Call The Midwife: A True Story Of The East End In The 1950S

by Jennifer Worth

  FLIGHT

  Mary ran for her life, and the life of her baby. She hadn’t the faintest idea of where she was going, so she just ran, driven by fear. It was night-time, and in her heightened imagination, she thought that someone was pursuing her with every step. She mainly kept to the unlit side streets, because under the lights of the main roads, she thought she would be recognised.

  “I turned corner after corner, and hid in doorways, then doubled back and ran down another dark street, always avoiding the lights of the big roads. I spent nearly the whole night running.”

  In fact, Mary must have run round in circles, because she described the river and the docks and boats, and a church where she rested in the porch, which sounded very like the famous Bow Bells church. She did not get very far. After her sleep in the church porch, the terrors of the night departed, and she thought she would take a bus, to get a long way away, to a place where no one would look for her. It was not until she had actually boarded the platform of a bus and saw the bus conductor clipping tickets and taking one and two penny fares, that she realised her predicament with the five pounds. She could not possibly use it. She leapt off the bus just as it started to move, and fell into the gutter. Several people came over to help her up, but she was so terrified that she brushed them aside, and ran, hiding her face in her hands.

  Mary spent the whole day hiding. It did not seem rational. I asked her, “Why did you not go to a police station and claim protection?”

  Her reply was interesting.

  “I couldn’t. I was a thief. They would have locked me up, or taken me back to the café, and made me give the money back to Uncle.”

  Her terror of Uncle was almost tangible, so she spent the whole day wandering, and hiding from people. She must have headed south again from Bow towards the river as it was in the East India Dock Road that she finally had the idea of asking someone, a lady who did not look as though she could possibly be mixed up in prostitution, to change the five pound note. As I stepped off the bus that evening she had approached me and I had taken her back to Nonnatus House where she had had the first good meal, and the first night’s sleep in a secure, warm environment that she had had since leaving the sheelin’ back in County Mayo.

  It was Sister Julienne who made the arrangements for Mary to go to Church House in Wellclose Square. This house had been set up, and staffed by volunteers as a refuge for prostitutes by Father Joe Williamson.

  Father Joe was a saint. Saints come in all sorts of shapes and sizes - they don’t have to wear halos. Father Joe was born and bred in the slums of Poplar in the 1890s. Somehow he survived cold, hunger, neglect, and four years at the front during the First World War. He was a rough, tough East End street kid, crude and loud mouthed, yet when he was no more than a child, he had a vision that God was calling him to be a priest. He overcame a lack of proper education, a thick Cockney accent that no one else could understand, the inability to express himself, and class prejudice. He was ordained in the 1920s, and many years later, after serving as a parish priest in Norfolk, returned to the East End, to St Paul’s parish in Stepney, right in the heart of the red-light district. He saw at first hand the appalling life these girls led. From then on, he devoted the rest of his life to helping prostitutes who wanted to escape. The Wellclose Trust still exists in the twenty-first century, and is still engaged in the same work.

  At Church House Mary was given a bath, clean warm clothes and good food. She was with about six other girls who, with varying degrees of success, were trying to kick the habit of prostitution. Mary was too frightened to go out, but gradually her fears about being found and murdered subsided, colour returned to her pale cheeks, and her Irish eyes began to sparkle.

  I visited her several times during this period of calm, because she always seemed to want me to, and also because I wanted to learn more about prostitutes. It was during these visits that I learned the harrowing details of her life in London. I think she was relatively happy during this brief period, but it could not last. For one thing her pregnancy was advancing, and whilst she could receive antenatal care at Church House, they were not equipped to cope with a mother and baby. But more important was the fact that Church House was perilously close to Cable Street and the Full Moon Cafe. Whilst she did not leave the house there was no danger, but at some stage, she would want to venture out - Church House was not a prison. When she did, the chances of her being recognised, Father Joe speculated, were very real, and Mary’s fears of abduction or murder were not a fantasy.

