Call the Midwife

by Jennifer Worth

  She grabbed my wrist with unexpected strength and pushed my arm away. “For Rosie,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  I checked her physical condition, and asked a few questions, none of which she replied to. She just gazed at me unblinkingly, and continued sucking her lips.

  On another occasion when I called, she was chuckling to herself as she played with a piece of elastic. She was stretching and releasing it and twisting it round her fingers. She said to me, as I entered, “My Rosie brought me a bit of elastic las’ night. Look ‘ow it stretches. It’s good an’ strong. She’s a clever girl, my Rose. She can always get hold of a bi’ of elastic for you, if you wants it.”

  I was beginning to get irritated with Rosie. She wasn’t much help to her old mother. A bit of elastic, indeed! Was that the best she could do?

  But then I saw the tenderness and happiness on the old face, and the warmth and love in her voice as she fiddled with the elastic. “My Rosie give it me, she did. She go’ it fer me, she did. She’s a dear girl, my Rose.”

  My heart softened. Perhaps Rosie was as simple as her mother, her mind also unhinged by her early life in the workhouse. I wondered how long she had spent there, and what had happened to her brothers and sisters.

  Life in the workhouse was terrible. All inmates were locked into their quarters, which consisted of a day room, a sleeping room and an airing yard. They were confined to the dormitory from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m., and there was a drain or channel running down the centre, into which they relieved themselves at night. The day room was their dining room, where they sat at long benches to eat. All windows were above eye level so that no one could see out of them, and the window sills sloped downwards, so that no one could climb up and sit on them. The airing yard was an enclosed gravel square, from which no door or gate issued. It was, effectively, a prison.

  Misery and monotony blurred days into weeks, and weeks into months. The women worked all day, mostly rough work: in the laundry, washing for the entire workhouse; scrubbing – the Master was fanatical about scrubbing; cooking poor quality food for all the inmates; heavy sewing, such as sacks, sails, matting; and, strangest of all, picking oakum. This was old rope, usually tarred, which had to be untwisted and unpicked into strands, which were then used for caulking the seams of wooden ships. This sounds easy; but it was not. The rope, especially if caked in oil or tar or salt, could be as hard as steel, and unpicking it tore the hands and left the fingers raw and bleeding.

  Yet the working hours were less terrible than the hours of rest. Mrs Jenkins found herself among about one hundred other women of all ages, including the sick and infirm. Many of them appeared to be mad or demented. Tired from their physical work, there was nowhere to sit down, except on benches in the middle of the day room or the airing yard. In order to rest themselves, the women sat back to back on a bench, each supporting the other. There was nothing to do, nothing to look at or listen to, no books, nothing with which to exercise the mind. Many of the women just walked up and down, or round and round in circles. Most of them talked to themselves, or rocked backwards and forwards continuously. Some moaned aloud, or howled into the night air.

  “I will ge’ like tha’ meself,” thought Mrs Jenkins.

  They were ushered into the airing yard twice a day for half an hour of exercise. From the yard, Mrs Jenkins could hear the sounds of children’s voices, but the walls were fifteen feet high, and she could not see over them. She tried calling the names of her children, but was ordered to stop, or she wouldn’t be allowed out into the yard again. So she just stood by the wall where she thought the sounds came from, whispering their names, and straining her ears to catch the sound of a voice she would know to be her child’s own.

  “I didn’ know wha’ I done wrong to be in there. I jus’ cried all the time. An’ I didn’ know wha’ they done wiv the li’l ones.”

  When the spring came, and the days grew warmer and longer, and new life was surging all around in the world that she could not see beyond the workhouse walls, Mrs Jenkins was informed that her youngest child, a boy aged three, had died. She asked why, and was told that he had always been sickly, and that no one had expected him to live. She asked if she might attend the funeral, and was told that he had already been buried.

  The little boy was the first to go. Mrs Jenkins never saw any of her children again. Over the next four years, one by one, they all died. The mother was merely informed of each death, she was given no cause. She did not attend any of the funerals. The last to die was a girl of fourteen. Her name was Rosie.

