Oddities

 
I’d seen them before, a twosome usually but sometimes with an addition, walking down the streets of our small town. Strange people I thought, certain too that other normal people would think the same. (I can really be very arrogant in my thoughts at times! Just as well others can’t read them.)

Anyway, the most outstanding of these two was the man. Tall, with a shaven head and two small piercing round eyes looking out from a most pugnacious face. No shirt, or jacket, even on the coldest of days; just a singlet showing off his somewhat skinny chest, narrow hips and long thin legs with great lace-up boots on his feet. His bulk seemed to increase too as he drew nearer. I could feel the animosity that came with him as he approached me. He bristled with it; ominously. And his look, when his eyes met mine, was quite belligerent. The message his look conveyed to me was, Ugh! You pathetic looking wimp. I should squash you with my boot, and watch it, ‘cos I just might!

I would sometimes proffer a timid greeting, given in a casual light-hearted way, in an attempt to inculcate his favour, if there was any favour to incul if you get my drift. Sometimes he answered! Fiercely, with eyebrows furrowed and knit tightly together looking down on me, surprised as if expecting a sudden attack from a pathetic looking wimp who had the audacity to address him. But I could never catch what it was he said as it was forced through clenched teeth. Perhaps it was just as well.

Sometimes I was spared the effort of a greeting as he was busy throwing words over his shoulder at the slight form of femininity trudging behind him. At times I thought he might have been completely stoned. But here’s the thing: he was the same person I had seen as a schoolboy, just a few years’ ago during my years as a teacher. There was a strangeness about him even then, when, despite being dressed as other schoolboys in his uniform he was never lost in the crowd. Something indefinable in his walk, his look, the way he held himself, together with a strange aloofness (bordering on the cloud-nine variety) suggested to me – vaguely – that something was out of kilter somewhere.

How easily I, at times, have thus appraised my fellow men. I wouldn’t say I judged them; more that I was able to assess or sum a person up fairly quickly. Of course I’ve also been wrong at times, and I certainly wasn’t sure in this case.

I saw this man again another time fairly recently, with the slight form of femininity. This time though it was different. This time they walked together, side by side, and he held her hand. And this time, in his other hand, he held a tiny bundle close against his chest. His look was still fierce but it was the fierceness of a man who has fathered a child. And should anyone have dared to challenge him about the baby being his I do believe his very look would have turned them to stone…

For me – and I’m sorry to have to say this, but – for me, I felt something was wrong. The picture just didn’t ring true. His eyes still lacked something; something that I would describe as the light and warmth of true fatherhood. Both of these qualities were missing, and I must confess my heart froze slightly with that realisation. Would what I thought of him as a person be passed on to the child? Wasn’t the pride I saw only there for himself? Was he really a father? Or had he simply supplied the male sperm that fertilised the egg?

Well, down the street they went. A brief and moving picture of three human souls that passed me on the street that day. Of their background, heritage and future fortune, I knew nothing, but I have thought much since then of the small bundle in that man’s arms. What of its life? Would the mother be a mother; the father a father? Would the child experience all that a human father may bestow – of warmth, love and care?

The strange man was there on the street again today, walking with another man (who appeared to be quite normal) and chatting as they walked. And she, the slight form of femininity, was back a pace or two as they walked before. No babe I saw, and I felt concerned by that. As I was about to turn away from the scene, still wondering, my eyes saw that she had stopped, head down, looking at her feet, while the two men walked on a little way. And do you know…the strange man noticed she was not following and he stopped too. Then pausing only a moment, he walked back to her and, placing his arm around her shoulders quite gently it seemed to me, leaned forward and spoke softly to her. They held each other briefly, before holding hands and joining the other, and they continued down the street.

It was then I thought this: could it be that I am the odd one out?

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Getting it right

Most of us know someone who lacks the ability to get things done. The world is full of them. Others, the suggester-ers, may resort to name-calling, tears, comparisons with so-and-so (usually a relative on their side of the family), even mild hysterics. All to no avail when it comes to the likes of the person I know...

