The rent man

We lived in a stone cottage in Preston in the 1930s – two up, two down – and shared an outside loo with the folk next door. So the rent wasn’t much, one shilling a week, but it still had to be found in the days of the Depression.

The rent man was pleasant enough, with a voice that seemed too quiet for such a big chap. He would arrive on his push-bike, remove the cycle clips from the legs of his trousers, then placing them in his raincoat pocket. I thought he had rather big feet, but never said so. He also wore a Trilby hat, “a little ahead of his time,” according to my father, who wore either a flat cap or a bowler, depending on the occasion.

Once inside the house the rent man would remove the rent book from his jacket and open it on the table. Each time he did so, my eyes were taken by the neatness of the columns of figures and signatures in his book. The money was picked up and placed carefully away, then, writing his signature in the rent book and, after a few friendly comments, on would go his hat, his cycle clips, and off he would go.

There were one or two times when he was not able to collect the rent, either that, or we just didn’t have it for him when he came. He never got angry or raised his voice. I’m sure he understood the difficulties we faced as a family. He would just say in his quiet way to my father, “Perhaps next week then, Fred?”

I took the rent to his home on two occasions. His wife opened the door and led me through to the living room. She was rather house-proud; dust dare not settle while she was around and if it did it wasn’t there long. Everything was where it should be but it didn’t seem comfortable to me. I wriggled in my seat, a big, padded armchair. My feet kicked the base and the sound reverberated around the quiet room. The rent man’s wife looked at me and shook her head. It happened again – my feet kicked the base. This time her look was icy. I hated that chair and the house and was glad when I finally left to go home. I felt sad for the rent man to be married to a lady like that – it didn’t seem right to me.

We didn’t have much in the way of padded armchairs and the like, but our rented house was a home and it felt good to be there.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home

The interior of Shepherd Street Mission School showing a class in session

Here's some more information on the Shepherd Street Mission, Preston, Lancashire, the organisation that ran the Children's Home where I spent the first six years of my life, along with my two sisters and brother after our mother died. Our father was eventually able to take us home again, more of which I have written on my blogsite. The text in this post is taken from the website, listed below.

In 1876, Joshua Williamson, a Preston grocer was so moved by an encounter with two homeless children that he resolved to tackle the growing issue of destitution in the town. Joshua established a Mission, holding non-denominational meetings in Rose Street. The organisation rescued children and provided temporary accommodation for homeless adults.

In 1879 the charity acquired an old weaving factory in Shepherd Street which could accommodate a hundred people. Just a year later it was extended to accommodate fifty more.

The charity, initially called the Shepherd Street Mission, grew rapidly as the need to rescue children from the dangers of homelessness and poverty became critical. The mission was not state-aided. It maintained itself with subscriptions and donations from the Preston public, along with initiating and operating its own firewood business.

In 1900 Joshua Williamson gave up his business in order to devote himself to looking after the children. The charity by now had acquired property to accommodate the needy - both adults and children - in Laurel Street, Berry Street and Oxford Street.

Crow Hill House, in Oxford Road became the primary children's home and underwent much adaptation through the vast social changes of the last century.

The main premises were eventually sold to the NSPCC in 1989. The Shepherd Street Mission became the Shepherd Street Trust.

A committee was now formed to manage the Trust funds raised from the sale of the Mission's assets: the achievement of the people of Preston.

For more information, go to www.shepherdstreettrust.co.uk

The Trust is still very active, assisting those in need, under age 21, within a 50 mile radius of Preston Town Hall.

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)

Night sounds

The Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home where I was placed at the age of two years and six months had around 60 people living in it when I first went to sleep in a small room above the entrance door. My room was separated from the rest of the building by a series of passages and storerooms and as only the staff running the home went there it was usually a quiet area during the day.

I remember clearly the sounds of the night from the street below during the summer evenings as my young mind began to distinguish one particular event from another. The only sounds that I could hear clearly came from outside at night: probably not very late at night though as I was such a young chap I would have gone to bed early. Thus my mind was able to concentrate first on the sound, then on what caused that sound.

