The man behind the photograph

He was very pleased that he’d followed her advice. The photograph turned out fine. Just the right angle and lighting, with the colouring and setting adding to the dignity. In the best magazine and newspapers too!

A few things had worried him though. He hadn’t altered his hairstyle. Martina, his dear wife, suggested that he should part his hair down the middle. The remembrance of that brought a chuckle bubbling up from his stomach. It felt so good that when the chuckle turned into a laugh, he let it out – at full rip. “Man, that was great!” he murmured, wiping his eyes and seeing his happy, relaxed face reflected in the mirror. He moved up closer and whispered confidentially to the mirror, “You should laugh more often, Reggie.” The imitation of his ‘special friend’ as she’d wiped the lipstick evidence from his cheek after a recent council meeting, was spot on.

As expected, the photograph didn’t please Martina at all. No middle parting of his hair. The shirt he wore was his favourite, not the one she had bought for him at the men’s outfitters her daddy frequented. But the tie, well the tie was the last straw. Martina was furious about that. She left town some weeks’ later – destination unknown.

Her daddy moved in with Gerald, from the men’s outfitters.

As the newly elected mayor, Reggie got together with his special friend to thank her for the recommendations she had made, with regards to the photograph. And for the tie. Yes, of course, the tie!

Dennis Crompton © 2000

The spinsters' code

 

Across the street from our home in Pump Street, Longridge, was a pebble-dashed house in which two spinsters lived.

(Swallows built their nests each year under the eaves of this house. They came in spring and left in autumn, and there was a constant swooping and diving in smooth, graceful sweeps back and forth across the street by these beautiful birds. It was always sad to see them leave but they would return, we always knew.)

The two spinster ladies were a bit of a mystery to me; I can’t remember ever having seen them clearly in full view, and I certainly never saw them outside of their home. I did catch occasional glimpses of one or the other of them, behind the white, lacy curtains across their windows. But nothing more than glimpses; nothing substantial. They did use what I thought was a code to communicate with our neighbours on the right, Mr and Mrs Wilks. I discovered this code quite by accident one day as I sat in one of the favourite places I had for playing, reading or whatever, the broad, wooden window-sill of our window looking out onto the street.

Things were fairly quiet on this particular day when I heard the sudden clatter of wooden clogs from next door, and scurrying across the street to the spinsters pebble-dashed house went Mrs Wilks, apron strings and hair flying in the wind. She cut a fairly dashing figure as I recall. A sash window opened briefly at the spinsters’ house, something was said, then back across the street Mrs Wilks came, faster I think than she went. The spinsters’ window was slid quickly down and I just caught sight of a small white card being whisked away from the upper section of the window that had opened. That was the code. Whenever the spinsters required something from the shops, a small, strategically placed white card would bring a speedy response from the two furiously pumping legs of Mrs Wilks.

I would then picture the activity of Mrs Wilks next door: a quick flick of a comb through wispy, grey hair before her hat, now nicely warmed after the cat had been evicted, was placed on her head with a quick downward thrust of both hands. Her ears had disappeared and you could only just make out two eyes peering out from under the brim. Almost ready. I would imagine Mrs Wilks mentally ticking items off her checklist of ‘things to do before I go shopping for t’ ladies across t’ street’, then off she would go, the front door slamming behind her, the rapid clatter of her wooden clogs, the blur of her form bent forward like a sprinter in a race as she flashed past the window. The sound of her clogs grew fainter as she rounded the corner of the street towards the shops, until all was quiet again. The message had been received and understood, and the latest mission for the spinsters was under way.

I wondered if those two spinsters knew of some deep, dark secret concerning Mrs Wilks and were threatening to expose her is she didn’t cooperate. (My boyish mind sought answers down some rather strange pathways at times, I can tell you.) The truth was probably much simpler, that Mrs Wilks received some small financial reward for her kind services rendered.

Whatever the situation, she was a goer, and active with it, our Mrs Wilks.

Dennis Crompton © 1994

Quite by accident

Sometimes I just hate myself. I can be so selfish. I mean, I could have stopped and offered to help Lester. I was pretty sure he'd recognised me as I drove past. When I'd checked by the rear-vision mirror, the look on his face could have stopped a clock. But it was raining. I'd had a busy day and by the time I turned back to stop and ask if I could help, he was putting the tools back in the car boot. It seemed he'd managed to change the wheel despite my doubts.

It would have been different if it had been his wife. I'd have stopped for Petrina. Any man would. Then I forgot about Lester and concentrated my thoughts on her. Yeah! Petrina! She has lovely dark skin. I expect that's from her gypsy background, and she has the kind of eyes that communicate little messages. Wonderful messages that have the ability to set me all a-quiver. When that happens, I allow my imagination off its leash. Then she becomes Pet, and I secretly change my name to Denky. It places us in all kinds of naughty but nice close encounters of a sensuous nature. Great, except that they fade rather quickly as we approach countdown. Thus, it deals with complications rather neatly but plays havoc with my testosterone production. Just as well Lester wasn't privy to what went on inside my head. I wasn't sure about Pet though: I'm keeping my options open for her...

I heard about the accident as I ate the warmed up remains of the bachelor meal I'd cooked for myself the day before. Poor sod, that Lester. How old was he? Early 40s? Too young anyway. Then the news of what caused the accident came out: maybe he'd still have been alive if I'd stopped to help earlier? You know, I really was miserable for the next few days. Felt as guilty as hell, but Lester was the kind of guy who knew everything and was obnoxious with it. Consequently, any attempt to explain anything to him was brushed aside, off-handedly, and was the main reason we didn't get on. A pity, as I could have told him that wheel nuts needed a double-check to ensure they were really tight. A four-wheeled car is most unsafe on three.
Still, it was nice that the sun was shining for his funeral. He'd have liked that. Petrina - Pet - handled it very well I thought. No worries about costs. Apparently he'd been well-insured, and things returned to normal after a few weeks. On the outside, that is. With Lester out of the way, Pet had taken up residency in my thoughts on a more permanent basis. Yes. Nice, and getting nicer.

Things are a bit hazy about how the imagined became the real. The thing was, though my job as a postman kept me reasonably fit, and Pet was keen on swimming. So we arranged to go together once a week to the local tepid pool. I did the crawl but she liked the breast-stroke. It was also a nice way to see more of each other. A few weeks later she asked if I'd help take some things round to her house, and while I was helping her unpack, I broke a porcelain jug. One of those old English ones in the form of a court jester. Instead of being angry or upset, she fell into peals of laughter. Brought out a bottle of the doings and two glasses, then explained how and why she'd bought the jug.

"Not many people knew that Lester and I didn't altogether get on. Nothing major, you know. Just silly little things he'd do that annoyed me. To cope, I bought that jug at a fair. Whenever I felt ready to burst, I'd pretend the jug was Lester the jester and give it what-ho! I told it all the things I wanted to tell Lester! I expect that was the gypsy in me. It did get things off my chest, and we managed well enough afterwards."
She paused while she refilled our glasses.

"Now Denky," she said, her dark eyes all glistening and suggestive as she placed her hand affectionately on my knee. "How about you and me...?"

