Two Years Before the Mast

Kent House, York Avenue, East Cowes

Christmas 1957

Very occasionally, as I was growing up, I would suffer from heavy nose bleeds; I can still remember the thick sweet metallic taste of blood. These bloody episodes would always end up with Doctor Downs intervening and inserting small black rubber plugs, not unlike pencil erasers, up into my nose to staunch the flow. The congealing clots thereafter would serve as a healing, but fragile dam. For many days following such an occurrence I would be required to be extra careful and vigilant to ensure that I did not cause the healing process to be disturbed in any way. On one such occasion I recall that my mother’s ladened wicker shopping basket had caught me side on as she swung around to speak to someone in the street, causing the onset and repetition of a yet another heavy nosebleed. Throughout my life thereafter there have been many similar incidents.

I had always dreaded the time of year when the clocks were required to be turned back and darkness prevailed, winter awaiting us all with its icy bated breath. Dark winter evenings were spent beside our small coal fire, listening to the BBC light programme on the radio. The Goon Show, In Town Tonight, and my most favourite of all Journey into Space. My mother and I did not have a television set in our home, instead we listened to the radio and although by this time most of my friend’s families were boasting the ownership of a television, we were unable to afford such a luxury. However, a recent member of this elite class of television viewers and an avid fan to boot, so it seems, was my very own grandmother Beatrice in West Cowes. My uncle Donald and aunt Min had recently arranged for a television set, albeit hired on HP, for my grandmother, to ensure she was kept abreast of current affairs, entertainment and of course company whilst they were at the pub. Initially she spurned the very idea of such a thing but very quickly became its most ardent supporter, so much so that she had decided to arrange to hire another set for my mother and me.

We had both been spending some time at my grandmother’s in West Cowes and of late mother was making great progress regaining her health. Late evening discussions had centred around the fast approaching Christmas holidays and I was amazed and thrilled to learn that my grandmother had decided to spend Christmas with us at Kent House. She also announced the great news regarding the gift of a television for mother and me and that she had also arranged with Harold Bowen of Radio Resco to ensure that the correct ariel was erected and fitted and our brand new television would be up and running perfectly prior to Christmas. Harold Bowen himself had promised my grandmother that he would have everything in place and all that was necessary and in readiness for a perfect picture for no later than Christmas Eve. This was like a dream coming true and I was giddy with excitement. I was hardly able to contain my longing for the Christmas holidays to start, this was going to be a Christmas like no other.

Bright overhead decorations in the busy narrow streets of Cowes and all the shop windows were bedecked for yuletide, and from every doorway the smells and sounds of Christmas were all about us. Adorned Christmas trees twinkled in bow windows, holly wreaths hung from front doors and there was even a hint of snow in the air. People were jolly and wishing each other good cheer and I could not help myself I just had to stop at Resco’s shop to watch the televisions inanely flickering their silver light in his window displays.

At long last it was Christmas Eve and I had travelled over West to meet my grandmother and accompany her to Kent House. In all the years that I had lived there, apart from my father on the odd occasion, we had never ever had a visitor stay overnight.

Grandmother’s bags were ladened with mince pies, cakes, presents and other goodies, her bags were very heavy, but I didn’t mind as we struggled up York Avenue to the entrance of Kent House. We were met at the large front entrance of Kent House by my mother, who looked so happy, she was in smart slacks and had brushed her hair back and wearing lipstick, she looked attractive. After throwing her arms around my grandmother she led her up the winding stone stairway that led to our small flat while I followed on carrying my grandmother’s heavy holdall and brown paper carrier bag. My grandmother was ushered into the small hallway, I stood back lingering on the doormat not quite knowing whether or not I would be allowed to enter, always wary of my mother’s Voices but my mother grabbed my hand and pulled me through the doorway. I was quickly out of my shoes and into damp, cold slippers and given instructions to take grandmother’s bags through to the bedroom which she was to share with my mother.

The bedroom was warm and welcoming, a cheery coal fire blazed from behind a brass guard in the small fireplace.

