Inclinations

My time in the British army and RNZAF (Royal New Zealand Air Force) meant that I mixed with all sorts and conditions of men, and as they are part of our common humanity I've written this item in an attempt to record some of these gay and joyful observations.

The residence at Hursley on the road heading north to Winchester, was just what I'd wanted. Nice location. Excellent condition and the accommodation flat on the end meant I could have someone there for company. My lawyer friend would help me organise all that. I gave a twirl round the rooms I was so pleased with myself. At last I could settle down and follow my own inclinations. (What a gorgeous word that is!)

That night I retired with a feeling of satisfaction and excitement. After I'd unpacked my wardrobe, I planned to explore my new surroundings with a trip along the motorway to my old stamping ground at Winchester. So, with a word of thanks on my lips to my dear non-judgemental, understanding, Aunt Phoebe, I nestled down to sleep in my luxurious new bed.

About mid-morning the following day, I surveyed the badly rumpled state of my wardrobe and could have cried. Well, I did cry. After all the care I'd taken packing. Those brutes of carriers must have thrown my three portmanteaus into their van with as much thought as they took to dress themselves. Really. It made me so cross. I'd tipped them well enough too. There was nothing for it, I took time off for a gin and tonic and rang my friend Hugh. He's a real pet. Just hearing his voice did wonders in calming my nerves.

I followed his advice, pressed and hung everything and by the time that was done, it was too late to think of Winchester. Instead, I took a stroll and ended up sipping a crème de menthe in Tony's, a boutique in the centre of Hursley. The place was crowded with old ecclesiasticals. There was no getting away from my immediate past it seemed. To be honest, I didn't want to. It had been a mistake in a way. Seven cloistered years is quite a slice out of anyone's life. And at thirty-five I was not that old. But I was wiser and had learned a great deal about fabrics and design.

I thought another blessing on dear Aunt Phoebe and decided to splash out on the latest in Swedish sewing machines. The lounge needed new curtains but I'd start with the crushed silk I'd just purchased. I couldn't resist the feel of it nor the assistant with the softest blue eyes as he murmured: 'Do you have the inclination to try this, sir?'

I'll be popping ‘round again of course; they do carry the most delightful range of materials.

Two days later, as I sat wondering what I might do by way of design, a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet came to mind:

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, for the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Willy was so right. It gave me an idea and an hour or so later, I'd completed the first evening garment that made me famous in the rag trade. It really was stunning.

A vote of thanks to Aunt Phoebe's generosity remembering me in her will. My shop opened in Hurley's main street in time for the influx of summer visitors to several abbeys in the vicinity. Private sales surprised us all. The first, held at the Royal Hussars Museum proved profitable. I could hardly drag myself away, all those lovely men in their splendid uniforms. Orders followed from the Hampshire Regiment Barracks. There was nothing ordinary about the soldiers I helped into and out of the range of materials I offered there.

I had to return several days later to take orders from staff and seniors at several colleges in the vicinity as well. There was no stopping things from then on. My label: 'Abbot's Fancy' took off like you wouldn't believe. I mean, drag queens and famous people I can't possibly name, adore the idea of wearing my design based on a monk's habit. My old abbot at Winchester and other abbots throughout Hampshire and further afield complaining as they did on TV and in the press, increased my turnover 200%. Though most of them popped in at the back door later, as it were.

The young assistant with those soft blue eyes who'd helped me select the mauve crushed silk, has come in with me. He's a classy dresser and looks so sweet in mauve. I have a reminder of his first words to me inscribed inside the ring he gave me: ‘Inclination’. It's such a nice word.

Oh, by the way, should you wish to follow your own inclination, you'll find me on the internet and in the yellow pages. My new shops go under the name: ‘Habits: nice but nocturnal’.

'Bye for now.

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

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)

About

I am Dennis Crompton, born in Lancashire in 1929, living in New Zealand since 1954, and writing ever since. I hope you enjoy this selection of writings from a Lancashire lad. I will be adding to them over the next few months. The offering below is a description I wrote of myself in 1999. Enjoy!