By that time, nature was on the loose. One thing led to another and we were married six months' later.
Now, two things will insist on popping into my mind that concern me a little. Well, a lot really. How did Pet come to know that my secret bedroom name was Denky? And what is the significance of the new piece of porcelain on the sideboard? I mean, is it quite by accident that it's in the form of Postman Pat?

Dennis Crompton © 1998

Persons

This is a piece of fiction. I love noticing the odd and curious things about people. Here's a little example:

So far, I'd met a few odd characters on my door-to-door research survey on television viewing in the neighbourhood;  all different characters, in keeping with the dictionary definition I'd read earlier that day. Apparently the word person comes from the Latin word for mask, and refers to playing a part, acting on the stage of life, so to speak.

And that reminds me that I had an aunt who played the role of a 'touchy' person. It was interesting going shopping with her. No matter what shop or place we were passing, if it took her fancy in she'd walk and begin touching things. Fruit, vegetables, furniture, kitchen utensils, but fabrics especially. An extra-sensory faculty seemed to switch on to automatic when touching these. She'd positively purr if the fabric passed a certain in-built test, and her voice would take on a stuffy pommie accent which I think she thought sounded like an announcer on the BBC. "Oh yes," she'd murmur, half to herself and half to anyone else in the vicinity. "Quality material, this." It did no harm as far as I could see; it was in fact a kind of therapy for her. And then we've move on. She couldn't buy though, she could only dream.

It was at home that her touchiness got out of kilter. Especially if she hadn't been 'round to see us for a few weeks. Then she'd put on her mask and shift into touch mode again. I can still remember at the age of eight, when most lads prefer touching things that can be eaten rather than fussy, well-meaning aunts who bosom-hugged so that you could hardly breathe. It would start with, "Come here then our Dennis, and let me look at you. My, haven't you grown!" My hair would be stroked as she murmured, "Oh yes, lovely hair. It's just like your Uncle Geroge's, you know." Then she'd plant sloppy kisses over my entire face before taking hold of my hands. "And lovely hands. Piano playing hands those, you know." Oh no they're not, I'd groan to myself. My younger sister had pounded the ivories and it had been murder, for us all, from the start. Nature came to our aid, thankfully, as a sore throat and rash took her over for a week, and after she'd recovered she'd lost all interest in things musical, and peace returned.

Later, I had been musing on the fact that Shakespeare came after the dictionary definition of person, when I switched my thoughts to the person I'd spoken to whilst conducting my research survey on television viewing, two doors down. "I'm not a television person," she'd said quietly, her look implying that I ought to recognise she'd been elevated to a higher social and intellectual status because of that. She seemd a rather pathetic creature, thin of figure and gaunt of face as she spoke. She was unwilling to pass on any of the information the survey sought, but she did give me a frosty smile from behind the desk in her small office as I left. If Shakespeare was right, that we are all players on the stage of life, she'd landed a lousy part I thought, and I felt sorry for her.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Another chance

Eric Morecambe statue, Morecambe, Lancashire

*

Chance saw me born an Englishman

at no time was I consulted

regarding place or country kith or kin

glimpsed not a glimpse of any plan

just born into the Lancashire clan.

*

I would like to have been an Arab

adventurous bold and free

wearing romantic flowing robes

riding the crests of desert sands

the leader of a Bedouin band.

*

Or possibly an Eskimo

dressed in thick warm reindeer furs

skimming my fast and sleek kayak

through the melting cold ice packs

the hunter of my Inuit tribe.

*

Or perhaps even Japanese

they're small but very clever

brought up to eat with chopsticks

walk the streets in a business suit

manager of a Mitsubishi plant.

*

But I was born an Englishman

now I no longer feel insulted

it's really not been all that bad

for Arab, Eskimo and Japanese sad

they'd not been born...a Lancashire lad!

Meself as a Lancashire lad

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

Rejected

Rejection of Joachim's Sacrifice, painted 1304-1306 by Giotto

Read these when you need a little encouragement―responses sent from publishers to various writers/agents:

"...the girl doesn't, it seems to me, have a special perception or feeling which would lift that book above curiosity level."

'Anne Frank's Diary'

"The idea of men adrift on a raft does have a certain appeal, but for the most part this is a long, solemn, tedious Pacific voyage."

Thor Heyerdahl's 'Kon Tiki expedition'

"It's impossible to sell animal stories in the USA."

George Orwell's 'Animal Farm' 1945

"The grand defect of the work, I think, as a work of art, is the low-mindedness and vulgarity of the actors. There is hardly a 'lady' or 'gentleman' among them."

Anthony Trollope's 'Barchester Towers' 1857

"You have buried your novel beneath a heap of details which are well done but utterly superfluous."

Gustave Flaubert's 'Madame Bovary' 1856

"I'm sorry, Mr Kipling, but you just don't know how to use the English language."

Rudyard Kipling

Feeling better, aspiring writers?

© Dennis Crompton 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Black Magic

It was dreary at times, going through the Depression years, but one day I discovered that Dad had a way of his own to brighten things up a bit. When it happened, it would be on a Saturday afternoon. He would suddenly look at me and say, "How about some Black Magic then, Den?" Smiling, I would agree. He would produce half a crown and off I'd go to a pub about 10 minutes walk up the street.

As first I felt very small and uncertain going into the pub. What if a policeman should see me? But Dad had said it would be alright as I would only be getting Black Magic chocolate , or icecream or even dandelion and burdock fizzy drink. And in I'd go.

It was a strange place to me at first. The gleaming glassware, the solid timber and highly polished furniture, but I did enjoy the heady assortment of smells. I'd take several slow deep breaths; it was so nice.

None of my mates ever saw me going into the pub. I always hoped I'd be seen going in there. I wanted to hear them ask me what I was doing, going into t' pub. I would have felt just a little bit superior-like, being able to say to them:

"Oh, I often go into t' pub; I'm well know there you know."

But they never did ask me and my moment of superiority was lost.

Well anyway, that's where I got those special little Depression-time treats - the Black Magic chocolate, the icecream and the fizzy drink. If I had bought the icecream, then by the time I arrived home it would be just at the right stage of runniness that I liked. It tasted so rich and creamy, and was worth a few minutes walk up the road. Then, the Depression didn't seem so bad.

© Dennis Crompton 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A dip into the past

What do you think that:

• Mr. W. Newman, of 4 Dalhuusil Square, Calcutta, India,
• the Bengal United Service Club Library, and
• Mr. Herbert C. Fyfe, author of Submarine Warfare,

have in common with yours truly and the Opportunity Shop, Morrinsville, New Zealand?

I'll tell you:

A book was bought by Mr. W. Newman, of Calcutta, which was then purchased from him by the Bengal United Service Club Library in August 1902. I found it in the Opportunity Shop in Morrinsville in 1999.

Apart from its loose stitching and some pages tending to crack and break if not carefully handled, it has survived remarkably well, even to the Bengal United Service Club Library label on the back cover, which states:

'Members may keep the book for thirty days and are reminded that unless books taken out by them are entered as "returned" in the book kept for that purpose, they remain responsible for them'.

