Competitors

‘Share and share alike’ was one of the things taught to us when we were young. I found it difficult at times but in the presence of older people it was best to comply. There were a few times when uncensored, I’d surprise myself by sharing something, prompted by a spontaneous surge of generosity from within. I’d feel quite saintly for a while and believe I should have been treated more kindly by folk, had they but known.

I can’t remember when it started but it probably began with a simply unhygienic sharing at school. My mate had an apple. I did not. So placing my arm around his shoulder as I’d seen other boys do, I said to him, “Give us a bite then, Jim?” And without any further persuasion, I enjoyed my first bite. Later, on observing other boys, I added, “Save us t’core too, will ya?” Over a period of time, the bite or the offer of the core would be shared as naturally as others had shared theirs. (I never extended my request to share oranges though. It was far too cold where I lived to be eating those anywhere but in the warmth of home. I also confess to an inbuilt aversion to tasting the juices of an orange watered down with the dribblings of a runny nose.)

Time and experience have brough competition to bear. There were other mates without an apple, so I set about acquiring skills to cope with the situation. It wasn’t long before I would hone in on an apple breathed on and being polished by a schoolmate as naturally as a female Codling moth’s antenna could pin point the male she sought. My oral seductions for a bite and the core had to be pruned and tamed; and they were.

After a bout of measles I was forced to wear spectacles, and the bottom dropped out of my persuasive approach, finely honed. Overnight I became a has-been mate, with four eyes. Then the school bully took to calling me ‘Skenner’, everyone laughed and I was relegated to a small group of forlorn no-hopers. My self-esteem plummeted. I was the last to be picked for soccer played with an empty tin – exciting within the four walls of the school yard where it was banned. I stood on the furthest boundary for cricket (played with a ball made from rags), if I was picked at all. No wonder I lost something of the bubbling infectious enjoyment of just being with my mates, especially when I we tried to see who could pee the highest up the wall in the boys’ loo (I could only reach the half-way mark). As a competitor I’d become a non-entity. A dreadful label for anyone.

I decided I’d become a monk. I’d be safe behind the cloistered walls of a monastery. I could have, if I’d lived in the Middle Ages… Many of my ideas and inspirations sprang from, “I could have, if…..” The monk idea didn’t last. I looked up the word in an encyclopaedia and pictures of them put me right off. They all looked so woe-begone, and it was obvious they could only reach the half-way mark too.

Anyway, it didn’t take me too long to accept being called four eyes, or Skenner. There seemed to be nothing I could do about it, so I’d grin and make some humorous comment…and in the process I gained a couple of great new mates. No point being woe-begone if I wasn’t even a monk, I thought.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

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)

My lone search

It was a cold December day when I walked from the bus stop towards the church where my mother and father were married. St. Nicholas’s church was about five minutes’ walk from the bus stop and I had to walk briskly to keep warm. I’d made the journey from New Zealand back to England in search of my family history, particularly about my mother who had died when I was a baby, and who I had never known.

It took me some time to find the vicar who was on his way out of the vicarage to visit a parishioner. He was very helpful however, as he opened up two safes and left me to it. The Banns, Marriages and Death Registers kept me busy for some time as I was really keen to find my mother’s signature in the Marriage register. Seeing it, I thought, would help to give me a clearer image of the mother I never knew.

I found it, and I treasured the opportunity to see it. It was more than enough to see that, and to have walked up the path and into the church, down the aisle to the front, where I imagined my Mum and Dad holding hands, and gazing into each other’s eyes. They would have been hearing the words I heard then in my head:

“Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder”

…and no man did. Instead, death came and took her away, and separated them forever.

It was years later before I quietly asked my father when were alone one day: ‘Dad, what was my mother really like?’

I’d asked him a couple of times before but he could get no further than saying wistfully, and with emotion, ‘She was a lovely, warm-hearted woman, Den; we were soul-mates…’ and he could get no further as his eyes filled up…

I stopped asking after that, as I could see that it distressed him so. But it distressed me too for I longed to know more of the mother who had loved me; the mother I never knew. That day in December though I’d gained a little more for my mind’s picture. I’d been in that church, seen their signatures together, stood where they stood, and some years later I was able to get a copy of their Marriage Certificate.

