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

Walks with my dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dennis Crompton © 1994

The rent man

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dennis Crompton © 1997

The 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

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.

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)

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)

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)

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)

Memories of my early days

I don’t know if anyone is ever quite sure when speaking or writing about one's early days, whether what they recall is really a memory of the event, or a mixture of what happened and what you have been told has happened. My first memory is this: I vaguely remember being in a room where there was activity all around me, with folk going out somewhere while I remained where I was, which was under a table eating cake apparently…(this from my brother, Fred, who found it amusing).

My next memory is of lying in a cot on the first floor of Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home in Oxford Street, Preston, listening to the sounds from the street below. The window of my room was immediately about the entrance to the home. I was cared for at this time by Sister Mary Smith but I have no real memory of this care, only of having my bed apple-pied one night and not being able to sleep properly. At some stage I slipped out of the trap by wriggling above the sheets. This took place in the girl's wing where the small room for infants was.

Then I was moved over to the boy’s wing where my brother Fred introduced himself to me, and for the first time I felt a person in my own right. My two sisters, Hilda and Jean, were in the girl’s wing. The few things I remember happening there is of bath time, when the bed I occupied was closest to the bathroom door and a constant stream of lads came and went, smelling of soap and looking fresh and clean. I don't remember having any baths myself, only of one boy who, the first time he saw me, came over to me in this area, put me down on the floor then picked my up by the feet and let my head bump on the hard floor. It gave me a splitting headache but nobody knew and I slept it off anyway. He's in a photo I have; four lads standing around a rocking horse. I'm seated, the rest are standing close by. I think he could have resented not being on the horse himself.

I wasn't unhappy there; the days seemed to pass without my being aware of much. I went to school and came back up a cobble stone street with gas lamps to light the way in winter. On the way back one day, a small white dog yapped at me and gave me a nip on my hand which made me cry and with no one around to care for me it just became another small event that registered.

The small boys sat at one long table for meals, with the big boys at another table. Nothing stand out about the meals except that on rare occasions we had a dab of golden syrup on our bread, and in winter we lined up for a rare spoonful of malt, which I enjoyed. We might all have used the same spoon too.

We all dressed in grey pants and shirts, although at one stage after my move from the infants to the boy’s wing, I wore a grey pullover over darker coloured pants. One photo shows a button missing, and the pants were held them up with cloth straps for braces. I'd tied the strap through a hole I made where the button had been, making me lean forward a bit to compensate.

Our jackets and caps were on hooks in a small area just outside the door of the dining room, which was also our day room. A great jumble of coats and caps hung there and you had to remember just where you'd hung yours every time you needed them. So as far as having any place to call your own, there wasn't one.
On Sundays the girls would come over to our day room, someone played the piano and we sang choruses of a religious and uplifting nature. My sister Jean sang a solo once, 'Jesus wants me for a sunbeam', which later made Fred smile every time he heard it.

Then some weeks after that, Fred told me we would be leaving to go to our own home. And then I turned seven. Surprise, surprise, Mr and Mrs Slater arrived. Mr Slater was the superintendant and looked after the boys; Mrs Slater looked after the girls, helped by a cook and Sisters Anne and Mary Smith. They came in with their son, Tommy, I think, and he handed me a ‘Happy Birthday’ package. It was heavy and turned out to be a fire truck: the first present I ever remember being given. I don't remember having it with me when we left, nor ever seeing any other boy get a birthday present. It may have been from Dad, but I never knew.

On two occasions Mr Slater surprised us, calling the boys out into the play area outside the cloak-room, when we all stood in a semi-circle to listen to him, when he threw handfuls of sweets. I took a while for me to realise what was happening but did I did manage to get a couple to enjoy. The second time I was ready and got a few more. Another time Mr Slater came in with several large cardboard boxes which had lots of strings hanging out of the thin paper coverings. Each of us knew we could pick any string and pull out whatever was on the end, which was a small packet of sweets each. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create that delightful surprise for us.

The last Christmas we were there, we had a concert of some kind. Carols were sung, words were said, and then Father Christmas came. Excitement and happy sounds all round us as one by one, names were called, a present given and received, until each held a gift in our hands. All except me. 'Has everyone got a gift?' someone called out. Those around me knew I hadn't, but I said nothing, being somewhat bewildered, sad and confused. 'Go on Den, tell him you 'aven't!' someone prompted me. Eventually I called out: 'I 'aven't got one'.

‘Who was that?’ someone at the front said. Then I heard Sister Mary Smith say, 'That's our Dennis Crompton'.

'Come on out here then, Dennis. There's one for you here too.' All was sorted out and the day ended happily for us all. The ordinary, good-hearted folks of Preston saw to it that we were not forgotten at Christmas time.

