Ailments and Illnesses - I blame The Flannel

Ailments and Illnesses - I blame The Flannel

Childhood illnesses were treated seriously in our family; who knew when death might stalk around the corner or when polio might pinion the four of us into iron lungs. Grandma had lost her elder sister as a child, Dad had uncles who were carried off by common infections before ever reaching manhood. Mum was very lucky to survive her dose of Spanish flu in 1919. Both of our parents were brought up in the pre-antibiotic era and had seen how rapidly a child could succumb to infections with no powerful drugs available to fight them. In the War, Churchill’s pneumonia had been successfully treated by the new sulphonamide antibiotics prepared by May & Baker. This was simply known as M&B and I remember how these tablets were spoken of with near reverence.

We’d been vaccinated against smallpox and diphtheria though not whooping coffee and in the late 1950s we’d had the BCG vaccine against tuberculosis yet plenty of childhood illnesses lay in store for us. All the while, our eldest sister Ann suffered from asthma and her frequent bouts of gasping and coughing were temporarily relieved by the use of an inhaler with glass tubes and a rubber bulb which administered a drug called Riddobron.

            At the smallest hint of illness, our temperature would be taken. Out from its slim steel case would slide the glass thermometer with its fascinating blob of mercury in the bulb. Mum would wipe it with TCP, give it a vigorous shake and squint at the reading before poking it under our tongue where it had to stay for three minutes. A reading higher than 98.4°F (36.8°C) meant we’d be put to bed immediately. If our temperature was above 100.°F (37.7°C) we weren’t allowed to get up for the loo but had to use the china potty by our bed.  There were things to ease the misery of being ill – a glass of Ribena which was only ever used when we were ill, would be brought upstairs or, with due ceremony, a mug of lemon and honey would arrive by the bedside. Ribena slipped down a treat over a rough throat, and to this day, I swear by the comfort offered by hot lemon and honey drink.

The NHS was introduced in 1948 and thereafter the family doctor would always pay a visit when we were ill; there was no question of visiting the surgery. The strict rule in our house was that you weren’t allowed to get up until your temperature had been normal for 24 hours – the heavy family radio might be lugged in so we could be entertained by Housewives’ Choice or by the tepid soap opera of Mrs. Dales Diary – unimaginably dull for a child as after the rippling harp theme music faded it usually opened with Mrs. Dale saying,

“I'm rather worried about Jim,”

but that was as tense as it got. There was the daily serial Dick Barton – Special Agent but I dived under the bedclothes in terror when the scary Devil’s Gallop theme music came on.  During one particular illness, mum would bustle about doing her morning chores but as the cheerful tones of the Eric Coates theme tune to Music While you Work played out, mum would come upstairs, sit with me and read aloud Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden. This was the rarest treat as it wasn’t easy to secure mum’s undivided attention. but together we’d disappear into Yorkshire with Mary Lennox, Dickon, Colin Craven, Ben Weatherstaff and Martha Sowerby. I loved the transformation of the orphan Mary from a spoiled, unloved child to a feisty, healthy girl who wouldn’t stand for any petulant nonsense from the hypochondriac Little Lord Colin who was also spoiled and unloved and who in turn undergoes his own transformation. Dickon became my first hero. Mum would have known the book from her own childhood and she was just as hooked as I was on these daily readings.

            Tonsillitis seemed to be a permanent feature in my young life. I can remember being treated with the fabled M&B and spending ages in bed with a sore throat. One day when I was about 6½, I came home from school on the 50 bus at lunchtime and there was mum coming up Southdean Drive to meet me – most unusual. My suspicions should have been aroused by her unnaturally bright and cheerful tone,

            “I’ve just had a call from the hospital and they can take you in this afternoon to have your tonsils out. Just think how good it’ll be to feel better and to have ice-cream afterwards.” 

