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 bruised reed

This is written about my older sister, Jean.

*

In the strongest metal there’s a point that’s weak

when fatigue or constant grinding tension

slowly drains the soul out of the metal

dissipating whatever strength is left.

 *

She was strong, could face up to situations almost overpowering

but underneath, inside, the daily battles took their toll.

I, her brother, close enough to advise her

could not prevent his hold over her;

she later married this head and feet of clay.

 *

Oh, it was fine at first, displaying supposed married love;

alas his strength was in his arm, not in his head, and

as a brute drunkenly abused, a bruised reed did make her;

until she finally left, that old so sad and familiar story.

 *

I went to see him, angry yet quite in fear of him one day,

he towering above me listened as I talked him down to size.

I threatened him and even as I trembled I took strength,

for he was near weeping as I warned him not to offend again.

 *

Later, travelling with her on a late night bus,

I sensed some vital spark had been submerged or lost,

still tried to comfort, reassure, suggesting

the future still held promise, that not all was lost.

 *

I wondered then, how such men could answer to that name,

to use their strength to subjugate a weaker frame;

from liquid daily his false courage drew,

his mates joined in and so the monster grew.

 *

Her hair is white now, her step less firm,

her heart still beats, and though oft the memory stirs …

around her feet, her offspring brighten up her day,

all was not lost to so-called manhood on that wedding day.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

Have you...?

Henri Matisse
1869 - 1954
Le bonheur de vivre” (“The joy of life”)

Have you grasped the greatness of your being,

discerned somehow there’s a purpose in your life,

a miracle beyond present comprehension,

been reassured by glimmers of inner light?

*

Have you midst your everyday occupation,

or solitary, on some quiet evening stroll,

been overwhelmed on hearing strains of music

in harmony with a soul-song of your own?

*

Have you been present at birth’s miracle,

heard, as she heard with her Mum, a babe’s first cry;

then later, wondered at her first simple sentence,

new life communicate with her waiting world?

*

Have you experienced the truest joys of friendship,

somewhere on your life’s journeyings,

breaking bread in the company of some stranger,

departing more complete for such time spent?

*

Have you thought on those circumstances manipulated

in this world’s prisons with greater flaws than yours;

seen the world through their dehumanizing barriers,

as cruelly restrained as bars or cold stone walls?

*

Have you had the privilege to be present,

hearing last thoughts of another’s whispered words,

holding their hand, caring and farewelling,

knowing you were a comfort at their end?

*

Have you felt the true worth of your being,

that magic ‘something’ deep within your soul;

that come what may and though your very world

did tremble round you … all would be well?

*

Should this have been your fortunate experience,

then blessed are you, a thousand times I say;

and I pray that now this privileged possession

you’ll somehow share with us of lesser clay.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

Places

In that small cottage over there,

I first saw the light of day.

 *

Up that dark and cobbled street,

awful demons I did meet.

 *

In that schoolyard I met Alfred;

he could pee two inches higher.

 *

In that schoolroom I did learn

the wonders of the written word.

 *

In this ear did a schoolgirl whisper:

come closer, love, and let me kiss you.

 *

My sister gave me in that house there

a delicious slice of her homemade bread.

 *

In that village house I knelt beside

the bedside of a coffined child.

 *

In that air raid shelter I did hide

from enemy bombers in the night.

 *

In this street I once did see

a big red bus run near over me.

 *

From Glasgow city I sailed away,

great expectations filled my day.

 *

Down that road I walked on air,

softly whispering my love for her.

 *

In that ward a miracle I did see;

my first daughter born to me.

 *

So many places I have seen,

wandering, adventurous, lucky me.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

With these eyes I have seen

I have seen with these eyes

things to make me wonder, weep or cry;

been lifted up and cast down too

by the kaleidoscopic gamut

of happenings around.

*

Seen troops of chattering children

free from classrooms’ confining walls,

learning as they strolled hand in hand

along widening enlightening roads.

