Inner spring

‘Old man weeping’ from volume “82 prints engraved by F. Bartolozzi, etc, from the original drawings of Guercino, in the collection of His Majesty”

*

I weep sometimes to see a shining golden dawn awed by the sheer wonder of it all,

thankful that the glorious hues I see lift me from the burdens of the day.

*

I weep at the boundless energy and promise of the young on this amazing planet, terra firma, home of man,

with wonders past, present and still to come, beckoning the inquiring, adventurous schemers on.

*

I weep at the strangers I have let pass by, for some I know I could have made my friends;

so busy I, so carefree or just unaware, of the human that waits behind that vacant, hungry stare.

*

I weep angry, frustrated, by some politician’s glib outrageous lies, smiling, nodding, betraying promised election cries,

club members, secure now from their constituent’s plight, sit snugly ignoring what they were elected to put right.

*

I weep at the passing of a treasured friend, diminished, shocked, bereaved by sudden loss,

knowing well the inevitabilities of life must come to all, and I wonder where, and when, and how I’ll hear my call.

*

I weep that I’ve wasted so much of my life in useless wanderings just to pass the time,

there is so much I see now I’d still like to do, with body, mind and time still left for me to use.

*

I am aware now that I contain some inner source, some secret well enabling me to weep,

reflecting that it’s given me for my use, I bless the healing tears that down my cheeks now creep.

*

Without them what else could break the chain, releasing the soul-destroying burdens we contain,

thank God then for that hidden human inner spring permitting tears their healing balm to bring.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Lines connecting

Alone amidst the throng who pass me by

knowing they see only the outward shape of me

and nothing more

familiar copy of their own they see

yet see not me.

*

I share with them a common clay

breathe, eat, sleep, and pass each day as they

this I know, as they know too

still, we have not shared each other yet.

*

Oh there are some glances, nods, a few half smiles

telling me they are partly aware I'm there

some even dare to wave along our common way

superficially each passing ordinary day.

*

So much depends upon the mood, direction, purpose

of the moment when on byways common in our lives

we see, stop, maybe even surface greet a little

then pass on by.

*

If we could see back through the centuries

the flesh, blood and birth of each new human soul

and the distant lines connecting all our lives

perhaps then we'd want and even dare to say...

*

Hello there my friend and how are you today?

come and sit and eat and talk with me awhile.

It's good to share something of ourselves

to enjoy belonging to each other.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

Our daily round

The door opened and she stepped out

her walk a half shuffling, stumbling trot …

skin tight around the structure

of her tired homely face

framed in hair a wispy white …

*

Each time I see her we smile and greet

we do not stop but walk on down the street,

her mission serving someone else’s needs,

and so our lives we live …

 *

We are neighbours ... what does that mean?

I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me

and soon we’ll both be history,

dead to life and to each other …

 *

We could so easily stop and change

the pattern set on both our courses;

what is her life and what is mine

but time to share before we fly?

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

George, and leaving England

Here’s a picture of me as a happy chappie working at Ribble Motors workshop, Frenchwood, Preston, where I worked alongside (George) Jersey Fijalkowski from Radom, Poland, over two years from 1952-1954. He was very important in my life at the time because he was the one who pointed me in the direction of New Zealand.

One day George brought me a cutting from the Lancashire Evening Post, regarding the Royal New Zealand Air Force seeking recruits from amongst ex-British Service men.

That got me thinking. Did I want to stay in this life, or forge a new life for myself? Here were some of my thoughts at the time as I continued working with my colleagues amongst the noise and bustle of the Ribble Motors workshop:

• I had all sorts of chats and discussions with mates on the floor of the bus chassis reconditioning team, including a chat with Paddy who told me that, ‘All the world’s a stage. Do you know that Dennis?’ Paddy was someone who made Shakespeare come alive before my very eyes as he quoted, danced and acted, on the shop floor;
• Pat, well he was a thinker, a philosopher and my first ‘university teacher’, teaching me to think beyond myself;
• Tony was in charge of our work bench and was my immediate under-boss; a quiet and ordinary, patient, likeable man, who encouraged me;
• Another round-face jovial type (whose name I forget) who ‘annealed’ the copper tubing which carried grease around the chassis of the bus; he annealed the tubing by throwing it onto a heap of red-hot embers then dumped the piping into cold water. This then made the piping soft and pliable ready to be replaced around the chassis to take grease to vital points such as the brake pedal and clutch pedal;
• Plus others who gathered around our work bench for stolen moments to chat, exchange ideas or plan to walk somewhere on Saturday in the country together to enjoy each other’s company. We had some hilarious times together, with many of us joining Harry Freeman’s group as we planned where to take our August holiday that year…;
• Harry Freeman was a secondary-school teacher who led a group of young people at a Boys’ and Girls’ Mixed Club. He taught us that an interesting world lay outside Preston, a world comparatively easy to travel around, proving that by having a group at his home once a month to decide where, for how long, and how we would manage a holiday away. And we did just that in 1951 by having a week’s holiday at a big house that we felt looked like a castle at Lochgilphead, in Scotland. We had a great time, showing ourselves that we could escape the grime and humdrum life of Preston as we began to explore the world around us.

