Another contraction came, and the waters broke. Thank God I was able to replace the cord, she thought; it was only just in time. Labour was progressing fast, and Kirsty was wonderful. She had had no sedation but had barely murmured at the pain. Chummy could feel the head well down on the pelvic floor. ‘It won’t be long now,’ she said aloud.
Kirsty groaned and pushed. When the contraction had passed she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about this baby. I’m so glad now. I never thought I’d have one, because Dad always gave me the boxes of rubbers and said the boys must always wear them. So they did. But now I’m having a baby. And I’m glad.’
‘I’m sure you are. A woman may not want a baby, but she’s always happy when it comes,’ said Chummy.
‘I hope it’s a little girl. I’d like a little girl. I have enough men. But I don’t want her to have my life. It wouldn’t be right for a young girl. I think Dad will understand if I talk to him. What’s your name, nurse?’
‘Camilla,’ said Chummy.
‘Oh, what a beautiful name. I want to give her your name, nurse, may I?’
‘Of course. I should be honoured.’
‘Baby Camilla. That’s a lovely name.’
Another contraction came, only two minutes after the last, fiercer and longer. Kirsty had no vaginal or perineal resistance, so the head was able to descend quickly and easily. She gripped her hands until the knuckles showed white and pushed hard, forcing the weight of her buttocks against the end of the bed. In protest, the bed trembled and collapsed with a crash onto the floor.
The problem of an upside-down delivery had been solved! Mother and midwife were now on the floor, Kirsty floundering and pushing, Chummy desperately trying to control the situation.
Poor Kirsty was bewildered. ‘What happened?’ she kept asking. Chummy, who had narrowly missed having her hands crushed, tried to calm her.
‘The bed broke, but the baby is all right, and if you are not hurt, no harm has been done. In fact it’s a good thing, because delivery of your baby will be easier.’
Chummy’s concern now was that the baby’s head might be born too quickly. The slow and steady delivery of the head is what every midwife hopes for, but with no perineal resistance, this baby could well shoot out with the next contraction.
Another contraction came, and Kirsty raised her knees and braced herself to push, but Chummy stopped her. ‘Don’t push, Kirsty, don’t push. I know you want to and feel you must, but don’t. Your baby’s head will be born with this contraction, but I want it to come slowly. The slower the better. Concentrate on not pushing. Take little breaths, in-out, in-out, think about breathing, think about relaxing, but don’t push.’ All the time she was saying these words Chummy was holding the head, trying to prevent it from bursting out of the mother at speed. The contraction was waning, Chummy eased the slack perineum around the presenting crown, and the head was born.
Chummy breathed a sigh of relief. She had been concentrating so hard that she had not noticed the cramp in her legs as she squatted on the deck of the cabin; had not noticed the poor light cast by the hurricane lamp as it swung from a beam; had not noticed the movement of the ship, nor the occasional lurch as the wind hit it. All that she knew was that the miracle of a baby’s birth would shortly take place, that the safe delivery was in her hands, and that the head had been born. Chummy kept her hand under the baby’s face in order to lift it away from the hard floor and waited. Another contraction was coming. Chummy felt the face she was holding move.
‘It’s coming, Kirsty. You can push now. Hard.’
Kirsty drew her legs upwards and pushed. Chummy eased the shoulder out and downwards. The other shoulder and arm quickly followed, and the whole body slid out effortlessly.
‘You have a little girl, Kirsty.’
Emotion flooded over Kirsty with such intensity that she could not speak. Tears took the place of words. ‘Let me have her. Can I see her?’ she spluttered, still floundering with her head on the deck, unable to lift her shoulders. Chummy said ‘I am going to lay her on your tummy while I cut the cord, then you can hold her in your arms.’
The baby sank into the soft cushion of her mother’s stomach. She was slightly blue around the mouth and extremities, but otherwise she seemed to have suffered no harm from the drama of labour. Chummy severed the cord and then held the baby upside down by the heels. Kirsty gasped and held up her hands protectively.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop her,’ said the midwife, ‘this is done in order to drain the mucus out of the throat, and to help breathing.’
