of real enemy action but we did practice getting to them a few times.

As an older man, I used to shock some people by saying (with a serious look on my face), that I had to confess to a lie I had told when I joined the British Army and then the Royal New Zealand Air Force: that I had never been to prison ... then told them the above.

Dennis Crompton © 2013
(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)

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)

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)

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)

Wartime memories, Longridge and Preston 1939

Our move from Longridge to Preston took place sometime between 1939 and 1940. I believe Dad was reluctant to do this because Preston was gearing up to manufacture military hardware of one kind or another. German planes were making regular bombing runs to Manchester and Liverpool and the bombing was indiscriminate, so the reason Dad felt he had to move was to make it quicker to travel to work repairing bomb damage to houses in Liverpool.

Before we left Longridge, Dad would sometimes call me outside at night to show me the light in the sky over Liverpool where fires where raging with the air raid attacks. Once or twice he pointed to a plane in the sky but I couldn’t see them too well, except for one on fire hit by anti-aircraft gunfire. I did learn to recognise the sound of the engines of German bombers which gave a deep throbbing sound when loaded with bombs, which changed to a much lighter sound on their return.

There wasn’t much in the way of military exercises in our area but twice we had bren-gun carriers on the main road heading up to Longridge township, and one lost a track as it made a slight turn at speed. Blackouts meant that all windows and doors had coverings to exclude light from showing outside during darkness, and all windows were taped criss-cross fashion to help prevent showers of glass flying through classrooms during bombing raids. Vehicle headlights were restricted to a thin beam of light, by fixing a metal device over each lamp; even bicycle lights had them, constant reminders that we were in a war. We also had to carry our gas mask in a cardboard box slung round our necks and had a practise at school from time to time in putting them on. Eventually the threat of gas attacks faded and it was a relief to leave the things at home.

Dad and my brother Fred joined the: Local Defence Volunteers, soon nicknamed: Look. Duck and Vanish. A short time later it was renamed: The Home Guard. By that time, huge ditches had been dug, zigzag fashion, across the country as tank traps, should the Germans get that far. Fred had the distinction of stepping onto a duckboard over one of them, only to find it was floating on the water beneath. He came home soaked and it took a while before he was allowed to forget it.

Despite all the unknowns of those times, it brought folks of all sorts together and helped improve morale. With the threat of bombing came the need for ‘Firewatchers’, bringing with it rosters and training. Each district had its members who would report whenever the siren went. If the bombers dropped a load of incendiary bombs, everyone was on the alert to see where they would land. Then it was out with a bucket of sand and a long-handled shovel. If a fire had already taken hold, a stirrup pump and a bucket of water came in handy and training nights gave members a chance to practise putting the things out.

I was called on duty twice aged about sixteen, when I spent the time drinking cups of cocoa or tea or listening to the talk around me before someone said it was time for me to take a nap. I never was called out to help put fires out. Only once do I recall going outside for a short period when the siren had sounded. An older chap and myself walked around a factory close by, both wearing steel helmets, checking that buckets of sand and water were ready where they should be. After that, it was back inside for a cuppa and a nap, which meant sleeping for a while before they said it was time for me to nip off home. Putting out incendiary bombs crops up again some time later though.

We didn’t have much in the way of furniture and goods when we moved from Longridge to Preston so Dad got the coalman to bring his truck round. Everything we had was loaded on the back, with ropes thrown over the lot to keep things in place. While the truck set off, the rest of us caught a bus and were waiting at our new address to help unload. At that time, brick and concrete bomb shelters stood in place on our streets, with the corner of one almost opposite our front door. I watched as the coalman backed his truck closer and closer to the door but he didn’t stop before a corner of the shelter caught Dad’s rocking chair, snapping off one of the legs. Of course, all the kids and neighbours in the street were taking everything in to see what kind of stuff we had. They needn’t have worried; we couldn’t compete with any of them, but we never missed a meal and we were a family,  and that has always meant a great deal to me.

It wasn’t long before we were absorbed into the life around us and on my last visit to UK, I went and copied the names of all the folk who lived there at that time from the Register of Electors. Folks such as Enoch, next door down the street; Mrs Kenny, opposite and down at the end, who took a real liking to me I found out from Hilda, who said Mrs Kenny enjoyed my visits and chats with her. Just looking at those names brings back all kinds of scenes, smells, sounds and emotions to remind me, that during the war folk lived their ordinary lives, getting on with each other and what they had to do to face each new day.

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

Oh! Mother! Mother!

This story is based on a true event that happened when I lived in Longridge. I'd returned from school one day when I heard the sound of someone running past our door and into next door, then the sudden, sad crying of one of the girls who lived there, calling out, “Oh Mother, Mother come quick our Elsie's been killed!” A few minutes’ later two sets of feet ran back down the street and I was left in silence with those terribly sad words ringing in my ears, knowing that I was the first to hear of the tragedy, I was about eight or nine at the time.