This person is splendidly unique in the way he remains completely unflappable, no matter what. He's been around a bit you see. Knows the score. That one thing can lead to another, and usually does. His mind is stocked with flaws within any suggestion regarding work made to him. The very first time he heard Howe's Law, that says:

Every man has a scheme that will not work,

he adopted it as his own but changed 'man' to 'person' of course, to conform with the politically correct way of thinking these days.

To forestall any possibility of him accepting a hint, challenge, threat, etc, to do something a suggester-er believes he should do, he uses a particular phrase. As if in thought, he allows his forehead to crease, he nods his head, looks the suggester-er in the eye and murmurs, "Yes I can do that. Later. I'll do it later." He calls it Joe's Law, and found that 'later' seldom arrived.

Now he knows through many encounters with his domestic suggester-er, that she will fume for a while, which is the subconscious recording of her mother reminding her:

You'll get little help from your Joe around the house. He's as thick as two planks, like the rest of his family...

Of course Joe up and leaves the scene. Well, he's knows it's better not to hang about when the record of her mother is playing, subconsciously, obnoxiously or otherwise.

I'm grateful too that Joe passed on other Laws he'd learned. They fit a surprising number of awkward situations: domestic, political or rural, very well. Like this one that James Payne wrote in 1884:

I had never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.

Mr James Payne doesn't tell us how he reacted to this. I know it never bothered our Joe. I've seen him pick up toast or other food he'd dropped, laugh and murmur, "Well, bugger me," give it a quick wipe across his trouser leg and consume it without another thought of bacteria or bacterium. He never came to any serious harm that I'm aware of.

I did disagree with Joe, however, about Maier's Law, which says:

If the facts do not conform to the theory, they must be disposed of.

Now while that's quite humous and as good an explanation of how some certain folk deal with problems, in the field of aeronautics, for example, it would be dangerous to give it serious head room. Some research brough to light a certain George Nichols, project manager for Northrop Aviation in California, USA. He developed an idea from a remark he overheard from Captain E Murphy of the Wright Field Aircraft Research Laboratory. It was to do with the valve in an aircraft's hydraulic system. As they discussed the pros and cons of this particular valve, apparatently Captain E Murphy said, "Oh, anything can go wrong when it comes to designing things," or words to that effect.

(And that reminds me of this quote of Alan Shepard's that Joe told me recently:

It's a very sobering feeling to be up in space and realize that one's safety factor was determined by the lowest bidder on a government contract.)

The Concise Oxford Dictionary of proverbs suggests that George Nichols changed what he heard in the 1940s to:

If anything can go wrong it will go wrong.

Since I felt George thought the same way I do, I changed it to:

If anything can go wrong it sodding-well will go wrong,

for colour and effect, and I'm sure George would approve.

In the case of Joe, it's probably the reason why he always said he'd "do it later." He'd learned that by deferring doing anything because of the possibility of things going wrong, the need for it had either already passed or it had been completed by someone else.

By the way, I've just learned a new law which I must pass on to Joe. It's called Zymurgy's First Law of Evolving Systems Dynamics:

Once you open a can of worms, the only way you can re-can them is to use a larger can."

Dennis Crompton © 2001

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

Lines connecting

Alone amidst the throng who pass me by

knowing they see only the outward shape of me

and nothing more

familiar copy of their own they see

yet see not me.

*

I share with them a common clay

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

this I know, as they know too

still, we have not shared each other yet.

*

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

telling me they are partly aware I'm there

some even dare to wave along our common way

superficially each passing ordinary day.

*

So much depends upon the mood, direction, purpose

of the moment when on byways common in our lives

we see, stop, maybe even surface greet a little

then pass on by.

*

If we could see back through the centuries

the flesh, blood and birth of each new human soul

and the distant lines connecting all our lives

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

*

Hello there my friend and how are you today?

come and sit and eat and talk with me awhile.

It's good to share something of ourselves

to enjoy belonging to each other.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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)

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)

Oh, to be older!

