THE BOTTOM DROPPED OUT OF PIGS 5 page

Molly hardly spoke, Sister told us. She had submitted to being examined, and the baby, a little girl, to examination, but remained morosely silent all the while. Sister had said she was going to

tell Marjorie that her daughter was home.

“Please yerself,” was all the reply she got.

Marjorie had had no idea of the turn of events, and ran round to Baffin Buildings straight away. Unfortunately Dick chose the same moment to return, and they met on the landing. He lunged at her drunkenly, and Marjorie ducked. Had he hit her, she would have fallen down the stone staircase. After that, all the poor woman dared to do was to buy food and leave it on the landing outside her daughter’s door.

Our custom was to visit twice a day for fourteen days after delivery. Molly and baby were satisfactory, from a

purely medical point of view, but the domestic situation was as bad as ever. Sometimes Dick was at home, sometimes not. Poor Marjorie was never seen there. She would have made all the difference in the world to Molly and the little boys. Her cheerfulness alone would have lightened the atmosphere, but she was never allowed in. She had to content herself with coming round to Nonnatus House to ask the Sisters how her daughter and grandchildren were getting on. One day she gave us a bag of baby clothes to take on our next visit. She said she didn’t like to leave them on the landing, in case they got damp.

Over the next few days several nurses visited Molly, all reporting the

same disquieting condition. One nurse said that she was very nearly sick in the room, and had to rush outside into the fresh air in order to control her stomach. On the eighth evening I called, and there was no reply to my knock. The door was locked, so I knocked again - no response. I thought Molly might be busy with the baby and unable to answer. As it was only 5 p.m., I continued my visits, intending to return later.

It was about 8 p.m. when I got back to Baffin Buildings. I was tired, and i seemed a long climb up to the fifth floor. I was almost tempted to skip it. After all, Molly and baby were medically satisfactory, which was our remit. But something prompted me not to miss this

visit, so I wearily climbed the stairs.

I knocked, and there was no reply again. I knocked again, louder - she can’t still be busy, I thought. A door opened just down the balcony, and a woman appeared.

“She’s out,” she said, her fag drooping off her lower lip.

“Out! You can’t mean it. She’s only just had a baby.”

“Well, she’s out, I tells yer. Saw ’er go, I did. Tarted up an’ all, she was.” “Well where’s she gone to?” It flashed through my mind that she had gone to her mother’s. “Has she taken the

three children?”

The woman uttered a shriek of laughter, and the fag dropped to the

floor. She stooped to pick it up, and her hair curlers clacked together as she bent.

“What! Three kids! You must be joking. Three kids wouldn’t do her much good, would it now?”

I didn’t like the woman. There was something about the knowing way she grinned at me that was most unpleasant. I turned my back on her, knocked again, and called through the letterbox. “Would you let me in, please, it’s the nurse.”

There was definitely a movement inside, I heard it quite distinctly. Self-conscious, because I knew that woman was sneering at me, I kneeled down and looked through the letterbox.

Two eyes, close to mine, met my gaze. They were a child’s eyes, and they

stared at me unblinking for about ten seconds, then vanished. This enabled me to see into the room.

A faint greenish-blue light came from an unguarded paraffin stove. A pram stood nearby, in which I presumed the baby was sleeping. I saw one little boy running across the room. The other was sitting in a corner.

I caught my breath sharply. The woman must have heard it. She said, “Well, do you believe me now? I told you she was out, din’t I?”

I felt I must take this woman into my confidence. She might be able to help. “We can’t leave the three children alone with that paraffin heater. If one of them knocks it over, they will be burned

to death. If Molly’s out, where’s the father?”

The woman drew closer. She clearly enjoyed being the bearer of bad news. “He’s a bad lot, that Dick, he is. You mark my words. You don’t wants to ’ave nuffink to do with ’im. He’s no good to her, and she’s no better than she should be. Oh, it’s a shame, I says to our Bette, it’s a shame, I says. Them poor little kids. They didn’t ask to be born, did they, now? I always says it’s a ...”

I cut her short. “That paraffin heater is a death-trap. I’m going to inform the police. We’ve got to get in there.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she sucked her teeth. She clutched my arm and said: “You going to call the police, then?

Cor!”

She dashed off down the balcony and knocked on another door. I imagined her bearing the news all around Baffin Buildings, even if it took her the entire night. Tiredness had left me, and I sped down the stairs to street level, and just about ran to the nearest phone box. The police listened with concern to my story and said they would come at once. Marjorie had to be informed, I decided, so my next call was Ontario Buildings.

Poor woman. When I told her she crumpled, as though I had hit her in the stomach.