Fear and excitement rushed up in equal measure and off we went to the Bognor Memorial Hospital with me clutching a new book as a present and the cheering prospect of having ice cream and jelly when it was over. I can see the rows of white, metal beds now, feel that lurch of homesickness as mum vanished and still sense an impression of a general starchy whoosh as the strict nurses bustled through the ward. Early next morning  I was wheeled along a corridor told to count up to ten as the mask was placed over my mouth but barely getting to three before vanishing with that heady smell into the oblivion of anaesthesia . Later, there was the bitter disappointment when the jelly and ice cream were offered. It was impossible to swallow as my throat was so raw and I was feeling much too groggy to enjoy the book.

            An array of preparations was kept in the easily accessible family medicine chest ready to be dispensed to soothe these illnesses and ailments; chalky Kaolin and Morphine for stomach upsets – sticky, strong Gee’s Linctus with its tincture of opium which did seem to settle a cough, Milk of Magnesia for belly aches was pretty revolting. Dad frequently disappeared under a towel to hold his face over a large ceramic jug filled with boiling water to inhale clouds of Friar’s Balsam with its aromatic resin that relieved blocked noses with its steamy, pungency. Mum might ask us to rub Elliman’s Embrocation into her shoulders to relieve what she called her Fibrositis. It smelled of turps. Mum was a great believer in taking the violent yellow powder called Sanatogen for her “nerves.”

Small wonder that we relied on these homely old remedies as there were in fact very few effective  treatments available. Cortico-steroid creams and ointments had yet to make an appearance in our lives. The almost ritualistic application of these old remedies offered genuine comfort which isn’t present nowadays with a dose of Calpol or a course of banana flavoured antibiotics. Later I was struck by something the vet Alf White said in the 1970s,

“No one thinks to put a warm sack over a poorly cow these days, they just get a shot of antibiotic in the backside.”

            Those childhood illness were wretched. The unbearable itching with chicken pox that dabs of cold, pink Calamine only seemed to relieve for fleeting moments. The worst illness was measles with the worried whispers of about going blind if so much as a glimmer of light sliced in at the window. I do remember feeling deathly ill with measles in a small, back bedroom where the wartime blackout curtains had been resurrected to maintain inky darkness; – hot sore eyes, too ill to fall into healing sleep. Whooping cough was exhausting and lingered for weeks as nothing seemed to stop the great whoop preceding the spluttering fits of coughing. Aged nine, by special request from the audience, I had to be led out of the pier theatre in Bognor where, whooping and coughing, I’d been watching the Yeoman of the Guard.

Mumps didn’t fell me until I was 15 and at boarding school. Oh the pain of even thinking about swallowing. My grossly distorted cottage-loaf shaped face in the mirror was a shocking spectacle.

            Once recovered from these illnesses there was the Convalescence – not a term one hears nowadays. Various tonics or supplements were lying in wait for us. A teaspoon of dark, liquid Parrish's Food which tasted of evil and rust was proffered at breakfast; it was supposed to counteract anaemia. With luck, it might be followed spoonful of Virol – malt extract which was utterly delicious and tasted of caramel unless it had been contaminated with cod liver oil. Minadex might also be offered; this fairly tasty magic elixir was supposed to revive our appetites.

There’d be the dreaded question,

“Have you been today?”

to which we rapidly learned to reply yes, rather than get a dose of Californian syrup of figs whose taste might have been acceptable but not the painful cramps, endless trips to the loo with the explosive results that followed. 

The best part of convalescence was having uninterrupted hours for reading; first Enid Blyton then  moving on to my sisters’ extensive collection of pony books before the joyful discovery of Noel Streatfield.

In convalescence, a course of sunray treatments might be suggested by the doctor. An ultra-violet lamp would be loaned out and we had to wear goggles to sit under it for what seemed like an eternity. It gave off a smell of baked dust and we came away with bright pink faces and panda-like white circles round our eyes. Even at that time there was research to show the harmful effects of exposure to ultra-violet but our family doctor hadn’t taken this in. Never a drop of sun cream anointed our bodies in the summer, though Nivea, thought to increase the tan, might be applied. I can hear the pride in mum’s voice now as she beamed when answering a friend’s enquiry in high summer,

            “All the children are brown as berries”.