‘Mr Bowen from Resco’s is due in an hour’ shouted my mother from the scullery and that just leaves us time to have a cup of tea’.

‘I’m going to have a word with that Harold Bowen when he arrives, just look at that wire pinned to the wall into that strange plug thing on the skirting board. Oh, I don’t know, she mused holding the palm of her hand to her head, it’s not as though I don’t have enough to do. The aerial man was here this morning for hours fiddling about on the roof and he said Harold would be here about three o’clock’.

My mother had been, of course, referring to the aerial cable and television socket which was now waiting in readiness for Mr Bowen and the television, my excitement was overwhelming, I could hardly contain myself, the sheer giddy joy of soon being able to sit and watch our own television.

Half an hour or so later there was a knock on the door and when my mother opened it Mr Bowen and his aerial man were outside unpacking the television set from its cardboard wrappings. Much to my grandmother’s consternation my mother immediately set to placing walk-through towels from the front door to the lounge.

Grandmother made up for the less than warm welcome, enthusing and embracing Harold like a long-lost love.

Fifteen minutes or so later a smart A Murphy walnut veneer two door cabinet, they closed over when the television was not in use, had been installed, its fourteen-inch screen dazzling us with its snowy wonder. I was so happy.

Before the men left my mother had warmed a plate of mince pies and another pot of tea had been brought through and placed on a card table whilst we all watched I Love Lucy. I was so excited that I clenched my fists together and punched the air in sheer joy, but alas I misjudged my wild flying fists of exaltation and punched myself hard under my nose. For a second or two I was numb and confused and fell back onto the floor where I had been kneeling. I became aware of voices, Harold was sitting me up whilst my mother was chastising me for being stupid and showing off and as I opened my mouth to explain I felt it, the first warm, sticky trickle dripping off my chin.

‘Oh my God, he’s bleeding.’ shrieked my mother, take him out in the scullery’. ‘Quick’ she shrilled, get a wet cloth from under the sink to wipe up this blood off the lino, oh no’, she almost sobbed, ‘it’s on the rug’.

My grandmother had led me to the kitchen and was endeavouring to staunch the heavy flow from my nose by leaning my head backwards and holding the wet cold bucket cloth under my nose. All this served to choke me as the flow of blood was coursing down my throat and as I moved forward sticky crimson clots of blood were plopping onto the scullery floor.

‘This is a really serious nosebleed, said Harold, I know people that have died of these types of bleeds if they can’t be stopped’. Although I was bleeding profusely i was all too aware of what Mr Bowen was saying and really was wishing that he had not.

Doctor Downs had been summoned as a matter of urgency by Mr Bowen on his way down York Avenue when returning briefly to his TV shop to lock up for the Christmas holidays.

When the Doctor arrived, my grandmother took charge immediately explaining the situation and quickly removing the heaps of bloodied towelling and supplying the good doctor with a hot mince pie and a large measure of whisky from the bottle my mother had been given for Christmas.

My poor mother was looking haggard and worried again, spending most of her time at the scullery sink wringing out bloodied towels

‘Yes, yes, yes’, droned Doctor Downs to grandmother Beatrice, ‘I am well acquainted with this young man’s ability to display Posterior Epistaxis by the bucketful’.

Grandmother Beatrice smiled weakly and nodding she proffered another mince pie and refill for his whisky. Declining, he bent over me examining my nose with a pencil torch and then carefully inserting thin rubber plugs up into the furthest reaches of my nasal passages. This had the effect of staunching the ongoing and outward flow of blood, but I was still swallowing a good deal and feeling very sick. ‘The bleeding will soon slow and stop in about ten minutes or so, he said, just be a good lad and sit quietly’.

When he had completed his very messy task the doctor took my mother and grandmother to one side and said in a low voice, ‘this young man must be kept quiet and very still for at least three days, nothing exciting or physical, best place for him is sitting up reading a good book in bed. Do not on any account let him laugh or shout out loud, sing or the like and whilst I fully appreciate that you have a television set please keep him from watching as staring at a bright screen is the last thing the boy needs’.

