大象传媒

A child in Hospital by Philip Kelly

One year in war time
1944 was the year we saw the gliders and their tug planes heading south-east with the Invasion Forces. For a few minutes the sky over our house was covered with them. It was also the year when I had to be rushed to hospital for operations on my ears. I do not remember which came first but I know which I鈥檇 rather have again. Aircraft every time. Hospital treatment is a worrying matter. Certainly for a sick child suddenly taken away from all I knew and loved. For my parents too, with the bills to pay. There was no NHS till well after the Second World War.

Beginnings
My three brothers and I were all born in Beckton, East London. At the outbreak of hostilities in 1939 we left our home with our mother and youngest step-sister. For the next six months we stayed at my mother鈥檚 parents鈥� home in Lancashire. A spacious country house with a farm across the road. But this could be no more than a temporary arrangement. My father鈥檚 job in London for the London North Eastern Railway meant it was important for him to be within commuting distance. Then my father鈥檚 cousin in Ingatestone, Essex, informed him of houses to let there.

Starting School
So it was at Ingatestone that I started school as an infant, moved up to the Boys School and became a good singer. Miss Todd, our music teacher, used to call me to the front to demonstrate for the other boys. I enjoyed singing. Miss Todd only seemed to know the tonic sol-fah notation so that was what I learned. Up and down the scales I sang. Doh Ray Me Fah So La Tee Doh and down again. But my enjoyment of school and singing was not to last. Later in 1944, I was stricken with a life-threatening disease. Our family doctor, at once recognised 鈥榙ouble mastoids鈥�. Dr Steen鈥檚 daughter had suffered with the same. I was eight years old. Emergency surgery would be the only way to save my life and I had to be rushed to hospital. But in 1944 everything seemed to be affected by the war.

First Hospital
My father hurried to the village for Jack Shuttleworth, who then had the only taxi business in Ingatestone. We might use trains but taxi fares were usually an unaffordable luxury. This was to be only my second taxi-ride. The first had followed our night-time train ride to Lancashire at the beginning of the war. Arriving at the Chelmsford and Essex Hospital Mr Shuttleworth carried me into the front entrance in his arms. Transferring me into my father鈥檚 arms to be carried up the stairs to a room with a single bed. Some time later, when 鈥� except for my hearing 鈥� I had recovered, Mr Shuttleworth told me I had nearly pulled his arms out.

Although they did not expect me to live, my parents had to return home. Even years later, children were not permitted visitors at C&E Hospital. If and when it became certain that I was dying, word would have been sent to my parents and my mother would have returned to be with me. To think that she might return was at first my only comfort. Desperately ill as I was, I believe my sanity was preserved only by the sight of a single barrage-balloon waving at the end of its tethering wire. That was my second comfort. This solitary balloon was at Widford village where the A12 road crossed the East Coast railway line. Ingatestone had no barrage-balloons but my older brother David once saw one on fire; drifting across Chelmsford and being chased by a fire-engine.

Phone messages
Within a quarter-of-a-mile of our home stood a Public Call-box. It was on the corner of The Meads, near the end of Dr Steen鈥檚 garden. That terrible first day, my mother went there to call Chelmsford and Essex Hospital for news of me. She was told that I had been transferred to Colchester 鈥� but not to which hospital. The Operator (no STD then!) first put her through to the Military Hospital. But I was no soldier. Just a fearful eight-year-old child. Any message home from the hospital was telephoned to the Police Station in Ingatestone High Street. A constable then cycled up with the message for my parents.

Finally locating me at Essex County Hospital, my mother learned that I had survived emergency surgery on both ears. Shortly afterwards, I barely survived a further emergency operation on one ear. For that, I was chloroformed in my bed. A most horrid experience. Like an unwarranted punishment. All my head was swollen. One doctor remarked that I had a face like a full moon. He may have meant it as humorous and I forgive him.

An interesting journey
No Ear, Nose and Throat surgeon was then on site at C&E and I was taken in a small army-type ambulance to Colchester. No one told me where I was going 鈥� or why. No one told me anything. I was just taken downstairs on a stretcher to the ambulance outside. But the emergency journey helped to occupy my fearful thoughts. It became quite interesting when we had to stop quickly. The male driver had to come round to release the female nurse/attendant from the ladder-type upper stretcher support. Although quite small, these ambulances could carry four stretchers, two up and two down. I lay, almost delirious, on the lower off-side one and the cheerful nurse / attendant sat opposite me.

As we journeyed, one upper stretcher support suddenly collapsed with a crash around the attendant鈥檚 shoulders. Just her head poked through the rungs. I was too ill to join in their amusement and not pleased when some small boys came to look at me over the tail-board. Those tiny ambulances had no rear doors, only canvas flaps.