  In her eighth month of pregnancy, and still only fifteen years old, she was transferred to a home for mothers and babies run by the Roman Catholic Church. It was in Kent, and I went there once, about a fortnight before the baby was born. Mary was full of excitement and happiness. She enjoyed the company and friendship of the other women and girls, who were not prostitutes, but were from the poorest and most vulnerable sections of society. Many of them had babies, and Mary was able to indulge her instincts in the gentlest and happiest of all feminine activities. The nuns held classes in baby care, and she happily bathed and dressed dolls, and listened to talks on colic, nappy rash and breastfeeding, counting the days until her baby would be born.

  The staff at Church House received a postcard the same morning as one arrived for me, telling of the birth of a little girl, Kathleen. I thought one of the nuns must have written it, because I knew that Mary could read a little, but could barely write. However, her name was written in big letters across the bottom, with a row of kisses. I was deeply touched by these straggly X’s, about twenty-five of them, and I wondered who else she had communicated her wonderful news to with so many kisses. Her mother? Her brothers and sisters? Did she know where her drunken mother was, or her sisters in the orphanage in Dublin? If a postcard had been sent to the old address as she remembered it, had it been received, or had the family moved on? Did anyone else know? Did anyone else care? Tears came to my eyes as I looked at the row of X’s, kisses showered with such lavish affection on someone she had merely picked up at a bus stop.

  A few days later, it being my day off, I went to see Mary in Kent, feeling that someone must rejoice with her over this miraculous event. On the journey, I pondered that it might be the making of her. Motherhood brings out the best in most women, and flighty, giddy young girls often become responsible, reliable mothers, as soon as the baby is born. I had not the slightest doubt that she was a sweet and loving young girl, who was too trusting by half. I reflected that it had been her gentle, trusting nature, combined with the poverty and physical hardships of her life, that had led her to prostitution in the first place. There was no doubt that she hated it, and had been virtually a slave. Now she was liberated.

  The train jogged along through the countryside, and I felt a quiet wave of satisfaction and pleasure. I had not reflected upon how she was going to support herself and the baby.

  I found Mary radiant with happiness. The soft glow of early motherhood emanated from her, and seemed to embrace me with its warmth as I entered the door. Two months’ rest, good food and good antenatal care, had worked miracles on her. Gone was the pale, pinched look, gone the nervous hand movements; above all, the fear had disappeared from her eyes. She was completely unconscious of her beauty, which made her all the more appealing. And the baby? Well of course, every baby is the most beautiful in the world, and this little one surpassed all others without even trying! Kathleen was ten days old, and Mary told me all about her excellence: how well she slept, how well she fed, how she gurgled and laughed and kicked. She prattled on joyously, totally absorbed by her own all-consuming love. I left thinking that this was the best thing that could possibly have happened to her, and that a new life was opening up for Mary.

  A fortnight or so later a postcard arrived:

  NERS JENY

  NONATUN HOSE

  POPLER LUNDUN

  It is a tribute to our postal service that it arrived at all, for, apart from the address, it had no stamp. On the back was sc
rawled:

  BABY GON. CUM TOO SEE MEE. MARY xxxxxx.

  I showed the card to Sister Julienne, feeling concerned.

  “Does GON mean gone? If so where? Surely it cannot mean the baby has died?” I asked.

  Sister turned the card over in her hand several times, before saying: “No, I think if the baby had died, she would have written DED. You had better go to see her on your day off, which is obviously what she wants.”

  The train journey to Kent seemed longer and more tiresome than the previous one. I had no happy thoughts to make the time fly past. My mind was puzzled, and an unpleasant feeling of foreboding would not go away.

  The mother and baby home looked much the same as before, pleasant open grounds, prams dotted about the gardens, smiling young women, nuns going about their work. I entered, and was taken to a sitting room.

