Call the Midwife

by Jennifer Worth

  Compassionate leave was granted to him in 1942, when his wife and three of their six children were killed by a direct hit. He was able to spend a little time with his three living children, who were shocked and traumatised, in a hostel in North London before they were evacuated to Somerset, and he was ordered back to the latrines.

  After the war, he took two cheap rooms and brought up the remains of his family single-handed. It was never easy for him to find a regular job, because his eyesight was erratic, and because he would not commit himself to be away from home for long hours – he knew that his children needed him. So he had developed a wide range of money-making activities, some of which were legal.

  Whilst we, the lay staff, took our breakfast in the kitchen, Fred was generally attending to his boiler, so there was plenty of opportunity to press him for stories, which we did unashamedly, being young and inquisitive. For his part Fred would always oblige, as he clearly loved spinning his yarns, often prefaced by, “You’re never going to believe this one.” A laughing audience of four young girls was music to his ears. Young girls will laugh at anything!

  One of his regular jobs, and the best paid he assured us, as it was highly skilled, was that of a cooper’s barrel bottom knocker for Whitbreads the brewer. Trixie, the sceptic, snapped, “I’ll knock your bottom for you”, but Chummy swallowed it whole and said gravely, “Actually, it sounds frightfully interesting. Do tell us more.” Fred liked Chummy, and called her “Lofty”.

  “Well, these here beer barrels, like, they’ve gotta be sound, like, and the only way of testin’ ’em is by knockin’ the bottoms and listening. If it comes up wiv one note, it’s sound. If it comes up wiv anover, it’s faul’y. See? Easy, bu’ I can tell you, it takes years of experience.”

  We had seen Fred in the market selling onions, but did not know that he grew them. Having the ground floor of a small house gave him a small garden, which was given over to onions. He had tried potatoes – “no money in spuds” – but onions proved to be a money-maker. He also kept chickens and sold the eggs, and the birds as well. He wouldn’t sell to a butcher, “I’m not ’aving no one take ’alf the profits”, but sold directly to the market. He wouldn’t take a stall either, “I’m not paying no bleedin’ rent to the council”, and laid a blanket on the floor in any space available, selling his onions, eggs and chickens from there.

  Chickens led to quails, which he supplied to West End restaurants. Quails are delicate birds, requiring warmth, so he kept them in the house. Being small, they do not need much space, so he bred and reared them in boxes which he kept under the bed. He slaughtered and plucked them in the kitchen.

  Chummy, always eager, said, “You know, I think that’s frightfully clever, actually. But wouldn’t it be a bit whiffy, what?”

  Trixi cut her short. “Oh, shut up. We’re having our breakfast,” and reached for the cornflakes.

  Fred’s enthusiasm for drains was enough to put anyone off their breakfast. Cleaning out drains was obviously a passion, and his north-east eye gleamed as he poured out the effluvial details. Trixie said, “I’ll stuff you down a drain, if you don’t watch it,” and made for the door, toast in hand. But Fred, a poet with rod and suction, was not to be discouraged. “The best job I ever had was up in Hampstead, see? One of them posh houses. Lady’s real la-di-da, toffee-nosed. I lifts up the man’ole cover an’ there it is, like, fillin’ the whole chamber: a frenchy – a rubber, you know – caught at the inflow end, an’ blown up with muck an’ water. Huge, it was, huge.”

  His eyes rolled expressively at their different angles as he expanded his arms. Chummy shared his enthusiasm, but not his meaning.

  “You never seen nuffink like it, a yard long, an’ a foot wide, strike me dead. Ve lady, ever so posh like, looks at it an’ says ‘oh dear, whatever can it be?’ an’ I says ‘well if you don’t know, lady, you musta bin asleep’ an’ she says ‘don’t you be saucy, my good fellow’. Well, I gets the thing out, an’ charges her double, an’ she pays up like a lamb.”

  He grinned impishly, rubbed his hands together, and sucked his tooth.

  “Oh, jolly well done, Fred, good for you. It was frightfully clever getting double the fee, actually.”