Another Hospital
Essex County Hospital at Colchester was then primitive and quite Victorian. I was taken to a ward which had some other children and some elderly women patients. In the bed to my left was a boy of about my own age. During the ensuing weeks, I learnt that he was from Brightlingsea. Richard Skinner鈥檚 mother made delicious cheese sticks. Quite a luxury in war time and a special treat which he shared with me. The patient in the next bed on the other side was an elderly woman. I was appalled at her night-time hawking into a tooth-mug towards me. A younger boy further down the ward had one day to be x-rayed. The large, cream-enamel and chrome machine was wheeled into the ward to the foot of his bed. He cried and yelled throughout; doubtless frightened by the noisy machine. Nothing was ever explained. The worst thing about hospital was not knowing why I was there or what would be done to me.

Nurses and Porters
There were four types of nurses in differing uniforms. I knew them only by their four styles of headgear. Most of the nurses were very kind. Before surgery, my head had to be completely shaved and 鈥� probably because of my screams 鈥� a kind young nurse passed the Porter her scissors to first reduce my thatch. All nurses then carried sharp scissors and clipping my hair made it easier for the porter to scrape the stubble from my swollen and painful scalp. Like shaving a balloon, or an overripe peach. The Porters were more regularly engaged in bringing in hods of coke to feed the great 鈥榯ortoise鈥� stoves. Three of these iron stoves stood down the middle of the ward. It was Autumn and only two were lit. The Porters also brought in the food which I cannot now remember. With a severely swollen head, the mouth is not easily opened. One鈥檚 lower jaw protrudes.

Who pays?
On one visit to see me at Colchester, my mother was pleased to tell me that the National Union of Railwaymen was paying my hospital fees. This I cared nothing about. Only wanting to get back home. But I can remember my mother and father in a hospital corridor, trying to pluck up courage to approach the Lady Almoner for help to pay. With the long and difficult journey, my father on shift work and my three brothers to care for, my mother did not visit me often. But she once brought my brothers to see me after they had toured the Castle and its Museum.

Visitors
I remember my brothers waving to me through the nearest window. The same window which was
opened one night by a nurse with the square 鈥榯ablecloth鈥� type of head-dress. Her exclamation of pleasure at the incoming fresh night air was a lesson to me. With those great coke stoves burning, fresh air was in short supply. One night a younger nurse opened a 鈥榝ire-escape鈥� side door to let in a soldier from the blacked-out street. It was dark in the ward too, but I wasn鈥檛 asleep.

My faithful sister Ivy visited me regularly and once my father鈥檚 sister Elsie came to see me. After hospital, I would stay with Auntie Elsie till I was well enough to return to school. Her son, my cousin Frank, before he joined the Royal Navy was in the Home Guard. His 303 rifle was kept behind the front door.

Letters from home
Letters and postcards were a lifeline. One day I received a good fat packet to occupy lonely hours. Miss Todd had thoughtfully given the boys the task of writing to their absent classmate. Unmarked. No corrections. The good, the bad and the crazy. Several told me of two army lorries which had crashed outside 鈥淒ocklands鈥�, at the end of the High Street. One said they would stay there 鈥淔or ever and ever鈥�. This was meant to be a joke. No joke could relieve my misery. I kept those letters for some years. Another was from Granny, in Lancashire, hoping I would be better by Christmas. Docklands was near the. site chosen later for the new Police Station.

We still had many American airmen in Essex in 1944. Two low-flying fighter planes which roared over the Colchester hospital roof-tops were, I believe, Mustangs. Probably from the nearby Wormingford aerodrome. From my hospital bed I noticed they had red-painted propeller spinners. A cheering few seconds to relieve my fears and loneliness.

Home at last
When at last my bandages were removed, I was left with two bald spots. Good old Dr Steen knew the remedy. Rub the spots with ammonia. Like they do with horses 鈥� only you wouldn鈥檛 use Scrubbs Cloudy Amonia for horses. Six weeks confined to bed meant that my legs could not bear my puny weight. When my parents came to take me home, the train at Colchester North Station was packed 鈥� as were most war-time trains. My father told the Train Guard that I could not stand and I made the journey to Ingatestone lying on a pile of bulging mailbags. Weighing so much less than I did six weeks earlier, for the walk home from Ingatestone station my father set me on his shoulders. The iron railings outside the school as we passed were lined with boys to welcome me home. But embarrassment made me hide my face.

Back to school
When at last I returned to school, deaf in both ears, I found I could no longer sing. From being the top singer who was asked to demonstrate, to my embarrassment, I had become a cause of amusement. Many lesson hours were passed with me reading books in the back row of class. For some years afterwards, a strong phobia gripped me. So frightened was I by everything to do with hospitals, Rather than passing on a bus, I would make a detour on foot. Out of sight and smell of hospital.

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