  THE BOTTOM DROPPED OUT OF PIGS

  Always expect the unexpected, and you will never go wrong. Fred had suffered a severe setback from the enforced closure of his quail and toffee-apple empire, and was looking round for something new. The unexpected came from a chance remark from Mrs B. as she came bustling into the kitchen muttering, “I don’ know what fings is comin’ to. The price o’ bacon these days! I’ve never seen nuffink like it.”

  Fred slapped his shovel down on the floor, raising a cloud of ash, and shouted: “Pigs! That’s the answer. Pigs. They was doin’ it in the war, an’ it can be done again.”

  Mrs B. rushed over to him, broom in hand. “You messy bugger, messin’ up my kitchen.”

  She held the broom aggressively, ready to strike. But Fred neither heard nor saw. He grabbed her round the waist, and twirled her round and round in a frenzied dance.

  “You got it, old girl, you ‘as. Why didn’t I think on it. Pigs.”

  He made snorting, honking noises, supposed to represent a pig, which did not improve his looks at all. Mrs B. extricated herself from his embrace, and poked him in the chest with the broom handle.

  “You crazy…” she started shouting, and he yelled back. When two Cockneys are engaged in a shouting match it is impossible to understand the lingo.

  Breakfast was over, and we heard the Sisters’ footsteps. They appeared in the doorway, and the slanging match stopped.

  In high excitement, Fred explained that he had just had a brilliant idea. He would keep a pig. It could live in the chicken run, which he could easily convert into a pigsty, and in no time at all the pig would be ready for the bacon factory, and his fortune would be made.

  Sister Julienne was enchanted. She loved pigs. She had been brought up on a farm, and knew a lot about them. She said that Fred could have all the peelings and waste from Nonnatus House, and advised him to go round the local cafés begging similar favours. Shyly she asked if she might come to see the pig when it was installed in the hen/pig house.

  Fred wasn’t one to hang around. Within a matter of days the pigsty was complete. He and Dolly pooled their resources and a pink, squealing little creature was soon purchased. Sister Julienne was profuse in her praise.

  “You’ve got a fine pig, there, Fred. A real beauty. You can tell by the width of the shoulders. You’ve made a good choice.”

  She gave him one of her sparkling smiles and Fred turned as pink as the pig.

  Fred yielded to Sister Julienne for advice about bran mash and nut mix, as well as supplies of food waste from local cafés and greengrocers. They were frequently seen in deep and earnest conversation, Fred sucking his tooth and whistling inwardly as he concentrated on the detail. Sister also advised him on hay and water and mucking out, and she impressed us all with her knowledge in the art of pig rearing.

  It was a busy and happy time for Fred. Each day at breakfast we heard details of the pig’s progress, her lusty appetite and rapid growth. As the weeks passed, mucking out consumed more of Fred’s time and labour. However, this proved to be a money-maker. Most small houses had tiny back gardens, no more than a yard in most cases, but quite sufficient to grow a few things. Tomatoes were popular, and so, surprisingly, were grapevines, which grew exceedingly well in Poplar and produced succulent fruit. Word soon got round, and Fred’s pigshit was in great demand. He concluded that there was no losing with pigs. The more he fed her, the more thick, black stuff she excreted, and the
more money he made. Within a few weeks the sale of manure had covered the initial cost of the piglet.

  The whole of Nonnatus House, Sisters and lay staff alike, took a deep interest in the pig and Fred’s financial aspirations. We read in the papers that the price of meat was rising, and concluded that Fred had been very shrewd.

  However, the vagaries and vicissitudes of the market are notorious. Demand fell. The bottom dropped out of pigs.

  The blow was heavy. Fred was glum. All that feeding and mucking and raking. All the plans and hopes. And now the pig was hardly worth the cost of slaughter. No wonder the bounce had gone out of Fred’s bent little legs. No wonder his North-East eye drooped.

  Sunday was a day of rest in Nonnatus House. After church we were all gathered in the kitchen, having coffee and cakes left by Mrs B. from her Saturday bake. Fred was packing up to leave, but Sister Julienne invited him to join us at the big table. Conversation turned to the pig; his fag drooped.