This has to do with men’s hair, whistling and long trousers...

World War II was only a few months away when I became aware of the older boys in our area suddenly seeming to appear more grown up. I tried to figure out why and reckoned it must be the long trousers. Yes, that was it, the long trousers made them look taller, and the trousers weren’t sloppy-looking, they had creases. How did they get those creases so sharp and neat, I mused. They did it, I discovered some weeks later, by turning the trousers inside out and rubbing a thin piece of soap down each line inside. When the trousers were turned back again, and ironed, the soap helped to create those keen edges. Neat eh? There was a problem when it rained, however; the trousers came out in quite a lather with the disastrous knack of the creases coming apart at embarrassing moments.

There was something else that drew my attention to and admiration of the big boys; they whistled a lot, and sang too, popular songs of the day, usually in groups of three or four. It sounded great and sometimes made the hairs on the back of my neck tingle, so that I enjoyed it all the more. On top of that their voices were deeper than mine, more manly I thought. I’d stop whatever I was doing just to hear them better. Then I tried to imitate them but it only made my throat sore, annoying me no end.

To crown all this off, these young men plastered their hair with hair-creams; they thought it made them look slick and they’d give me a nod of the head as they passed me in the street. When they did that, boy it made me feel good inside. I’d been recognised you see, by the big lads. I’ll nod at the younger lads too when I get older, I promised myself…oh, to be older!

p.s. And here I am turning 84 this year…oh, to be younger…

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)

Smuggling

The wind blew wild on the coast of Kent as I went to join my father. It was bitterly cold where he waited on the promontory out of Dungeness. The work my father put into selling his wool to weavers in France was threatened by the duties imposed by the government, and danger lurked everywhere now. My father and his friends vainly sought the help of the local squire, and now they could lose all they'd worked for.

But recently, they learned that some of their fellow wool-growers had formed a group known as the 'Owlers'. They'd banded together to smuggle their wool across the English Channel to France, paying no duties at all. They'd felt guilty at first but the duties kept increasing, and so, in desperation, Father joined them.

Then things got worse. The government brought in maiming as a punishment for smugglers. Yesterday an Owler caught off Romney Marsh, died, when the shock of losing his hand killed him. But risks had to be taken just to survive. The weather and the sea could be their enemies, bales were lost overboard and sailors, sometimes. Why, Owlers had even been betrayed in France.

As Father and I waited together on that wild Kent coast, he told me of James Darlington, excise man, who was new to the district. He'd been responsible for capturing smugglers in Cornwall and had begun boasting that he'd do the same here.

'A man with a passion for doing his duty is fine when England's at war'; said my father to me. 'But when it means the ruin of working folk, it's wrong. I only hope I don't come across Mrs Darlington's lad, James, on these marshes, 'cause one of us won't be going home.'

They did meet; years ago now. But it was Father who died that terrible night in the battle that ensued, and our family eventually lost the farm as well. James Darlington, excise man, retired with a pension and lived handsomely atop the cliffs overlooking Shepway.

Yes, life was hard then. I remembered Father's words: ‘Justice is fine for those who have no need of it.’

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

Smuggling: information from www.smuggler.co.uk

The wool smugglers of Kent generally, and Romney Marsh in particular, were called 'Owlers'. There has long been debate about how they acquired this name, and people have advanced various romantic theories, mostly centred around owls — the smugglers hunted at night, so they took the name of the nocturnal bird; or they signalled to each other by hooting like owls. The most prosaic explanation, and probably the most likely, is that 'owler' is just a corruption of 'wooler', which was a common name for anyone processing wool.

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)

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)

Sometimes...

So many times I have wondered how my mother felt about me. I never knew her; she died when I was one year old. Part of this poem covers those thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder at how I came to be…

From two separate entities preparing parts of me;

mother and father, loving ecstasy,

nine months later then entranced ME!

*

Sometimes I wonder what Mother’s thoughts had been,

the moment her eyes first gazed at precious me;

tired and aching reaching out to me,

held me, kissed me…then whispered, what?…to me?