The last issue label of September, 1916, pasted inside, records just one issue, 22 March 1917. It was returned on 8 September 1944, and with no evidence that the book was 'Withdrawn' from the library, prompts the question: Where had it been during its twenty-seven years’ absence?

Published in London in 1902, with its 50 illustrations and readable text, 'Submarine Warfare', by Herbert C Fyfe, is an absorbing read. What intrigues me most about my Opportunity Shop find is the identity of the member who, in 1917 took out P 99, as the book is designated. Why wasn't it returned by the due date? Some call to active service perhaps, or dare I suggest, the strangling rope of a thug, devotee of the Indian god Kali, still active in some areas?

And after all that, how did it come to be in the Morrinsville Opportunity Shop, 55 years after it was returned to the place of issue?

I say! Damned perplexing! What?!

(Any ideas?)

Dennis Crompton © 1999

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

The broadening of Ben Norwood's mind

Picture a man, pleasant, quietly spoken, of middle-age and average build. Add a good head of dark hair tinged with silver at the temples, a ready smile and dressed as becomes of man of quality, if not of wealth, and you have a man whom many women wish to take into their arms and cuddle to bits.
I know such a man. Ben Norwood is his name.

I know too, that he's unaware of the qualities he embodies. He appreciates the few women in his small circle of friends. They live some distance away and, cluttered as they are with family concerns of their own, seldom get under his feet. His understanding daughters love him and keep an eye on him since the death of Susan, his wife, some six months back.

Glenda Thorpe, an admirer, appears at Ben's door quite often these days. He's still at the vague, penny-hasn't dropped stage and you can be sure that Glenda is neither treading carefully nor is easily put off. As his friend and neighbour she says she has no ulterior motive in visiting him round the corner, it's just that his delightful ways have grown on her.

After visiting long enough recently to allow her perfume to linger, Glenda departed, Ben promising to call at her place around 10.30 the following morning with some things of Susan's gathered together by his daughters for the Salvation Army. The fine weather after four days of late winter rain helped as he appeared at her front door with some colour in his cheeks and was soon seated at the table enjoying the assortment of Glenda-made encouragers. The enticing smell which greeted him just before he entered was a pre-emptive strike on Glenda's part, making sure the savouries came out of the oven as he'd turned the corner. A pleasantly satisfied tummy would help things along she thought. You know she was right.

That was a few months back now. They're not exactly going steady, but the relationship is building, Glenda quietly purring to herself that she’d been successful in encouraging him to spend more time at the local library. It got him out of the house and into circulation again. Italy, in the travel section took his interest; she had a relation who'd come from there and probably accounted for her delightful come-on looks. Ben's mind hadn't progressed that far but he was humming Italian tunes he'd heard her singing and it was to that section he gravitated.

A few weeks later, Ben's mind was proceeding in the Glenda induced direction but still at the unset jelly stage. The cost of a holiday for two according to some travel brochures he’d picked up was well within his reach. Glenda knew, she had the very same holiday brochures, with close friends in the local travel agencies there wasn't much going on in the affairs of the town she didn't know about, and I mean that in the kindest possible way. She is altogether a warm hearted and warm-bosomed woman, which I'm assured by those in the know, do go together nicely.

Then something chanced along that threw a spanner in the works. Isn't that typical? Where do all these ‘somethings’ and ‘spanners’ come from? Ben found this 'something' tucked between the pages of a book in the travel section. He'd worked along from things Al Fresco to Dolce Vita when he found the book in question. It had slipped or been pushed behind the others. Travels in Italy, by Cicerone, was not attractive on the outside. It was not attractive when opened and had been taken out only three times since its accession date, yet it gave evidence of more handling than that. He was about to pop it back into place when the something slipped out into his hand, an envelope of clear plastic containing a quantity of white powder. Ben whispered something then that would have warmed Glenda's heart.  Just the two words: 'Mama mia', but in the most convincing of Italian accents. In plain English they meant: ‘Bloody hell,’ or in the dawn of millennium lingo: ‘Bugger me.’

Now while Ben might have been something of a push-over for the Glendas of this world, and he was, he still had the correct number of marbles. He slipped the envelope back into the book and the book back into place and left as if nothing untoward had happened. The local police were amused at his story, they had an exercise book full of such; it helped keep them sane when the going got tough. Ben persisted. They grew less amused and showed him the door. Checking the government departments in the phone book he found and rang the local superintendent, who sounded only mildly interested. His immediate superior who was into amateur dramatics and cross-dressing didn't fool Ben either. A chief inspector's ear at divisional HQ was next in line. He sounded tight-lipped as if prone to haemorrhoids but things got moving after Ben hinted that his next call would be to the media with the tape of all the calls he'd recorded thus far.

Glenda's nose was out of joint for a day or two when he declined her offer to go fishing with him, he was fishing for a more interesting catch. He'd left the gear with his best mate Ted and took a round-about route down to the nearby city where he paid a visit to the Police HQ there. He was greeted by a nondescript person of indeterminate gender with voice to match, and was shown into a small room on the fifth floor. At this point, Ben had a feeling that a small cog in his brain had slipped into gear, upgrading his brain power so that his thinking was sharp and crystal clear. The wall in front of him contained a two-way mirror and knew he was being observed but his body language said nothing.

Enter nondescript number two followed by a uniformed person introduced as a chief inspector CIB, his identity tag with photograph whisked away with a well-practised flourish, leaving Ben no wiser as to who the chappie was. However he sat up and began to take notice as Ben outlined how he found the small packet of white powder in the library.

In the flurry of activity which followed, Ben mentioned his holiday plans and was co-opted onto the investigating team set up that very day. It seemed his personality made him a natural when it came to fitting into the background, to observe and report. They drew the line at Glenda though. She had a few connections too many.

The following day seated in the rear of an unmarked police car with a uniformed driver they headed for the airport and the plane that would take him to Italy within a couple of hours. He knew he was going to enjoy the next round in the game of playing silly beggars, and the broadening of Ben Norwood’s mind was underway, with a flourish.

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

A real artist

It must be said that most members of the Arts Council in our small town have something of a stubborn streak about them. You'd agree if you met them. One of them believed that arts meant culture with a capital K. It was there in bold letters on the opening page of the minute book. This member wasn't that hot on spelling and didn't bat an eye when I pointed the error out to her. Just nodded her head and rasped in a smoky voice: “Bugger off, smart arse,” planting the heel of her stiletto onto my left foot for emphasis. I got the point and formed the impression she was a paratrooper instructor filling in as Minutes Secretary, possibly as a punishment for bad language on the parade ground. There's equal rights for you.

The chairperson, Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones had real flair in making a cock-up of things, aided and abetted by all but one of her committee.

Before the meeting started I had time to read the notes re the painting covered by a cloth on an artist’s easel behind the chairperson. She'd chosen it from a number submitted by artists in the district and expected it to be approved before the meeting ended. It would have been, except for Mrs Robertson, otherwise known as Jenny.