As I left the church, the vicarage was closed and I had nowhere to leave the keys entrusted me by the vicar. I would loved for him to have been there to chat with me about the history that linked me to his church. I walked back across the main road to a school, which was probably the church school and found two or three people in the staffroom. After introducing myself, I gave them the keys and then because I was so very cold I requested a cup of coffee. They were very happy to oblige, offered me a seat and some biscuits too, and were keen to ask me about New Zealand and hear about the reason for my journey.

It was almost 1.30 p.m. as I left to walk back to the bus stop. The grey skies and the penetrating cold, combined with the fact that I was on my own made it easier to leave. St Nicholas Church records, otherwise I may have stayed there forever, connected slightly to my mother.

And I offer my thanks to the vicar for the willingness to assist me and to entrust his valuable records and keys to me. He had helped me in the search for my own identity, for which I am most grateful.

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

Layers of bricks

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

 *

Six of sand and one of lime

mixed into a pyramid pile;

now with spade have a dibble

make a hollow in the middle;

into this some water pour

with one of cement, mix all together.

*

I’ve watched all that when I was young,

how clean and neat it was to me,

how effortless it seemed to see

Dad’s spade slice smoothly through wet mix

with dark and white bits here and there;

a bit like chocolate making, right?

*

There’s nothing quite like the sound

of spade cutting cleanly through that mound.

It’s ready…now watch the bricklayer

plonk with his trowel a dollop of mortar

onto square board with handle underneath;

walk to the brick wall next course to begin.

*

Each brick receives with such a neat little flourish

mortar on three sides before being placed on

the bed of mortar already spread

top of last row of bricks the bricklayer laid.

*

By gum, they’re clever at their trade,

mortar mixers, bricklayers and builders, yes...

all of them chapses that plans and erectses,

places where us folks now comfortably liveses.

*

Dennis Crompton© 1996

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

The dreadful being knocked at the door...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A step into reality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

Rock my equilibrium

With the children off to school I have a moment to myself

 sat at the kitchen table surrounded by their mess.
*

Tears aren’t far away, it’s another of those days, 

feeling down and quite dismayed by the burdens that I face.

*

Life goes rushing by, 

I only stand and see imitated copies of what I’m supposed to be.

*

My mirror mocks me so, confirms what I believe 

of Hollywood items shown in my weekly magazine.

*

Then on the radio I hear the celebrity speaker say: 

I’ve never had, you see, children of my own,

cleaned and fed them, wept over them and sent them off to school, 

never heard them clatter back again

to balance my equilibrium.

*

And it does.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

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

Fairy story

There’s a dull ache in my heart at times
when switched on to father mode
on looking back at what I’ve been,
and what I’ve done and what I’ve said.

*

There was a fragrant softness in the air
'midst the surrounding lovely trees,
the coolness of the greenery
and the gentle summer breeze.

*

‘Let’s tidy it and with some flowers make it nice.
There, isn’t that a lovely fairies holiday house.
Wash now ‘til it sparkles the fairies small milk bottle,
leave a note inside for fairy milkman to find tonight.

*
Quietly we’ll leave it there outside their wee front door.

Three small smiling daughters
then gently slipped away,
snuggled down in cabin bunks
to stories read aloud.

*

Each day of our holidays was the little game played out
‘He’s been. There’s a note, quick let’s see what he wrote.’
Small excited voices read it several times with much delight,
Content that fairy milkman had called again last night.

*

That’s how it was by the lake side, with smiles, sometimes with tears,
summer holidays came and went during young and tender years.
It was my wife who cleverly chose that special secret mound
where a family of fairies dwelt when our holidays came round.

*
We’d left the harsh realities of our cold world just for a while,
enjoyed being with our children in magic story times.

How cruel I was, I’ve often thought, why did I have to say
what I said to my eldest daughter on that sad and awful day?

*
I’d thought quite long, thought it best that she should know,
concerned she’d one day hear the truth about fairy story times.