This picture of George is exactly were he used to stand re-assembling the diesel motors, while I, to one side stripped them, placing the parts in wire baskets for Jock to put through the degreasing plant. Skilled and semi-skilled side by side were great boosters to me 'shifting miself' so that when the question came: 'Why don't you go to New Zealand?' I was ready.

• Lastly, as mentioned, there was 'George' (Jersey Fijalkowski from Radom in Poland), who must have seen my wonderings and mind wanderings as I questioned my work mates, increasing my general knowledge on a whole range of subjects. He took an interest in me and decided it was about time I lifted my sights; it was time to move on. I didn’t know where to think about going until George asked me: ‘Why don’t you go to New Zealand?’ And he handed me the clipping from the Lancashire Evening Post….

George's home town of Radom in Poland

Looking back, I know I was the lucky one in our street who escaped to New Zealand. Thank you George.

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

A request for an 'SAE'

Ralph Pennington-Forbes believed himself to be a well-balanced person. Some would smile at that. To put it plainly, he was a Burgher, born of English-speaking descendants of early Portuguese and Dutch people who settled in Ceylon, as it was called then. His parents had purchased a small valley close to Adam's Peak, clearing the land a little at a time and planting tea, when, at the time, a disease threatened to wipe out the coffee plants in the area.

Many had laughed at their venture believing the valley to be badly sited for tea growing and through which elephants roamed from time to time. It also boasted a rainfall six times that of London. Oh no, their critics smirked, they'll never succeed in growing tea there.

But they did and they prospered.

Their family motto: 'Do try it', was found by Ralph's father scribbled on the wall of a wayside long drop, and he adopted it as his own for the family. Whatever it actually referred to was never disclosed to Ralph. The illustration that accompanied the motto on the wall, seductive though it was, proved physically impossible to those Westerners who ‘did try it’, as it were.

As a young boy, with his parents much involved in setting up the plantation, Ralph had been fairly free to find his own amusements. Now in his late 60s, he smiled, reminiscing on the times he'd spent in the company of his friend, Lavinder, the son of one of the servants. His real name was ‘Ravinder’, but his father couldn't get his tongue round the ‘R’ so Lavinder he became.

Around the age of 10, there was some pressure from his parents to conform more to the social and class distinctions of the tea-growing society around them, however, his warm relationship with Lavinder, remained happy indeed. They'd become more like brothers and maintained their close bond over the years.

At some point, Lavinder's growing man hormones began to make their presence felt, assisted by a young lady who liked the swing of his dhoti. He was looking for a job, and he'd requested Ralph's help to obtain an ‘SAE’ as it was part of the requirements for his application for the position as supervisor of tea pluckers. A similar request to his uncle Pradish had been refused because he said he did not know what an ‘SAE’ was. Lavinder was stuck; in fact he felt himself wedged between an elephant with an ingrowing toe-nail and a water buffalo unable to pass water, so he turned to Ralph to help him navigate the English ways.

“I can't expect much from an uncle the crotch of whose dhoti hangs so disgustingly low to the ground,” he explained to Ralph.

'Tell me what you need and I'll see if I can help you', Ralph encouraged. He already knew what an SAE was, but the novel way Lavinder explained things was always a delight to hear.

Lavinder tweaked his moustache on both sides, bringing tears to his eyes since he hadn't much moustache to tweak. He cleared his throat with several hefty chesty coughs, glanced at a piece of paper in his hand on which the letters SAE were printed large, and began.

“‘S’. First I need to hire a suit. It isn't done to approach the nincompoop in charge of us bloody natives wearing a dirty working dhoti. Then for ‘A’ I need an ‘at, which I have to raise and then hold in front of me with my written request lying on top. See, we damned natives’ have our own eti ketti'.”