*

Frail elderlies too, sedate, composed

on their daily walk to town…when,

a sudden swirl of wheeling birds

brings them joy in the sunny air.

*

From trailer hitched to back of truck

stare two soft eyes, lovely and brown

a patient cow from out of town…

now comes a fat and friendly Labrador,

his coat a glossy black

lightly trots his sniffing round

pink tongue peeps from smiling mouth.

*

Be careful now!…he’s on the road,

inspecting something lying there;

hedgehog squashed, exposed, obscene

too late on snail patrol he’d seen

oncoming vehicle lights surprised

and just as suddenly, he died.

*

Here comes a silent, sad-faced gentleman

hurting deeply at employment lost;

services no longer required; sorry,

must lay you off, says his younger efficient boss.

*

There is beauty, wonder, sadness, love…

yes, all these things for me are free.

I can select, absorb, ignore or shut out,

the choice is mine, you see…

from my store of mind-pictures

sometimes deep emotions stir,

make me one with all mankind…

silent at night or away on my own

the call me from the library of my mind.

*

Then warmed or weeping, bless the thought:

‘These things I’ve seen I can share with you’.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

Abstract journey

Through all the years I’ve lived,

there was a time, I, as part of a family

experienced being a boy - growing up -

leaving home and country…

*

Experience being accepted,

learning different customs,

being appreciated for what I could do,

for what I could become;

for my potential … and just for being me.

*

Enjoying marriage, becoming a husband and a father;

holding close each of our three precious daughters,

heart thrilling, eyes brimming

at the wonder of their birth and their development,

and later for our summer evening cabin story times…

*

So many other things came my way

all for a time and a purpose

possible with my body and my humanity.

*

These have been times I have rejoiced,

senses alive, quickened … by eye, ear or touch … gloriously so,

reaching into my innermost being, making my soul to sing

blessings by a different name - man made from human to human -

we bring the possibility of such blessings with us;

part of our endowment, there to be used and enjoyed.

*

It has been with some sadness too, the opposite quickening,

as the bitter and the sweet need the one to justify the other,

else were the one on its own too much to bear …

*

Who can fathom the making of Man

composed of such variety of constituent parts;

Physical, mental, spiritual, the visible and the invisible,

what turning, mixing, confusing or clarified using

of the human brain in the act of thinking…

*

What marvellous variety of abstract journeys

our imagination can take us on,

with such wide ranging expressions and emotions

is each human born,

fearfully and wonderfully … and for a time and a purpose.

*

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)

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)

Rock my equilibrium

With the children off to school I have a moment to myself

 sat at the kitchen table surrounded by their mess.
*

Tears aren’t far away, it’s another of those days, 

feeling down and quite dismayed by the burdens that I face.

*

Life goes rushing by, 

I only stand and see imitated copies of what I’m supposed to be.

*

My mirror mocks me so, confirms what I believe 

of Hollywood items shown in my weekly magazine.

*

Then on the radio I hear the celebrity speaker say: 

I’ve never had, you see, children of my own,

cleaned and fed them, wept over them and sent them off to school, 

never heard them clatter back again

to balance my equilibrium.

*

And it does.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

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

Lost love

I still have so much to learn
about myself, the wonders of my being.
I claim to be myself,
no want have I to imitate another.

*

Yet how shamefully some treat me,
they care not for my tears,
with words that sear they penetrate my soul,
and laugh derisive seeking to destroy.

*

They think I do not care, think I do not feel,
that because I'm quiet then I must be weak…
but I am who I am and they do me a great wrong
dismissing me with sarcasm and their belittling scorn.

*

How else can it be, my outer form betrays me …
hides the deepest longings of my heart?
My failing spirit weakens my resolve,
I cannot lift my face to look at you
my weeping eyes, they blind me,
and you cannot see how deep the love lies there.

*

My stuttering lips, they fail me,
and so I speak not how I yearn for love…
and if I could my voice would break with sorrow,
the words are there, but locked within my breast.