Then she gave a short, sharp pat to the back of the baby, who at once gave a shrill yell. ‘That’s what I like to hear, let’s have another one.’ The baby obliged, crying lustily, and from outside the door a chorus of men’s voices were heard cheering, shouting, whooping and whistling. They started to sing, in a united and raucous male voice. Kirsty called out to them in Swedish, but they were making so much noise they could not hear her. The captain’s daughter was obviously very popular, and the men responded in their own way. ‘I expect they will all get drunk now,’ she said dryly.
Chummy wrapped the baby in a towel and placed her in the arms of her mother, who was weeping with joy. ‘Are you all right on the floor like that?’ Chummy enquired with concern.
‘I’ve never been better in my life,’ answered Kirsty. ‘I would like to stay here for ever, cuddling my baby.’ She gave a sigh of contentment.
Chummy now had to deal with the third stage of labour. In retrospect she would say that it was not the most comfortable third stage she had conducted, sprawled as she was across the floor, but at least it was uneventful.
Chummy washed Kirsty and cleared up the mess as best she could under the circumstances. The problem of how to get Kirsty up off the floor was her next concern. The mother obviously couldn’t care less. She was cuddling, and cooing, and whispering sweet nothings to her baby. Calling the captain was Chummy’s only option, but Kirsty was stark naked. Chummy’s modesty shrank from the thought of exposing her patient, naked, to a crowd of men, until she remembered Kirsty’s profession. She explained to Kirsty that help was needed and opened the door.
A dozen or more bearded faces appeared at the door, all peering in. At once they started cheering and clapping again. Chummy beckoned to the captain, who strode in, shutting the door behind him. She indicated what was necessary, and he nodded. She took the baby from her mother and retired to a stool in the corner.
The captain was a big man, and strong, but for sheer body weight his daughter could easily have doubled him. He took both of her hands and pulled – the bulk shifted a few inches. He stood astride her body and pulled again; no result. He went to the door, shouted, ‘Olaf, Bjorg!’ and two massive men entered. He explained, and they nodded. He took her hands again, and one man stood behind each shoulder. As the captain pulled each man heaved until Kirsty was sitting upright. They gave a cheer. This is obscene, Chummy thought, I can’t bear to look at that poor woman sitting there with her huge breasts swinging on the floor, and these men cheering. They were obviously debating how to get Kirsty onto a chair. The debate was long and contentious; each man had his own ideas. A chair was solemnly brought forward and placed behind the woman. The three men grabbed her torso and heaved once more. ‘That’s not the way to do it,’ thought Chummy, who had been taught how to lift a heavy patient, ‘you’ll never get her up like that.’ They didn’t. After another debate, they tried again, the two men locking their arms under Kirsty’s armpits, and the captain ready with the chair. ‘That’s more like it,’ thought Chummy.
I have said that Chummy had cleared up the mess as best she could under the circumstances. But resources were minimal, and the deck of the cabin was still slippery in patches.
The two men lifting Kirsty nodded to each other, took a deep breath and heaved. Her bottom lifted about six inches from the deck. Olaf, on her left, moved his foot and trod on a slippery patch. He hurtled forward across Kirsty’s body and
Bjorg was thrown backwards. In his fall he flung his arm upwards and hit the hurricane lamp with such force that it shattered, plunging the cabin into darkness.
In the meantime Kirsty had acted. A desperate mother can do anything in defence of her child. As the lamp shattered she screamed, ‘My baby,’ pushed Olaf, who was lying sprawled over her, to one side, scrambled to her feet, and ran over to the corner where Chummy was sitting. She took the baby, enfolding her protectively to her bosom. When another hurricane lamp was brought in she could be seen by all the men sitting quietly on a chair, rocking her baby, with a sheet modestly draped around her.
When the cabin was cleared of men, Chummy set about making it into a suitable lying-in room for mother and baby. The bed was not broken, the legs had merely folded in on themselves so she fixed it up again for Kirsty. But there was no clean linen left after delivery, and her patient had no nightie. There was no cot for the baby, no means of bathing her, and no clothes for her. She explained her needs to Kirsty, who was not really listening, so she went to the door, opened it, and shouted, ‘Olaf!’ The biggest of the bruisers entered and stood to attention, looking ill at ease.