“Oh no, I can’t bear any more,” she moaned. “I guessed as much. She’s gone on the game, then.”

So innocent was I, that I didn’ know what she meant.

“What game?” I said, thinking she meant darts or billiards or gambling in a local pub.

Marjorie looked at me compassionately. “Never you mind, ducky. You don’t need to know about that sort of thing. I must go and see after them kiddies.”

We went together in silence. The police were already at the door working on the lock. I had thought that they would bring a locksmith with them, but no - most policemen are expert at picking locks. Do they learn it in College? I wondered.

A crowd had gathered on the

balcony. No one wanted to miss a thing. Marjorie stepped forward saying that she was the grandmother, and when the door was opened she was the first to enter. The police and I followed.

The room was suffocatingly hot, and the stench putrid. The children were not to be seen, apart from the baby, who was blissfully asleep. I went over to her, and she looked surprisingly well cared for, clean and well fed. The rest of the room was indescribable. It was full of flies to begin with, and a heap of excrement and dirty nappies in a corner was crawling with maggots.

Marjorie went into the bedroom, gently calling the boys’ names. They were behind the chair. She took them in

her arms, tears streaming down her face. “Never mind, my luvvies. Nanna’s

got you.”

The police were taking notes, and I thought perhaps I should leave, as the grandmother would now take charge. But at that moment, there was a commotion outside, and Dick appeared in the doorway. Obviously he had not known that the police were in his flat. As soon as he saw them he turned to run, but his path was barred by the onlookers. They had let him in, but they were not going to let him out again. Perhaps there were several scores to be settled between Dick and his neighbours. He was told that he would be cautioned about the neglect of three children under the age of

five.

He swore, spat, and said, “What’s wrong with ’em? Kids are all right. Nothing wrong, far as I can see.”

“It’s a very good thing for you that there is nothing wrong. Leaving them alone with a paraffin heater alight and unguarded would have caused a fire if one of the children had knocked it over.”

Dick started to whine. “That’s not my fault. I didn’t put the heater on. The missus did. I didn’t know she’d gone out and left it. The lazy slut. I’ll give her what for when I sees her.”

The policeman said: “Where is your wife?”

“’Ow should I know?”

Marjorie shouted at him. “Yer

villain. Yer know where she is. An’ you made her go, didn’t you. Yer swine.”

Dick was all innocence. “What’s the old cow on about now?”

Marjorie was about to scream a reply, but the policeman stopped her. “You can settle your differences when we have gone. We have put it on record that you have been cautioned about leaving your children unattended, and in a dangerous situation. If it occurs again, you will be charged.”

Dick was all wheedling charm. “You can take it from me, this will not occur again, officer. I apologise, and will see it never happens again.”

The police prepared to leave. Dick said, pointing to Marjorie, “And you can

take her with you, and all.”

She gave an anguished cry, and held the two little boys closer to her. She appealed to the policemen, “I can’t leave them here, the baby, the boys. Can’t you see? I can’t leave them like this.”

Dick said in a soothing, cheery voice, “Don’t you worry, old lady. I can look after me kids. There’s nuffink to worry about.” Then, to the policeman: “Yer can leave ’em safe wiv me. You got my word for it.”

Neither of the policemen were fools and they were not taken in for a moment by this display of paternal devotion. But they had no power to do anything but caution him.

One of them turned to Marjorie, “You can only stay here if you are invited, and you certainly cannot take the children away without the father’s consent.”

Dick was triumphant. “You heard. You’ve got to have the father’s consent. And I’m the father, and I don’t consent, see? Now get out.”

I spoke for the first time. “Well what about the baby? She is only eight days old, and she is being breastfed. She will wake up hungry soon. Where is Molly?”

I don’t think he had noticed me before. He turned, and ogled me up and down. I almost felt him undressing me with his eyes. He was a nauseating

specimen, but no doubt he thought he was God’s gift to women. He came over to me.

“Don’t you worry, nursey. My missus will feed her when she gets back. She’s just popped out for a minute.”

He took my hand in both of his own, and stroked my wrist. I pulled it sharply away. I wanted to smack his leering face, which he was pushing so close to my own, I could smell his foul breath. I turned my head away in disgust. He drew even closer, his eyes gleaming with mocking interest. He dropped his voice so that no one else could hear,

“Hoity-toity eh? I know how to take you down a peg or two, Miss Hoity-Toity.”

I knew how to deal with men like that. Height is a great leveller, and we were level. I didn’t need to say a word. I turned my head slowly to look him straight in the eyes, and held his gaze. Slowly his smirk faded, and he turned away. Few men can withstand a woman’s look of utter contempt.

