Memory Course Homework
Norma Cuthbertson
1948
Come a walk down memory lane with me in March 1948, exactly a year after the worst winter in living memory. The coal fire is burning in the tiled grate when I awake. This is really unusual in a bedroom. Today, I am in the spare bedroom.
Yesterday as I slept, dosed and fretted my dad had sat beside me, I remembered. That was really unusual. Jock had come down to see to the hay and turnips for the beasts but it wasn't a Saturday when he brought me some sweeties. Very strange!
The window is all funny patterns. My dog Bruce is lying sleeping on the hearth rug by the fire. This is unusual as he isn't allowed in bedrooms in case he has fleas.
Why am I in a room with half drawn curtains? Why am I not in my own room?
Later, nobody comes to see me when I shout. I feel frightened. I feel it hard to swallow. My eyes are scratchy. My head is sore. I start to cry. Bruce just whimpers. He doesn't come and put his head on my lap. My dog doesn't love me. Nobody loves me, not my dog, not my dad even - he hasn't come to see me like he always does when I need him.
Later my dad comes in with a man I know. He is called Robert but I have to call him Dr Thompson when he comes to blether. Today, he takes my temperature and sticks a big needle into me to make me better, so he says. I don't have holes so why is he using a needle on me? Why is he laughing at me for asking him that?
My dad comes in and puts a fluffy Persian kitten on my bedcovers. I don't want it. I want my dog Bruce but he has abandoned me. I cry myself to sleep I wake up and now cannot see Bruce. My big sister says my dog is dead. He had not been able to move. That was he hadn't licked my hand. He died of Distemper.
Have I Distemper, I want to know. No! But if I am to get better I am told I have to stroke the kitten.
I stroke the kitten. I feel no better. I have to stroke it more. The more I stroke it the better I feel eventually.
Penicillin didn't cure me. To this day, I am told, I lived because stroking kittens cures measles.
