Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  ‘You did, you stinking liar.’

  ‘If you use that word again, you can leave my house. I’m a herbalist. I practise ancient remedies, passed on to me by wise women.’

  ‘Then what did you do at my place, when you nearly killed me?’

  ‘I came to your stinking hovel out of the kindness of my heart, because you kept a-pesterin’ me with your stomach cramps. In the goodness of my nature, I do occasionally visit clients.’

  ‘You nearly killed me.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘You did. The pain nearly killed me.’

  ‘Well you look all right now.’

  ‘No thanks to you, you bloody butcher.’

  ‘Ooh, I can’t stand this foul language any longer. I must ask you to be a-leave-taking of.’

  ‘Not till I get my twenty guineas back.’

  ‘Twenty guineas! What twenty guineas? I never heard such fairy-tales in all my life. I charged you two guineas for the secret herbal potion as was passed on to me by my dear deceased mother for the efficacious treatment of stomach cramps, remedies as what is known only to the select few.’

  ‘Damn your dear deceased mother!’

  ‘Oh, my poor mother. She would turn in her grave.’

  Mrs Prichard took a lace handkerchief, and applied it to her mascara-ed eyes. Hilda was beside herself with rage.

  ‘Are you goin’ to give me back my twenty guineas what you took off me for a bungled abortion?’

  ‘Excuse I, but I did not take twenty guineas off of you.’

  Mrs Prichard walked swiftly to the door, her high-heeled shoes clicking as she walked.

  ‘Miriam, dear. Come here, will you?’

  Miriam entered, strong and silent, and stared hard at Hilda.

  ‘This, er – lady, shall we say – this lady, Miriam, says that I took twenty guineas off of her. I did not. Did you receive any money, Miriam?

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you are, you see. Neither of us took any money off of you. You are fabricating, I’m afraid. I’ve met the likes of you before.’

  ‘Then what did you do at my place, what nearly killed me?’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. We gave you an enema for stomach cramps and left you well and comfortable.’

  ‘An enema?’

  ‘An herbal enema. That was all.’

  ‘But it nearly killed me. I bled like a pig.’

  ‘Piles, my dear. Piles. If you got piles what bleed in your – er – lower passage, you can hardly hold me responsible. Now, if you will excuse me, I have important work to do. I am expecting her ladyship, Lady Lucrecia, who won’t hear of going to no one else for her migraines and dizzy spells.

  ‘Damn you, d’you hear me, you painted ol’ sow.’

  ‘Oh, I have never been so insulted in all my life.’

  Mrs Prichard patted her hair, her crimson fingernails fluttering. A gold bangle flashed on her wrist. It was an action calculated to make Hilda feel shabby.

  Poor Hilda, clinically depressed, anaemic, weary, worn down by work and worry, still suffering from the pain inflicted by this woman, was sudderly made aware of her seven-year-old utility coat, her down-at-heel shoes, her straggly hair, her swollen hands and broken fingernails. The unspoken taunt drove her beyond the limits of self-control. She lunged out, trying to grab the blonde curls and pull them out by the roots, but Miriam stepped forward quickly and held her. Pinioned she screamed with frustration.

  ‘You painted bitch, you, with yer false bloody eyelashes, and yer blonde wig and yer la-di-da accent. Yer nuffink but a sly, filthy, thieving ol’ cow.’

  ‘Oh, this is too much. If my dear deceased husband could hear you, he would defend me.’

  ‘An’ damn your dear deceased husband, an’ all.’

  ‘Now you’re insultin’ my hero hubby, Captain Prichard, what died an ’ero’s death at the Battle of Agincourt in the last war. Miriam, show this person out.’