Jenny had been voted onto the Arts Committee by my astute editor, keen on livening things up a bit and she was the reason I was there that night. He'd suggested the previous reporter chat up the Minutes Secretary for inside information and get her private view of things. Silly man. She gave him private all right. He'd not been well after the meeting and was still limping badly to boot. But I digress. Jenny took her place at meetings and said little for the first six months, luring the chairperson into thinking he had her sewn up and in the bag like the rest of the committee. Pity. It blew her a mention in the New Year Awards and trip to Government House.

Jenny had a quiet, winsome way about her. An artist in her own right, she could throw a pot on the wheel with the best of them. She had also, on the odd occasion, thrown the wheel as well. However, it was the startling freshness of her pottery, painting, cake decorating, quilt and home made wine making that won the day for her. A group of supporters who enjoyed her unusual way of doing things gathered around her; a group who packed quite a collective wallop. What the stiff backed, straight laced, long-nosed, hoity-toity so-called arty folk on the arts council needed, they suggested to her, was a “cultural shock”. Not just your average run-of-the-mill one either. A bobby-dazzler was needed. Jenny agreed and planned to deliver one at the next committee meeting, the one my editor had deviously assigned to me.

Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones was at her boring best that night. Owner of the Artist’s Palette Studio she was considered something of an artist by her mother, the milkman and two express seed delivery men from out of town. Just before the meeting ended, she removed the cloth from the painting, with the intriguing title: 'After-thoughts’. “This work,” she said in the confidential tone she used when elevating herself in conjunction with whatever she was promoting, “This work, commissioned by the proprietor of the Light and Bouncy Gym for ladies, is the one I recommend for the art award this year.” I contemplated asking her to place it the right way up but refrained after I'd pretending to tie my shoe-lace, and from an upside down position found it was still beyond comprehension.

She allowed some time for the animated discussion to subside before asking Jenny for her opinion. A cunning move. Several had already commented loudly on how wonderful the item was. Surely it would have been churlish for anyone to say otherwise. It was at this point that Jenny thought one of her many indelicate thoughts, the kind that makes you laugh inwardly when you're with company, but outwardly and with considerable gusto when you're on your own. Jenny knew from past experiences that telling it like it is could mean she'd get rather damp. Pissing against the wind tends to have that effect. She even pictured how and why this happened before dismissing it from her mind.

As she rose to her feet her coat slipped open and I knew I had a hum-dinger of a front-pager. All talking stopped immediately and the room fell silent. In that one act, Jenny, a real artist had succeeded in receiving the undivided attention of the whole committee in such a way that Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones had never done before. I forgot to mention that another of Jenny's achievements was painting on satin. The dress she wore was satin. Satin and flesh-coloured. Satin, flesh-coloured and sporting two superb likenesses of the female breast. So life-like in fact that at first glance I believed them to be her very own. “Now that I've got your attention Madame Chairperson,” she said smiling, her diction clear, her voice lilting, her eyes sparkling and her dress stunning, “I don't know how or by what criteria you rate something to be worthy of an award. I have my own, natural ideas, and…” indicating towards the picture, added, “…in my opinion, that is not art.”

Three male members of the committee burst into spontaneous applause along with several members of the public. A couple of portable phones appeared and someone offered a drink of water to the chairperson. She needed it, especially when Jenny walked up to the front, removed her coat and turned to look at the painting. Talk about your pièce de résistance. This was a beauty or they were beauties, depending on your point of view. Two life-sized buttocks painted on the back of the soft material shimmered life-like as Jenny moved slightly this way and that in the manner of female models the world over. Oh yes. It was art at its best and spelt the end for Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones.

For Jenny, it was a new beginning. What clinched it was the comment she made just before she returned to her seat and the meeting ended. She appeared to have an after-thought, beamed at everyone, smiled coquettishly and murmured softly, “I would like to point out that I've merely applied a little reverse order to my satin painting. You do realise, everyone here tonight, that we are entirely au naturel under our clothing?”
Changes were made, of course. A new committee was elected, with Jenny as Chairperson, and the way was now clear for art to breathe again. I'll leave you to guess who and what won the award. Jenny did enjoy her holiday in Tahiti. Fell in love with a sensitive new age guy, who like herself was into “interesting dressing” as a hobby. Lovely, eh?

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

Catching one's prey

Sometime in the mid-19th century, schools of elegance for young ladies strove, according to their individual aims, to provide what was considered an all-round preparation for life for their pupils. An admirable aim, seldom achieved. Too few of the tutors were drawn from those who'd experienced life in sufficient depth and variety to acquire the skills necessary for such a task. Too many were bound to follow the pattern of their founder, in which case, their teaching centred on the fripperies of dress, deportment, entertaining afternoon teas and evening soirées.

Along the way the majority of young ladies attending such schools, being pliant and unaware that rocking the boat could have improved their lot, acquired the habit of how to be a dutiful and demure wife when and if that time arose.

There were some exciting and forcefully entertaining exceptions regarding the dutiful and demure bit. For starters, there's one notable living offspring of the Roberts family of Grantham in Lincolnshire. She didn’t attend a school for young ladies, but she changed things round a bit. Well, she changed things a great deal. Her husband, Denis, hung around in the background: he smiled a lot but wisely kept his mouth shut, while she played merry hell in politics and became a Baroness  I believe. (And yes, she has just recently died.)

The activities of the above schools make interesting reading these days and I was much entertained by a recent discovery of: 'The Isabella Sterne Academy for Young Ladies' while researching the distaff side of my own family. Isabella appeared to have bridged the gap between the lower and middle classes with some success. Her private journal offers more than just a titillating peep into the lives of titled and moneyed families scattered throughout the ruling classes of today.

As always, the best made schemes will go astray, as one story from Isabella's journal illustrates. It happened that a certain Lady Caroline sent her niece, Veronica to an academy as outlined above. After three years, Veronica began her statuary round of accepting invitations where other families had spare offspring of the male gender awaiting the net. Thus she arrived one day at Blamire Hall, where Hugh Blamire, eldest of the breed awaited inspection, snorting at the bit. His father, Sir Prentice Blamire, resembled a modern car salesman keen to see the bargain on his corner lot driven away by some equally high-spirited wench. Veronica was not impressed, and judging by the strong gammy aroma surrounding him she thought Hugh spent far too much time hunting, and she was off the estate by sundown.

Silly girl missed the point. Hugh was game in more ways than one. A pity that Young Ladies’ Academies were not familiar with a Mr Robert Smith Surtees, one of the most famous of England's sporting novelists.

One young lady, without the advantages they'd had, was, however. It chanced that Susan, a visitor from far away rough and ready New Zealand, found herself employment as a stable-hand at the Blamire Hall. She obviously had something of the modern touch about her and being a spirited rider, enjoyed the breathless heart-pounding thrill of the chase and many a tumble with the hunters. More so, after she'd heard Hugh quoting a well-known line from a Surtees story:

'Women never look as well as when one comes in wet and dirty from hunting'.

Aware that Hugh had quoted , where she would over-hear, Susan, the wise girl, eventually lessened her pace so that he could catch up with her. It's been a successful union for both of them.