            There was something ancient and almost ritualistic in these old cures for all sorts of minor ailments.  Cuts and scratches would be daubed with iodine or brushed with TCP before being covered with heavy fabric Elastoplast which seemed to have much stronger hair-ripping glue than today’s tame little strips. Sore skin might be rubbed with Germolene and there was stick of Wintergreen for those hideously painful chilblains when our fingers looked like cracked, swollen pink chipolatas. Just to smell those herbs in the aromatic, resinous block of Wintergreen gave us immediate comfort,  The same could be said for a cotton dental swab soaked in oil of cloves to ease toothache. 

We seemed to get endless boils so there’d be a ceremonious brewing up of a poultice which was thought to draw out the infection. Mum made a paste with kaolin and boiling water which was spread on a scrap of muslin and applied to the boil. All I can remember is the feeling of burnt skin and certainly no relief from the horrid, pulsing boil.

Once when mum was out and my brother and I were playing in the rough, scrubby plot opposite our house, he fell in a big patch of stinging nettles and was crying in pain. Glad to be in control for once, I shouted,

“Quick, come upstairs to the medicine chest,” as I knew which bottle of clear liquid we needed to apply. Off we dashed and opened the cupboard, but there stood two bottles. One had a drawing of a solemn walrus-mustachioed man and was called Sloan’s Liniment which claimed to Kill Pain. The other was called Witch Hazel. I know now that the former contains capsaicin which is the active ingredient in chili peppers that makes them hot and is used in various lotions and potions to relieve muscle or joint pain whereas the latter calms and soothes stings. I made the wrong choice as I couldn’t imagine anything with Witch in its name could be good for you whereas Kills Pain sounded perfect. Poor Rob was writhing with the increased pain which didn’t abate until mum came home and doused his leg with cold water.

            If only we’d had the cold water treatment for burns. In the 1950s, butter was applied to burns which first fried the hot skin before giving it heat-retaining seal and the pain was so very slow to fade.

            We frequently had styes in our eyes which were probably caused by sharing flannels – yes, the four children in the family shared one flannel. It had a good old boil on the Aga each week but spent the next six days in a damp, presumably festering heap on the basin before we took it in turns to wash. There were tight, swollen whitlows on a finger which kept recurring; maybe The Flannel was to blame? Also we often had mouth ulcers which were painted with gentian violet which surely was sluiced off in minutes?  How the bouts of impetigo kept recurring we didn’t know, but in retrospect, I blame The Flannel.  I’m sure mum prided herself on having clean children who had a bath every night and whose clothes were washed once a week but such a regime didn’t serve that overworked The Flannel too well.  

Occasionally, an old-fashioned nanny would move in for a while when mum was away.  I dreaded these episodes.  The grim, hard Nanny Bishop came with a friend once and their methods were derived from the Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child school of thought.  I hated their reliance on old sayings.  If we dared make a face we were told that the wind would change and we’d be stuck with that grimace forever. They screamed with laughter when at bedtime, I was told to go upstairs, get The Flannel and be certain to,

“Wash up as far as possible, wash down as far as possible and then wash Possible.”

I had no idea what they meant or why they thought it so hysterically funny.

We were spared the most shaming of conditions in that class-ridden era; nits and headlice. There was a perception that lice only occurred in poor, “problem families”. We had our hair washed once a week over the basin with much eye-stinging and sloshing of water from a jug and we were lucky enough not to share beds and pillows so perhaps it was this that spared us.

Which ailments were perceived as shaming was all quite arbitrary – our boils, styes, chilblains and whitlows may well have been caused by poor hygiene with THAT flannel, yet never had the stigma of children infected with headlice.