*

Alone amidst surrounding throngs
I sought the eyes that maybe searched for mine.
I had so much to give,
to share with someone else who cared.

*
I sought a warm embrace,
and lips to kiss and our desires to share.
I sought a loving heart,
one with mine that to the heavens might rise.

Once, an ecstasy flowed through me…
her eyes on mine did set me all aglow.

*
Her smile, her voice, her touch,
her presence near, with rapturous delight
did make my spirit to the heavens fly.

*

She was an angel, I a mere mortal, and with
all my senses captured at her feet I fell.
Sadly, as the sun's rays kindle life in spring,
alas will also blind the one who looks too long.

*

So the heart that careless of my love outpoured,
lost love, of the one who to the end adored.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

A note to my daughters

This was sent as an email to my daughters, Helen, Sara and Vivienne, and I think it shows rather nicely how my Lancashire lad mind works, and what I hold dear.

 

My little computer room is untidy, it’s usual state really but I’m not happy about it, so every now and then I start to sort things out and get rid of stuff that’s just clutter. I have this system, see. Thinks me, I’ll put all my hard-backed folders on the dark blue shelves kindly supplied by The Warehouse. (I don’t like the colour blue, but that’s all they had at the time.) The soft brown and thin plastic folders I’ll put in Filemaster boxes and that’ll do for a start.

The morning followed that pattern; for a while. I’d made several trips to the rubbish bin kidding myself I was doing well, when the inevitable happened. The largish brown envelope winked at me, seducing me to pick it up and go through its contents again. I knew what it contained before I read the label underneath: ‘Dad’s cards’. I just couldn’t throw them away. Well, they’re from my three super daughters, see. They range from greetings for Father’s Day, to birthdays and Christmas, with unexpected extras urging the Dad in me to allow my emotions off their leash for a while. Which I do, the very best of therapy for me, I’ve found.

I’m pictured in crayon on brown or other coloured paper, with a scattering of a few bought cards. It’s their hand-made creations with delightful drawings, comments, humour and touching sentiments which have me smiling or my eyes filling. They just make me feel so good inside each time I get them out, and now I want to tell you how much they have meant to me over the years.

That was over almost two hours ago. I’ve transferred all of the creations from the brown envelope into a clear plastic sealable bag. I think the bag originally came from Sara, and it’s got: ‘Shredded coconut bought 6/8/07’ in black felt on it. I’ve changed my old label on it; it and it now reads, ‘Dad’s cards’ but have added, ‘To keep!’ Going through them gives me the feeling of doing a Dr Who-like trip of the very happiest kind, and for a short while, we’re all at that age again as a kind of bonus, enjoying how we were back then. Super eh?

So I thought you’d all like to know what your cards have meant to me and why I’ve kept them. You all mean much more to me than I can find words to say, Helen, Sara and Vivienne. You’ve delighted me over the years with warm smiles and hugs, cards and gifts of various kinds, and in my latter years, with your families especially.

So, it’s hugs and warm fuzzies from me to you all.
Love, Dad

Dennis Crompton © 2007
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Ben Nuttall was dead

Ben Nuttall was dead. The evidence was there on the headstone—born 7 April 1949, died 24 August 1997. That was all. No mention of kith or kin. No chiselled verse of Scripture and no display of even imitation flowers. Ben Nuttall, had apparently been born, lived the kind of existence that registered as nothing and then died. Can you believe that? I can’t. Everyone makes an imprint; leaves something of themselves behind. Don’t they?

It was the tune on the radio that got me thinking about him again. Tunes can do that, trigger something that’s happened in the past when you’re least expecting it. I reckon it’s because we humans live on several planes. I trip along the emotional, intellectual and physical, and several between, quite a bit; it makes life interesting, as when the tune somehow brought the name Ben Nuttall to the surface for me to ponder again. I especially like that when it does, as if the on the first time I’d not really experienced all that was possible back then.

