When I was a boy

Here are some various memories of my boyhood.

Sometimes a song on the radio takes me back to when I was a boy, back to before transistor radios and TV which were still progressing through their pregnancy, back to the days of monotonously grey Sunday afternoons. There was one thing that lifted my spirits though, as my eldest sister, Hilda and I would sometime visit friends in Lytham St Annes. There were two people living in their fine big house and though I met the lady, I only heard the man’s voice - one of those deeply masculine voices that strongly suggested he’d be interesting to meet. A pity I didn’t, but I smelt him, or rather his cigars. The aroma filled the house, came out to meet you as the door was opened, and then, reluctant to let you go, clung to your hair and clothing for quite some time after you’d left, but it was such a delicious aroma to my young senses. My dad only smoked cigarettes, the smoke from which would catch at my throat and make my eyes water so that I often had a headache, but it did put me off smoking for life without dad’s lectures.

‘Now lad’, he’d say, ‘I don’t want thee takin’ up smoking fags, tha’ can see what its doin’ to me … and another thing, I don’t want thee takin’ to drink, it’s a mug's game, and another thing, leave women alone too’.

I can laugh now, I mean I was still wearing short pants. I never had any money to buy fags and if I had it would have gone on sweets, but the lecture would be given at various stages of my development, even to when I was home on leave as a soldier in the British army... But back to our friends at Lytham St Annes.
Their sitting room was very much in the grip of Victoriana; it enveloped you as you entered, its heavy atmosphere aided and abetted by the sombre colours of the wallpaper. An attempt had been made to lighten the effect with a frieze at picture-hook height, but failed. Anonymous drapes and floor coverings continued the theme for those imprisoned there and for those visiting. I usually sat at the table, covered with a thick velvet cloth; the table, is, though I wouldn’t be surprised if children were also similarly draped if their decibel rating dared to quiver a notch or two above low. The cloth helped absorb the sound of small hands fiddling with children’s books, selected for their contents of an uplifting nature, the illustrations of which were drawn by some poor mind in the grip of, 'Thou shalt not amuse, enlighten nor arouse interest with thy work’. There was a piano in one corner but it was always closed and another cloth was found to cover it.

The quietness that reigned was disturbed from time to time by the occasional shuffle as a body repositioned its uncomfortable part on a chair or someone stifled a cough; then the rustle of thin paper as a page was turned in a book, the very sound informed you it was of a religious nature and therefore allowable. Thus to my young mind was the silence followed by more silence; long, dry, heavy silence so that even the sound of birds seemed muted, like the soft whisper of feminine voices anxious not to disturb religious conventions or dear papa; at least the cough indicated someone was alive in there. Hand in hand with such dreary formalities went a certain imprisoning of the body, and with the body, the mind.

There was little knowledge of anything concerning differences between the genders, discounting outward appearances, voice, occupation and cigar smoking. To have mentioned that certain three-lettered word would have brought down a heavy cloud, dark looks, shallow breathing and a tight-feeling in the stomach for all within earshot of the offending remark. Worse still for me, do-it-yourself pastimes were still in the future with a whole range of woebegone looks and embarrassing hot flushes just waiting to confuse growing boys even more.

I liken those days to a song of that time. My Dad hated it, and so did I. It was dreary, sad and monotonous; the words were grey, the tune was greyer and the singer, usually a woman, was up to her knees in mire: “Can’t help lovin’ that man o’ mine” … still can have that effect on me and bring back those memories and feelings. And then just before World War II started and things in general started to brighten, Dad changed a few of the words to: ‘When he’s been away-hay, it’s a lovely day-hay …’ which went down so well in our family that he changed another, about rain: ‘It looks like rain in cherry-blossom lane’; became … ‘It looks like rain in Pump Street once again’ … as Pump Street was where we lived at that time, and it made us all laugh.

Dad was often a stern and demanding person but now and then he’d let that persona slip and out would appear a warmly humorous and likeable father, the one I’ve come to remember with much affection these days. Especially when he smiled with his eyes smiling too and he’d make a place for me to sit up close to him, hugging me tightly to him. I probably was favoured a little being the youngest of four in the family, moments I recall with much affection. He was my father and I was his son. Happy, happy days!

Dennis Crompton © 2013

A group of low-life associates

They were bustled to the door, one of their helpers murmuring, ‘A couple of light-ales between the four of you; you’d get drunk on the smell of a bar-maid’s apron. Out with you!’ It was still only mid-afternoon as the four young men staggered across the street pushing people aside, hurling obscenities at any who objected by look or reprimand.

They were well-known in the small town of that South Wales district; where family, friends and society in general had apparently disowned them. All their fathers had been happy in being with their sons at the beginning; lovely it was too. Gareth’s father, Elwyn, had shared in changing his nappies, playing, cuddling and bottle-feeding his son. Like a boy with a puppy he was, till the novelty wore off. After that, his wife Bronwyn was often alone at night, her heart aching for his company. Her man was easily led and being still employed, part-time anyway, was the man with a bit of money in his pocket. Well, he had his pals too, see, and the booze gradually took over.

If, unbeknownst to those inside, you’d pushed through their front door back then and stood and listened for a while, you’d have understood why Bronwyn never could disown her son. Even now, with him overseas these past twenty-five years, she still felt the same, and the tears came with the anguish she felt deep inside. Gareth had tried hard at school, bless him. Would come home bursting to share something new he’d learned that day, her heart rejoicing in his infectious delight. It was different with Elwyn, Perhaps he was ashamed at his own lack of education, or maybe even jealous, but Gareth’s enthusiasm to share things with his father would be brushed aside. She’d tried to get him to understand what it meant to his son, but he was head of the house and stubborn with it.

At what point her son had gone off the rails, she couldn’t say. He hadn’t worked since leaving school; many coal-mines had closed and those still open near Corwen, in Denbigshire were down to one shift a day. Too many after the few jobs going; soul-destroying it was and the ‘low-life associates’ his father called his friends were his mates from school. Just ordinary lads on the same scrap-heap as himself, until the madness of Hitler offered them another way. Redemption, would you call it? Whatever it was, he and his friends joined up together in 1939. Howell Harris, Glyn Owen, David Rowland and Gareth Williams. In a few short months they’d learned to obey orders and march in step, use a rifle and bayonet, throw hand-grenades and die doing it in a farm orchard, West Germany, one warm spring day in 1945.

Sometimes, Bronwyn gets out the letter from Gareth’s commanding officer. It’s not a long letter but it takes her time to read it through her weeping. Then she walks down the street and looks at their names engraved in stone on the monument. Stone! There’s cold and lifeless for you. And over in Germany you can read the names on the monuments to their war dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if over half of those named, of whatever nationality, were at one time like Howell, Glyn, David and Gareth numbered amongst the low-life associates where they lived.

Ironic at times, life, isn’t it?

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)