*

Sometimes I wonder at the sights I came to see,

living earth, clouds and sky, ever changing scenes;

birds and beasts, fish in the sea…

the colours of nature all wondrous and free.

*

Sometimes I wonder at what life is all about;

winter and summer, floods and droughts;

the bitter, the sweet, certainty and doubt;

living and dying, a whimper, a shout.

*

Sometimes I wonder at the living mystery

of skin, blood and bone forming the visible part of me,

clothing the invisible you see as me;

sometimes I wonder…now, which is the real me?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Vices: solitary and conjugal

Since my retirement I’ve taken to wanderings in places I haven’t been before, which I have found can be a bit tricky. On one such wander recently I entered a local Opportunity Shop (second hand shop), and it may sound cheeky but it was like stepping back in time, for in the dimly lit interior I had some difficulty in deciding which was content and which was staff.

I took a look around and found myself amongst a rack of clothes, mostly feminine. As I sifted through them there was a movement, sinister almost, as a person of indeterminate age emerged, her hands fiercely clutching an assortment of bras and skirts, and who shuffled a few steps in my direction. She stopped, eyeing me silently with some suspicion for a moment before looking over her shoulder and nodding in my direction. From behind her appeared several more women of her vintage, and if you’ve ever gone close to a wasp’s nest, you’ll understand how I felt when two sidled towards me in a pincer-like movement. I felt extremely vulnerable being the only male there at the time and had the little scene been filmed it would have provided an excellent opener to a horror movie of the Oscar-winning kind. A quick gulp on my angina puffer had my twinkle toes beating a repaid retreat to the second-hand book corner, at which point they lost all interest in me.

My pulse had hardly returned to normal, when leafing through the tatty pages of an old book I read a few things that had me reaching for my puffer again. It cost me 50 cents, but within its loose binding and worm-eaten pages its text promised a wander down old-fashioned pathways of a sensuous nature. Yes indeed! My puffer came in handy twice on my way up the street just speculating on what the book might reveal behind closed doors.

Safely home, I now found that the first illustration on the right hand page was of a well-dressed couple holding hands in a garden. The young man is on one knee holding the hand of the lady as he speaks to her, and the caption reads, ‘Popping the question in high life’, in what today we’d call a typical Victorian scene. There’s a similar illustration on the opposite page, but this young couple are poorly dressed as they walk down a muddy country lane; the caption reads, ‘Popping the question in love life’.

The first word in the title of the book was missing, it read: ‘… to Health’. It was volume 2, printed in America in 1889. Now just quietly, I’m something of a health freak myself, and I’ve always believed that ‘a little of what you fancy does you good’. I therefore permitted the introduction to lead me further as I read the words, ‘A guide to physical vigour and purity in the conjugal relations’, and if that didn’t grab the reader’s attention enough to purchase it, it boldly added: ‘A description of the human reproductive organs.’ Well!

I took a quick glance at the first illustration, which chanced to be a male and gave me some difficulty. The form’s physical appendages where hidden behind a length of cloth draped over one shoulder of the otherwise naked person. Don’t you hate it when they do that? It was a real let-down for me. Being a male I’d hoped to discover if I was as normal as he was; this was a book which was supposed to make things clear, after all. There was considerable doubt in my mind as to whether the poor chap possessed a set of appendages or not, and as for any female keen on filling in a gap or two in her knowledge of what the said equipment looks like, and how it fits into the jig-saw bit she possesses, she receives no help at all. I began to wonder how folk got on before bikes and bike-sheds, if this was the standard of conjugal information available then.

A series of sketches of both male and female organs was given, but in isolation, one would still be in doubt as to where these bits fitted into the total picture. For example; what should have been the most important male drawing contained the explanation, in brackets, ‘(Parts have been eliminated from the original drawing to avoid offence’). Now you know where the word ‘con’ originated. Here was the ‘con’ but where was the ‘jugal’? I did wonder who the offended party might have been; the one supplying the original parts who’d had them privately removed, or those seeking the jig-saw bit.

