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)