Now there’s no way I’d consider myself an intellectual and I know I’m easily bowled over when it comes to the emotional. I can weep when an animal dies during a TV programme, even though often it’s not really dead, only acting a part. I’d told my daughters many times during their formative years that the ‘soppy stuff’ on TV was not real. I stopped doing that when they made faces and pretended to snore. Nor do I consider myself religious, though I’ve often sung in a church choir; played snooker with the vicar regularly on Friday nights, ending with pie and peas from his wife, who I believe enjoyed the time I spent at the snooker table with her hubby as it gave him a break from his normal churchy activity. Our relaxed and happy evenings ended when their daughter became ill for many weeks, the gap wearing off my churchiness as I began to rub shoulders on a broader field during my growing teenage years.

Yet some might say that I was at that evening service by divine prompting, an evening that arrived with a cold misty rain which almost changed my mind about going; but I made the effort and was pleasantly surprised to find the interior of the church warmer and more welcoming than I’d expected. I have an inbuilt aversion to welcomes from some religious folks, especially those whose smile is over-sweet or indicate their strong desire to hug. Maybe my aversion showed, as no one approached me thus as I entered and took my seat.

Before the student from a theological college gave the address I examined him closely, and a touch of prejudice made me dislike him before he even started. Amongst other things he looked too serious to my jaundiced eye, but he didn’t lack conviction. You can tell when someone’s convinced of what they are saying; you listen because they make you want to, and this student had conviction. He told us that after morning lectures some months back he and another friend had gone over to help a chap (yes, Ben Nuttall) who was struggling to get to his feet outside the college. He was drunk, his clothes were filthy and he smelt repulsive as they picked him up and took him to where he lived just around the corner. As they opened his door nothing could have prepared them for the nauseating stench that met them and forced them back in disgust…

After talking with his social worker, they learned that he’d joined a tramping club as a young man and things were going well until one member of the club became too friendly, despite his engagement to his sweetheart Susan. Ben was advised to ignore the other woman, but she persisted and placed him in compromising situations. Despite his explanations, it became more difficult for the woman to accept what was happening. The last time she’d seen Susan and Ben together she’d rushed off angry and very upset and Ben had followed her on his push-bike, and that’s when the accident happened. It was in the days before wearing bicycle helmets became compulsory. Someone opened a car door as he was passing, he fell heavily to the ground resulting in severe injuries to his head and back, which left him with amnesia robbing him of most of his memory for over two years.

He never did fully recover, the social worker explained, and on the advice of the medical people who cared for him, they got rid of the pullover he was wearing at the time, and his bicycle, which triggered the worst of his relapses. But he couldn’t forget Susan. He became a vagrant wandering from place to place…and at that point, the young preacher then launched into the religious part of his sermon, while my thoughts took off down a side track.

I’ll say this about the student’s address; I’ve never forgotten his description of Ben’s room, nor the sadness registered on his face as he said, ‘Ben belonged to a family; was somebody’s son, brother, friend and was engaged to his lover, Susan.’ And whenever I hear that tune that was on the radio it triggers my memory of the sad story of Ben Nuttall, and I imagine how I’d feel if Ben had belonged in my family.

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

Echo in the night

 

The lone figure was barely visible in the flurry of snow which swirled around him; he’d never been so far up from the valley and knowing he’d taken a wrong turning back at the river didn’t help him now. He’d tried to turn back and go down again but found it impossible with the wind tearing it him so fiercely from that direction. It became more difficult to breathe now and as he sucked the icy air into his chest, sharp pains made him cry out as his heart started thumping wildly again. He rested, but not for long, being roused by the thought that this was happening more often. He stumbled on, eyes stinging with tears frozen on his eyelids, his body chilled to the bone with the bitter cold. He was forced to stop again, put his head down and drag what air he could into his tortured lungs, forcing a sudden bubbling scream of agony to burst from his throat, ending as a dull blackness overtook him and he crumpled forward onto the snow and lay still.