  I was stunned when I saw Mary. She looked absolutely ghastly: her face was swollen, red and blotchy, with great rings under her eyes. She stared at me, unseeing. Her hair was dishevelled, her clothes were torn. I stood in the doorway looking at her, but she did not see me; instead she leapt up, rushed to the window, and began to hammer the glass with her fists, moaning all the while. Then she ran to the opposite side of the room and beat her forehead on the wall. It was hard to believe what I was seeing.

  I went over to her and said “Mary” quite loudly. I repeated her name several times. She turned, eventually recognising me, and gave a cry. She grabbed me and tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.

  I led her to a sofa, and sat her down.

  “What is it?” I asked “What has happened?”

  “They have taken my baby.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. They won’t tell me.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s gone. She wasn’t there in the morning.”

  I didn’t know what to say. What can one say to such terrible news? We stared at one another in mute horror, then she winced with pain, a pain that seemed to suffuse her entire body. She threw her arms outwards and fell back against the cushions. I saw at once what the trouble was. She had been breastfeeding, and now, with no milk being drawn off, her breasts were horribly engorged. I leaned forward and opened her blouse. Both breasts were enormous, as hard as stone, and the left side was bright red and hot to touch. ‘She could get a breast abscess,’ I thought. ‘In fact she probably has one already.’

  She moaned: “It hurts,” and gritted her teeth together to stop herself from screaming.

  My mind was in turmoil. What on earth had happened? I couldn’t believe that Mary’s baby had been taken away. When the worst spasm of pain had passed, I said, “I am going to see the Reverend Mother.”

  She grasped my hand. “Oh yes, I knew you would get my baby back.”

  She smiled, and as she did so, tears flooded her eyes, and she turned her head into the cushion, sobbing pitifully.

  I left, and enquired my way to the Reverend Mother’s office.

  The room was bare and sparsely furnished: a desk, two wooden chairs, and a cupboard. The walls were white, and only a bare crucifix broke the smooth surface. The Reverend Mother’s habit was entirely black, with a white veil. She looked middle-aged, and very handsome. Her expression was serene and open. I felt at once that I could talk to her.

  “Where is Mary’s baby?” I demanded aggressively.

  The Reverend Mother looked at me steadily, before replying, “The baby has been placed for adoption.”

  “Without the mother’s consent?”

  “Consent is not necessary. The child is only fourteen.”

  “Fifteen,” I said.

  “Fourteen or fifteen, it makes no difference. She is still legally a child, and consent is neither valid nor invalid.”

  “But how dare you take her baby away without her knowledge. It is killing her.”

  The Reverend Mother sighed. She sat perfectly straight, not resting against the back of the chair, her hands folded beneath her scapular. She looked timeless, ageless, pitiless. Only the cross on her breast moved to the rhythm of her breathing. She said evenly, “The baby is being adopted into a good Roman Catholic family who have one child. The mother, due to an illness, can have no more. Mary’s baby will have a good upbringing and a good education. She will have all the advantages of a good Christian home.”

  “Good Christian home be bothered,” I said, my anger rising. “Nothing can replace a mother’s love, and Mary loves her baby. She will die, or go mad, from the grief.”

  The Reverend Mother sat for a moment, quietly looking at the branch of a tree that was moving just outside the window. Then she turned her head slowly, and looked straight into my eyes. This slow, deliberate movement of her head, first towards the window, and then back towards me, helped to check my anger. Her face was sad. Perhaps she is not pitiless, I thought.

  “We have done all we can to trace Mary’s family. We have spent three months searching parish and civil records in Ireland, with no success. Mary’s mother is a drunk, and cannot be traced. There are no living uncles or aunts. The father is dead. The younger siblings are in care. If we could have found any relative or guardian who would take Mary and her baby, and pledge responsibility for them, there is no doubt at all that she would have been able to keep her baby. However, we could find no one. In the wider interests of the baby, the decision was taken for adoption.”

  “But it will kill Mary,” I said.