Who I am: I am a white male, English born, now a citizen of New Zealand, married with a wife and three daughters. We are cared for by two cats left by daughter Sara as an aid to reducing blood pressure and for something to talk to when hearing aid batteries run flat. This appears to have worked as we are both still here. The SPCA have noted that neither of the cats can reproduce, balancing things out nicely, as my wife and I find ourselves in the same happy state now.

What I am: a retired secondary schoolteacher writing for pleasure, with previous experience in the motor trade, driver of armoured fighting vehicles in the British Army, catering in the Royal New Zealand Air Force, and as a minister of religion in two New Zealand churches.

Where I'm at: wherever I've gone I've gained a variety of friends, but only a select few know anything of the real me. My outward appearance gave me no advantage at all re Hollywood, the stage, mincing down the catwalk of high fashion or sipping cocktails and nibbling canapés with the rich and more than slightly batty expressing just how daft they are when it comes to the appreciation of art.

With regard to looks: wearing spectacles has handicapped me with a rating of below-your-average ordinary. I dress as the occasion demands and finance permits. I'd be lost in a crowd of anything up to six. Less, and I'd still be overlooked. I'm in no way phased by this. My quiet and placid nature forbids it, which suits me just fine.

As a young soldier in my late teens, the major of my regiment was convinced of what I was. As his driver-batman I'd left a pile of hedge clippings on the ground at his home intending to pick them up later. The following morning he told me quite forcibly, in the hearing of his good lady wife and two young daughters, that I was an idiot. To be precise, he said, “Crompton. You're a blithering idiot, man. A blithering idiot.” I murmured a respectful, “Yes sir,” but pondering later on 'blithering', I realised I'd not understood the word until I met the major.

Later, when he'd gone off to play soldierly things with his regiment, his lady wife said quietly and with some understanding, “I'm sorry for the way my husband spoke to you, Crompton. Don't take any notice of him.” I’d answered with a smile and thought, Oh I don't, Mrs R, then we had morning tea together. I told a mate about it, a chap who'd joined the regiment on the same day as me. His reply has remained with me ever since: “She's all right. He's just a string of piss. Ignore the bastard.” It's a colourful phrase, and though I've never used it myself, it summed the major up just fine. You'd agree if you'd met him.

I've met his type wherever I've gone, some applying pressure when I was vulnerable and not able to counter their actions. Like most folk I learned to live with the fact and get on with life. They didn't know or care about me; they used me to maintain their own position. Of course there were others who did not and I'm grateful to many people who helped me to become the kind of person I am today.

If I seemed to have lacked ambition, it was because I was rather late in 'finding myself'. I can tell you that I have the normal desires that come with being human. I acknowledge my feet of clay, not as an excuse for mistakes made but in recognition that I and my fellow humans are capable of both noble and degrading things. That being privileged to be born as I was does not permit me to criticise others born into less favourable, even appalling situations. I appreciate music and literature and can be moved by both. I enjoy meeting people from other races and nationalities and hope that something of the grace and charm I've seen in some of them may have rubbed off on me. I loathe brutality whether physical or psychological, especially of those unable to defend themselves. Over the years I've watched as others were hurt by harsh, unfeeling, martinet-type people and resolved never to become like them. I felt better in putting others first and some have understood this to be weakness on my part, presuming I lacked backbone and resolve. The truth was I felt there was a better way of doing things and generally kept silent until I possessed all the facts which then gave me the confidence to speak or act.

It was in New Zealand that I first understood I had potential. I was encouraged to improve myself and appreciated when I succeeded. I felt most privileged in being a teacher, where I was able to encourage those who had potential too.

I live in the present but draw on my past experiences from time to time. I've become a kind of introvert with shades of an extrovert, rather like an actor, desiring to play a small part every now and then. I do this best when reading something I've written to a selected few. I believe that when I'm dead and gone I'll have a kind of future in my daughters and my writings. I'll leave it to them should they desire to express how this might be.

In my writings I've shared my opinions and given expression to my thoughts and feelings with what I believe is warmth and humour and understanding ... and this is me.

Dennis Crompton - the original Lancashire lad

Dennis Crompton © 1999

(first published on www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com, 2012)