—That was a bicycle, just the faint whirr of the tyres on the road and an occasional tinkle of the bell.

—Then a car, (although I wonder now who would have had a car to drive down that particular street since those were the days of the Depression); and sometimes there could be at least two or three, sometimes more. The engines had a distinctive note to them, rather a soothing one to me, with a Paah! Paah! of a motor-horn now and then. Those were the mechanical sounds.

—There would follow a time of hardly any noise at all. For quite a time, just as I was dropping off to sleep, I’d hear the low murmur of people talking to each other, accompanied by the sound of their wooden clogs on the pavement. Faintly at first, then gradually increasing as they came nearer, then passing by before growing quiet again. With some, there was an air of business-like urgency in their steps, while others would stop and talk to someone they knew standing at their front door before continuing on or going into a house close by. I’d strain my ears to try and catch what they were saying but I was never able to get both sides of the conversation which I found very frustrating.

—What was that? A hand-bell? Yes!

—And now, the slow rumbling of a hand-barrow wheels blending with that of people. A happy, cheerful sound, sounds I enjoyed the most.

—Then a man’s voice calling: ‘Parched peas! Parched peas! All lovely! Come and get ‘em!’; or the call could be: ‘Get yer baked peraties; baked peraties here’; or maybe even: ‘Hot crumpets! Lovely hot crumpets!' Oh delicious sounds they were to me for people came running and laughing and calling out to each other, all warm and friendly Lancashire sounds, and I’d give a little laugh as I caught their delight. Such simple comforts from cleverly designed little hand-barrows with their individual touches crafted to suit their wares. They were enterprising; the souls who made their way up and down the smoke-grimed streets at night.

They will never know that they gave me such pleasure as a young chap; I lay in my bed and listened to them all going about their lovely Lancashire lives, while I shared it with them in a small measure of a way.

Dennis Crompton © 2013
(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)

Sometimes...

So many times I have wondered how my mother felt about me. I never knew her; she died when I was one year old. Part of this poem covers those thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder at how I came to be…

From two separate entities preparing parts of me;

mother and father, loving ecstasy,

nine months later then entranced ME!

*

Sometimes I wonder what Mother’s thoughts had been,

the moment her eyes first gazed at precious me;

tired and aching reaching out to me,

held me, kissed me…then whispered, what?…to me?

*

Sometimes I wonder at the sights I came to see,

living earth, clouds and sky, ever changing scenes;

birds and beasts, fish in the sea…

the colours of nature all wondrous and free.

*

Sometimes I wonder at what life is all about;

winter and summer, floods and droughts;

the bitter, the sweet, certainty and doubt;

living and dying, a whimper, a shout.

*

Sometimes I wonder at the living mystery

of skin, blood and bone forming the visible part of me,

clothing the invisible you see as me;

sometimes I wonder…now, which is the real me?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Memories of my early days

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)

Country life

This is a true story and a nice memory to look back on.

We had some friends who had a farm a little way out of the village where we lived from 1936 to 1940, and I reckoned the mother of that family lived such a charmed life. Apart from recalling the gusty, down-to-earth homeliness of the woman and that I saw her many times when I visited the farm, only one thing stands out clearly in my mind today concerning her as a person.

Picture a typical farmhouse kitchen built of stone with stone slabs as a floor and several people seated around a large wooden table which is scrubbed clean and is almost white. They are tucking into a meal with the plates straight onto the wooden top. Several times I would watch the mother perform an ordinary everyday action but in a somewhat drastic heart-stopping manner for me as a young lad of seven or eight. Noticing that someone required another slice of bread, she’d reach out, seize the loaf, place it atop her ample bosom and with the breadknife clutched firmly in the other hand cut and hack away with gay abandon, and the knife, mind you, always moved inwards.