Looking at the bloodied look of despair upon my face he pointed to our new television ‘Sorry m’lad, I know full well its Christmas but I’m afraid it’s a definite no no’. I told both your mother and your grandmother you would be better reading a good book and benefit by staying away from any bright lights or excitement.’

With that he wished us all a very Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year and further, he informed us that he would be returning before the New Year to check all was well, and with that he bid the ladies goodnight and left.

Both my mother and grandmother did their best to make my small bedroom cheery by bringing tinsel to hang over the foot of the bed and some Christmas cards on my bookshelf. My face was frozen by the inner healing process and the intrusion of the rubber bungs deep within my nostrils and for the same reason talking and eating was almost impossible.

‘It’s a great pity I know, said my grandmother, there will be plenty of time over the New Year to enjoy the television, lets get you well first’.

The medication which the doctor had administered was influencing me and I began to feel very sleepy. Propped up in a sitting position, with pillows all about me, and being aware of my mother’s instructions not to bleed would not make sleeping easy.

My mother and grandmother bent over me kissing me gently on my forehead then went to bedroom door and before leaving grandmother said, ‘Remember, it’s Christmas Day in the morning’ and pausing she winked her eye saying……. ‘Presents’.

My mother was looking at both of us, drawn and close to tears, she nodded.

They both called out from the small hall, God bless, sleep tight.

I was desolate and heartbroken this was supposed to have been a Christmas to remember, a special Christmas, a proper Christmas.

Frosty early silver light was breaking and cast dancing shadows over my bedroom ceiling. I was becoming aware of my still propped position and predicament. I was also aware that my bedroom was icy cold as I reached out and put on my bedside light. A moment or two later the bedroom door opened and both my mother and grandmother bounded through heaping careful quieted kisses upon me and at the same time wishing me a Merry Christmas. Breakfast of sorts was served but unable to eat I sucked lukewarm tea through a straw. A little later as gifts were being brought through to my bed, I was still completely unable to respond to them. I could neither smile or talk properly and as we exchanged gifts, I was only able to respond by gestures and grunts.

Two of my gifts were particularly special insomuch as my mother had given me a pair of beautiful suede sheepskin gloves, whilst my grandmother had knitted a balaclava and matching scarf for me but also given me a book entitled ‘Two Years Before The Mast’ by Henry R Dana Jr.

The aroma of Christmas lunch is like no other and was gently wafting through to me from the small oven in the scullery, it rose upon ever increasing waves of delicious temptation. Whilst my nose ached my taste buds panged and dribbled and soon lunch was served, I was to be spoon fed mash, all my worst memories and childhood nightmares of mother’s illness and the ‘Voices’ came flooding back.

I was to be served a liquidised Christmas lunch with gravy followed by smashed Christmas pudding and custard. I was so hungry it really did not matter any longer, Christmas day could not get any worse. After an orange drink sucked noisily through a straw and a crushed mince pie in custard, after this sumptuous feast I was given some of my prescribed medication and told to rest.

Soon the clattering metallic sounds of washing and clearing up laughter and jolly conversation was drifting through.

‘We are going to watch the Queen’s Speech at three o’clock Mother shouted from the lounge we’ll be through to see you as soon as she has finished’.

I reached out slipping on my new suede gloves, balaclava, and scarf. No doubt I must have looked very strange sat up in my bed dressed like Capt. Scott of the Antarctic. I stretched to pick up my new book, Two Years Before the Mast which was not easy to do in sheepskin gloves. Suddenly the book flew up into the air and although I tried to catch it mid-flight the corner of the hardback book and its full weight hit me hard across my nose. I held my breath at first, there was nothing more than the recall of the sharp impact. The book had landed open upon my lap. I noticed a picture of a brig in full sail and began reading when suddenly the bright white sails in front of me splashed red with blood followed by more splashes quick and quicker, splashes on my bed down the woollen chin of my balaclava, drip, drop, dripping with heavy plops upon my lovely suede gloves, the ruby red splashes were relentless.

There have been many Christmas Days and lunches since then, far too many to remember, but there was none quite as painful and memorable…