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

Life is great, baby

The age of miracles is not yet passed I thought some time ago, on hearing news of Billy Rolands, a former schoolmate. Nothing had distinguished his time at school, nor mine. We belonged to a group possessing the happy knack of being there but seldom noticed, and whose real education began the moment we left school. A group where quite a number, on discovering we had talents and abilities not even hinted at in all our school reports, surpassed the drab existence of our former teachers and did surprisingly well. Billy Rolands was one, apparently. I say apparently, because from the way I see things now, there is a most interesting kink in his story.

When we'd both left school I found employment in the office of solicitors Whist, Crew and Udgeon, or to give them their full title, Freeman Tremain Whist, Sanford Crew, and Barry Lee Udgeon. Billy on the other hand, left New Zealand and worked his passage on board a ship bound for good old U.S.A. The hippy movement breezed into world history, its adherents eventually padding along our streets with simple smiles sandalled feet and flower power.

Two years later I left the lawyer’s office, which by then I'd renamed Twist, Screw and Bludgeon, and began a twelve month break on my OE (‘overseas experience’). A letter from Billy Rolands a few months previously had drawn me to start in San Francisco, to take in the hippy scene and look him up at the same time.

My introduction to the city was per the Gray Line bus tour entitled, The Happy Hippie Hop’. It was in keeping with the driver's message and its drawled delivery:

'Yew are now a-seein the largest hippie colony in the world as we pass threw what's known as the Smokey Curtain Collective. Marijuana is staple diet hea. They yews it to stimulate their senses. They injoy paradin, deminstratin, seminarin and discussin, especially tellin us what's wrong with the quo of the status. Malingerin is injoyed and wide spread, along with self expressionin, strumin gueetars, suckin and blowin pipes and bangin away ... on bongo druums that is'.

If you recall those days you'll remember they didn't just blow their own minds, they blew the world's mind as well as they smiled, danced, got high and loved everybody from one hip happy day to the next. Billy, I found, was well into it. He sure looked the part with his ample body enveloped in flowing robes, teeth smiling through the mass of fuzz around a face framed in flowing shoulder-length peacock-coloured hair. A most acceptable guru informing folks how to get hip and blow their mind and savings all at the one time. I do believe it was his Kiwi accent and casual take it or leave attitude which endeared him to the folks who sat at his feet and paid him his considerable financial dues.

The hippie movement was not for me. I wished him well and meant it, as I left on the next leg of my OE heading for England. Our family, being high Church of England, included candles on the table to illuminate dinner on Sunday evenings. I'd promised my parents that I would get the real oil by dipping into things ecclesiastical, which meant staying a few weeks with a friend of my parents, the Vicar of a church in Cambridgeshire. The persuasive softly spoken chappie talked me into a weekend spiritual retreat, isolating me at Martin Abbey close by the east coast of Kent, where the wind blew cold and with nothing to view but the headstones of sailors and travellers drowned nearby. For the next 36 hours I was subjected to singing, chanting, fasting and long readings from religious books delivered in voices bereft of all save a few dreary montonous notes.

San Francisco and all things hippy beckoned very strongly from the stone cell where I was expected to sleep. Strange really, everyone else there seemed to accept it all as normal. But I'd fulfilled my ecclesiastical duty within those cloistered C of E walls, and I left the place to the Abbot, his followers and all things Kentish.

I returned to New Zealand, completed a Pyschology degree and started a counselling business, getting people to unburden themselves as they relaxed on a couch in my consulting rooms. For the next five years things went well, except for a handful of regulars giving me a difficult time helping them overcome problems of gross immaturity, deep insecurity or an excessively aggressive attitude. Living in Wellington was fine, but too many genuine customers were put off by MPs and top government executives cluttering up my waiting room.

Installing a locum, I took six months leave and set off for San Francisco to check things out again with my old school friend, Billy. Alas, there was no sign at the place where he should have been. I asked for help from a middle-aged man intent on enjoying a few evening drinks. He'd already started I discovered as he put his arm around my shoulder and breathing foul methelated vapours full into my face, coughed and spluttered:

'Billy is now the Right Reverend Brother William, yes sir. He done got hisself blessed by a Kuru. None udder dan Hari Krispa, a true Guru and a Yogi. Dat Brother William, he been filled and is singing the praises and tellin it like it is, man'. I managed to break free and left gulping deep breaths of fresh air and a host of fleas who reckoned they knew a good home when they saw one. I also had Brother William's new address.

I really wasn't prepared for what I found a few kilometres out of town.

Billy had found an old abandoned Mexican styled ranch-house and, with the flower power gang, help converted it into a monastery. This was some new Billy, more a William in fact. Certainly, with his beard and moustache trimmed, hair neatly tonsured and wearing a creamy white robe with golden sash around his middle, he looked magnificent. His new position as Abott of the monastery suited him, I thought. I also thought it would be run along the lines of the monastery I'd stayed at in England. It was as well my parents were not with me, nor the dear Vicar from Cambridgeshire.

Once inside the grounds my senses had to grapple with their world of hip colouring, hip music and hip terminology. Abbot William was now Abbey Baby, a with-it hip cleric whose favourite blessing was:

'May all your visions be incandescent auras suffused with the brightness of seven heavens'.

As far as I could see, the brothers were kept in a state of expanded but fuzzy consciousness by consuming dope-laced cookies washed down with home-brew. The brew looked innocent enough but contained a delayed eye-wobbling wallop with a built-in automatic repeater at 60 to 90 second intervals. Everything was: 'Beautiful man', as Puff the Magic Dragon wafted through the air waves in sound and smell. Brown rice, sprouts and lentils served by a large earth mother borrowed from a nearby women's prison, ensured a steady movement to the men's room.

Four hours later, when it was time to leave, Abbey Baby offered lavish inducements to stay, which I declined. When Abbey Baby left to answer the phone, I discarded the habit loaned to visitors and hit the outside pavement running.

I returned to normal civilisation courtesy of Air New Zealand. I do confess to sneaking through customs a small memento of my trip: the recipe for Abbey Baby's cookies. I've made a few friends from the drone house in Wellington, who have access to all the cookie ingredients. As a consultant counsellor, I enjoy groovy sessions with a handful of our country's kaftan-clothed top drones, along with a six figure annual fee. And yes. Life is great, baby. Have another bickie.

 Dennis Crompton © 2000
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Inclinations

My time in the British army and RNZAF (Royal New Zealand Air Force) meant that I mixed with all sorts and conditions of men, and as they are part of our common humanity I've written this item in an attempt to record some of these gay and joyful observations.

The residence at Hursley on the road heading north to Winchester, was just what I'd wanted. Nice location. Excellent condition and the accommodation flat on the end meant I could have someone there for company. My lawyer friend would help me organise all that. I gave a twirl round the rooms I was so pleased with myself. At last I could settle down and follow my own inclinations. (What a gorgeous word that is!)

That night I retired with a feeling of satisfaction and excitement. After I'd unpacked my wardrobe, I planned to explore my new surroundings with a trip along the motorway to my old stamping ground at Winchester. So, with a word of thanks on my lips to my dear non-judgemental, understanding, Aunt Phoebe, I nestled down to sleep in my luxurious new bed.