It was warmer there; he felt it spreading slowly through his body, relaxing him; at the same time, somewhere in the vestibule of his mind the awareness came to him, all he had to do was to keep his eyes closed, let himself go and he could escape the harsh blue whiteness of that deadening cold; Yet somehow the will to live stirred him into a kind of consciousness where only the faltering thump inside his chest still connected him to the land of the living.

Then, from somewhere far away he heard the voice of his boy; heard him laughing that day by the river; felt his small body pressing close to his as he lay on his chest listening to his father’s life-force, then so strong…now fluttering faintly on the verge of extinction. Urged on by the hope that his son was close by, he struggled to raise his head to look for him and in the process gave the spark within him a gentle blow so that it spluttered on a little brighter. Realization was crushing as he struggled to his feet and peered around, for he saw no one; only the snow, pure and pristine white, dancing around, mocking him as it heard him gasping for the howling wind to stop.

It was more than the ferocity of the elements and the ache in his heart that weighed him down, forcing him to his knees again. For as long as he could remember, as he hunted for food to feed himself and his family, he’d lived with danger; he had been afraid many times but the fear he felt now was different; more final. Since leaving his woman and his boy a strong sense of foreboding had been his shadow and though he’d wanted to, he hadn’t dared to look back. She’d clung so hard; beating at his head and chest, tears streaming down her face as never before, sobbing and pleading as she’d held on to him; some instinct telling her this time what she’d always dreaded…that he may not come back…

As night fell he could do no more, so he closed his eyes. Strangely, wonderfully he felt her warmth, pulling him close, wrapping itself around him. He could smell her hair; feel the warmth of her face and her body; felt again the gentleness of spirit she’d brought to him, transforming him from stranger to lover and on to the father of their child. She’d meant so much to him and it was probably at this point when his lips murmured her name and his mind held only thoughts of her that his body was at last taken by the elements.

The news that he had returned was like an echo in the night, for over 4,000 years later, high in the mountains between Austria and Italy where he’d died, his body was found by climbers and the Ice Man hunter’s story could at last be told.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(Ötzi is a mummified human discovered in 1991 in the Schnalstal glacier in the Alps, on the border between Austria and Italy. He died around 3300 BC. More information here: www.newscientist.com and here: www.news.nationalgeographic.com).

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

We thought we had troubles...

We moved into the school house in early December with my high school teaching job. It was basic low-rent accommodation and came with problems. Only one top element on the electric stove worked. A week later we found one room of the house was damp and smelled. Investigating, we found an outside drain in the garden wasn’t working. I complained in person to the staff member responsible for school housing. A few weeks later, I complained in writing. Later still I informed them I’d be seeing the health inspector if no action had been taken within the next few days. An inspector came round the following day; we were mistaken he said. Nothing is wrong.

As for the stove, the lady overseeing repairs and maintenance for school houses suggested I purchase an electric fry-pan as repairing the stove would be too costly. She was single. Prim. Thick of skin and uncaring as to the needs of a couple with four children. After several persistent complaints regarding the blocked drain, my bold wife took a group of the board governors, and with a spade showed them the blocked drain. The health inspector from the local council then agreed that it was blocked and the next day workmen from the council fixed it. A week later the stove was fixed and from that time on the maintenance lady from the school office seemed primer than before and colder. I was now a persona no grata.

Still, the days seemed brighter after that and we took stock of our neighbours. Numbered among them was a newspaper editor, a science teacher, a returned World War II soldier, an ex-schoolmaster and his wife, several retired farmers and people either in business or retired from business. All seemed free of the problems we had in settling into the school house.

Appearances can be deceiving though. In time we learned that a few doors down that way, the couple fought over trifles, regularly, and they would have given a writer enough material for a year’s worth of Coronation Street bust ups. Across the street that way, the little dog was given more affection than the man’s wife or children. Two men died of heart attacks within six months of each other and a family with two young men grieved over the death of one in a car accident.

