Bella’s father held the floor for forty-five minutes whilst he gave his wedding speech. He spoke at length of Bella’s babyhood, her first tooth, her first word, her first step. He went on to discuss her brilliant school career, and how she had got a school certificate which was now framed and hanging on the wall. No doubt he would have gone on to the swimming certificate and the cycling test had Bella’s mother not said, “Ow gi’ on wiv it, Ern.”
So he turned his attention to Tom, and told him what a lucky chap he was, and how all the other chaps had been after her, but that he (Ern) had reckoned that he (Tom) was the best of the bunch, and would look after his little Bella, because he was a good hard-working lad, and would remember that success in life and marriage depends upon “early to bed and up with the cock”.
The uncles guffawed and winked, and the aunts affected to look shocked and said to each other, “Ow, ’e is a one, ’e is.”
Tom turned pink and smiled because everyone else was laughing. It was possible that he didn’t understand. Bella kept her eyes firmly on her jelly, it being prudent that she shouldn’t be seen to understand.
After the delights of the honeymoon spent in one of the best boarding houses in Clacton, they returned to a small flat, near to Bella’s mum. Flo was determined that her daughter should have the best of everything, and had purchased fitted carpets in their absence. Such a luxury was virtually unknown in the East End in those days. Tom was bemused and kept rubbing his toes up and down the soft pile to see how it moved. Bella was enchanted, and it triggered an orgy of spending on household items, most of them relatively new and unheard of among her neighbours: an upholstered three-piece suite; electric wall lights; a television; a telephone; a refrigerator; a toaster; and an electric kettle. Tom found them all very novel, and was glad that his Bella was so happy playing the little housewife. He had to take on more and more overtime to keep up the payments, but he was young and strong, and didn’t mind, as long as she was content.
Bella booked with the Nonnatus Midwives for her first pregnancy, because her mother advised it. She attended antenatal clinic each Tuesday afternoon, and was perfectly healthy. She was about thirty-two weeks pregnant when Flo came to see us one evening. It was outside our routine hours, but she seemed agitated. “I’m worrit about our Bell, I am. She’s depressed or summat. I can see it, an’ Tom can see it an’ all, ’e can. She won’t talk, she won’t look at no one, she won’t do nuffink. Tom says, ’e says, often the dishes aren’t even washed up when he gits in, an’ the place is a real pigsty. Somefinks up, I tells you.”
We said that clinically Bella was quite healthy, and the pregnancy was normal. We also said that we would visit her at home, in addition to her Tuesday antenatal clinic.
Bella was certainly depressed. Several of us visited, and we all observed the same symptoms - lethargy, inattention, disinterest. We called in her doctor. Flo made heroic efforts to try to get her out of it, by taking her out to buy piles of baby clothes and various paraphernalia considered necessary. Tom was very worried, and fussed and fretted over her whenever he was at home; but as he worked such long hours, even longer now in order to pay for all the baby things, most of the burden fell on Flo, who was a solicitous and devoted mother.
Bella went into labour at full term. She was neither early nor late according to her dates. Her mother called us around lunchtime to say that the pains were coming every ten minutes, and that she had had a show. I finished my lunch, and stocked up on two helpings of pudding as a precaution against missing my tea. A primigravida with contractions every ten minutes is not an emergency.
I cycled in a leisurely manner round to Bella’s house. Flo was waiting on the doorstep to greet me. It was a sunny afternoon, but she looked worried. “She’s like I says, no change, but I’m not ’appy. Somefink’s up. She’s not ’erself. It’s not normal, it’s not.”
Like most women of her generation, Flo was an experienced amateur midwife.
Bella was in the sitting room on the new settee, digging her fingernails into the upholstery. She was pulling out bits of stuffing. She stared at me dully as I entered and ground her teeth. She continued grinding her teeth for some time after she had withdrawn her attention from me. She didn’t say a word.
I said, “I must examine you, Bella, if you are going into labour. I need to know how far on you are, and what the baby’s position is, and listen to its heartbeat. Could you come into the bedroom, please?”
