calling doctor Kirkham

“If he puts one foot on the floor, he’s dead!”

Those were the first words out of mums mouth when she came rushing in the back door of our house. I could swear that she had a slight grin on her face as if to say ‘I told you so’. She had been to an elderly couple’s home just a short walk away further along Clough Street. The husband, Mr Howell, had suffered what was possibly a minor heart attack, the doctor realising that he was in no immediate danger had told him to stay off his feet for a week and rest before going down to his surgery to see him. Of course mum had been to visit Mrs Howell, seen her husband and immediately diagnosed his impending demise if he so much as stood up. "stay off your feet", meant that if he stood up, well, he would fall down again, for good!

What followed was the customary, and by now expected, diagnosis of Mr Howells illness, the possibility of a brain haemorrhage was always top of mum’s list of likely outcomes, closely followed any number of death inducing events.

“I told Mrs Howell, I’m here if he takes a turn, oh yes, I’m here WHEN he takes a turn”

Mum was an amateur doctor, which I suspect is the result of bringing five boys into the world and looking after them during their various illnesses, and watching Dr Kildare. At any time she would arbitrarily decide that a person had suffered a stroke, heart attack or cerebral haemorrhage. She would always preface this with, “I thought he looked off" or, "I knew something would happen” when I heard this I often thought ‘well why didn’t you warn him then’, in fact one fateful day I said just that, she walked in saying that Mr so and so had suffered a brain haemorrhage, and even though the doctor missed it and had simply told him to rest at home, he was actually very sick, mum would have to be ‘ready’.

Dr Kildare's medical school?

Mum loved illness in other people, she revelled in their misfortune; she could diagnose with amazing speed a multitude of diseases and ailments. This was confirmed, just as a group of doctors will concur on a diagnosis following lengthy discussions with Mrs Barnes who lived one side of us and Mrs Connell who lived on the other side. The three of them would discuss the symptoms, deciding if the victim would live or possibly die, “well you know he looked peaky last week”, or

“it runs in the family”,

perhaps the best I ever heard was “you know I dreamt that last week, I did, I dreamt that this would happen, Oh yes', followed by "I did to, so did I” the three of them nodding in unison at the memory of a week old dream. Surely a quiet word in the unsuspecting ear of the patient might have helped? I heard the “I dreamt it would happen” more than once, always after the event, and always with a rendition of the actual events not the predicted events.

Sometimes mum would come home with “he’ll be dead by the end of next week!” Now to me this would be serious stuff, that statement was always followed by “but he’ll be happier when he’s gone!”

“Why mum?”

“Because I said so”, well that scared the living daylights out of me, to be told that not only he would die happy but would be happier when dead, I was only twelve, I mean what did I have to look forward to?

The cure to all illness was a bag of fruit bought from the greengrocers across the road. “I’m going for fruit!” was heard and mum would be off holding her purse bringing back a big bag of fruit. This would consist of apples oranges and grapes, apples and oranges were optional, but the grapes were a must, they cured everyone and everything.

“She’ll be better after these grapes” I tried one once, taking a grape out of a bag lying on the sideboard, when she saw me mum shrieked at the top of her voice, “don’t you dare take grapes from a dying woman’s mouth!”

Won’t they be wasted on her then I thought, to myself, better not say that out loud. But, if I ever got seriously ill all I needed was a big bag of grapes and I will be fine, grapes, the cure-all of the Kirkham’s.

Mr Howell made a remarkable recovery, and was one of the first people in our neighbourhood to take a foreign holiday, Spain was becoming a holiday spot, and Mr and Mrs Howell celebrated his new found health by having a week in the sun.

“That foreign food will kill him, what do you think Mrs Barnes?” “Kill him” Mrs Barnes replied nodding in agreement, Mrs Connell who with her husband owned the chip shop next door was equally adamant, “No fish and chips in Spain Mrs Kirkham, no fish and chips in Spain, he’ll never last”

So it went on, our three very own doctor Kildare’s dreaming of and predicting illness, offering help and condolences in advance to neighbours, buying fruit and waiting for ‘news’. My mum's suspicion of 'foreign food' carried on for many years, maybe for the extent of her life. Shortly after Roz and I were married, I developed Bells palsy, mum came to visit and shouted at Roz as she stormed out of the front door, "if you didn't feed him that foreign muck this wouldn't have happened!'

Our mistake was that we had just offered mum and dad an Italian dinner of spaghetti and meatballs!