  Fred’s best line, with the highest profit margin, had been fireworks. His unit of the Pioneer Corps had been attached to the Royal Engineers in North Africa for a time. Explosives had been in daily use. Anyone, however humble, working with the REs, is bound to learn something about explosives and Fred had picked up enough to give him confidence to embark on fireworks manufacture in the kitchen of his little house after the war.

  “S’easy. You just need a load of the right kind of fertiliser, an’ a touch of this an mix it wiv a bi’ of that an’ bingo, you’ve got yer bang.”

  Chummy said, wide-eyed with apprehension: “But isn’t it frightfully dangerous, actually, Fred?”

  “Nah, nah, not if you knows what you is a-doin’, like what I does. Sold like nobody’s business, they did, all over Poplar. Everyone was wantin’ ’em. I could’ve made a fortune if they’d left me alone, the bleeders, beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

  “Who? What happened?”

  “Rozzers, police, got ‘old of some of me fireworks an’ tested ’em, an’ sez they was dangerous, an’ I was endangering ‘uman life. I asks you – I asks you. Would I do anyfing like that, now? Would I?” He looked up from his position on the floor, and spread out his ash-covered hands in innocent appeal.

  “Of course not Fred,” we all chorused. “What happened?”

  “Well, they charged me, din’t they, but the magistrate, he lets me off wiv a fine, like, because I ‘ad three kids. He was a good bloke, he was, the magistrate, but he says I would go to prison if I does it again, kids or no kids. So I never done it no more.”

  His most recent economic adventure had been in toffee apples, and very successful it was, too. Dolly made the toffee mixture in the little kitchen, while Fred purchased crates of cheap apples from Covent Garden. All that was needed was a stick to put the apple on, dip it in the toffee, and in no time at all rows of toffee apples were lined up on the draining board. Fred couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it before. It was a winner. One-hundred per cent profit margin and assured sales with the large number of children around. He foresaw a rosy future with unlimited sales and profits.

  A week or two later, it was clear that something had gone wrong from the silence of the small figure crouched down by the stove, manipulating the flue. No cheerful greeting, no chat, no tuneless whistle – just a heavy silence. He wouldn’t even respond to our questions.

  Eventually Chummy left the table and went over to him.

  “Come on, Fred. What’s up? Perhaps we can help. And even if we can’t, you will feel better if you tell us.” She touched his shoulder with her huge hand.

  Fred turned and looked up. His north-east eye drooped, and a little moisture glinted in the south-west. His voice was husky as he spoke.

  “Fevvers. Quail’s fevvers. Tha’s wha’s up. Someone complained fevvers was stuck to me toffee apples. So food safety boffins come an’ examined ’em an’ said fevvers an’ bits of fevvers was stuck to all me toffee apples, an’ I was endangerin’ public ‘ealth.”

  Apparently the health inspector had asked at once to see where the toffee apples were made, and when shown the kitchen, in which the quails were regularly slaughtered and plucked, had immediately ordered that both occupations be discontinued, on pain of prosecution. So great was the disaster to Fred’s economy that it seemed nothing could be said to comfort him. Chummy was so kind, and assured him that something else would turn up, something better, but he was not reassured, and it was a glum breakfast that morning. He had lost face, and it hurt.

  But Fred’s triumph was yet to come.

  A CHRISTMAS BABY

  Betty Smith’s baby was due in early February. As she dashed happily around all December, preparing Christmas for her husband and six children, her parents and in-laws, grandparents
on both sides, brothers, sisters and their children, uncles and aunts, and a very ancient great-grandmother, none of the family dreamed that the baby would be born on Christmas Day.

  Dave was a wharf manager in the West India Docks. He was in his thirties, clever, competent and he knew his job inside out. He was greatly valued by the Port of London Authority, and he earned a good wage. In consequence, the family was able to live in one of the large Victorian houses just off Commercial Road. Betty never ceased to thank her lucky stars that she had married Dave just after the war, and was able to leave the tenements, with the cramped living conditions and minimal sanitation. She loved her big, roomy house, and that is why she had always been glad to have the family descend on her for Christmas. The children loved it. With about twenty-five little cousins coming from all over Poplar, Stepney, Bow, and Canning Town, they were going to have a high old time.

