A painful recall of my nit nightmare
THE harsh clang of the brass school bell echoed through the corridors and, like the popping of the cork of a well-shaken champagne bottle, kids raced sure-footed across Blue Bell Hill Infants and Juniors’ playground heading for the steep, narrow walkway that led to the street and home. As they ran, they waved their yellow Nitty Nora letters like a horde of butterflies. Every so often, the whole school would be stricken with head lice and I keenly felt the shame, so I pushed my letter deep into my pocket and dawdled. I was in no hurry to get home tonight, knowing as I did, what it would mean. As soon as I got in, mam would read the letter and make me kneel in front of her, head in her lap, as she raked at my fine hair with the dreaded steel-tooth comb. Its sharp prongs tore into and bloodied my scalp as she pulled out the ‘dicks’ and infected hairs one by one. If I dared flinch, fidget or moan, she’d lay the blame squarely at my feet. ‘Owd still, ya mardy mare, yo’ve on’y got yerrsen ter blame, yo’ shunt play wi’ duttey kids.’ Her words were emphasised with an enlightening clout across the back of my head — enlightening because I saw stars! Then came the truly awful part, she’d liberally pour half a bottle of Lysol on my head and rub it in. It stung like hell. This foulsmelling insecticide would undoubtedly kill the vermin, though I’d be stuck with its stench and pain for days. The ice-cold, milky liquid ran down my tormented head in rivulets and dripped onto my neck. Worse, any lice mam missed fought for their lives, wriggling and making me itch. I’d painfully scratch, get the stuff into the cracks and crevices of my badly bitten finger nails and cause them to sting, too. Sleep was a nightmare as I scratched the hours away. I hated Sunday bath night, but for once I couldn’t wait to be rid of the smell on the lank locks of my hair! Dad hauled the old tin bath indoors and put it in front of the fire. Mam went in first always, then dad, Mick, me, Eileen and baby Sandra came last. Mick had no trouble since his hair was cut ‘short back and sides’. Mine was cut with the aid of a pudding basin and any that hung below ear length was chopped off.
AS I stood in the slimy water, mam scooped it up in a saucepan and poured it over my head. Gasping, I tried to keep my balance and my eyes tightly shut, but the soapy water went in them anyway and stung. Mam was to gentle what Herod had been to babysitting and now she rubbed the hard, red carbolic soap directly into my hair and worked it into a thick lather. She rinsed it a couple more times in the dirty bath water, while I savoured the state of what passed for cleanliness in our house as I dried myself on the sandpaper-rough, off-white wet towel!
Joy James, Colwick Village, Notts.