  Miriam, strong, silent and menacing, took Hilda’s arm, propelled her towards the street door and pushed her out onto the pavement. Blinded by tears, Hilda dragged herself back to her place – she always used ‘place’ in her mind; ‘flat’ was too posh a word for the dump. She bought four pounds of sausages and a couple of loaves at the corner shop. That would keep them quiet for the evening. ‘Everything OK, Mrs Harding?’ enquired the shopkeeper brightly. Nosy devil, always tittle-tattling, thought Hilda. ‘Yes, everyfink’s OK,’ she said, sullenly. All that pain and suffering, all that time in bed feeling ill – and for nothing. She was back to where she started, and twenty guineas lighter.

  In the evening, after the kids had gone to bed, she told Bill that the abortion had been a failure and she was still pregnant. He received the news in silence, drawing deep on his Woodbine. She’d seemed a bit off colour. So that was it.

  ‘You’re sure, are you?’

  ‘Quite.’ At least he didn’t seem cross. Resentful, perhaps, but not cross.

  ‘We’ve got too many kids as it is.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We can’t do wiv any more.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyfink else you can do?’ he asked hopefully, ‘something what’ll get rid of it?’

  She sighed. If only he knew what she’d been through.

  ‘I’ve tried. I’ve done everything I can, an’ I’m still pregnant. There’s nothing for it but to go through with it. I’m sorry, Bill.’

  Then he did something surprising, something she had not expected. He took her hand. A simple gesture, but it made all the difference. He squeezed her hand and said, ‘You don’t need to be sorry, duck. It’s my fault, as much as your’n. We’ve always had fun together, you an’ me. That’s the trouble – too much fun.’ He grinned and winked at her. ‘We’ll see it through together. You’ll see. As long as we sticks together, we’ll see it through. There now, don’t cry. Everythings gonna be OK. I’ll go out and fetch a jug of ale. That’ll see you right.’

  When he had gone, Hilda dropped her head on the table and sobbed with relief. Just to know that she had the support of her Bill turned the tide of despair into a flood of hope. Nothing had changed, they still had too many children in a slum flat, and she was expecting another, but, as Bill had said, they would see it through together.

  The story of Hilda and Bill was told to us by a friend and fellow midwife, Ena, who was attached to the Salvation Army Maternity Hospital in Clapton. The hospital had several district midwifery centres at the time, and Ena was based at the one in Hackney Road, Shoreditch, which bordered on our area. Consequently we often saw each other when we were out on our bikes. Their district was just as busy as ours, but when we had time we would meet and swap yarns. Most midwives in those days had some pretty ripe stories to tell, which provoked peals of laughter, or gasps of dismay from the rest of us, but Ena’s story is the most astonishing and the most macabre that I have ever heard.

  She first met the Hardings when there was a knock at the door late one afternoon. Ena opened it and a man stood before her. ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired. He did not say anything but just stood there, cap in hand, turning it round and round. ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked. Still he said nothing. He pulled a packet of Woodbines from his pocket and with shaking fingers opened it and pulled one out. He stuck it in his mouth. ‘Have you come to us for any reason?’ Ena enquired, puzzled. He took a box of matches from his pocket and fumbled with it. His awkward fingers could not seem to pick one up. Ena noticed blood around the edges of his nails. ‘Here, let me help you,’ she said kindly, and took out a match, lit it and held the flame to his cigarette. He inhaled deeply.

  ‘Now, can I help you?’

  ‘Is you ve midwife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s come.’

  ‘What’s come?’

  ‘Ve baby.’

  ‘Whose baby?’

  ‘My wife’s.’

  ‘Who is your wife?’

  ‘’ilda. Mrs ’arding.’
r />   ‘Is Mrs Harding booked with us?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Let’s get this straight. Your wife, Mrs Harding, has had a baby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Abaht quar’er of an hour ago.’

  ‘You mean it’s just been born?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At ’ome.’

  ‘Who was with her?’

  ‘I was.’ He drew deeply on his fag and spat on the pavement. He seemed ill at ease and would not look at her. Ena was growing increasingly alarmed. A baby born before arrival (a BBA we used to call it) happened occasionally, but usually the midwife had been called in advance and literally could not get there in time.