Something quite lovely and innocent withered before my gaze,
with tear-filled eyes she looked at me, she found it hard to speak
whispering with such sadness: ‘Oh Dad, not real, no fairies after all?’

*

So there it is, I’ve told my tale and sad I am at that,
in this wonderful world of ours we must grow up and face the facts.
Make-believe and fairies have their place just for a while…
but does growing up have to mean we must leave all of that behind?

*

Dennis Crompton © 2012

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

Mr Wentworth

This is a true story from my boyhood in Longridge. 

My father passed his sense of humour on to all his four children, for which I am very grateful. Sometimes on reading the paper he’d say something like: ‘I see Mr Sackforth’s up and died. He was 89. Well, he’d had a good innings. Time he died.’ My eldest sister, Hilda would remonstrate, but with a smile, ‘Oh Dad, you shouldn’t say such things,’ while the rest of us grinned. That was alright, I thought with the wisdom of a nine year old. I mean, 89 years of age, that’s nearly a score over our allotted time span according to the Bible. But then Simon Wentworth, who had just had his second birthday, died; that was at the beginning of the time span and none of us smiled.

It was the first time I’d come so close to death and our street was quieter for a few days. Bernard, his older brother, one of the boys we played with, seemed to have accepted it. Living with the illness of his younger brother over the past weeks must have prepared him, I guess. I met his father only once, but I’ll never forget him. A quietly spoken man, he lived with his wife and two sons just around the corner at the top of our street.

There was talk of the funeral, mostly by the Catholics; we were surrounded by them but there was none of the open animosity between Protestants and Catholics that bristled in some places those days. Mrs Wentworth was firm in her Catholic beliefs and Bernard went to church with his mother as regular as you like. He treated church-going more as a duty he owed his mother, which I thought was nice of him. I never thought about what God or the priest might have thought. You don’t when you’re young, do you?

I was with the small group of children who Bernard invited to go and see Simon’s body to say goodbye. I didn’t have much time to think about whether I wanted to see a dead body lying in a coffin and was with the group that knocked on their door at 3 p.m. that day. A tall dignified man with a touch of sadness in his face opened the door. ‘Bernard said we could come and see Simon. Is that alright Mr Wentworth?’ one of our group asked. He looked at each of us in turn, then nodded his head and invited us in.

When the door was closed and we were quiet he spoke to us; as I remember he said something like: ’I’m pleased you’ve come. You know, Simon has been unwell for some weeks. The doctors told us there was nothing they could do to make him better. He was a bright little chap, and we shall miss hm.’ Then he turned and led the way. I remember the sound our clogs made as we all trooped up the wooden stairs, entered the room and stood around both sides of the bed where the small white coffin lay. Then I saw that Bernard had joined us.

After a few moments someone said: ‘Has he gone to heaven, Mr Wentworth?’ He was silent and I sensed he was thinking of how to answer such a question. Then he looked at us, raised an eyebrow and said: ‘I think so. Yes, I think so’. Nobody knew what to say next or was too shy to say anything. Then his voice was saying: ‘If you’d like, you could kneel and say a little prayer of your own now’. And kneeling down by the little coffin that is what each one of us did.

I looked at Mr Wentworth carefully as we left. Everything about the man had made an impression on me; his quiet dignity and the underlying warmth of his humanity. He said goodbye as again he looked at each of us, watched us start to walk down the street, then he went inside and closed the door.

A few weeks later, Bernard and I were on our own and he told me that his father had had no time for religion, priests and ministers. No time for church or the singing of psalms and hymns. Something to do with the horrors of war and the way some religious people treats those who have different beliefs to them.
I found that interesting. My father had said similar things to me after being a soldier in the First World War. Bernard went on: ‘It helped Dad when you and the others came to see Simon and knelt by his coffin to pray. He reckoned that the prayers of innocent children would have reached the ears and heart of God before those spoken by priests or ministers of churches.’

I can’t escape the feeling today that Mr Wentworth was probably right. From time to time the remembrance of that event comes back to me and I know no what it was about him was significant for me: He was a man at peace with himself, despite his grief.

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(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)