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

When I was a boy

Here are some various memories of my boyhood.

Sometimes a song on the radio takes me back to when I was a boy, back to before transistor radios and TV which were still progressing through their pregnancy, back to the days of monotonously grey Sunday afternoons. There was one thing that lifted my spirits though, as my eldest sister, Hilda and I would sometime visit friends in Lytham St Annes. There were two people living in their fine big house and though I met the lady, I only heard the man’s voice - one of those deeply masculine voices that strongly suggested he’d be interesting to meet. A pity I didn’t, but I smelt him, or rather his cigars. The aroma filled the house, came out to meet you as the door was opened, and then, reluctant to let you go, clung to your hair and clothing for quite some time after you’d left, but it was such a delicious aroma to my young senses. My dad only smoked cigarettes, the smoke from which would catch at my throat and make my eyes water so that I often had a headache, but it did put me off smoking for life without dad’s lectures.

‘Now lad’, he’d say, ‘I don’t want thee takin’ up smoking fags, tha’ can see what its doin’ to me … and another thing, I don’t want thee takin’ to drink, it’s a mug's game, and another thing, leave women alone too’.

I can laugh now, I mean I was still wearing short pants. I never had any money to buy fags and if I had it would have gone on sweets, but the lecture would be given at various stages of my development, even to when I was home on leave as a soldier in the British army... But back to our friends at Lytham St Annes.
Their sitting room was very much in the grip of Victoriana; it enveloped you as you entered, its heavy atmosphere aided and abetted by the sombre colours of the wallpaper. An attempt had been made to lighten the effect with a frieze at picture-hook height, but failed. Anonymous drapes and floor coverings continued the theme for those imprisoned there and for those visiting. I usually sat at the table, covered with a thick velvet cloth; the table, is, though I wouldn’t be surprised if children were also similarly draped if their decibel rating dared to quiver a notch or two above low. The cloth helped absorb the sound of small hands fiddling with children’s books, selected for their contents of an uplifting nature, the illustrations of which were drawn by some poor mind in the grip of, 'Thou shalt not amuse, enlighten nor arouse interest with thy work’. There was a piano in one corner but it was always closed and another cloth was found to cover it.

The quietness that reigned was disturbed from time to time by the occasional shuffle as a body repositioned its uncomfortable part on a chair or someone stifled a cough; then the rustle of thin paper as a page was turned in a book, the very sound informed you it was of a religious nature and therefore allowable. Thus to my young mind was the silence followed by more silence; long, dry, heavy silence so that even the sound of birds seemed muted, like the soft whisper of feminine voices anxious not to disturb religious conventions or dear papa; at least the cough indicated someone was alive in there. Hand in hand with such dreary formalities went a certain imprisoning of the body, and with the body, the mind.

There was little knowledge of anything concerning differences between the genders, discounting outward appearances, voice, occupation and cigar smoking. To have mentioned that certain three-lettered word would have brought down a heavy cloud, dark looks, shallow breathing and a tight-feeling in the stomach for all within earshot of the offending remark. Worse still for me, do-it-yourself pastimes were still in the future with a whole range of woebegone looks and embarrassing hot flushes just waiting to confuse growing boys even more.

I liken those days to a song of that time. My Dad hated it, and so did I. It was dreary, sad and monotonous; the words were grey, the tune was greyer and the singer, usually a woman, was up to her knees in mire: “Can’t help lovin’ that man o’ mine” … still can have that effect on me and bring back those memories and feelings. And then just before World War II started and things in general started to brighten, Dad changed a few of the words to: ‘When he’s been away-hay, it’s a lovely day-hay …’ which went down so well in our family that he changed another, about rain: ‘It looks like rain in cherry-blossom lane’; became … ‘It looks like rain in Pump Street once again’ … as Pump Street was where we lived at that time, and it made us all laugh.

Dad was often a stern and demanding person but now and then he’d let that persona slip and out would appear a warmly humorous and likeable father, the one I’ve come to remember with much affection these days. Especially when he smiled with his eyes smiling too and he’d make a place for me to sit up close to him, hugging me tightly to him. I probably was favoured a little being the youngest of four in the family, moments I recall with much affection. He was my father and I was his son. Happy, happy days!

Dennis Crompton © 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)