  ‘Did you call anyone?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He drew on his fag again and chewed his bloodied fingernails. Ena was putting two and two together.

  ‘Did you deliver the baby?’ she enquired, incredulous.

  ‘S’posin’ I did?’ he said defensively.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just unusual, that’s all.’

  He blew smoke into the air, still not looking at her.

  ‘It just come. Quick like.’

  ‘Well, I had better come if a baby has just been born. Your wife and baby will need attention. Do you think she was booked with us? If so, I’ll get the antenatal notes.’

  ‘Like I says, I dunno.’

  Ena decided that looking for notes that might not exist would only be a waste of time. She went quickly to fetch her delivery bag. Many thoughts were racing through her mind: a baby just born would need attention, almost certainly the cord would not have been cut; the third stage of labour would have to be dealt with; perhaps the woman was bleeding. She returned. The man was still standing at the door. He had lit another fag.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Round ve corner.’ He pointed to a near-derelict road where 90 per cent of the houses had been destroyed by the bombing, or had been boarded up as structurally unsafe.

  ‘I thought no one lived in that road,’ she said.

  ‘We do, worse luck.’

  ‘We’d better get to your wife and baby, then. Come on.’

  Ena walked quickly down the road. He followed a step or two behind, dragging his feet.

  ‘Which house?’

  ‘Over the road. The one with the windows.’

  She crossed the road and approached the front door. It was locked.

  ‘Have you got a key?’

  ‘Reckon so. Somewhere.’ He fumbled in his pockets, seeming unable to find it.

  ‘Oh, do hurry. You must have the key. You only left the house a few minutes ago.’

  He grunted and continued fumbling. Eventually he produced it and opened the door.

  Ena entered a foul-smelling hallway, and for the first time since the man had approached her, it occurred to her that this might be a trap. She felt a sharp stab of fear. Everything about the man was so strange. He had seemed ill at ease, or even shifty, since the beginning of the interview. She stifled a moment of panic when it occurred to her that perhaps the blood around his fingernails was not from the birth of a baby, but from something much more sinister. A derelict house in a bomb-destroyed street was not the sort of place in which a baby would be born. Yet the man had specifically asked for a midwife. If he had had any ulterior motive, he would have been more likely to ask for a nurse. His next words were reassuring. ‘My wife’s upstairs. You’ll have to come up. Mind that broken step. Don’t hurt yourself.’ She controlled her fears and followed the man. He opened a door.

  A woman was lying on the bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. She did not speak, and neither did the man. ‘Where is the baby?’ asked the midwife. No one answered. ‘Where is it?’ she asked a second time. Panic was beginning to take hold of her once more. There was something menacing in the silence of the man and the woman. She looked from one to the other, but they both avoided meeting her eye. ‘Where is the baby?’ she demanded a third time, more emphatically. ‘There,’ said the woman, pointing to the floor.

  Ena looked down and saw a chamber pot, overflowing with a gory, bloody mess, and two little white legs hanging over the side. She ran over to the pot. The mess she had seen was the placenta; the baby was head down in the chamber pot, covered by the placenta. Ena grabbed its legs and pulled the baby out. It was a little boy, quite limp and lifeless, suffocated by his own placenta.

  Shock, horror and panic made her unable to speak. She was only young, scarcely more than twenty, and had seen nothing like this before. She wrapped the little body in a towel and tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation; she tried milking the cord towards the body in a vain attempt to introduce new blood; she tried heart massage. All to no avail. The baby was quite dead.

  ‘Why did you leave it like that?’ she demanded hysterically.

  ‘We didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘But you’ve had other babies? You must surely know that a baby cannot be left head down in a chamber pot.’

  ‘No one told us what ter do. How was we to know?’

  ‘Why didn’t you call us earlier?’

  ‘It was all so quick. There was no time.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you pick the baby up?’

  Neither one answered. The woman continued to stare at the ceiling, while the man blew smoke at the window as he gazed out into the street.

  ‘I must go and get the senior midwife. I don’t know what to do.’