  “What’m I goin’ to do wiv ‘er? She’s costin’ me money to feed ‘er an’ I can’t ge’ nuffink for ‘er.”

  Everyone sympathised and muttered “hard luck” and “shame”, but Sister Julienne was silent. She stared at him intently, and then said, clearly and positively, “Breed from her, Fred. You could keep her as a breeding sow. There will always be a market for good healthy piglets, and when prices pick up, as they will, you could get a good price for them. And don’t forget, a sow always delivers between twelve and eighteen piglets.”

  Such advice – so obvious, so simple, yet so unexpected! Fred’s mouth fell open, and his fag dropped on to the table. Picking it up with an apology, he stubbed it out in the ashtray. Unfortunately it was not an ashtray; it was Sister Evangelina’s meringue, which she had been on the point of eating. She remonstrated with characteristic vigour.

  Fred was abashed and apologetic. He picked up the meringue, brushed off the ash, picked the fag end out of the cream, and handed it back to Sister Evangelina. “Piglets. Tha’s the answer. I’ll be a pig breeder. I’ll be the best pig breeder on the Isle.”

  Sister Evangelina snorted, and pushed the meringue away from her with disgust. But Fred noticed none of this. He was in a trance, muttering, “Piglets, piglets, I’ll breed pigs, that’s what I’ll do, I will.”

  Sister Julienne, practical and tactful, handed another meringue to Sister Evangelina, and said, “You will have to take the Pig Breeders’ Guide, Fred, and find a good stud boar. I can help you, if you need help in the first instance. My brother is a farmer so I can ask him to send a copy.”

  And that was how it all started. The Pig Breeders’ Guide arrived, and Fred and Sister Julienne were soon poring over it. It was disconcerting to see Fred attempting to read, because he had to hold the page to the left of his South-West eye in order to read anything at all. Even when he could make out a sentence or two, the language of pig breeders was completely foreign to him, and he could not have managed without Sister Julienne, who translated the strange jargon into comprehensible Cockney.

  A good stud boar was selected, a telephone call made, an agreement reached, and a small open truck arrived from Essex.

  Sister Julienne could hardly contain her excitement. Instructing Sister Bernadette to take charge of the House in her absence, she put on her outdoor veil and cloak, pulled a bicycle out of the shed, and cycled off to Fred’s house.

  The Essex farmer was a rural gentleman of settled habits. He had scarcely ventured beyond the peaceful confines of Strayling Strawless to Market Sodbury. His thoughts, as he drove his open truck with his stud boar into the heart of London’s Docklands, have not been revealed to us. The boar, resting his head contentedly on the side of the truck, jogged along for several miles without arousing much interest, but once in the more densely populated streets of London it was a different story. All the way through Dagenham, Barking, East Ham, West Ham, and down to Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs, the pig drew crowds. He was a large animal whose only exercise was that of copulation. His nature was comparatively docile, but in ten years his tusks had never been cut, and in consequence he looked more ferocious than he really was.

  As the truck turned in at the end of the street Sister Julienne arrived on her bicycle and met Fred. Together they approached the farmer, who stared at them without saying a word. Sister Julienne stood on tiptoe, looking over the edge of the truck, and brushed back her veil which had been blowing towards the pig’s tusks.

  “Oh, he’s a beautiful fellow,” she whispered excitedly.

  The farmer looked at her, sucked his pipe, and said, “I don’t believe this.”

  He asked to see the sow. The entry to Fred’s yard was via a side passage that ran between the houses, at the end of which was the boundary wall to the docks. The Thames ran behind it. The farmer was thus confronted with the towering sides of ocean-going cargo vessels.

  “They are never going to believe this. Never,” he muttered, as he stooped to pick up his pipe and the keys that had fallen from his hands.

  He was directed into Fred’s yard.

  “There she is, an’ lookin’ for a bi’ of fun from that there big bugger o’ your’n.”

  “Fun!” growled the farmer, “This bit of fun will cost you one pound, cash in hand.”

  Fred knew the cost, and had the money ready, but grumbled nonetheless. “Cor – pound a poke – that’s more’n they gets up West, that is.”