About mid-morning the following day, I surveyed the badly rumpled state of my wardrobe and could have cried. Well, I did cry. After all the care I'd taken packing. Those brutes of carriers must have thrown my three portmanteaus into their van with as much thought as they took to dress themselves. Really. It made me so cross. I'd tipped them well enough too. There was nothing for it, I took time off for a gin and tonic and rang my friend Hugh. He's a real pet. Just hearing his voice did wonders in calming my nerves.

I followed his advice, pressed and hung everything and by the time that was done, it was too late to think of Winchester. Instead, I took a stroll and ended up sipping a crème de menthe in Tony's, a boutique in the centre of Hursley. The place was crowded with old ecclesiasticals. There was no getting away from my immediate past it seemed. To be honest, I didn't want to. It had been a mistake in a way. Seven cloistered years is quite a slice out of anyone's life. And at thirty-five I was not that old. But I was wiser and had learned a great deal about fabrics and design.

I thought another blessing on dear Aunt Phoebe and decided to splash out on the latest in Swedish sewing machines. The lounge needed new curtains but I'd start with the crushed silk I'd just purchased. I couldn't resist the feel of it nor the assistant with the softest blue eyes as he murmured: 'Do you have the inclination to try this, sir?'

I'll be popping ‘round again of course; they do carry the most delightful range of materials.

Two days later, as I sat wondering what I might do by way of design, a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet came to mind:

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, for the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Willy was so right. It gave me an idea and an hour or so later, I'd completed the first evening garment that made me famous in the rag trade. It really was stunning.

A vote of thanks to Aunt Phoebe's generosity remembering me in her will. My shop opened in Hurley's main street in time for the influx of summer visitors to several abbeys in the vicinity. Private sales surprised us all. The first, held at the Royal Hussars Museum proved profitable. I could hardly drag myself away, all those lovely men in their splendid uniforms. Orders followed from the Hampshire Regiment Barracks. There was nothing ordinary about the soldiers I helped into and out of the range of materials I offered there.

I had to return several days later to take orders from staff and seniors at several colleges in the vicinity as well. There was no stopping things from then on. My label: 'Abbot's Fancy' took off like you wouldn't believe. I mean, drag queens and famous people I can't possibly name, adore the idea of wearing my design based on a monk's habit. My old abbot at Winchester and other abbots throughout Hampshire and further afield complaining as they did on TV and in the press, increased my turnover 200%. Though most of them popped in at the back door later, as it were.

The young assistant with those soft blue eyes who'd helped me select the mauve crushed silk, has come in with me. He's a classy dresser and looks so sweet in mauve. I have a reminder of his first words to me inscribed inside the ring he gave me: ‘Inclination’. It's such a nice word.

Oh, by the way, should you wish to follow your own inclination, you'll find me on the internet and in the yellow pages. My new shops go under the name: ‘Habits: nice but nocturnal’.

'Bye for now.

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

Mind reading

I was in a gathering of people in a building where a guest poet of no mean reputation was presenting one of her poems, shown large on a screen for all to see (the poem, that is to say).

The poet wandered round, reading with hand-held microphone, her voice adding meaning not discernible in the words on the screen. Her reading ended, we were invited to respond, some did, and then she came over to me.

I told her my mind had been side-tracked at approximately line eight …

‘Would you mind reading it now, aloud, and then perhaps you could explain what side-tracked you?’ she asked me. So, I did and at the end, I explained that I had recalled an event when I was about 17, and carried along with my remembrances, her poem slipped from my mind … and I apologised again for my lack of concentration.

I’d been reminded of a girl I knew back then and wondered why she’d put on such false airs. Why couldn’t she just be herself? Was she afraid of letting those around know what her real self was like? I said it made me angry when she spoke in her small, pretended shy and self-effacing kind of way … as if her listeners would be shocked, offended if she was to talk naturally, be straightforward in what she had to say. I thought, perhaps she was inhibited by the body language and social standing of those around her, though I wasn’t sure what that meant … I was confused, I said, and then fell silent … but the poet urged me to continue …

‘I saw that girl again tonight,’ I said, ‘clear and unconfused now in my mind; what I’d said of her was just not true, the problem was with me, not her… At 17 I was still immature, inhibited, afraid, held back by what others might think of me … and had been until I accepted the ethic of my own true self.’

She smiled, and just before moving on, one point of her poem was made as she asked quietly:

'I hope you didn’t mind reading …?'

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

Final confirmation

It was the absence of familiar sounds that pushed the first alert button in my mind, as Sugar, our cat, hadn’t purred her gentle, ‘Get up and feed me now!’ call in my ear. The second alert registered when I realised my eyes were open but there was nothing to see; just a soft, creamy light. My body felt different too; I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t need the loo; my eyes weren’t bunged up and itchy from hay-fever. Strange. A moment of panic. It was Red Alert now. I knew I wasn’t dreaming … but … was I awake?

My hypochondriac mind kicked in; imagined my heart thumping loudly and checked. Nothing. I felt for my pulse … foolish me, no heartbeat … no pulse! Wow, so this was it! My time had arrived. The Big End … I took it calmly enough after that dramatic insight which surprised me really. Not much I could do, now … and gradually the soft light grew stronger and I saw I was in a room; a waiting room with chairs and a small table. Then from somewhere in the light, a voice said, ‘Do take a seat. This won’t take long, then you can be on your way’.

‘On my way?’ I asked, my voice sounding faint and distant; but the voice didn’t seem to hear.

‘First, a few questions. We must be sure we have the correct body-data match. Name?’

I went through the formula, slipping in a few humorous asides; they could have been out of place but I was trying to appear normal. Normal? What was I thinking? Normal had gone; this was beyond the normal; beyond what I’d expected, but then my previous thinking had never graduated to this stage of what I’d expected.

The voice again: ‘Any questions?’

‘Well … yes … where am I?’

‘You don’t know?’ I was encouraged by a tinge of amusement in the voice. ‘Have a guess then’.
‘Heaven?’ I suggested hopefully.

The voice laughed: ‘Oh no, more a blend of your local earth time travel agency terminus, combined with our post-earth-graduate control; still, it’s good to see you have a sense of humour; rather novel in candidates here and it will come in handy for you. Now, just a quick check on your last pre-conception posting request … let’s see … Yes, here it is … an assignment in the North Island of New Zealand … now where is that? … Oh, way down here, only just made it on the map … and you chose ... Mohaka on the east coast. A lovely Maori word meaning, ‘a place of dancing’ as I understand. But, oh dear…’. The voice trailed off.
‘What?’ … I asked nervously.

‘Your occupation was accountant? Not good in that locality; well in any locality really. Just quietly, they haven't much of reputation here. Sorry about that. I’m not being judgemental you understand; candidates are to some extent their own judge here … I can tell you these things as they’ll be erased from your temporary memory before you depart. Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll feed your personal information into the post-earth-time-cosmos-referral index and get back to you directly.’

It was then I caught a faint recollection of myself as a boy playing on a farm at one time. Yes, there was a beach close by. It was great there … a pity we had to leave …

The voice interrupted my thoughts: ‘I shouldn’t need to point out that anything regarding your past, will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; taken by a brain-scan of your earth-time memory and registered on our records from the moment of your conception. You don’t even have to take an oath; we know everything about you; our data files are more with-it than anything held on the New Zealand Police computer’.