Ralph laughed. “And the ‘E’?”

“That's to show I have my ‘E license’, to drive an Elephant, that is,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he waggled his head from side to side.

“Seated up at the steering end an overseer of tea pluckers has an elephant eye’s view of all the tea pluckers. Also keeps them from sneaking away for a crafty brew up, or anything else they may get up to in the bushes. I'll get to keep the contents from an elephant pooper-scooper I've invented too. Should make a little on the side providing manure for the nincompoops’ wives roses. Not too dusty for an upwardly bloody mobile go-ahead native upstart like myself, eh my friend?”

He paused, looking keenly at Ralph.

“So, how about helping me get my SAE sorted, then?”

But Ralph couldn’t contain his laughter any longer; a simple 'self-addressed envelope' didn't seem quite enough somehow...

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(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)

A sentimental mood

‘Are you in a sentimental mood?’ asks Sir William Schwenck Gilbert in the 'Mikado', and then goes on to say, ‘I’ll sigh with you,’ (which is rather nice of him I think).

Most of us can get sentimental at times, especially at Christmas. I do; it’s the suitcase crammed with photographs, you see. It’s the time I usually get them out, to sift through and reminisce. One of them will start me off; I’ll smile, then shed a tear or two and sigh.

One such photograph shows four youngsters gathered round an open fireplace with one peering up the chimney; the fire is out, stockings hang from the mantelpiece and the caption reads: ‘Waiting for Father Christmas’. The year is 1934; the place is a home for children in Preston, Lancashire, England (the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home)…and I am the boy peering up the chimney. This brings back memories because that was the first time that the meaning of Christmas, Father Christmas and presents began to seep through to my understanding.

A few days after the photograph was taken, all the children in the Home were gathered together in the main room. Let’s imagine we are there…It is evening. Christmas decorations, holly with cheerful red berries, a Christmas tree and candle-light, have all transformed the normally drab, uninteresting room into a warm and happy place to be. In a semi-circle sitting cross-legged on the floor are the children, a steady murmur rising from their midst. At the front sit the two sisters who looked after us, lovely in their crisp white uniforms. On their right, the dark-suited superintendent sits with his rather severe bespectacled wife who keeps an eye on the girl’s wing, and behind them, several members of the committee who run the Home…

(Generally life had its predictability: the boys were separated from the girls except for meals and church-going; the boys big from the small; and on visiting days, some going off with relatives while the rest went nowhere, making the days monotonously and long.)

Today was exciting, even though I’d learned it wasn’t wise to get too excited about things; sometimes it was all for nothing and the expected event didn’t happen. But this time it was different. This time we were all together and for the first time something about the meaning of the word ‘home’ became more real and emotionally satisfying.

We had games, and after that we sang carols, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I heard the boys and girls singing up close. It was wonderful, with a kind of magic in the air because everyone was happy.

Then came the big event: Father Christmas arrived, and after a few friendly words he opened the big sack in front of him and began calling out the names on each present he brought out. A steady stream of boys and girls walked forward, received a gift and returning smiling to their places. The good folk of Preston and the surrounding districts tried to make Christmas as cheerful as they could for all of us children in the Home, despite the Depression, with unemployment or poor wages being widespread throughout most countries of the world. Thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of such things at that time.

Meanwhile, back in the main hall, I was still waiting for my name to be called and the sack was looking decidedly limp, while almost everyone around me was buzzing with excited chatter as they compared gifts with each other. I was still waiting and getting worried. A short time later Father Christmas asked if everyone had received their present. I said nothing, my face burning as I felt too left out and shy to speak up. My friends nudged me and whispered, ‘Speak up, our Den!’, but I didn’t; I was too close to tears. Father Christmas called again, turning as if to put his sack to one side, and from somewhere inside of me I found the gumption to call out in a voice that sounded a long way off, ‘I ‘aven’t got one’. A hush fell, or so it seemed to me. The two sisters knew immediately who it was that had spoken; they’d looked after me since I was two and a half years of age, and one of them whispered something to Father Christmas who looked around and smiling called, ‘Who was that?’

Thus encouraged, I spoke again. ‘Me, I ‘aven’t got a present yet’. A sympathetic murmuring rippled around the room as Father Christmas called out, ‘Come on then, young Dennis. Let’s see what I’ve got here for you.’ Everything was sorted out, of course. I got my present and a special hug from the two sisters along with kisses, in front of all those people too; and it made feel heaps better.