‘Tell him I need more clean linen, two more pillows, some nightdresses and a dressing gown for you. Also I need some more hot water and more clean towels for me to bath the baby; a box or basket which I can make into a cot, and some soft linen or cloth that I can tear up and make into cot blankets.’ She considered there was no point in asking for baby clothes.
Kirsty translated, and Olaf looked mesmerised. She repeated the instructions two or three times, and Chummy could see him desperately trying to activate his brain and memorise the list, which he was counting off on his fingers. He left the cabin, and Chummy set about clearing things up a little more and packing her delivery bag. She was beginning to feel tired. The drama of the night had kept the adrenalin pumping through her body, but now that all danger for mother and baby had passed, her limbs felt heavy and slow.
Olaf reappeared with an armful of stuff, and a second man brought in a jug of hot water. Chummy was able to bath the baby, with Kirsty eagerly watching and commenting at every stage. A basket, which smelled of fish, had been provided, and this Chummy transformed into a crib. She made up the bed with clean linen – but still there was no nightie. Chummy could not allow her patient to remain naked, so summoned Olaf again.
Kirsty explained what was wanted, and the man turned bright red. How very extraordinary, thought Chummy, that this man, who has regularly been having intercourse with this woman, should be embarrassed to have to fetch her a nightie!
He went away and came back with a bag full of women’s clothing which he handed to Chummy without looking at her.
Breastfeeding was the next thing for Chummy to think about. One really wants to establish breastfeeding immediately after delivery and ensure that the colostrum is flowing and that the mother has, at least, a vague idea of what she should do. Kirsty’s breasts were so huge that they rested on the bed on either side of her. The baby could easily be suffocated by these mammoth mammaries, Chummy thought, as she expressed some colostrum. She tried the baby at the breast, and the child, surprisingly, opened her mouth, latched on and sucked vigorously a few times. Kirsty was in an ecstasy of delight. Flushed, with sparkling eyes and radiant features, she looked quite different. She must have been a pretty young girl, thought Chummy, before she became the inert, sexually active queen bee in this hive of males.
By now, Chummy was so tired that she could scarcely stand. She sat down on a chair beside Kirsty, who was examining the baby’s fingers and toes.
‘Look. She has little fingernails. Aren’t they sweet? Like little shells. And I think she’s going to have dark hair – her eyelashes are dark, have you noticed?’ Kirsty looked up. ‘Are you all right, nurse? You don’t look too good.’
Chummy muttered, ‘I’ll be all right. Do you think someone might bring us a cup of tea? You could do with a cup also.’
Kirsty called out, and Olaf entered. She gave her instructions, and five minutes later he reappeared carrying a tray laden with good food and fresh coffee. He placed it on the captain’s desk and then, rather sheepishly, took a quick look at the baby and sidled out.
‘Did you see that?’ said Kirsty incredulously. ‘They’re treating me like a lady.’
Chummy poured the coffee. The caffeine perked her up a bit, and she began to feel stronger. She knew that she would need to, because one more task faced her. She had to get down the rope ladder. She had another cup of coffee and a sweet pastry, which gave her some energy. She left, telling Kirsty that she would return later in the morning.
Up on deck the dawn was breaking. The wind had dropped, and thin shafts of red-gold sunlight filtered through the grey clouds. Seagulls were swooping and squawking. The docks looked beautiful in the half light, and the fresh, cold air stung her cheeks. One of the men was carrying her bag, and they all clustered around, cheering and clapping. Chummy walked to the side and looked over the edge. It looked a long, long way down, and the rope ladder looked flimsy. If I can do it once, I can do it again, she said to herself, putting her foot on the rail. Then she remembered her skirt, and the danger it presented. So without any inhibition – she who was chronically inhibited in the presence of men – she pulled it up, tucked it into her knickers and climbed over the side. Her main anxiety was the missing rung, but she knew roughly where it was, and was prepared for the gap. When it came it was not as hard to negotiate as she had expected, and with a sigh of relief she continued to the quayside. One of the men tied her bag to a rope and let it down for her. She untied it, released her skirt, waved to the men above, and set out for the dock gates, her body tired, but her whole being exhilarated with the joy of having successfully delivered a healthy baby to an eager and loving mother.
