| The Onlooker | ||
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4 Edith - the afflicted one Imagine a child in delicate health, one arm twisted curiously - eyesight so poor that people called her blind - the result, all of it we understood, of a poor attention at birth. The nurses were all, more or less, uninstructed in the art. Some loving children, and having the hands of a surgeon, were excellent at their job, but some took it up just to make a living. If a maternity nurse was in attendance a doctor did not hurry to the case, and often one was not called at all. So Edith Amelia, fourth in the family, was unlucky. When the doctor arrived the child way already born, but insufficiently washed and not carefully overlooked. Nothing, apparently, could be done to alter matters and so I remember the girl, just two years my junior - not hopeless by any means, a strong sturdy little character and full of fun, but sadly afflicted. My early recollections of her are rather vague. In our early school days I had to take her home with me and one day I went into her classroom and found her standing on the form, kept behind for not making her letter’s touch the line. I was indignant and told the teacher she could not see properly. She was rather a peppery little person (her name was Mustern) and she first answered me sharply, “She must learn.” Anyway, she sent her off quickly as I had come for her. Another incident I remember was the old perambulator, holding: three of us, being pushed up the Clay Street, as Forest Road was then called, as far as Epping Forest for a picnic. Edith had to ride because of her sight. We had a baby also in the pram and because I was still a toddler rode part of the way. A friend of the family known as Aunt Jenny came with us and she asked Edith, “Did she like going to the Forest” “Yes.” I remember the child saying, “I like it except when I sit down. I always sit on prickles.” I remember laughing heartily at this because, of course, I could see where the prickles were and was hardly old enough to realise she had not that advantage. She learned to read very quickly - and I can see her now, with the book close up to one eye, reading the stories she loved so well. She was also fond of poetry and always learned a new one for the Christmas party when every member of the family was supposed to make a contribution. It was for the sake of her education that we moved from Walthamstow to Clapton. My parents soon began to realise that Edith could not cope with the ordinary school lessons and as there was no arrangement made in a country school, such as the one in Walthamstow was then, for the teaching of the blind. The only alternative was to find a place within the London area where such provision was being made. Then, once a week I had to take Edith to a school to learn Braille. I suppose I had leave from school for that reason for I can remember taking her but can not remember how she got home. Possibly, someone older who lived near us brought her home and I was allowed an hour off every Wednesday afternoon to take her. When she was older she would go alone. At eleven, she won a scholarship at the Royal Normal College for the Blind at Upper Norwood where she lived as a boarder. It was a wonderful place. The Principal was a Dr Campbell who was himself blinded as a boy by being hit with a stone. He learned Braille and started this wonderful institution which meant so much to hundreds of children afflicted in the same way as he was himself. I often went to the Open Day of the College and was much impressed by the wonders of the place. The Principal insisted that people afflicted by blindness could do anything that sighted children could do. He even refused to use the word blind. They learned to play the piano and even to swim. Edith took her place quite easily among the other girls and made some very good friends. One of her friends was a girl from South Africa who wrote little verses about various aspects of the school - not always complimentary - and set them to music, which a circle of them loved to sing in private. She was a great favourite and Edith was very upset when her parents sent for her and Grace had to return home and she saw her no more. In course of time Edith took her place in the part of the College devoted to the training of teachers of the blind. In this capacity Edith seemed to be out-standing, as she won prizes for teaching on one or two occasions. The young trainees had to learn to use the typewriter so as to take the ordinary Teachers’ College examinations. She passed these tests quite easily and, during her last year in the college, won a prize of a typewriter and table as the best teacher of the year. Now came the difficult years as classes for the blind were still very few, and those that were established seemed to prefer sighted teachers. So for a few years she took places as a private governess to blind children, but these were always poorly paid. However, she took great interest in training these children and we were glad to see her happy. In the circumstance we were glad she was not a liability, as she might have been, at this time when family finances were at their lowest. Then, for a time, Edith lived at home and had a few private pupils, and at last she had a place in a school in Wales run by an old pupil of the Royal Normal College. This period however was short lived. The first world war had broken out and a mysterious disease, known at first as sleepy-sickness, started in the Liverpool district and spread over England. It was thought to have been brought into the country by Lascars who helped with the unloading of foodstuffs and other necessities to England. Edith was working in a school in Rhyl. Nearing the summer holiday Mother had a letter from the Headmistress saying she was sending Edith home a few days before the end of term as she seemed very unwell and would be obliged if she would let the family doctor see her. When she arrived home she seemed much as usual and, for a day or two, we did not trouble. However, I had occasion to visit the doctor for some minor trouble and Mother suggested I should take Edith with me and ask him to examine her. When he had done so he sent her from the room and gave me a message to Mother that Edith was very ill and she was to go to bed for a day or two when he would come and see her again. From then on her health deteriorated. She had fits, almost like epilepsy, which were followed by sometimes as much as three days in sleep, and she would just wake and say, “Can I have my breakfast?” The doctor was very puzzled and sent her to a hospital for examination. The specialist just said, “Whatever has the doctor sent her to me for? She is definitely an epileptic and must have been so from birth.” But, when my mother told him her history, he was indeed puzzled. She grew worse and worse and had to be watched night and day. My eldest sister and I took it in turn to sleep In the room each night, or should we call it half-sleep? Sometimes we had to sit up all night, as she threw herself about, when we had to keep her from falling from the bed. Soon Mother, who was now ageing, began to be scared of staying with her in the day time, and showed signs of a nervous breakdown and the doctor said Edith must be removed to hospital. She died in May 1917. The complaint was afterwards diagnosed as sleepy-sickness or Encephalitis Lethargica. My medical book said “No case was noticed in England until 1917,” the year in which Edith died. We feel sure, and our doctor afterwards confirmed it, that must have been the trouble. It must have been one of the earliest cases in England and a particularly virulent one. We noticed many children with the same complaint later on and afterwards, apparently, a cure was found. It now seems to have died out. Flowers came from many friends who loved and appreciated her, but the sweetest of all was freshly gathered primroses, violets and bluebells from the garden at Benfleet, sent by the two boys, sons of Walter, my eldest brother. A short life indeed, but one of strength and endurance against tremendous odds. Herbert |