In 1965 I was living in Auckland, New Zealand, and I learned from a friend that the two sisters who knew and cared for me at the Home when I was a boy were living a short distance away, and would like to meet me and my family. My friend gave me their address and phone number, and yes, they were same two sisters: Sisters Mary and Anne Smith. After the hugs and greetings, and cups of tea, they gave me a photo of our time at the Home. It’s a large black and white photo showing a group of boys and girls playing in some sand; Sister Mary Smith along with another adult, sat on two chairs keeping watch over us. I stand out as the boy with a small patch of ring-worm on my scalp, while a short distance away, my sister Jean is playing there too. We had a great reunion with Mary and Anne Smith, who became firm friends of my wife and honorary aunts to our daughters until the sisters died…and of course, now I’m in a sentimental mood all over again.

Me, third boy from the left. My sister Jean, centre front girl, sitting on her knees. Sister Mary Smith, centre seated at the back.

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

Another side

Oh, but he was handsome,
with his dark eyes,
sparkling teeth,
and ready smile upon his cheeks.
And yes, I kind of envied him.

*

Pommie joker back in 1954,
I, along with others,
soon was settling down,
learning a trade along with Jeff,
saw another side of this man.

*

He was married, with a child,
his wife, good looking, wanted more.
Other guys offered, were accepted.
Jeff became worn and much neglected,
tried so hard to reach his objective.

*

Each day he struggled to maintain
a smiling face, make home a base,
and rumours false, some maybe true,
said she was an angel or a shrew.

*
And oh, I felt so sad for him.

I was not close enough to support him.
Said not a word lest it should throw him.

*
He lost his family and occupation,
then laid with pad between his teeth
was shocked and convulsed as medication.

I saw him sometimes after his therapy,
hardly recognised the shuffling effigy.
Gone were the things I once had coveted,
sadly wondering how this could be tolerated.
And oh it was so sad to see him.

 *

I was quite a young man then,
yet I can't forget my friend.
He had so much of what I wanted,
good looks, dark hair and sparkling teeth,
a lovely child and so-called help-meet.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Friend

I've just seen a man and his dog going for a walk, I'm not sure if the man was doing the taking or the dog, but down the street they went, leisurely, happily, content with each other's companionship.

The dog was dependant on the man of course. He'd feed it, look after and care for it. But the dog would share in the caring too, wouldn't it? The wag of its tail, the cocking of its head to one side as its man spoke to it, dancing an excited tattoo on the kitchen floor as its lead was taken off the hook behind the door.

That's why they've stayed together so long, both getting on in years but doing it together. Perhaps that's why a man with a dog for a friend seems so much more at peace than a man walking on his own. I'll look forward to seeing them again.

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

Some lady

Background – the scene is one similar to a Coronation Street setting in the opening: backyards, and streets with rows of houses. We lived at 10 Spencer Street from sometime early in 1942 until I left Preston in 1954 to emigrate to New Zealand. The ‘lady’ in question lived a few doors up from us and I visited her regularly. She was always ‘Janey’ to me and was pretty much as I describe her here.

 *

I saw at first only her outside,

which my quite young, quick-snap assessment judged as plain.

She of the outside knew better; had lived with it some 45 years or more,

and grateful I who came to know her later learned she was anything but plain.

*

A fire burned there.

Yes! In that old pink-cardiganed, greying and straight-haired, firmly-packaged homely frame.

The fire? A kind of faint, low-embered hope,

many years smouldering lay there…kept her alive.

*

Sometimes, when she had gone to her alcoholic bed,

her Hollywood conditioned eyes lit by romantic novel or pictures from some fashion magazine,

fanned those small embers to a warming glow, just for a while;

enough to keep for her the momentum of the cycle she called life.

*

There was something else about the outer,

and in my honest, clumsily outspoken, rather cheeky innocent of ways

I asked about one day: 'What are those three small black marks there on your face?'

She gave a kind of smile, turned away a moment, blew her nose and then looked back at me;

her dark eyes sparkled and she smiled again. Yes!

and with good-natured, down-to-earth common-sense fact accepting fun,

she whispered with a wink, ‘Those are my beauty spots, Dennis love.’

*

And then, with one hand delicately holding the hem of skirt,

she danced a few light steps gracefully across the floor.

*

She could have stiffened angrily, snapped or scowled some dark reply,

shrivelling my spirit some as others before and since have often done from time to time.

But she danced and smiled and beauty spot friends we continued as from then.

Oh yes! She's been 'some lady' in my life since I was ten.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

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