The nightwatchman was preparing to go home for the day. He collected his supper box, put away his frying pan, doused his fire and was sorting out the key to lock his hut, when two policemen approached the dock gates.
‘Morning, nightwatch. Fair morning after the storm.’
The watchman turned. His fingers were stiff, and he was fumbling with the key, unable to find the keyhole.
‘Dratted key,’ he muttered. ‘Fair morning? Fair enough. Don’t like the wind.’
‘Quiet night for you?’
‘Quiet enough. Would ’ave been quiet, ’cept for bloody women gettin’ in the way.’
‘Women?’
‘Yes, women. Shouldn’t be ’ere, I say.’
The policemen looked at each other. They knew that the Port of London Authority was very strict on women entering the docks, especially since the previous year when a prostitute had slipped in the dark from a gangplank and drowned.
‘Which vessel?’ The policeman took out his notebook and pencil.
‘The Katrina. Swedish timber merchant.’
‘Did you see the women?’
‘Saw one of ’em. A nurse. Her bicycle’s over there. Don’t know what to do wiv it. An’ ’er coat an’ all. Don’t know what to do wiv it, neither.’
‘A nurse?’
‘Yes. Woman ill on the Katrina, so I calls ve Sisters, and a nurse comes.’
‘You had better tell us what happened.’
‘About eleven thirty. A deck hand, ’e comes to me, saying, “Woman, woman,” rollin’ his eyes an’ rubbin’ ’is stomach, an’ groanin’. So I calls a doctor, but ’e’s out, so I calls ve Sisters, an’ a big lanky nurse comes, an’ I takes her to the Katrina, South Quay. Right plucky girl, she was. Climbs up ve rope ladder an’ all.’
‘What! A nurse climbed the ship’s ladder in that wind?’
‘I’m tellin’ yer. Big plucky girl. Climbed up, she did. And a rung was missing near the top, an’ all. I saw it wiv me own eyes, I did.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m bleedin’ sure. Think I’m bloody daft?’ The nightwatchman was offended.
‘No, of course not. What happened next?’
‘Search me. She climbed on board, an’ she’s still there, for all I knows. Leastways she hasn’t collected ’er bike, nor ’er coat, neiver.’
The two policemen conferred. This was a matter for the Port of London Police. The Metropolitan had no authority inside the ports. But was it true? Nightwatchmen, due perhaps to their solitary calling in the darkest hours, were known to fantasise.
The man was fumbling with his key again. He turned and glanced down the quay. ‘There she is. That’s ’er. Told yer, didn’t I? Big lanky girl.’
The two policemen saw a female figure wandering towards them. Her footsteps were uncertain, and she staggered rather than walked. The ordeal of climbing down the rope ladder had taken the last reserve of Chummy’s strength. One of the policemen stepped forward to meet her and took her arm. She leaned on him heavily, murmuring, ‘Thank you.’ He said, ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’ She looked at him vaguely.
‘I’m not sure. Have we?’
He smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She walked towards her bike. He said, ‘I don’t wish to be rude, nurse, but are you fit to ride a bike?’
She looked round and slowly gathered her thoughts.
‘I’ll be all right. I must admit I feel a bit queer, but I’ll be all right.’
The bike was a big, heavy Raleigh, iron framed and ancient.
She took hold of the handlebars, but it felt so heavy she could barely move it. The policeman said ‘Nurse, I really do not think you should ride that cycle, especially down the East India Dock Road just as the ports are opening and the lorries are coming in. In fact, in the name of the Law, I am telling you not to ride it. I am going to call a taxi.’
‘What about my bike?’ she protested. ‘It can’t stay here.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I will ride it back for you. You are going to Nonnatus House, I think. I know where it is.’
Farewell To The East End Page 26