We made friends with some and realised how fortunate we were; our family was complete. Then at breakfast one morning I was startled to hear the most poignant sound of someone wailing. It was a woman. Then it stopped  and I thought I’d been mistaken; but it started again some five or ten minutes later and left me wondering what might have cause such sadness and whether I ought to see if I could help. The anguish in those cries echoed in my mind throughout that day and only when I returned home did I discover the reason.

An elderly couple, she with snow-white hair and he, neat in tie and suit strolled regularly together in their afternoon walk. They lived a few houses away. My wife told me the elderly lady on waking that morning, found her eyesight had gone. It took a few weeks before the couple appeared in our street again. They did, he holding his wife closely and she holding her head high as they made the best of it together.

And we thought we had troubles. Since then, I’ve wondered how I’d react if I woke one morning to find I was blind.

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

Only a look and a voice

This is based on something I witnessed during one of my stays in hospital. 

Outwardly, there was nothing appealing about Reginald Barton, as far as the general public was concerned, being one of those unfortunate men whose build and facial features combined to present him as a belligerent person, when he wasn’t. His clothes didn’t help. No matter how clean or new they might be, they fitted only where they touched, adding to the impression that he didn’t give a stuff what anyone thought of him. Understandable then, that he only had a few friends outside his family circle and place of work.

Reg was another person inwardly. Sensitive and caring towards others, he simply had difficulty in expressing himself so others could see and understand. It’s a pity they hadn’t seen him playing with his children, or their puppy and the kitten he bought them when they were small. While others saw mainly a pugnacious Reginald Barton, he was the opposite. Lately he’d found some encouragement in the saying, ‘I am not a number’.

Surrounded as he was by others who’d achieved, they appeared superior in his eyes. I mean, there was little chance in his present environment that Reg would ever realize his own potential. He enjoyed his work, working harder than anyone else in the engineering work-shop and became a perfectionist. If he’d been made the leading hand or foreman in his section it would have benefited everyone, but he was ignored. In management’s eyes he was, just a number. Eventually it took its toll.

One day recently, Reg was thankful he’d managed to get home; it had been a real effort to stay at work that day. As he’d cleared his work space he’d started shaking and felt quite strange. A short time later as he was leaning over the hand basin at home, he had difficulty focusing his eyes and blinked hard trying to clear them. Then a sudden feeling of being drained of energy made his knees buckle, frightening him and it took some minutes before the feeling of panic subsided and he’d gained some control. Later, as he’d changed out of his work clothes wondering what was happening to him he couldn’t prevent a rush of tears filling his eyes adding to his anxiety.

The thing was he’d told no one. He was like that. His wife Pauline knew something was wrong; it was obvious in many ways. She’d urged him to see the doctor during the last few weeks and while Reg knew she was right, he’d put it off. Now as he sat in his chair resting before the evening meal, he felt and looked dreadful. There was a heaviness pressing down around his neck and shoulders and a feeling of utter weariness came over him.

It took an effort to rise to his feet when dinner was ready, then things became vague and very far away. Pauline told him about it later, when he came to and found himself hooked up to a machine in intensive care. ‘You’ve had a heart attack, Reg love. Not too severe, but…’ Reg hardly heard her. He saw her concern. Gave her a sort of smile to reassure her but it was just too much effort to speak just then.

A short distance away his brain registered that there was another man connected to a machine and it concerned him that there was no movement and that the man was there alone; just him and the few lines drifting across the monitor above his head, and then the words, ‘All the lonely people…’ came to him from a song he’d known but he didn’t know why.

Two days later, things were different. He’d been lucky. Tests had shown no permanent damage to his heart but a senior nurse had said, ‘You’ll need to make some changes Mr Barton. Cut out the smokes, take more exercise, watch your food intake and learn to relax more,’ then she’d leaned closer and smiled as she said, ‘We’ll talk more about that later.’