A word of caution here; pages 58-63 was headed: 'The Solitary Vice’. Now being the possessor of a fertile imagination and believing it’s never too late to learn, I was drawn to those pages with no further invitation, and wouldn’t you know it, the book fell open of its own accord at page 58. I had to blink watering eyes as I scanned through the sub-headings, such as, ‘A sad subject, exaggerated in some sensational works’; ‘Condemned by Scripture and most eminent writers’, ‘Signs of the habit’, ‘A common cause of insanity’, and lastly, ‘When and how to warn youth’. Most certainly not your average bed-time reading stuff now, but guaranteed to keep teenagers of those days very definitely on edge.
Eager to discover something I’ve always wondered about but never knew who to ask, and with my heart suggesting I keep my puffer handy, I flipped through the pages and found, ‘The young man entering the state of marriage is fortunate if he has not already injured himself by yielding to misled passion’. Not good news for me, if it meant what I thought it meant, but I read on. ‘The nature of the male is so much more sensual than that of the female that depletion of virile force is very likely to have already occurred.’ My stars! I was thankful I was seated. I’d begun to feel quite pale and wan, and was having difficulty focusing my eyes again. Not good signs if I recall my parent’s warnings aright.

Now I understand why Queen Victoria dressed in black for so long. Ideas and beliefs from her time governed the minds of many folk when I left home in my late teens. They were rampant in the family where I found board. The lady of the house was a homely woman and I appreciated her concern for my welfare when she advised me one day, ‘Now don’t go wasting your substance, lad’. I knew what she meant without any more being said. It came to me in a flash; she had a son of her own a few months younger than me and she guessed that he, like me was more than likely keeping a check on this virile force stuff mentioned earlier. She was probably thinking too, that as he had not yet graduated, there was still hope.

I’m pleased that the pallid light of such Victorian misunderstanding has for the most part faded with the past, overpowered by the stronger light of today’s knowledge. And while it’s all very well for us to smile at the beliefs of our forebears, it is not without some humour that prior to writing the book to which I have referred, its author was a physician to a hospital for those of unsound mind.

Dennis Crompton © 1995
(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)

Man can choose

 Throughout this world of humankind,
each one different from the rest,
a common thread unites us all
the human right to choose.

*

And this one chooses this way,
this one chooses the other,
one is right, the other is wrong,
and each has a war with his brother.

*

It was not intended this way;
this gift of human choice
was meant the each would choose the right
and live in peace with the other.

*

And whether I speak in this tongue
and you speak in another,
the breath we breathe each passing day
connect us each to the other.

*

Thus humans are free each passing day
to choose what we do with this life,
we can choose to create, to care and to love
or we end up destroying each other.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

(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)

To know or not to know

There are some things that are best not to know.

I was well into my thirties before I gave serious thought to the family tree I'd dropped from. You'd think I could have coped with all kinds of droppings by then, but I couldn't. The antics of some of my forbears were of the humbling, face-burning, downcast eyes kind. From what I discovered about Amos, Seth, Ruth and Esther, bearing religious names in no way influenced their activities. Oh dear no. Our family tree had a very twisted look to it by the time I appeared among its branches.

The bones of one of my forebears, Clara de Voyant, shook and rattled as I discovered and then checked one particular branch of my ancestors. I mean, ‘de Voyant’! Evidence of ‘Clara’, yes, that was clear, but the ‘de Voyant’ appendage was decidedly dodgy. An interesting woman, her name Clara was derived from ‘C.L.R.S.’, which, my research informed me, was a term used on the English stock exchange, and stood for The Chatham, London, and Dover Railway Ordinary Stock.

Clara joined our twisted family tree in through her long gone grandfather, who had been a herbalist. How to find out more? Old trade directories supplied the basic information as to where and when, while district court records uncovered the steamy but fascinating stuff. The rest I gleaned from chats with certain uncles and aunts, where the line between fact and fiction was far from straight. However, while there's not a great deal of interest in long straight roads, life is never dull where you find a few kinks.