As she handed the slice balanced on the knife to the person requiring it (and it was clear that only the bread had been cut) I’d allow myself to breath more freely, glancing around the table to see if anyone else had been as concerned as me for the for the safety of the mother’s bosom, but no one had. Considering the quantity of bread consumed on the farm, she was one lucky woman and as far as I know she went to the grave intact.
Her husband I didn’t know at all, and all I can recall about him now is that he often wore a pair of brown leather boots, including leather leggings which fastened with two small straps around each leg. They fascinated me and I often wondered what it would be like to wear them.

There were two daughters: Anne, slim, red-haired and pretty and was nice and easy to get on with; and Kate who preferred to be called Kitty, a well-built, robust, warm-hearted and cheerful lady who had the misfortune to have a false leg. What happened for her to lose that leg I had enough gumption not to ask.
The thing is, whenever I was at the farm I spent most of my time with Kate, and as I did everything she told me to do, not fancying a clout from her rather substantial right arm, we got on very well. I would often accompany her on her milk rounds in her three-wheeled van. It was a delight to see her start that thing. Let me explain: The front wheel was attached to the steering wheel: well it would be wouldn’t it? On the top of the steering column were two small levers, one lever advanced the spark to start the engine, the other retarded the spark. It was all to do with the timing, if that’s any help. It was very tricky getting those levers in exactly the right position for the engine to start and run smoothly. Kate usually managed it without much trouble and the van would run steadily in no time at all.

There was a small gap where the one front wheel would have movement to turn and I could watch the road passing swiftly by as I sat on the strange little co-driver’s on the left-hand side. There wasn’t a real door, just a flap of celluloid from the top to just half-way down and it was at an angle, so that one could nip out quickly to deliver milk. It didn’t seem that cold, I guess the excitement of being able to go for a ride over-came that particular aspect of the trip for me.

Off we’d go, the van rumbling slightly with the load of milk cans in the back and it wasn’t long before Kitty would start to sing. I could always sense when she was ready. There’d be a gentle rocking motion of her body to and fro on her seat, like a hen settling down on its eggs. A pause, followed by a few deep breaths, then her hands would take a firm grip on the steering wheel and she’d let rip, full bore; no holds barred, leaving nothing in reserve and with an intense look on her face, her eyes seemingly fixed on some distant star. Kate would sing and sing with such an infectious exuberance that the glow of her enjoyment would flow through to me; normally a quiet, shy sort of lad, I’d blush a little as she began but then I’d find my foot tapping in time to the tune and then my hand on my knee. It was usually a popular song of the day and she kept in time with such thumps of the floor of the little van with her false leg that I felt sure it would go clean through the floor: ‘Come on, Dennis luv, join in,’ she’d say, her face alight with a great beaming smile, and thus encouraged, I’d join in, my high piping notes contrasting with Kate’s deeper ones. I loved it! Feeling warm, happy and with a gay sort of abandon at the same time. I just had to stop for a giggle every now thinking it was all so ludicrous in a nice, warm and funny way.

Just think though, if I hadn’t had the chance to join her on those milk-rounds, how much pure and carefree enjoyment I’d have missed.

Eventually we’d arrive at a place for a delivery. Kate would heave herself out of her seat, grab hold of a milk can and place it where she could ladle out the correct quantity of milk into the receptacle handed to her. She had a really polished way of doing that; hardly a drop of milk went in the wrong direction. Her arm would move up and down in a graceful, somewhat exaggerated motion when she knew I was watching; then she’d look at me and say: ‘That’ll put a fine froth on it lad’ as she handed it to the person waiting with a flourish and grin.

We come now to the ‘accidentally-on-purpose’ part. I suppose there would have been times, when even I, quiet, even-tempered, well-mannered lad that I was back then would get on people’s nerves, and this was one of them. I was fascinated, you see, in watching the milk flow down the corrugated ridges of the milk sterilizer, and it kept me quiet for ages. I was doing this one day whilst Kate and Anne washed the place down. Kate had asked me several times to, ‘Shift thi’ self, lad,’ and the next moment I gasped, as she tipped a large, galvanized bath of cold water over the top of me. I was drenched from head to toe.