  Sister Julienne remonstrated: “It’s no good grumbling, Fred. A pound is the going rate, so you had better pay up.”

  The farmer eyed the nun strangely, but Fred handed over the money without another word.

  The farmer pocketed the cash, and said, “Right! We’ll bring him round.”

  But that was easier said than done.

  A crowd had gathered, and was growing all the time – word travels fast on the Isle. The farmer backed his truck up against the passage, lowered the rear trailer board, and leaped into the truck to drive the boar down, but the boar refused to budge. A pig’s eyesight is poor, and, to a creature accustomed to the open countryside of Essex, the passage must have looked like the black hole into hell.

  “Get up and help me,” shouted the farmer to Fred.

  Together they pushed and walloped and shouted at the boar, which got nasty, and looked as if it might be tempted to use its tusks after all. The crowd in the street gasped, and mothers pulled their children back as the boar slowly and tentatively, descended the ramp on its tiny trotters and entered the passage. Even then it was not plain sailing. The alley was narrow, and the boar very nearly got stuck. The two men pushed from behind. Sister Julienne ran through the house, through the pig yard and the outside gate, and into the passage with turnip tops in her hand, which she said would entice the pig forward. She held them under its nose, but still it would not move.

  Fred had an idea, “Wha’ we needs is a red hot poker to stick up his arse, like wha’ they do with camels in the desert when they wants ’em to go over a bridge. Camels won’ go over water, you know.”

  “You stick a red hot poker up his arse, and I’ll stick one up yours, mate,” the farmer threatened, and continued pushing.

  Eventually the boar was coaxed down the passage into Fred’s yard. A crowd of children followed, and more went into neighbouring gardens and hung over the fence.

  The farmer got cross. He spoke with slow emphasis.

  “You’ll have to clear this crowd away. Pigs are shy animals, they won’t do anything in front of an audience.”

  Again, Sister Julienne took charge. She spoke with quiet authority to the children, and they crept away. She, Fred, and the farmer went into the house and shut the door. But Sister could not resist the temptation to peep out through the curtains to see how the sow took to her “husband”, as she insisted on calling the boar.

  “Oh Fred, I don’t think she likes him – look, she’s pushing him away. He’s definitely interested, do you see?”

  Fred stood by the window, sucking his tooth.

 
“No, no, not like that!” cried Sister Julienne, wringing her hands in anguish. “You mustn’t bite him. That’s not the way. Now she’s running. Fred, I’m afraid she might not accept him. What do you think?”

  Fred didn’t know what to think.

  “That’s better. There’s a good girl. She’s getting more interested, do you see, Fred? Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Fred grew alarmed.

  “He’ll kill ’er, he will. Look at ’im, the big bugger. He’s biting her. Look ‘ere, I’m not standin’ fer this, not no ’ow. He’ll kill ’er, he will, or break ’er legs or somefink. I’m gonna put a stop to this, I am. It’s barbaric, I tells yer.”

  Sister had to restrain him.

  “It’s all perfectly natural. That’s the way they do it, Fred.”

  Fred was not easily pacified. Sister and the farmer had to hold him back until it was all over.

  The Nuns were assembled in the Chapel, kneeling in private prayer. The bell for Vespers sounded just as Sister Julienne entered Nonnatus House. Flushed and excited, she raced along the corridor, leaving behind footsteps of a sticky and highly pungent substance on the tiled floor. In haste, she composed herself, took her place at the lectern, and read:

  “Sisters, be sober, be vigilant, for your adversary the Devil roareth around like a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour.”

  One or two of the Sisters looked up from their prayers and glanced sideways at her. A few sniffed suspiciously.

  She continued:

  “Thine adversary roareth in the midst of thy congregation. Thine enemy hath defiled thy holy place.”

  The sniffs got louder, and the Sisters glanced at each other.

  “But as for me, I walk with the godly.”

  The sacristan filled the censer with an unusually large quantity of incense and swung it vigorously.

  “In my prosperity I said I shall never be cast down.”

  Smoke filled the air.