The herbalist shop was still there in the main street, and that is where I gained more of an insight into this herbalist forbear from a former elderly employee. Apparently, he had had several children, induced it seems by imbibing the concoctions he was trialling for lady customers, one uncle told me. Some potions worked the wrong way, he said, hitting below the belt for a few who'd taken secret sips intended for their spouse. A resultant dampening of virility for the spouse-potion-sipping-boyos was akin to Samson's loss of hair. Sadly, close, lingering encounters of the intimate variety, became short shift, angry, angry outbursts, with banishment to the spare room. My imagination soared as it brought those words to life, especially when my uncle added that not all was lost. Most of the chappies found themselves able to top C as easily as any boy soprano and were snapped up by tenor sections of choirs in the district before you could say do, so or fa. And wouldn't you know it? It introduced them to whole new life style too. Critics said it was a wonder some trees continued to branch to branch at all considering the new branches had such little sap. (Critics can be cruel.)

But as I said, Clara was a descendant of this herbalist grandfather. According to an aunt Clara was never just ordinary; she was known to spend a great deal of time outdoors, standing in the railway stations touting for clients. Clara laughed it off. ‘But of course,’ she said, her voice husky after sucking grand-daddy extra strong lozenges, and in a fair imitation of a bass singer in a Cossack choir. ‘I seek clients for my séances wherever I can.’

A local newspaper reported it differently. The word was finances, not séances, which is as good a reason as any for a lady to be standing at railway stations. (I've met them that way myself.)

Further research dispelled any doubts as to her ability to foretell the future, despite the plaque outside her door stating it as a fact. Alongside a PhD, if you please! She never won a raffle, always got wet when it rained, while the doggies she bet on preferred to end up at the rear of the pack. And to the embarrassment of those researching our family tree, was delivered of seven children, none related to the seaman or brewer men friends nor optician she married, all three of whom expired before the normal ‘use by’ age in those days, which says a great deal for Clara's production facilities.

I had hopes that her PhD would prove there was some quality in the family, some stray intellectual trait lying dormant in our line. Alas, it was not to be. The photograph of her in imitation leopard skin weight-lifting gear shows she was a powerfully built lady. The muscles on her arms and thighs, caught in sepia colour, illustrated what is possible without resorting to illegal performance enhancing drugs. To what end did Clara build the body beautiful? I mused, and had the photographs enlarged by laser print. The detail in those old photographs can be quite outstanding. One photograph shows her standing in a paddock, fence post under one arm, rammer, a box of staples and roll of number eight fencing wire by her feet. A stoutish man holding a scroll stands to her left. The caption reads: Ted Shipley, President of the Waikato Horticultural Association, congratulates Clare de Voyant, the first English lady immigrant in the Waikato to graduate PhD, for Post Hole Digging.

You can see what I mean about it being best not to know some things. The trouble is, the other day one of my sons brought home a young lady who’s into sumo wrestling. She's built like one too. It can be tough being a Daddy.

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

The heart that once...

The heart that once beat warmly
awakened by love,
the eye that gazed so fondly
moved by love,
the joy that filled
the smile that shone,
the lightness in my step,
all gone… all gone?

*

My look, her voice,
her look, my voice,
the daily thrust and parry
tore apart our explanations
attempting reparation.

*
Outward tears searing,
bitter sorrow feeling,
heart-broken for the
broken whispered words…unspoken.
Sorry my love. My love?

*

Only the past…the lying,
deceiving past did know
what now we both do hold…
Love made not nor held
by piece of paper, band of gold…

*
If made in heaven, then by heaven bemoan,
as passing months or years would prove
how easy then to say or feel…I love;
so difficult now to sing its song?

*

Miracle…a beautiful haunting
devastating human word,
with so much promise,
hope extended flaunts.

*
If only…so we dream and pray,
dream and pray, perhaps another day,
another plan, another woman or another man,
one day the right one will surely come along,
or…did we love the right one all along?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(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)