She didn’t move. More stuffing came out of the sofa. Flo tried to coax her along. “Come on, luvvy, it won’t be long now. We all has to go through it, but it’s over in next to no time. Yer’ll see. Come on, now. Into ve bedroom.”
She made to help her daughter up, but was pushed roughly away. Flo almost lost her balance and fell. I had to be firm.
“Bella, get up at once and come with me into the bedroom. I have to examine you.”
She looked like a child who knows the voice of command, and came quietly.
She was two to three fingers dilated, foetal head down, a normal anterior presentation, as far as I could assess, and waters unbroken. The foetal heart was a steady 120. Bella’s pulse and blood pressure were good. Everything seemed perfectly normal, except this curious mental state, which I could not understand. The tooth-grinding continued all through the examination, and was getting on my nerves.
I said, “I’m going to give you a sedative, and it would be better if you stayed in bed and slept for a few hours. Labour will continue while you are asleep, and you will be refreshed for later on.”
Flo nodded wisely in approval.
I laid out my delivery things, and told Flo to ring Nonnatus House when contractions were every five minutes, or sooner if she was worried. I noted with satisfaction that there was a telephone in the flat. We might need it, I thought, in view of Bella’s mental state. Post-partum delirium is a rare and frightening complication of labour, requiring swift and skilled medical attention.
The phone rang about 8 p.m., and Tom’s voice asked me to come. I was there within ten minutes, and he let me in. He seemed anxious but excited.
“This is it, then, nurse. Cor, I hopes as ’ow she’ll be all right, her an’ the baby. I can’t wait to see my li’l baby, yer know, nurse. It’s somefink special, like. Bell’s bin a bit down of lates, but she’ll perk up when she sees the baby, won’t she, now?”
I went into the bedroom just as Bella was starting a contraction. It was powerful, and she was moaning in pain. Her mother was wiping her face with a cold flannel. We waited for and timed the next contraction. Every five minutes. I thought, I doubt if it will be long now. The girl looked drowsy and lethargic between contractions, and I did not want to give more sedative or analgesic if delivery was close.
“How is she?” I said to Flo, slightly tapping my head to indicate my real meaning.
She replied: “She hasn’t said a word since you lef’, not a word she ’asn’t. She wouldn’t even look at Tom when ’e comes ’ome, nor say nothin’ to ’im neither. No’ a word, nuffink. Poor lad, ’e feels it, ’e do.”
She patted her heart to indicate the feeling.
With the next contraction the waters broke, and Bella’s breathing became more rapid. She grabbed her mother’s hand.
“There, there, my pet. It won’ be long.”
The contraction had passed, but Bella still clung to her mother’s hand with a vice-like grip. Her eyes were staring wildly.
Bella gave a low scream - “No!” then, with her voice rising with every reiteration, “No! No! No! Stop it. You gotta stop it.”
Then she emitted horrible high-pitched gurgling sounds. She threw herself around the bed, making this dreadful noise, something between a scream and a laugh. It was not a cry of pain, because she was not having a contraction. It was hysteria.
I said, “I must ask Tom to ring for the doctor at once.”
Bella cried out, “No! I don’ want no doctor. Oh Gawd! Don’ chew understand? The baby’s goin’ to be black.
He’ll kill me, Tom will, when ’e sees it.”
I don’t think Flo understood what she had said. So uncommon were black people in the East End at that time that her daughter’s words didn’t make any sense to her.
Bella was still screaming. Then she swore at her mother and yelled at her, “Can’ chew understand, you silly ol’ cow. Ve baby’s goin’ ter be black!”
This time Flo understood. She leaped away from her daughter, and stared at her in horror. “Black? Yer jokin’. Yer must be. You mean it’s not Tom’s baby?”
Bella nodded.
“You filthy slut, you. Is this what I brings you up for, is it? To disgrace me and yer dad!”
Her hand flew to her face, and she drew in breath with a horrified gasp.