Eventually he was taken off the machine and moved into a side-room, where three beds stood empty. At some stage, an elderly man had been placed in the one across from him and to one side, and the curtains were drawn screening him from view. The man’s wife came in from time to time, speaking to him softly and when she’d left and the nursing staff or doctors were attending to him, Reg heard a few low moans and guessed from their regular visits that he was in quite some pain.

Time lost significance as Reg slept or rested in the cocoon around him, gradually coming to the surface as he felt more confident to join the human race again. In the evening of the second day after Pauline and others had left, he switched off his bed light and settled down to sleep and half-woke later to the low murmur of voices from the bedside of the elderly man. Then they left and Reg lay looking over at the man and wondered about him. The next time he woke a doctor was whispering something to a nurse as she left.

What happened next was beyond Reg Barton's power to change, not that he wanted to as he thought later. He just felt… guilty in a way, as if he’d been caught eavesdropping, which he wasn’t. He knew that later when the realization that he, plain, ordinary Reg Barton had been there to witness what was said during those brief moments. The doctor sat down beside the man, took hold of his hand and said softly, ‘Hello Henry. Doctor Fraser here. We’ve made you as comfortable as we can, that’s really all that we can do now. You remember? I explained it to you yesterday. Yes. The disease in your bones has made them extremely brittle and that is causing you so much pain. We do understand and will move you only if it’s really necessary. Is there anything I can do for you now? No? The nurses and I are close by if you should need anything. You don’t have to suffer if the pain gets too much, let us know Henry, and we’ll give you something to ease it. It won’t last much longer, you know that don’t you? Alright. Your wife Pauline will join you in a few minutes. I’ll see you later Henry. Goodbye for now.’

Henry died around mid-morning the next day with his wife by his side. Before she left, Reg managed to call her over and somehow was able to say how thoughtfully the doctor and nurses had cared for her husband.
‘Henry was not just a number to them, you know.’ After she’d gone, he thought over a few lines of a poem by Longfellow, which had been in his mind since earlier in the day…

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;
only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak to one another,
only a look and a voice;
then darkness again and silence.

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

Distant flavours

Michael, the quiet and reserved sixth-former at college was tolerated by the boys, being a worthy goal-keeper in their soccer team. Girls saw him differently, rating him tops in good looks and charm and dreaming of him as most likely to succeed as donor father to their as yet only dreamed of children. Despite their best efforts, none succeeded in gaining his attention and were dismissed with a fleeting smile. Visible but unattainable, Michael with the aura of a living Oscar, remained a delectable but distant figure. By the middle of term two sights were lowered, any male, ready, able and willing was seen as desirable. Hasty perhaps, as feminine intuition may or may not have let them down.

A movement, quivering for some time in Michael’s most secret place, began a gradual agitation to volcano status. Despite his best efforts, even with his mind in neutral, his body would take over, embarrassing him when in public, frequently and without warning, the location of its trigger to gain control eluded him.

However, at other times delightfully suggestive femininity surrounding him brought a higher impetus to play. Then, as if a door had opened in his mind, sonnets in homage to their loveliness would flow from his pen, sensuous and beautiful and waiting to be shared.

Until Kumiko arrived, softening the blue of his heaven and all other hues as well. Divided attention saw him replaced as goal-keeper but he’d gained a partner for the mid-term ball. Michael’s gift to her, discovered and purchased via the internet, came from Kumiko’s own country, Japan.

She took a moment to use it and there on the dance-floor they shared their first taste of tengokuno kutizuke, a lipstick rightly named ‘the kiss of heaven’.

And I’m assured that sharing such distant flavours is just divine.

 

Dennis Crompton © 2000

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

Cleaving

I won once, when I was younger,

a partner warm and loving,

who cheered my heart,

changed me, and different I became.

*

Her feminine influence enmeshed in mine,

a different aspect brought to my then limited view,

enabled me to see much more of life

through her more gifted eyes.

People and places, manners and graces,

accessible then in new facets living,

blessed and enriched my every day.

*

Opposites, we were yet a match,

working, seeing, learning,

enjoying time together.