There was nothing out of the ordinary as far as the funeral of young Patrick O'Dowd was concerned. On the outside anyway. The usual kind of people turned up at the church, where flowers, brought and arranged by Mrs Kelly and Miss O'Leary, did their best to brighten up the quiet deadness of the building, but failed. And the candlelight flickering here and there, uplifting usually, had lost all semblance of cheeriness this time, while the daylight, filtered as it was through the grime on the windows, did nothing to lighten the darkness within, stained glass or not.

The physical gloom added to the mental gloom the congregation felt, which was to be expected at a funeral, naturally. Still, there was rarely much of the joy of life exhibited by those who came regularly to worship here. They reserved that for before and after attendance, as if the God they worshipped would be offended had they shown any light-heartedness in His house. Not that I am one to judge. Sure I'd never had to live as they had. It's merely an observation you understand.

The altar boy, Rory O'Flynn, with the gap in his front teeth which proved irresistible to everyone who saw him outside the church, making them smile when he smiled, was not in a smiling mood right now. His face had taken on the appearance of one of the so-called saints depicted on the leaflets for sale in the rack by the church door. A shame for one so young. While Liam Grady, the other altar boy with the limp, caused by being dropped by his drunken father at age three, was as white-faced and as close to tears as his friend Rory. Both were sad. I mean really sad, more than they'd ever been before. Now the two of them were wondering how they'd cope when the coffin of their school friend, from the third form of St. Mary's Catholic School was brought in and set on the gurney where they could see it. Funerals they'd attended before and coffins they'd seen before but not one containing the body of their friend, Pat. And if the Hail Mary's ascending to God from both their young innocent lips and hearts with such intensity could have brought young Patrick back from the dead, sure he'd have been standing there with them in the church before they'd opened their brimming eyes.

The priest, Father James Boland, as genuine and sincere a man of the cloth as one could hope to meet, believed he had everything in order as he knelt in prayer in the room behind the altar. He'd always felt a special closeness to God in these moments and believed that his ministry at these times would be blessed, despite his failings of which he had many. This time it was different. This time he knew he could not conduct the service in the usual way. This time something was tearing at his heart forcing him to struggle with his beliefs.

Most of the funerals he'd conducted in the past had been for those who'd lived their lives. They'd had their choices and chances. Run the gamut of life's experiences as much as they'd been able in their small town, never extending themselves beyond the norm of the working class. They'd seen and heard nothing that one might term special, or recognised some latent God-given ability within themselves and then dared to do something about it. Isn't it a fact now that such folk need a voice outside them prompting, urging, suggesting they launch out into the deeps like those early fishermen on Lake Galilee? Get out beyond their depth sometimes and test themselves and their faith? Father Boland owned such a voice. And God knows he'd tried to get his flock to think on such things.

He felt so sorrowful right now. Ah, dear God! Hadn't young Patrick O'Dowd been one loaded with possibilities? Sure enough, he had. He'd talked about it with Patrick, and glory be, had seen the light dawn in his sparkling clear eyes just a few days back. Laughed with him at the breathless excitement that had seized hold of the lad as he'd begun to grasp the secrets and the principles of mathematics and physics he'd shown to him. Bless his heart, here, in this very church. What could he have done for himself and others had he but lived?

And the dear man put his head in his hands and wept as he had never wept before. In his mind the voice of the O'Dowd's next door neighbour telling him how Patrick's mother heard the news of her son's death. He'd been home that day when he'd heard the clatter of feet on the footpath outside. They'd stopped and he'd heard the brief sound of a youthful whimpering to be followed by such a frantic knocking until the door opened, and before Mrs O'Dowd could open her mouth, the youth was crying, “Oh! come quick, Mrs O'Dowd. Your Patrick's been killed!”

And then the awful silence. How long must it have been for the poor woman, he thought, before the realisation hit home. And he knelt there and heeded not the hot tears running unchecked down his cheeks. How utterly useless he'd felt as he'd hurried to their home, to pause outside as he considered what he could offer the family at such a dreadful time. Offer them what? Prayers? Words of comfort? Advice? For the love of God, wasn't it Mrs O'Dowd herself who'd comforted him? No wonder Father Boland wrestled with his soul and his beliefs.

Later, when everything had been done that could be done this side of the grave, Father Boland sat with his superior, Father Michael Poole, and while the older man listened, unburdened his soul in the matter of why the innocent die young. And if the truth were known, wasn't that a question Father Poole still asked himself, even after all the years he'd been a priest?

The answer came a few weeks later, as Father Boland sat hearing confessions. A man had entered, not of the Catholic faith, who told of the comfort he'd received sitting at the back of the church. “I don't know what you fellows go on about down there at the altar. I'm sure you all mean well. But there's something about a dedicated place like this being set apart from all other buildings. Something about shutting everything else out, being quiet and letting God speak for a change. We may not know all the answers to the questions that fill our minds, so I just think of the colour purple and of our Saviour, and leave everything with Him.”

And that's what he'd said to Mrs O'Dowd as he'd gone round to see her after the man had left. He was renewed in his faith, and from that time on, where he could he awakened folk to the possibilities that lay within themselves.

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)