“Oh my Gawd,” she whispered to herself. “They’ve got a big knees-up planned for yer dad at the Club, an’ they was keepin’ it a surprise. He’s President this year, an’ the lads wanted a real old knees-up when ’is first gran’child’s born. It’ll be the joke of all Poplar, it will. He’ll never live it down. They won’t let ’im.”
She wrung her hands silently, then screamed at her daughter. “Oh, I wish you’d never been born, I do. I ’opes as how you dies now, you an’ that bastard inside yer an’ all, I ’opes.”
Another contraction came on, and Bella screamed with pain. “Stop it. Don’t let it come. Stop it some’ow.”
“I’ll give you ‘don’t let it come’,” screamed Flo. “I’ll kill you afore it comes, yer filthy bitch, you.”
They were both screaming at each other. A terrified Tom appeared in the doorway. Flo turned on him, her face red with passion. “Get out of here,” she said. “Vis is no place for a man. Just get out. Go for a walk, or somefink. An don’t come back ’til termorrer mornin’.”
Tom withdrew with speed. Men were accustomed to being ordered about in that way when it came to childbirth.
His appearance must have made Flo think more clearly. She became practical. “We’ve gotta get rid of it,” she said. “No one mus’ know, least of all ’im. When it’s born I’ll take it away and put it in an institution. No one will know.”
Bella grabbed her hand, her eyes alight. “Oh mum, will yer? Will yer do that fer me?”
My head was spinning. Up to that moment I had been flattened morally and emotionally, by all the noise, and the high drama going on between mother and daughter. But this was a new turn of events.
“You can’t possibly do that,” I said. “What are you going to tell Tom when he gets home tomorrow?”
“We’ll tell ’im it’s dead,” said Flo confidently.
“But you can’t do that in this day and age. You can’t spirit away a living baby and announce that it died. You would never get away with it. Tom thinks he’s the father. He would ask to see the baby. He would ask why it died.”
“He can’t see ve baby,” said Flo with less confidence. ” He’s got to think it’s dead and buried.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “We are not living in the 1850s. If I deliver a living baby, I have to make my report, and that has to go to the health authorities. The baby can’t just die or disappear. Someone will have to account for it.”
Just then another contraction came on, and the dialogue had to be suspended. My head was racing. They were mad, both of them, beyond all reason.
The contraction passed. Flo had also been thinking furiously and making her plans. “Well you go away, then. Say you ’ad to go to another patient, or summat. I can deliver the baby myself, an’ I don’t ’ave to make no bleedin’ report to no bleedin’ authority. I can just take the baby away when it’s born, an’ no one’ll know where it’s gorn to, they won’t. An’ Tom’ll never see it.”
I reeled under the impact of this suggestion. “I can’t possibly do that. I’m a professional midwife, trained and registered. Bella is my patient. I can’t walk out on her in the first stage of labour, and leave her in the hands of an untrained woman. I still have to make my report. What am I to tell the Sisters? How am I to account for my actions?”
Another contraction came on. Bella was screaming. “Oh, stop it. Don’ let it come. Let me die. What’ll ’e say? ’e’ll kill me!”
Her mother, defiant, said, “Don’t you fret, my luvvy. He’ll never see it. Yer mum’ll get rid of it for yer.”
“But you can’t,” I shouted. I felt myself getting hysterical, too. “If a living baby is born, it can’t just be ‘got rid of’. If you try anything like that, you will have the police after you. You will be committing a crime, and then your situation will be worse than ever.”
Flo sobered up a bit. “It’ll have to be adopted, then.”
“That’s more like it,” I said. “But even then the baby has to be registered, and adoption papers have to be drawn up and signed by both parents to give consent. Tom thinks it is his baby. You can’t hide it from him and then tell him he’s got to sign his baby away for adoption. He wouldn’t agree to that.”
Bella started screaming again. Dear God, what’s her blood pressure doing, I thought. Maybe, with all this second stage trauma, the grandmother will get her way after all and the baby will die! I got out my foetal stethoscope to listen to the heartbeat. Bella must have read my thoughts. She pushed the stethoscope away.