  The Reverend Mother did not answer this, but said: “How can a girl of fifteen, with no literacy, no home, no trade beyond that of prostitution, support and care for a growing child?”

  It was my turn not to answer the question.

  “She has left prostitution,” I said.

  The Reverend Mother sighed again, and paused for quite a long time before speaking. “You are young, my dear, and full of righteous indignation, which our Lord loves. But you must understand that it is very, very rare for a prostitute to leave the trade. It is too easy to make money. A girl is hard up, and the opportunity is always there. Why slave away all day in a factory for five shillings, when you can earn ten or fifteen shillings in half an hour? We know from experience that few things are more damaging to a growing child than to watch mother working on the streets.”

  “But you cannot condemn her for what she has not yet done.”

  “No, we do not condemn, nor blame. The Church forgives. In any case, it is quite clear that Mary was more sinned against than sinning. Our main concern is for the protection and upbringing of the baby. Mary has nowhere to go when she leaves here. Who will take her in? We endeavoured to find a residential post in service for Mary to go to, but with a baby no such post could be found.”

  I was silent. The Reverend Mother’s logic was irrefutable. I repeated my earlier point, “But it will kill her. She already looks half mad.”

  The Reverend Mother sat perfectly still, the leaves fluttering outside the window. She did not speak for about half a minute. Then she said: “We are born into suffering, uncertainty, and death. My mother had fifteen children. Only four survived childhood. Eleven times my mother suffered the agonies that Mary is going through. Countless millions of women throughout history have buried most of the children they have borne, and endured the sorrows of child bereavement. They have lived through it, as Mary will, and they have borne more children, as I hope Mary will.”

  I could say nothing. Perhaps I should have ranted and railed about the arrogance and presumption of taking the decision out of Mary’s control; I could have sneered at the wealth of the Roman Catholic Church; I could have asked why could the Church not support Mary and her baby for a few years? I could, perhaps should, have said many things, but I was silenced by my own knowledge of the statistics of child mortality, by the depth of understanding in her words, and by the sadness in her eyes.

  I merely said, “Will Mary ever know who has adopted her baby?”

  The Reverend Mother shook her head.

  “No
. Even I do not know the actual name. None of the Sisters are ever told. The adoption is completely anonymous, but you can assure Mary that her baby has gone to a good Catholic family, and that she will have a good home.”

  There was nothing more to be said, and the Reverend Mother rose from her seat. This was the signal that the interview was over. She withdrew her right hand from behind her scapular and held it out to me. Long, slender, sensitive fingers. It is not often that you see such a beautiful hand, and as I took it, her grasp was firm and warm. Our eyes met, with sadness and, I think, mutual respect.

  I returned to the sitting room. Mary leapt from the sofa as I entered, her face alight with expectancy. But she read my features in an instant and, with a cry of despair, she fell back on to the sofa and buried her head in the cushions again. I sat beside her, trying to console her, but consolation was impossible. I told her the baby would go to a good home, where she would be well looked after. I tried to tell her how impossible it would be for her to work, and live, and support a growing child. I don’t think she heard or understood anything I said. Her face remained hidden in the cushions. I told her I had to leave soon, but she did not respond at all. I tried to stroke her hair, but she pushed my hand away angrily. I crept out of the room, and shut the door quietly, too sad even to say goodbye.

  I did not see Mary again. I wrote to her once, but received no reply. A month later, I wrote to Reverend Mother, enquiring, and was informed that Mary had accepted a residential post as a ward maid in a hospital in Birmingham. I wrote to her there but again, no reply.

  Circumstances bring people together, and take them apart. One cannot keep up with everyone in a lifetime. In any event, was there any true friendship between myself and Mary? Probably not. It was mainly a friendship of dependence on her part, with pity and (I’m almost ashamed to confess it) curiosity, on my part. I was intrigued to find out more about the hidden world of prostitution. That is no basis for a meeting of minds, and true affection, so I let the contact drop.