  Uncle Alf was Father Christmas. The house was at the bottom of an incline, and Uncle Alf had a home-made sleigh on wheels. This was taken to the top of the street, loaded with a sack of presents, and at a given signal, pushed off. The children did not know how it was done. All that they saw was Father Christmas trundling gently towards them, with no apparent means of propulsion, and stopping at their house. They were in an ecstasy of delight.

  But this year, things were to be rather different. Instead of Father Christmas on a sleigh, a midwife arrived on a bicycle. Instead of a sack full of presents, a baby came, naked and crying.

  My Christmas was also very different. For the first time in my life I began to understand that Christmas is a religious festival, and not just an occasion for overeating and drinking. It had all begun in late November with something that I was told was Advent. This meant nothing to me, but for the nuns it meant a time of preparation. Most people prepare for Christmas as Betty had done, buying food, drinks, presents and treats. The nuns prepared rather differently, with prayer and meditation.

  The religious life is a hidden life, so I would not see or hear what was going on, but as the four weeks of Advent progressed, I began to feel intuitively that something was in the air. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but as children pick up a feeling of excitement from their parents, so I “caught” from the Sisters a real feeling of calm, peace and joyful expectancy, which I found to be strangely disturbing and unwelcome.

  It came to a head on Christmas Eve when I returned late from my evening visits. Sister Julienne was around, and said to me, “Come with me to the Chapel, Jennifer, we put up the crib today.”

  Not wishing to be rude by saying I would rather not, I followed her. The chapel was unlit, except for two candles placed by the crib. Sister Julienne kneeled at the altar rail to pray. Then she said to me, “Our blessed Saviour was born on this day.”

  I remember looking at the small plaster figures and the straw and things, and thinking, how on earth can an intelligent and well-informed woman take all this seriously? Is she trying to be funny?

  I think I murmured something polite about it being very peaceful, and we parted. However, I was not at peace within myself. Something was nagging at me that I was trying to resist. Was it then or was it later that the thought came to me: if God really does exist, and is not just a myth, it must have consequence for the whole of life. It was not a comfortable thought.

  For many years I had attended a Christmas midnight Mass somewhere, not for religious reasons, but for the drama and beauty of the ceremony. I was not fussy about denomination. When I was living in Paris, I had been in the habit of attending the Russian Orthodox Church in Rue Darue, for the beauty of the singing. The Christmas mass from 11 p.m. to about 2 a.m. counts as one of the greatest musical experiences of my life. The liturgy, sung by the Russian bass voice of the cantor, rising in quarter-tones, has never left my inner ear, even though more than fifty years have passed.

  The Sisters and lay staff attended All Saints Church, East India Dock Road for midnight Mass. I was astonished to find the church absolutely packed. Strong, tough dockers, hard-bitten casual labourers, giggling teenagers in their winkle-pickers, whole families carrying babies, small children, all were there. The crowd was enormous. All Saints is a large Victorian church, and it must have held five hundred people that night. The service was as I had expected – impressive, beautiful, dramatic, but devoid of any spiritual content as far as I was concerned. I wondered why. Why was it the whole meaning of life for these good Sisters, yet just a piece of well executed theatre for me?

  We were having lunch around the big table on Christmas Day when the telephone rang. Everyone groaned. We had hoped for a day of rest. The nurse who answered it came back to say that Dave Smith was reporting that his wife seemed to be in labour. The groan turned into a gasp of anxiety.

  Sister Bernadette jumped up with the words, “I’ll go and talk to him.” She came back a few minutes later, and said, “It sounds as though it is labour. At thirty-four weeks this is unfortunate. I have informed Dr Turner, and he will come at once if we need him. Who is on call today?”

  I was.

  We prepared to go out together. I was a student at the time, and was always accompanied by a trained midwife. From the first moment I had watched Sister Bernadette at work, I knew that she was a gifted midwife. Her knowledge and skill were balanced by her intuition and sensitivity. I would have entrusted my life to her hands, without the slightest hesitation.