“Leave it alone. I wants it to die, can’t you see that?”
“I must ring for the doctor,” I said. “Anything could happen, and I need help.”
“Don’t you dare,” Flo snarled at me. “No one mus’ know - no doctors. I’ve got to get rid of it somehow.”
“Don’t let’s start on that again,” I shouted. “I need a doctor, and I’m going to ring for one now.”
Quick as a flash, Flo was in front of me. She grabbed my surgical scissors from the delivery tray, rushed into the other room, and cut the wire of the telephone. She glared at me in triumph.
“There now. Yer can go down ve road an’ telephone ve doctor.”
I didn’t dare do such a thing. The second stage was imminent. The baby might be born in my absence, and I might return to find it had been “got rid of”.
There was another contraction. Bella seemed to be bearing down. She was still crying hysterically, but definitely giving a push. Flo started wailing.
“Shut up,” I said in a cold, hard voice. “Shut up, and get out of this room.”
She looked startled, but stopped her noise.
“Now, leave this room at once. I have a baby to deliver, and I cannot do it with you present. Go.”
She gasped, and opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.
I turned to Bella. “Now roll over on to your left side, and do exactly as I tell you. This baby will be born within the next few minutes. I don’t want you to have a tear or a haemorrhage, so just do as I say.”
She was quiet and cooperative. It was a perfect delivery.
The baby was pure white and looked just like Tom. She was the apple of her father’s eye, and was doted upon by her proud grandfather. Her wise grandmother kept the secrets of the delivery room to herself.
I was the only person outside the family to know, and until this moment, I have never told a soul.
OF MIXED DESCENT II
The Smiths were an average, respectable East End family, with a rub-along sort of marriage. Cyril was a skilled pilot in the docks, and Doris worked in a hairdressers, as her five children were now of school age. They were not hard up, but took their holidays in the hop-picking fields of Kent. Both Cyril and Doris had enjoyed such holidays all through their childhood. Their own children enjoyed the healthy country air, the camaraderie of the other children, the open spaces to run around in, and the chance to earn some pocket money if they filled their baskets with hops. The family met the same people, year after year, who came from other areas of London, and friendships were formed and renewed every year.
Each family had to take their own bedding, primus stove, and cooking equipment.
They were allocated a space considered sufficient for the size of each family in sheds or barns, where they dwelt for a fortnight. Food was bought from the farm shop. Some took tents and camped. The adults worked all day in the fields, picking the hops for which they were paid, and most of the children joined in. In the 1950s, poverty was not as extreme as it had been for earlier generations, so the necessity to earn the pittance which was euphemistically called a wage had largely passed. In days gone by, children had had to work from morning to dusk to earn a few pennies which, added to their parents’ money, would help the family through the winter. The hop-picking holidays had also been lifesavers for many East End children, because they were exposed to the sunshine, which prevented rickets.
By the 1950s, the children were mostly free to play, and to join in the picking only if they wanted to. Many farms had a stream or river running through them, which was the centre of childhood fun. The evenings were a great time for the whole temporary community, as they would light fires in the open air, sing songs, flirt and tell stories, and generally make believe that they were country folk and not city-dwellers at all.
Before the war the annual hop-pickers consisted almost exclusively of East Enders, Romany gypsies, and tramps. After the war, with increased mobility of population worldwide, a more varied group of people turned up at the farms each year. (Mechanisation of hop-picking put an end to this annual activity for so many people.)
Doris and Cyril settled with their children in the shed, occupying the seven-foot square space that had been chalked on the floor for them. They were given a straw palliasse to sleep on, and with the primus stove and a hurricane lamp, it was all considered very comfortable. There were a lot of new people at the farm that year, and several families from the West Indies, which was quite a surprise. At first Doris was stand-offish. She had never met or spoken to a black person before, much less slept in the same barn as a group of them, but the children immediately made friends, as children always do. The women were laughing and friendly, and Doris quickly found her inhibitions breaking down.
Call The Midwife: A True Story Of The East End In The 1950S Page 27