Marjorie was kneeling on the floor crying uncontrollably, and hugging the two little boys. The policeman went over to her, took her elbow to help her to her feet, and said gently: “Come on mother, you can’t stay here.”

Marjorie got up, and the children retreated silently towards the chair in the bedroom. She gave a despairing moan, and allowed the policeman to lead her to

the door. She stumbled out, a broken woman, looking twenty years older than when she had entered. She was led through the crowd at the door, and there were many sympathetic voices.

“Oh poor soul.” “Oh it’s a shame.”

“Don’ yer jus’ feel for ’er, poor soul.”

“’E’s a bad’un, an’ all.” “It’s a shame, oi sez.”

She was escorted back to Ontario Buildings, and I returned to Nonnatus House, with much to think about that night.

THE BICYCLE

The hidden steel of a Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne was revealed to us over the next few weeks as Chummy mastered the skills of riding a bicycle. After the accident Sister Julienne was seriously in doubt as to whether it would be possible, but Chummy was adamant. She could and would learn.

Every spare minute of her time was spent practising. All her district work had to be done on foot in the meantime, and this took far longer than it would have taken on a bicycle. Consequently she had less spare time than anyone else. But she utilised each and every minute of freedom. She would push the old

Raleigh up Leyland Street, a sligh incline, and then free wheel down; up and down hundreds of times until she acquired her balance. She got up a couple of hours early each morning, and went out every evening from about 8 to 10 p.m., coming back exhausted and breathless. “Well, actually, there’s no point in just learning to ride in the daylight,” she argued gaily, with irrefutable logic.

These rides in the dark were usually accompanied by crowds of cheering or jeering children. This might have been a menace, had Chummy not gained the respect of an older lad who had joined us on the first day when Cynthia, Trixie and I had been trying to

teach her. Jack was a particularly tough specimen of about thirteen, accustomed to fighting for his rights. He soon dispersed the little kids; a few blows, a few kicks, and they were gone. Then he presented himself in front of the bicycle, her champion.

“You gets any more trouble from that lot, Miss, jes’ call me. Jack. I’ll take care of ’em.”

“Oh, that’s frightfully good of you, Jack. Actually, I’m most awfully grateful. This old machine’s a lively little filly, what?”

Chummy’s posh voice must have been as incomprehensible to Jack as his Cockney accent was to her, but nevertheless, they struck a friendship

then and there.

After that Chummy learned rapidly. Jack was out early and late, running, pushing, helping her in every way. He developed a particularly ingenious way of teaching her to steer the bike and turn corners; he pedalled whilst she steered! Chummy controlled the handlebars, sitting on the saddle, her legs trailing, whilst he stood on the pedals, doing all the hard work. To propel her twelve stone weight must have been hard work, but Jack was no puny thirteen-year-old, and took pride in his manliness. Early and late he could be heard shouting: “Turn left, Miss; NO, LEF’, yer dafty Easy does it. Not too sharp, now. Aim for that phone box, and keep yer eyes on

it.”

Neither of them saw defeat as a possibility, and within three weeks they were riding all the way from Bow to the Isle of Dogs in the dark November mornings.

Jack did not own a bicycle, and reluctantly he had to admit that the time had come for Chummy to try on her own. He pushed her off, and she pedalled confidently down the street and round the corner. Sadly he waved as she turned out of sight. He had been useful, and now the fun was all over. He kicked a stone, and slouched off homewards, hands in pockets, one foot in the gutter, the other on the kerb.

But Chummy was not one to let a

friendship die, still less to allow kindness and help to pass unnoticed. She discussed it with us at lunch, and we agreed that a gift of some sort would be appropriate. Various were the suggestions - a jar of sweets, a football, a penknife - but Chummy was not happy with any of these ideas. Sister Julienne, ever practical and wise, pointed out that the time, effort and commitment on Jack’s part had been very great, so therefore her debt to him was great.

“I don’t think the boy should be fobbed off with a trivial token. I feel he should receive something that he really wants and would value. On the other hand, it depends entirely upon what you, the giver, can afford, and only you can

know this.”

Chummy brightened, and a huge smile lit her features. “Actually, I know what Jack wants more than anything else - a bicycle! And I’m pretty sure Pater would buy one for him if I explained the circumstances, what? He’s a sporting old stick, and always coughs up for a good cause. I’ll write to him tonight.”

Of course Pater coughed up, happy to see his only daughter fulfilled at last. He could no more understand her determination to become a missionary than he could understand her passion for midwifery, but he would support it to the end.