No attempt was made to hide the laugh that bubbled to the surface at this point. ‘I could space-transmit them a copy if you like? Sorry, just kidding … and I see you made it to Wellington as a Member of Parliament. What happened? No! don’t tell me. Not many get through the system there without falling by the wayside. A pity in your case. You were very convincing. Lots of ordinary people genuinely believed you. Depended on you. Trusted you to do as you promised. Yes I know, people living longer meant everything was more tightly stretched … and you had a real struggle with the term: ‘Greedy Oldies’. Easier to overcome using labels that degrade. You knew that. Understandable that you felt uncomfortable with your salary, pension and perks … but your vote did help your party win the day!’

The voice paused; I needed it. My equilibrium had been knocked for six.

It continued: 'The interviewer put it to you that it would be difficult for a person with two children, paying market rental to live on $40 a week. You thought not. Your party was proud of you for that but it crushed the people who’d voted for you. Still, those experiences can allow a more enlightened choice in your future decisions. More heart and less conformity to the party line perhaps? It might be a good idea to forget the standard way of doing things and give ordinary people a chance; in any case you’ll be able to think well outside the square here.’

I was feeling a bit narked now and the voice must have sensed it.

‘Feel free to comment,’ it said tolerantly.

‘You do have me at a disadvantage here … I mean, I haven’t come prepared'.

The voice chuckled: ‘Of course. We do bear in mind the original cards you were dealt; it’s the way you played them that matters and you have only passed through the elementary stages so far. Your past experiences together with whatever way you’re thinking takes here, will have a bearing on your decisions in the next round. Take heart, your final assessment is light-years away yet.’

At that point another voice, coldly metallic I thought, broke in: 'Ten cosmos shifts to dematerialisation stage. All post-earth candidates proceed to the lounge for memory recall and earth-time replay.’

It was comforting when the original voice came back with: ‘Sorry about the interruption but I think I’ve covered everything. During your next session you’ll be able to change decisions made during your earth-time. You’ll automatically receive instructions how to do this as the viewing proceeds. Now in earth terms I’d wish you luck, except there’s no such thing. We do believe in team work, you’ll know something about that coming from New Zealand.

The voice faded with the words … ‘Think outside the square …’ then silence.

I felt exposed in that silence but the chair was comfortable as the light slowly dimmed and the screen came on. A young woman was powdering her nose as she listened to someone talking to her from another room: ‘Who’s taking you to the college dance, Audrey?. Not Ted Forbes, I hope. I don’t trust him, you can dance as much as you like when your fiancé comes home next month.’ The camera zoomed in closer. She looked familiar, so did the photograph stuck on the side of the mirror. My stars! The caption at the bottom of the screen said it all. Three hours to the conception of … and there was my name … it was true then after all.
I was a bastard from the start.

Dennis Crompton © 1999

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

Main Street, Morrinsville

Nottingham Castle pub, corner of Thames and Studholme Streets, Morrinsville 3300, New Zealand

Some bright spark on the council suggests modernising our main street,

believing it will encourage visitors through our town to stop,

comfort a priority, then, hopefully, to shop….

*

That’s a laugh, no comfort in the central toilet block,

that’s normal though…where-ever you go;

folk are usually pleasant, feeling lighter as they leave,

the time to capture them and re-adjust their sights…

a sign perhaps, large and snappy to lift their eyes and make them happy.

*

Around our town, above their heads of window-shoppers on our main street

our old facades of faded paint, chipped red bricks and dusty panes

listing a kind of history in the names of people there.

Photographs, large shop-window size crammed full of detail there to see,

really quite a thrill to view them, time-frozen action shots of people.

*

Things we see on gala days, farm engines puffing, snorting and wheezing,

pistons gleaming through the steaming, belts and pulleys, cranks and levers,

care-giver’s eyes happily streaming, adjusting this and checking that,

the women folk are just as bad with fancy dresses and large graceful hats.

*

Cake stalls bountifully displaying grandmother’s mouth-watering favourites;

scones, pikelets, oatcakes, sponges and biscuits,

light as a feather cream-cakes all ready for eating.

*

So hold it there smart little go-ahead buddy in your desire for all your updating

things pulled down today could be the basis…

a calling-place tourists would love to be filming,

tomorrow.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

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

Financial enterprises

I'm sure you've heard it said that, 'Money makes the world go around’; usually by those who have plenty. We of the, 'Never have enough to go around’ brigade also know that money has to be earned before it can be spent. Or does it? Examples abound of people using a variety of methods to get their sticky hands on someone else's hard earned cash. Believing in the law that there is one born every minute, they operate, I'm told, under the guise of second-hand car salesman, consultant, solicitor and accountant. You probably know some of them.

I must have been about nine or ten when I learned to use my ‘thinkery’ to get some money. It was spring. The weather was warm and sunny and none of my friends were in sight. I was alone. Something was needed to put an end to the feeling of despondency growing within me. An ice-cream would help, that, or some lollies. I did torment myself at times. But I was still a few years from puberty, you see, and my stomach was sort of stand-in for what I came to know later, as my sex-drive. It's not so far fetched. Satisfy the stomach and you've got a happy male. It's also true with sex, I'm very pleased to say. The thing was, I had no money. No one I knew had money for such luxuries.

The decision to walk slowly down the street looking closely at where the pavement ended in a gutter for rain water was my first attempt. My thinking told me that this was a regular bus stop from where I lived then for a seven mile bus ride into the main town, Preston. Folks getting onto the bus sometimes dropped a coin or two as they fumbled in their purse or pocket and didn't always find all the coins lost. Great place to start I reckoned and if I told you that I'd only gone a few steps when I found my first penny, you'd probably raise an eyebrow and question my memory. But it's true. There it was, round, copper-brown and lovely, just off the footpath. It was instant happiness the moment I picked it up. Oh yes. I resisted the impulse to dash to the shop and splash out and with head down continued on down the street and found another penny. There was no stopping me now. I took to my heels for a real splurge. I don't remember what I bought but I enjoyed the experience very much. There was such a selection. Chocolate walnut whirls, Spanish rolls, liquorice sticks, sherbert dabs, and assorted toffees to chew until my jaw ached. And the rest of the day went very well. Oh yes!

I didn't tell anyone else, that would have meant a decrease in the potential for success later. I did discover another way of getting my hands on some sticky money. At that time on most streets where I lived, each house had a cellar. The cellar had a window and to let in some light a metal-grating was fixed into the footpath above the window. Sometimes, if you looked down through these gratings you could see the odd coin amongst the accumulated rubbish. More, if the gratings were in front of shop windows. It was a case then of having some collateral to start you off on a new financial enterprise. You had to have some chewing gum, some chewing gum and a stick, the stick had to be long enough to poke down through the grating; now, with the chewing gum at one end of the stick you were in business. Find a shop, sweet or cakes shops were usually the best. Look for a coin, lower the stick down through the grating, pop the sticky end onto the coin and carefully lift it up. It works. I've done it, several times. The shop-owners don't like it. They move you on, sharpish like. 'Come on now. Don't stand there cluttering up the footpath. You make the place look untidy. Off you go.' The truth is, they don't like to see their fringe benefits being whisked away from under their noses by kids.

