From our front window

Number one Pump Street, Londgridge, was where I spent the happy years from 1936 until about 1940. The front window looking out onto this street had a broad window-sill, long and big enough for me to play with my small toys and keep an eye on whatever activity might take place on the street at the same time.

Monday was washing day, and several women began their day by fastening their clothes-lines from one side of the street to the other. Over half the street could have sheets, pillow cases, towels and other items hanging out to dry from about mid-morning until late afternoon. My mates and I would sometimes enjoy ourselves by running through these sheets, feeling the soft wetness of the washing on our faces, smelling the lovely freshness on our way. It wasn’t long before an irate neighbour would come running out telling us to go and play somewhere else…which we did; we did as we were told back then.

Then there was the milkman delivering milk with his horse called Billy, harnessed to a milk-float which had two large wheels, a seat on the inside rear corner of the float where the milkman sat. He was a kindly man and treated Billy with gentle compassion and respect. As soon as the milk float entered the street and turned round ready to leave; women would walk over to the cart with their milk jugs and watch as milk was carefully ladled into them.

There was a short pause when all had been served before a lady from the big house on the corner opposite our house would come over with either a slice of bread or an apple. These she presented to Billy as she spoke softly to him. Billy had the softest mouth, a surprising contrast to his great strength.

The next part of the process always fascinated me as a boy, for the milkman would fill his pipe and have a smoke during which he spoke to Billy: ‘Come on now Billy. Good boy. Come on now…’ Sometimes what was required of Billy came easily. Sometimes it took more coaxing before Billy responded. He’d move one big back leg a little further back, then his other leg, another pause, more coaxing…then slowly, Billy would lower his enormous willy and a stream of his pee would flow onto the gravel of the street. When all was finished, off they’d go at a steady plod back onto the road that took them to their next delivery.

I found it very pleasing that a man and his horse understood each other so well. They were a good team and I always felt so pleased that they visited our street when I was a boy, and I could watch it all from our front window.

Dennis Crompton © 1994
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Country life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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