These we did ... a while.

*

Later, finding ourselves,

strengthened then hardened our differences,

too much, it seemed, to continue on together...

the joining parted...

*

We have moved on since then, no blame attached

to self or former lover. It must needs be.

For cleaving brings a time of separation,

as at full term born of necessity

leaves behind the womb where so much had begun.

*

© Dennis Crompton 1998

My first love...?

Picture a Fijian with a head a mass of crinkly short dark hair, now imagine such hair as light brown on the head of a young English maiden and you have a picture of my first love, at least what attracted me to her. We lived in the same parish, went to the same church and sang in the same choir, we met at church concerts and dances but that’s as far as our association went. I had some feelings for her I guess but they were not romantic, that part of my make-up was present but still dormant with the required priming some years ahead. Her mother was prim, proper and quiet with a husband to match. There was, to put it bluntly, nothing distinctive or interesting about them for me but I saw her as someone who stood out from the rest because of her hair.

I have to be honest and say quite clearly that my thoughts about the daughter caused me no sleepless nights, I didn’t break out into writing sloppy poems to her and I didn’t take her out anywhere. It was her hair you see; without that she would have meant nothing to me. Indeed had I not been thrust into the British Army at the age of eighteen, she could have slipped out of my memory as easily as one forgets a the name of a person introduced only a few hours back and it happened like this.

A few days after the OHMS letter arrived directing me to take my medical examination in the upstairs room of our Parish church hall, I waited outside along with a few other lads my own age. We were all apprehensive as our mates had told us what to expect and weren’t really sure whether to believe them or not. The upstairs room seemed cold and unfamiliar as we were told to stand by a row of chairs while opposite us stood four white-coated doctors, one of whom told us to undress. It was this part that one of our number was very nervous about, he had ginger hair and knew his mates were all interested in whether he was ginger around his balls. He was, magnificently so and was aware of the envy of the rest of us plain lads from that time on.

I watched as the first four stepped forward and stood in front of a doctor who checked, each chest was stethoscope and measured, followed by eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Then they were told to turn their head to the left while the doctor took hold of each ball separately and had them cough, while us lads watching smiled a nervously aware that our turn was next. My dad was surprised when I told him I’d passed A1 as he (just quietly I reckon) thought me too puny to be acceptable; the army knew better and in the first six weeks training I put on weight and altogether felt and looked better than I had ever been before. Now after that little wander down things neither you nor I expected you’d ever know about my private life, back to the young lady in question.

I’d completed my first six weeks of basic training at the army barracks in our town and was on my first leave for two weeks, before heading for North Wales to begin driver training. At my last church social the church made a special mention of this and wished me well, something that made me conscious of the fact that folks cared about me and were interested in my future. The young lady approached me, if I liked, she said, looking at me with her nice little eyes, she would write to me while I was away ... to keep in touch, she said. It was rather a tender moment for me and I would have warmed to her but for one thing. I recalled she’d been keeping close company with Gerald, another youth at our church, I looked on him as some kind of odd ball, probably because he played chess. My thinking was still at the unset jelly stage and would be some years before maturity took place, and not to put myself down at this point, liken it to the way wine is unrushed on its way to mature. My marbles were all there, just a little scattered in nature. Anyway, I looked into her eyes and dared to put my thoughts into word without involving my mind too much. Ah well, I said, I’d like that very much but not if you’re going to keep on seeing Gerald, adding rather stupidly, I don’t know what you see in him.

She did write, surprisingly, a couple of letters, as one distant friend to another but whether I could say she was my first love or not, I leave to you, and that would be typical of me then. It was years after I became New Zealand citizen that I learned she’d married. Yes, wouldn’t you know it, she married Gerald. That’s life for you. I did go to meet them in their home, sometime in 2001 if I remember rightly, while I married a fine New Zealand lady and together we raised a family of three daughters and now I’m a very happy and contented Kiwi husband, dad and granddad.

© Dennis Crompton 2012
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2012)