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

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)