A trip to the Hospital *

After my parents divorced I was brought up quite adequately by my Mum and Gran, we lived in, and ran a small shop that sold most things. A little shop in Douglas Road crammed with just about everything; we sold cigarettes and razor blades singularly, broken biscuits, two ounces of butter cut from a half pound pack, pearl barley, split peas, Beecham’s pills and bile beans and if you didn’t have the cash, there was the little red book that took your name, and you paid when you could. Some of the names in that book never did the honourable thing and paid up. Some may have forgotten, some may have moved away but most just played on my Mum’s soft nature and never had any intention of paying, (I know that feeling well, from the people that owe me money; family included.) My Mum still has that book with all the debts still unpaid to date. The total amount in today’s currency would just about buy a decent TV, but in those days it was a crippling amount, consequently Mum had to find a part time job in the evenings to supplement the running of the shop.

The shop used to open at 8.00am and close at 6.00pm, Mum used to set off for work at the Mary Dolphin at 6.30pm for a 7.00 pm start, she rarely got home before 1.00am. ‘That was hard graft by anyone’s standard. Her social life for many years was non existent. We didn’t take holidays, and I didn’t know anyone who did, apart from a few lucky families who took a working holiday picking hops in September.

Once a Month, Mum took an evening off to visit her sick Aunt Lizzie who lived up on the terrace, in the London road.

This particular evening she set off as normal and left me and Gran listening to the radio.

We sat there enjoying the warmth from the open range fire and listen to “Journey into Space,” Actually it was only me listening to it, because Gran was almost totally deaf.

I can recall the steam from the ever present kettle rising and leaving minute droplets of condensation on the ceiling. I pondered these droplets and wondered if I could drink them in an emergency, I must say I never tried it, and besides, I wasn’t that tall, yet.

The reason for the kettle was two fold. My grandmother had served her time in a workhouse and had experienced great hardship in her young life, consequently nothing was wasted and everything had to be accounted for. In her mind, if you lit a fire for warmth, why not employ that warmth to heat a kettle for making tea or having a wash. Hot water was never wasted, I was always encouraged to wash my hands whenever there was some available, and there always was.

The fire was getting low on coal, and Gran went to the cellar to replenish the coal bucket.

I was getting ready for bed and was stripped down to my underwear, Gran had given me an orange, and I was lying on the floor looking at the water droplets. I thought it would be a good idea to throw the orange to see if I could hit them. I had several attempts without success, the last time I was way off, and the orange was heading for the kettle.

I don’t know how long I screamed for; probably not very long. When my Gran emerged from the cellar she must have been horrified at what confronted her. Water everywhere and me writhing and shouting on the floor. My recollection of what happened next isn’t good, but I know I was wrapped in a blanket and taken to the Queen Victoria Hospital on the local bus by my Gran and a neighbour. How my poor old Gran coped with the situation I can only imagine. She was in her seventies at the time, and not the strongest of people, quite frail in fact.

The only person with a telephone or a car wasn't in and the nearest public telephone box was three hundred yards away. My Gran’s deafness made using a telephone impossible, and there wasn’t anybody else on the whole estate who owed a car, so the bus was the only alternative. The bus driver drove straight to the hospital missing several stops on the way, leaving potential passengers waiting and wondering why the bus never stopped, so if you were waiting for a bus at 6.35pm on the 12^th of November 1953 and it didn’t stop for you; I apologise, it was me being taken to hospital.

I’m not familiar with modern nursing practice, but in 1953 I was stripped naked and put on an operating table, and the lights was so bright I couldn’t see properly. What happened next can only be described as terrifying; I felt a sharp pain in my leg and looked in that general direction. A nurse was cutting the blisters off with a pair of scissors. I must have passed out because I don’t remember the blisters on my feet, back and arms being treated similarly. It was at that point when my Mum turned up, I was only eight but I recognised a look of complete horror mixed with a sense of relief on my Mums face, when she saw the extent of my burns were mostly confined to my lower body and not my face. We both cried, and she helped to put me to bed. Parents were not allowed to stay in those days.

I was woken up in the middle of the night to a boy crying for his Mum, he was told in no uncertain terms to shut up by the ward sister, he didn’t, and was taken off to a side ward, where his cries were out of ear shot.

The next day I tried to get out of bed to use the toilet, but because of all the bandages I couldn’t, I had to use the dreaded bed pan, I certainly wasn’t keen on that idea but had no choice.

Five days later my bandages were removed and I had another screaming session, the next day I went home.

Ten days later I was back in the same hospital with a broken leg, but that’s another story.