A new bicycle meant a new life for Jack. Very few boys had such a

possession in those days. For him, it meant more than status. It meant freedom. He was an adventurous boy, and went miles beyond the East End on his bike. He joined the Dagenham Cycling Club and competed in time trials and road races. He went camping alone in the Essex countryside. He went as far as the coast, and saw the sea for the first time.

Chummy was delighted, and his continued friendship was her greatest joy. He seemed to feel she needed his protection, and so every day after school Jack would turn up at Nonnatus House to escort her on her evening visits. His instinct that the children of the Docks would tease and torment her were right,

because on the whole the cockneys did not take to Chummy, and made fun of her behind her back. Her huge size, pedalling steadily along the streets on an ancient solid-wheeled bicycle, brought crowds of children to a standstill, and they lined the pavement shouting things like “what-ho” and “jolly good show, actually” or “steady on, old bean” amid loud-mouthed guffaws. And, to rub salt into the wound, they called her “The Hippo”. Poor Chummy treated it with good humour, but we all knew how deeply it hurt her. But when tough, pugnacious, street-wise Jack was with her, the children kept their distance. We all saw him on different occasions, standing in the street or the tenement

courtyards, holding two bicycles, his lower jaw thrust forward, his stocky legs slightly apart, coolly looking around him, confident that a look was all that was needed to to protect “Miss”.

Twenty-five years later, a shy young girl called Lady Diana Spencer became engaged to marry Prince Charles, heir to the throne. I saw several film clips of her arriving at various engagements. Each time when the car stopped, the front nearside door would open, and her bodyguard would step out and open the rear door for Lady Diana. Then he would stand, jaw thrust forward, legs slightly apart, and look coolly around him at the crowds, a mature Jack, still practising the skills he

had acquired in childhood, looking after his lady.

ANTENATAL

CLINIC

There must be aspects of every job that are disliked. I did not like antenatal work. In fact I would go so far as to say that I hated antenatal clinic, and dreaded the arrival of each Tuesday afternoon. It was not just the hard work - though that was hard enough. The midwives tried to organise the day-book so that we could finish our morning visits by twelve noon. We had an early lunch, and at one-thirty we started to set up the clinic in order to open the doors at 2 p.m. Then we worked through until we were finished, often as late as 6 or 7 p.m. After that, our

evening visits began.

That did not bother me - hard work never did. What really got me, I think, was the sheer concentration of unwashed female flesh, the pulsating warmth and humidity, the endless chatter, and above all the smell. However much I bathed and changed afterwards, it was always a couple of days before I could get rid of the nauseating smells of vaginal discharge, urine, stale sweat, unwashed clothes. It all mingled into a hot, clinging vapour that penetrated my clothes, hair, skin - everything. Many times, during the routine antenatal clinics, I had to go out into the fresh air and lean over the rail by the door, heaving, forcing down the urge to be sick.

Yet we are all different, and I did not meet any other midwife who was affected in this way. If I mentioned it, the reaction was one of genuine surprise. “What smell?” or “Well, perhaps it got a bit hot.” So I didn’t make any further comments about my own reaction. I had to remind myself continuously of the huge importance of antenatal work, which had contributed so greatly to the drop in maternal deaths. Memory of the history of midwifery, and the endless sufferings of women in childbirth, kept me going when I was thinking, I just cannot bring myself to examine another woman.

Total neglect of women in pregnancy and childbirth had been the

norm. Among many primitive societies, women menstruating or with child, or in labour or suckling the child, were regarded as unclean, polluted. The woman was isolated and frequently could not be touched, even by another woman. She had to go through the whole ordeal alone. Consequently only the fittest survived, and by the processes of mutation and adaptation, inherited abnormalities, such as disproportion in the size of the pelvis and the foetal head, died out of the race, particularly in remote parts of the world, and labour became easier.

In Western society, which we call civilisation, this did not occur, and a dozen or more complications, some of

them deadly, were superimposed on the natural hazards: overcrowding, staphylococcal and streptococcal infection; infectious diseases such as cholera, scarlet fever, typhoid and tuberculosis; venereal disease; rickets; multiple and frequent childbirth; the dangers from infected water. If you add to all this the attitude of indifference and neglect that often surrounded childbirth it is not hard to understand how childbirth came to be known as “the curse of Eve”, and how women could often expect to die in order to bring forth new life.

The Midwives of St Raymund Nonnatus held their clinic in a church hall. The idea today of conducting a full-

scale antenatal clinic in a converted old church hall is horrifying, and sanitary inspectors, public health inspectors, every inspector you can think of would be there condemning it. But in the 1950s it was by no means condemned, in fact the nuns were highly praised for the initiative and ingenuity they had shown in the conversion. No structural changes had been made, apart from the installation of a lavatory and running cold water. Hot water was obtained from an Ascot water heater fixed to the wall near the tap.