‘Oo! I am sorry luv,’ she said, all smiles as she said it and called out to her sister Anne to come over. They discussed together, ‘What’s to be done wi’ t’lad now? Ee’l ‘ave to be bathed proper, seeing as ‘is all wet through, like,’ Anne said, her eyes smiling and wet with tears. And it was agreed without consulting me.

The very same bath was filled with warm water back at the house. I was stood on the bench, unprotesting as my wet clothes were removed and two delighted farm ladies washed and giggled, sponged and giggled some more until I was clean enough for them to stop. Then wrapped in a soft warm bath towel, I was deposited in a chair in front of the kitchen fire until my clothes were dry, which took some time as I recall. From time to time, Kate or Anne would come in and check to see that I was alright, bringing with them biscuits and warm milk, cakes and soft drinks until I could eat no more.

Kate took me home, bless her, and explained what had happened. Everyone wanted to hear the story several times and there was smiles all round. As for myself, looking back, after the shock of the cold water hitting me, I do believe I enjoyed ‘aving to be bathed proper’ by those two ladies I remember now with much affection.

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(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)

This is me, Dennis Crompton

This was written in 1999.

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

Hot drinks at Herbies

If I had a few pennies to spare I'd be at Herbies (the herbalist's shop) hoping to find others waiting to be served, giving me time to observe, take in and soak up all the wonderful things to be seen, heard, smelled or tasted.

The wall behind the herbalist was filled with square black boxes, all with small brass handles and labels. These held a mixture of ingredients which he dipped into, placing whatever he selected onto a small piece of clean white paper held in his left hand. The paper was taken to a pair of scales on the counter, weighed and sometimes added to by pinches of this or that from other receptacles. When all was ready, the paper was miraculously twirled into a triangular cone, nipped at the bottom and folded at the top as neatly as you like. A few pennies paid for the remedy along with some last words of smiled advice or instructions as the satisfied customer left the shop.

To his left were shelves of glass bottles. Largest and heaviest at the bottom, small and coloured at the top. To his right around the shop window, were more shelves with neat white cardboard boxes, square, round or oblong some containing pills or potions all ready made up. Sometimes he'd move into his back room for an ingredient. I did wish he wouldn't do that. It always had me wondering what it was like back there.

In one corner was a small sink, with shelves of sparkling glass cups above it. In winter I'd go in there with a mate or even by myself for a hot drink. There was a choice of bovril, oxo, black currant, raspberry leaf tea, blackberry and sasparella and others which I've forgotten. Black currant was my favourite and it was in this shop where I first tasted it. You could feel it doing you good before you'd even put the glass to your lips. It was never quite the same when I drank it elsewhere.

Just to see some of the customers was worth the cost of going for a hot drink. You could linger longer legitimately then. And I did. Often. Women were the most interesting. Large and plumply round inside layers of clothing, with faces ranging from small, neat and perky, to some large and pugnacious, sadly in need of a lift or rearranging. As far as I could judge from my close observation of my two older sisters, make-up for most of these women consisted of a light brushing of scented face powder and a touch of sticky lip. The hair could be in billows of curls on or off the forehead, tucked in behind hair-nets or covered in curlers, and it was not uncommon for some to step outdoors with their hair tied in strips of cloth.

Their feet in assorted sizes surprised me for their ability to carry so much super-structure. The wooden clog with leather uppers was worn a great deal as were boots, which could have been hubbies cast offs. Some, which I could only describe as flatties, probably started off as small ladies size. These were re-shaped to ladies large and above within a couple of days use. My Dad reckoned they gave the wearer a good firm understanding. Some women insisted on cramming their feet into shoes one size too small.  They looked very uncomfortable, especially when excess flesh overlapped the sides.  Untidy too. It was the days before baths in every home and the few who wore gumboots must have suffered. Everyone else did. I've seen feet emerge slowly from some of them as if enjoying the return of circulation gave as they sat on the long stools Herbie had up along one side of the shop. Ever since I saw them, I've had the utmost admiration and sympathy for sales people in shoe shops.

A pity it's gone, you'd have liked Herbies.

Dennis Crompton © 1999