  Together we left the cosy warmth of an excellent Christmas dinner, and fetched a delivery pack and our midwifery bags from the sterilising room. The pack was a large box, containing pads, sheets, waterproof paper, and so on, which was usually taken to the house a week before the expected delivery. The blue bag contained our instruments and drugs. We fitted them both to our bicycles, and pushed out into a cold windless day.

  I had never known London to be so quiet. Nothing seemed to stir, except for two midwives cycling silently along the deserted road. Normally the East India Dock Road is dense with heavy goods lorries going to and from the docks, but on that day the broad thoroughfare looked majestic and beautiful in its solitary silence. Nothing moved on the river or in the docks. Not a sound, but the occasional cry of a seagull. The stillness of the great heart of London was unforgettable.

  We arrived at the house, and Dave let us in. Through the window we had seen a big Christmas tree, a fire, and a room crowded with people. About a dozen little faces of curious children were pressed to the window pane as we arrived.

  Dave said, “Betty’s upstairs. I didn’t see no cause to send them home, and she don’t want it. She likes a bit of noise, says it will help her.”

  The sound of lusty singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” came from the front room, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano. Full vocal justice was given to the animal noises by various uncles, expert in being the horse, the pig, the cow, the duck. The children screamed with laughter, and shouted for more.

  We went upstairs to Betty’s room, where the peace and silence contrasted with the noise and clamour below. A fire had been lit and was burning brightly. Hardly any time had been given to Betty’s mother to prepare a delivery room, but she had worked miracles. Surfaces had been cleaned, extra linen provided, hot water was available, even the cot had been prepared. Betty’s first words were, “This is a turn up for the books, eh, Sister?”

  She was a cheerful, down-to-earth sort of woman, who took everything in her stride. No doubt she had the same confidence in Sister Bernadette that I had.

  I opened the delivery pack, and covered the bed with brown waterproof paper, then the draw sheets and maternity pads. We gowned and scrubbed up, and Sister examined her. The waters had broken an hour earlier. I saw intense concentration on Sister’s face, and then a look of grave concern. She said nothing for a few moments as she slowly took off her gloves, then said gently:

  “Betty, your baby seems to be a breech presentation. That means the bottom is coming first, instead of the head. This is a perfectly normal way for the baby to lie until about thirty-five weeks, bu
t then the baby usually turns, and the head is presented first. Your baby has not turned. Now, whilst thousands of babies are born quite safely in breech, there is a greater risk than a head presentation. Perhaps you should consider a hospital delivery.”

  Betty’s reaction was immediate and dogmatic. “No. No hospital. I’ll be OK with you, Sister. All me babies have been delivered by the Nonnatuns and born in this room, and I don’t want nothing else. What do you say, mum?”

  Her mother agreed, and recalled that her ninth had been a breech, and that her neighbour Glad had had no less than four, arse first.

  Sister said, “Very well then, we will do our best, but I am going to ask Dr Turner to come.” Then to me: “Would you go and ring him, nurse?”

  In spite of his comparative affluence, Dave did not have a telephone. There would have been no point, because none of his friends or relatives had a phone, so no one would ever have rung them. The public phone box was sufficient for their needs. As I went downstairs, a stream of shouting children in paper hats, faces alight with excitement rushed past me. A voice from downstairs called out:

  “Everyone hide. I’ll count twenty, then I’m coming to find you. One, two, three, four…”

  The children rushed higher in the house, screaming and pushing, hiding in cupboards, behind curtains, anywhere. By the time I got to the front door, all was quiet except: “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen – cummin’.”

  I went out into the cold of the deserted street to find the telephone box. Dr Turner was a general practitioner who not only had a surgery in the East End, but also lived there with his wife and children. He was utterly dedicated to his work and his practice, and it seemed to me that he was always on call. Like most GPs of his generation he was a first-class midwife, with a knowledge and skill gained from the experience of his wide ranging practice.

  He was expecting my call. I told him the facts. He said, “Thank you, nurse. I will come directly.” I imagined his wife sighing, “even on Christmas Day you have to go out.”