Come the day we left. We'd seen other boys leave from time to time. This time I was taken through a door I'd never been through before to Mr Slater's office. As I stood there, my two sisters Jean and Hilda came in and a short time after my brother Fred joined us, just as Dad walked through the door. There were hugs all round as we stood together as a family after five years apart. The journey up the street took us away from the Children’s Home to the bus station.

I don't remember everything about that day, but I do remember getting on the bus to leave Preston to take the seven mile trip to Longridge, where our house was, and where we could be together as a family again. As we walked through the door of 1 Pump Street, I saw large stone paving stones on the floor, with several hand-made rugs here and there. A table covered in a nice red cloth, a big armchair and several smaller chairs round the table and a cheery fire warming the room as we entered. Two smiling women were there who'd worked to make this a home for us left a short time after so that we could be on our own at last.

Dennis Crompton © 2012
(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)

Growing up and chocolate treats

It was a fine day in June 1942, when a few short hours ago Dad, my older brother Fred, and eight or nine men inside the canvas covered deck of a flat truck were returning from repairing houses damaged in and around Liverpool by German bombs. I was with them aged fourteen and shouldn't have been on the truck at all but Dad thought I should see the bomb damaged streets and houses for myself. It opened my eyes to the strange way some houses survived alongside others which were demolished, half-demolished or just had one window broken. Bomb blast was unpredictable in the way it destroyed streets and people. My emotions had me wishing I could talk to somebody about it but even if I could pluck up the courage enough to do that there was hardly anyone around at that time. I had seen enough of the damage in about an hour's walking around, so with an unexpected hand-out of loose change from Dad to the amount of two shillings and ten pence, I took the ferry over to Bootle near Liverpool.

This was the first time I'd been on my own free to explore being in a different place than my home town of Preston. Outwardly I was just another youth wandering around the streets who should have been at school or at work, while inwardly I gradually become aware that I was growing up, stimulated by the prospects of making decisions for myself.  Near the ferry terminal I saw several slot machines, mostly offering cigarettes or tobacco but in amongst them stood toffee and chocolate machines looking dusty and in need of a clean. I looked closer and saw bars of chocolate with that enticing look which had my mouth eager to taste some. It was wartime and rationing meant I had to present coupons to obtain some, then my pulse quickened as I realised these delights weren't in a shop, so no coupons needed. I slipped sixpence into the slot, pressed my choice and waited, a slight tingle of excitement warming my insides and out it popped, a bar of chocolate in its clean wrapper. This was discarded quickly as I stepped lightly down the street enjoying savouring the smooth creamy taste all to myself.

Later as I joined Dad and the other men for the return trip to Preston I sensed the men, and Dad especially were concerned that the driver had been drinking but no one else there had authority to take control of the vehicle to drive us back. Looking at Dad and my brother I saw their concern and looked again at the driver, smiling and relaxed as he saw us all in and seated on the planks set around the three sides with our backs leaning on the canvas cover. He raised and fastened the tailboard up before getting into the cab and driving off. We all survived.

Dennis Crompton © 2013

The lamp-lighter, Berry Street, Preston

Heading home from Stoneygate Primary School in winter was a bit of an ordeal for me, as dusk came early and the dark narrow streets looked quite foreboding. At times, strange figures stood on corners, or in doorways, some of them muttering strange words to themselves and looked at me oddly. No, I didn’t like going home up Berry Street, Preston, when it was getting dark.

But there was one thing that made me breathe easier when I stepped out of the school doorway and walk down the short paved pathway into the street. Sometimes I’d be in times to catch the lamp-lighter just starting his rounds up Berry Street. I’d give a little grunt of pleasure as I quickly crossed Avenham Lane to fall in behind him. The first time I didn’t know what to expect but caught on quickly enough.

Approaching the first street lamp with a long pole carried on one shoulder, he’d stop and swing the pole round and look up at the lamp. The pole had a small hook sticking out at the top, with a small lighted wick a few inches away. He’d reach up with the pole and using the hook, open the glass door of the lamp, reach in with the hook and turn on the gas, all in one smooth move. A quick turn of the pole brought the lighted wick close enough to ignite the gas and the gas-mantle would light in several colours, faintly at first, before settling down to glow with a warm and steady light. The door would be closed, the pole placed back on one shoulder and with measured step he’d proceed to the next lamp up the street. It was so very comforting to walk up the street behind the lamp-lighter.

At the top of the street we’d part company, for I had now only to open a small door set in a wall and I’d be safely in the grounds of the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home. I’d often pause for a moment while the lamp-lighter was still around and gaze down the street, now illuminated by a line of lamps. Berry Street had lost its dark and dreadful aspect and taken on a more cheerful face. Gas lamps and cobbled streets had a charm of their own at times.

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