She told me that I had been a Caesar birth. I had an idea that this meant that my mother had needed to have the baby taken out in an operation rather than the ‘natural’ way. The natural way was still a bit amazing to me, as I found it difficult to imagine that ‘things’ could stretch to make room for a baby to get through. Mum went on to say that the doctors had advised my mother not to have any more babies. This was quite usual, as Caesarean operations were much more risky then than they are now. However, my mother had so wanted another baby that the doctors had finally said that she would be all right so long as she had it by another Caesarean section rather than trying to have it naturally. (I don’t think anyone has ever known why she could not give birth in the usual way.)
So she went off to hospital to have the baby, and the operation was performed. My mother actually died from septicaemia after the birth rather than from the birth itself. Her little daughter died too, perhaps of septicaemia; no one seemed to know. There were no antibiotics generally available in 1938, although they had been discovered. Septicaemia is easily cured these days.
Mum said that Dad was worried that it could all happen again. This was a bit silly, but understandable, as he had lost one wife in childbirth, but Mum was a much more robust sort of person and he was worrying unnecessarily.
‘I thought you ought to know,’ Mum said, after she had shared these details with me.
I thanked her for telling me, and, for the first time, I felt that there might be a sort of bond because I was another female in a world where pregnancy and childbirth were not readily discussed—and certainly not with men—and because I was obviously so happy about the coming baby: her baby.
There was no chance of buying lots of baby clothes and equipment in austere, post-war Britain, so Mum made clothes and cut up towels to make nappies. Some coupons were issued to pregnant mums, but they did not go far, only buying a very few napkins and cot sheets. Disposable nappies were unheard of. Dad bought a second-hand cot, which he painted white, a carrycot and a funny little folding pram to fit onto the back seat of the car.
I was told not to tell the girls at school. Why, I wondered?
But I did tell them. I couldn’t keep such a wonderful piece of news to myself.
People rarely used the words ‘pregnant’ and ‘pregnancy’. One was ‘expecting’ or even ‘in an interesting condition’, although that term was dying out. A mother still stayed in bed for about two weeks after having a baby, the ‘lying in’ period. Many women had their babies at home, as the NHS did not appear until 1948 and nursing home care was very expensive. Dad insisted that Mum should not have the baby at home and booked a local place for her straight away. It was a bright, airy house with only four single rooms and a delivery room. Mrs. Gill, a retired hospital matron, owned and ran the ‘home’, with the help of several nurses, while the local doctor visited regularly and was always on call. It was all very relaxed and civilised, unlike the frenetic atmosphere of modern maternity hospitals, now dealing with an ever-increasing number of births.
So life and school went on while we waited for the great event. Many of the girls at school who had brothers and sisters could not understand why I was so excited, but I must have had an over-active maternal instinct, as I could think of little else. This might have been a blessing, as the horrors that had haunted me for so many months were gradually replaced by thoughts of the baby; I was still unable to speak about those things, but I no longer had so many nightmares, or day-mares, and I could make a positive effort to think of other things.
My hair was growing and the eczema behind my ears had almost gone, I was getting better marks again at school and doing well in music and biology. I seemed to have caught the attention of the English mistress, Miss Pence (nickname Penny, of course). She commended my story writing and my oral work, so that I glowed with pride.
I was in the gym team for gym displays—I have forgotten why we had displays or what they achieved—and I was doing well at swimming. So I felt happier than I had for a long time and seemed to be fitting in with more of the girls now.
I had passed several piano exams and enjoyed playing, but Mum would not allow me to do anything except practice my scales—I so wanted to have fun on the piano, making up tunes. Practising scales was boring, so as soon as I started to get a lot of homework, I asked if I could give up the lessons. Later I regretted this decision, but I did not get home from school until after five, if the train was on time, and I was still expected to be in bed by about seven, so there really was very little time for anything other than homework in the week. Saturday was chores day or St. John Ambulance, and Sunday was more chores and getting things ready for Monday.
About this time Mum and Dad started to play bridge with some neighbours on Friday evenings. I had to go as well, and sit nearby and read. I loved reading, but there I had to sit bolt upright all evening, with my feet neatly together and the book held by both hands in front of my face. No leaning back in the chair, no easing of legs or feet, or resting of arms. Mum’s stern eye was on me, and if I had a foot in the wrong place, her finger would flick an instruction as she sat at the table with her fan of cards. I got very tired and at moments like those was very aware of how extreme some of Mum’s rules were. I said nothing, but I was beginning to think that perhaps she was not always right.
At least Mrs. Tanner gave me a cup of tea and a biscuit when they all paused for refreshments.