But for enterprise and cheek, one kid I saw outside a shop took some beating. As a youngish woman came his way, he started crying, with real tears. The woman stopped and asked him what he was crying for. He pointed down the grating, sobbing that he'd lost the sixpence his grandmother had given him to buy some bread. The young woman opened her purse and gave him sixpence, patted his head, smiled and walked on. He must have pocketed quite a nice little sum in the short time I watched. It ended abruptly as his last victim was opening her purse. Another lady hurried over from across the street. Seized the boy and boxed his ears soundly, explaining as she did so that she had watched him pull the same trick for the past ten minutes.

I don't know if the boy stopped earning money that way. If he did, it would be because he'd come up with a better scheme for getting ladies to part with a portion of their house-keeping, without getting his ears boxed. Today, he's probably the chairman of some corporate business organization, pension fund, or employed as a financial consultant for the government. I'll tell you this though, if he is, he'll never get his hands on any of my money. I don't make enough you see. Well there's P.A.Y.E., G.S.T. tax on savings and numerous other taxes whilst I'm still alive. And it doesn't stop when I pop off; then there'll be death duties, the undertaker's fee and plot fee, and in order to ensure I stay where I'm put, the family will likely insist on a headstone. For a fee of course and another for keeping it free of moss and lichens. The list is endless.

There must be some way of getting a bit of it back, surely. If I could only contact the young lad I saw that day; he may have already passed on of course, if he has, I'll bet he came up with something really novel, like earning a steady income from passers-by at the cemetery, dropping coins into a slot he had fixed into his headstone, with the words:

'Need a friend on the other side? Your donation will help.'

Which I think is the last word on the matter, until we get to the other side, that is. Goodness only knows what awaits us there.

Dennis Crompton © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

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)

A winning creation

Recently I was very privileged to be able to attend a competition entitled: the ‘Best Hat of the Day’, held by a branch of the Country Women’s Institute in the Waikato district, on the outskirts of Hamilton, New Zealand. Their guests were the women-folk of the district’s social and welfare organisations, invited so that the Country Women’s Institute could show their appreciation for all of the voluntary work they had undertaken; a noble gesture, I’m sure you’ll agree.

In between a variety of activities, morning and afternoon teas had been organised, with a three course sit-down luncheon served in a marquee hired for the purpose. Children were catered for by well-wishers from associated branches of the Country Women's Institute; indeed, everything had been thought of to make the day memorable for all the women present. Activities varied from knitting, sewing, washing and ironing clothes, to making beds and drawing up household shopping lists from four to forty. The whole thing was a great success with lots of laughs all round, despite the activities being a vivid reminder of the work they all had to contend with at home.

Then came the main event: the Best Hat of the Day competition, modelled under lights on the hay bale runway in the centre of the marquee. The hat had to represent something of country life, from materials produced in the district and worn by someone living in the district.

Most would agree that not everything considered artistic by its creator is worthy of the name, while true art can just as easily be set aside. The artistry of some creations displayed that day ranged from the beautiful to the batty. Hats variously incorporated feathers, wool, sacking or natural products of the land, some discarded from animals alongside clever creations of man-made materials.

I was pleased I’d made the effort to be there that day though as it brought to my attention three particular folks from the Waikato district...Many thought the winning creation would be that mocked up by former odd-jobs man at the freezing works, Mr Ted Gorman. A couple of judges were heard to say he had artistic bent; ‘bent’, I’ll agree, but the ‘art’ part was sadly missing in my opinion. It quite honestly resembled a large, crumbly Pavlova gone wrong; it was off-white and lacy, like the froth and bubbles one gets when pouring milk into coffee from shoulder height or above, including the obnoxious aroma from the deadly greenie-yellow mould enjoying the week-old filling.

Add to that concoction that the model chosen by Mr Ted Gorman to display the hat was Ms Prudence Lawrence, who had been known as ‘Spew’ Lawrence on account of her leaving the contents of her stomach displayed over footpaths, fences, car bonnets, or wherever, upon leaving the Working Men’s Clubs where she worked as bouncer.

What was more the pity was that Prudence was in fact misnamed. She didn’t give a damn about anything or anybody; up close she lacked all trace of femininity, form or bearing … yet there was something of the ugly-duckling there. Could a miracle bring about her transformation to a swan? This was after all the lady chosen by Mr Ted Gorman, the artist, to model the hat he’d created.

Surely Ted Gorman’s hat did not win the competition!

It didn’t.

A sorry affair of a hat concocted by Mr Harry Childers, popular bachelor of several parishes he’d fled (and sadly the threat of legal action prevents me saying anything further on that at the time of writing), won the competition, and me thinks his sparkling eyes directed at more than one of the lady judges had something to do with his glorious and unexpected victory.

But surprising us all, shortly after the competition for ‘Best Hat of the Day’ Ms Prudence Lawrence and associates started a dizzy climb up the ladder of rich and famous New Zealanders.

The hat and Ms Prudence Lawrence were seen by a pimply-faced youth at the Country Women’s Institute Best Hat of the Day competition, who had then had the brains to put two and two together. He took his camera, went round to where Prudence lived (not far from the Working Men's Club) and photographed her with the hat in several seductive poses. The Indecent Publications people (who’d kept an eye on said youth) were informed of the photo session; they viewed and confiscated the material and gave it the once-over several times in the privacy of their viewing studio. They liked the proofs and ordered a full set, ostensibly for their files but they did release one shot to the pimply youth. It could be used, they said, on the condition that it was first ‘touched up’.

What started Prudence Lawrence and the youth on their way to becoming rich and famous was the way the youth had taken an air brush borrowed from a car-painter’s shop to do the alterations on Prudence’s proof. Gone were the unsightly lines, frowns and other unsightly bouncer-like blemishes. They were replaced with twinkling eyes and a smile as bewitching as the Mona Lisa. The hat too, with a puff here and a doff there became a delightful adornment for Prudence and the combined effect was simply stunning.

Mr Ted Gorman however, was not amused. Where was his fame, and what had happened to his glorious hat? He threw a country wobbly when he saw what had happened to his Pavlova-gone-wrong hat. He refused all offers of financial compensation and was last seen throwing several shades of acrylic blue paint at a piece of old canvas; something he’d planned to do for our Mrs Jenny Shipley, a former Prime Minister down in Wellington. She didn’t accept; it was the wrong shade of blue, there’s politics for you.

You’ll be interested to know that a local vineyard owner saw potential in the touched-up Prudence proof and paid an enormous sum to use it. Prudence and the youth became business partners and now sell the rights for its use. How’s that for a winning creation?

And it goes to prove the old saying:

‘If you want to get ahead, get a hat!’

The New Zealand Country Women’s Institute badge with its monogram ‘For Home and Country’ emphasises the values of the movement. The theme of home focused on improving the conditions of women and children in rural societies. The theme of country highlighted the place of women as citizens and the role they should play in making their country a better place for families.

Dennis Crompton © 1996

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