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

Cap and gown

When I reached the magical age of 14, I'd had enough of school, so I left. It was my hope then that Dad would be happy for me to learn a trade, either as a plumber or a brick-layer, but for the three months after I'd left school I stayed at home, did the housework and grew more and more frustrated. I felt I ought to be learning a trade by then, and doing my bit to earn money. AFter a time, I realised that Dad was in no hurry to get me off to work. I'd been expecting him to arrange things and to help get me started, but when I asked him about it he said, "Once tha's started work, tha'll be at it for't rest o' thee life, lad."

He was right, of course, but a few weeks later I seized the opportunity to get things moving. Across the street from where I was going to get our weekend vegetables, I saw a sign in a shop window which said "BOY WANTED". I made up my mind to call in and ask about the job on my way back. Which I did, and I got the job.

The 'cap and gown' bit (my title) came about this way... The green grocer's shop was run by a very large lady. She came with a fierce countenance, and voice to match. Quite a formidable woman, and she'd stand no nonsense from anyone. (Certainly I never offered any.) She had the help of her brother, Tom, who was handicapped (lame in one leg), and who spoke with some difficulty. He always seemed to get the thick edge of the tongue from his big sister who spoke sharply to him as she bustled around the shop serving customers or doing this and that. "Come on our Tom!" she'd say. "Get thisself moving. This lady 'ere 'asn't got all day, you know. And get some more potatoes from't shed. You can see they're getting down!"

But he never seemed to mind or get upset by the way she spoke to him. I saw him once, pushing a barrow of produce around the streets, and I don't know how he managed to get it moving, loaded as it was and with his disability. But move it he did, with the same unruffled look on his face each time I saw him.

The one day, I heard a neighbour speaking in rather hushed tones about this fierce lady. "She's got 'er cap and gown, ya know!" And before my mind had properly begun to ponder on that one, the explanation followed. "For playin't piano, ya know. Oh yes, she plays it beautifully."

You'll understand that I was at the stage of soaking up information and storing it away for regurgitation and discussion with my mates later. The next time I went into the shop I wondered how she could play the piano with hands like hers, and I looked at her with a new respect. Then a few minutes later I heard her talking to her brother, but this time in such a caring and loving way: "Tom, 'ave made a cup of tea for you. Got into t'back and sit down for a while. You look tired out luv."

That was the only time, mind you, but I tucked what I'd learned about her that day in my mind... That the fiercest of persons can have their soft and tender moments. Which is rather nice, don't you think?

Dennis Crompton © 1998