Heating was provided by a large coke fire in the middle of the hall. It was a black cast iron construction which had to be lit earlier in the morning by Fred,

the boilerman. Such coke fires were very common in those days, and I have seen them even in hospital wards. (I recall one ward where it was the practice to sterilise our syringes and needles by boiling them in a saucepan placed on the stove). These stoves were very solid, flat topped, and you had to fill them by opening the circular lid and tipping the coke in from a coke-hod. It required quite a bit of muscle power. The stove was situated in the middle of the space, so that heat was radiated all around. The flue went straight up the middle, to the roof.

A few examination couches were available, with movable screens to provide privacy, and wooden desks with

chairs, where we wrote up our notes. A long marble-topped surface stood near the sink, upon which we placed our instruments and other equipment. A gas jet stood on this surface, with a box of matches beside it. This single jet of flame was used continuously for boiling up the urine. I can smell it now, more than fifty years later!

The clinic, and those like it all over the country, may sound primitive today but it had saved countless thousands of lives of both mothers and babies. The Midwives’ clinic was the only one in the area until 1948, when a small maternity unit of eight beds was opened in Poplar Hospital. Prior to that, the hospital had no maternity unit even though Poplar

was said to have a population of fifty thousand people per square mile. When the decision was taken after the war to open a hospital unit, no special provision was made. Quite simply, two small wards were allocated for maternity - one for lying-in, and the other for delivery, doubling-up as an antenatal clinic. This was inadequate, but it was better than nothing at all. Accommodation, equipment, technology, were not really important. What was important was the knowledge, skill and experience of the midwife.

Clinical examination was what I shrank from the most. It can’t be as bad as last week, I thought as we prepared to open the doors. I shuddered as I

remembered it. Thank God I was wearing gloves, I thought. What would have happened if I had not?

She had been in my mind on and off for the whole of the past week. She had flounced into the clinic at about 6 p.m. in her hair curlers and slippers, a fag hanging from her lower lip, and with her were five children under seven. Her appointment had been for 3 p.m. I was clearing up after a not too stressful afternoon. Two of the other student midwives had left, and the third was still with her last patient. Of the Sisters, only Novice Ruth remained, (a “novice” in the religious life, not in midwifery). She asked me to see Lil Hoskin.

It was Lil’s first antenatal visit,

even though she had had no periods for five months. This is going to take another half an hour, I sighed to myself as I got out the notes. I scanned through them: thirteenth pregnancy, ten live births; no history of infectious disease; no rheumatic fever or heart disease; no history of tuberculosis; some cystitis but no evidence of nephritis; mastitis after the third and seventh babies, but otherwise all babies breastfed.

Her previous notes gave me most of her obstetric history, but I needed to ask some questions about the present pregnancy.

“Have you had any bleeding?” “Nope.”

“Any vaginal discharge?”

“A bit.”

What colour?” “Mos’ly yellowish.”

“Any swelling of the ankles?” “Nope.”

“Any breathlessness?” “Nope.”

“Any vomiting?”

“A bit. Not much though.” “Constipated?”

“Yep, not ’alf !”

“Are you sure you are pregnant? You haven’t been examined or tested.”

“I should know,” she said meaningfully, with a shriek of laughter.

The children by now were rushing around all over the place. The hall, being large and virtually empty, was like

a great play area for them. I didn’t mind - no healthy child can resist a wide open space, and the urge to run is powerful if you are only five years old. But Lil thought she must exercise some show of authority. She grabbed a passing child by the arm and dragged him to her. She gave him a great blow across the side of the face and ear with a heavy hand, and screamed.

“Shut up and behave yourself, you li’l bleeder. And that goes for the lot of you and all.”

The child squealed with pain and the injustice of the blow. He retreated about ten yards from his mother, and screamed and stamped, until he could scarcely breathe. Then he paused, took a

deep breath, and started all over again. The other children had stopped running around, and a couple started whimpering. A happy but noisy scene with five little children had been turned in an instant into a battlefield by this stupid woman. I hated her from that moment.

Novice Ruth came up to the child, and tried to comfort him, but he pushed her away, and lay on the floor kicking and screaming. Lil grinned and said to me: “Don’t mind him, he’ll get over it.” Then louder, to the child: “Shu’ yer face or yer’ll get another.”

I couldn’t bear it, so to prevent her doing any more harm, I told her that I must examine her urine, gave her a

gallipot, and asked her to go into the lavatory to supply a sample for me. After that, I said, I would want to examine her, and would need her undressed below the waist, and lying on one of the couches.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 560