  She left the room and ran downstairs, stumbling and nearly falling. Out in the street she had to lean against the wall for several minutes to control herself. It was only a few hundred yards round the corner, but her steps were unsteady.

  The senior midwife called the police, then went to the house. Mr and Mrs Harding repeated their story to the police. The baby’s body was taken for post-mortem examination.

  The report stated that a normal baby at full term of gestation had been born. All internal organs – heart, brain, lungs, liver, kidneys, intestines, venous system – were well developed and normal, with full potential to support life. The lungs had expanded at birth, and the baby had taken several breaths, but the lungs were full of blood and amniotic fluid. The conclusion was that the baby had drowned in the fluids inhaled into the lungs.

  A coroner’s inquest was held a few weeks later, at which Ena was required to give evidence. She told them everything she knew. Mr and Mrs Harding were questioned. Hilda said that she was booked to go into the Salvation Army Maternity Hospital to have the baby. She said she had felt a few labour pains and had asked Mrs Hatterton opposite to get her husband and to look after her two youngest. Bill came back and was just getting ready to take her to hospital when she felt a bit wet, and wanted to go to the toilet. So she had sat down on the chamber pot, and it all just came away from her.

  The senior midwife confirmed that this was perfectly plausible, and that occasionally a multigravid woman could feel little more than slight abdominal discomfort, and a bearing-down sensation, just as Mrs Harding had described, in which case, labour need take no more than about fifteen minutes from the start of contractions to delivery of the baby.

  When the coroner asked the Hardings what they did next, both of them repeated their story that they didn’t know what to do and no one was there to tell them. Mr Harding said that he’d thought the best thing would be to go round the corner to get one of the district midwives, which is what he did. By the time they got back, the baby was dead.

  The coroner said that he found it very difficult to know what judgement to record. He found it hard to believe the story that the Hardings did not know what to do. On the other hand, he supposed that in the absence of a trained midwife or a doctor, two ignorant and unlettered people might really be at a loss to know how to act, especially if they were in a state of shock at the unexpected and rapid birth of a baby. Mr Harding had taken the course of action that seemed to them to be appropriate – he h
ad gone to call a midwife. But it was too late.

  In the event the coroner recorded an open verdict, which meant that the case was not closed, and that, if any further evidence came to light, it could be reopened and re-examined. But no further evidence was forthcoming.

  THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

  It was well that Chummy was on first call. Who else would have had the grit, the stamina and the sheer physical strength and courage to do what she did in the Docks that night?

  Camilla Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne came from a long line of ‘Builders of the Empire’. District Commissioners and Colonels were her forebears. All the women seemed to be Lady This, That or the Other, and could not only run a garden party or a county ball for thousands but could also live in torrid isolation, maintaining the Hill Stations for their husbands the District Commissioners, who single-handedly governed areas the size of Wales. Whatever one may say about the British Empire, it certainly bred self reliance and courage in its administrators.

  Chummy was typical of her family in this respect. In other ways, though, she was a misfit, because she was gauche, awkward and shy. Roedean and expensive finishing schools had been a failure. Chummy possessed no social graces whatsoever – a fact of which she was quite unaware – and she was always surprised and hurt when her mother let her know that she was an embarrassment to the family. The fact that she was over six feet in height and that she could not seem to control her long limbs did not help. She was always falling over or bumping into things, and after several disasters in public places her parents decided they could not take her anywhere. Many genteel and ladylike occupations were proposed, but after a fair trial, it had to be admitted that she was no good at any of them. ‘Whatever are we to do with Camilla?’ her mother would ask despairingly. ‘She can’t do anything, and no one is going to want to marry her.’

  Demoralised and bewildered, Chummy accepted her role as the family failure. But the ways of man and the ways of God are not the same thing. Quite suddenly she found her vocation. Chummy was going to be a missionary. For this purpose she trained as a nurse and was an instant and brilliant success. Then she trained as a midwife, which is how we came to meet at Nonnatus House.