Most of Dad’s ‘chaps’ had returned from the war and were only too happy to have a job to go to, so Dad had a little more time to spare. He suddenly realised that I had been able to swim for some time now, and, being a strong swimmer himself, he decided to take me to the baths occasionally. We had races. For just a couple of lengths I could beat him, but if we tried longer races, he was always well ahead. I loved diving, but Dad would not try it. Mum hated the water, and, even if she had not been pregnant, she would not have joined us. It was nice to have Dad to myself and we had fun. I was still very much a child, even at fourteen.
Dad always needed a hobby—a practical one. He decided that future holidays with a new baby would be difficult (children were not welcomed in hotels and restaurants as they are now), so he began to build a caravan. Caravans and caravan sites were very new, and to actually build your own caravan was considered odd but enterprising. Dad asked me if I would like to help him in the holidays and of course I said yes. I was delighted, and Mum seemed happier for me to be with Dad more now, whereas she had always found reasons why I should not help him in the garden, with the car, cleaning out the chickens and so on. I liked all these outside jobs, especially when I worked with Dad. As I have said: I should have been a boy.
Now, perhaps with her own baby coming, she was more inclined to let Dad spend more time with me. We worked very hard on that caravan, which I thought was marvellous, although it had none of the amenities that modern commercially manufactured ones do. We had several holidays in it until eventually Dad sold it. Some fifty years later, it was seen to be still in use—but only as a chicken house!
Added to the excitement of the coming brother or sister, I had a cautious feeling that life, in general, was getting better.
Robert
It wasn’t long before May arrived. I had been sent to stay with Grandma S. in Bath while Mum was in the nursing home. I think I must have been at school when the baby came because Grandma told me when I got in for tea. Dad came later, wreathed in smiles and very relieved—he had been worried for days. He said that he was going to see Mum that evening and that he would take me the next day, as it was Saturday. Husbands did not stay with their wives for the birth of their children in those times and would have been shocked to the core to think that a man would do such a thing. Childbirth was very much a female-only time.
I finally saw my baby brother at three p.m. on Saturday. I thought he was gorgeous, and I loved him on the spot. I was allowed to cuddle him, but when he began to scream a nurse took him away. Mum looked a bit flushed but very proud, wh
ile Dad was just relieved that it was all over.
Previously, I had been given the immense privilege of choosing the baby’s name. Margaret was my choice for a girl and Robert for a boy. I felt very honoured to have named him—it made me feel part of the event, and I kept telling him his name as I held him.
When Mum and Robert came home, I couldn’t wait to help with him, dress him, take him out in his pram and most of all cuddle him. Mum stuck rigidly to the current thinking, which was to feed four-hourly exactly and not to pick the child up every time he cried unless there was something wrong, like wind. I hated to hear him cry and often got into trouble for pretending that he had wind so that I could pick him up. But he got used to Mum’s routine fairly quickly and was a good baby.
When he was about three months old, we went to see Auntie Jinny. I think Dad, who was very fond of her, wanted her to see the baby. I did not have as much time with Auntie on my own as I had on previous occasions, but I loved showing Robert off to all her neighbours in the back gardens of the row of cottages.
However, one day we were by ourselves, sitting in the sun. Mum was resting and I had Robert on my lap.
‘You are growing up,’ Auntie said. ‘I can’t call you “little one” any more. You are taller than I am now.’ She paused. ‘Are you happy?’
I always tried to be truthful with Auntie. ‘Sometimes, Auntie,’ I said. ‘School is all right … I have some nice friends … ’
Auntie sighed, and, in a dreamy voice, she murmured, ‘If only dear Phyll had lived!’ Again, she paused. ‘You look like her, you know.’
I wanted to cry, but I just hugged Robert and tried to smile at Auntie.
‘You are as fond of that baby as if he were your own,’ she said. ‘I believe you know now how your dear mother loved you. It was the same, only much, much more.’
I realised then how wonderful my mother’s love must have been because I could not imagine being able to feel any more love than I did for baby Robert.
But Auntie Jinny was always right about these things.
Last Days of School
At home, I was still a child, under strict supervision at all times, allowed no opinions of my own, no likes or dislikes that were not Mum’s likes or dislikes, no freedom to come and go, no friends allowed in the house, no choice in clothes and very little in anything else (except Robert’s name).
At school, I had received a good academic education, fitting me more than adequately for my chosen career, but socially I was totally unprepared for entry into the big, wide adult world of work and independence. School had instilled in us respect for authority and taught us how to conduct ourselves with decorum and the need to remember at all times that we were ‘young ladies’. Parents were expected to ready girls for whatever career they would pursue or place in society they would fill, as they or the child saw it. This was often subject to the existing place in society of the family as a whole. For instance, I had problems making Mum and Dad, who both had regional accents, understand that I was only trying to speak properly rather than ‘getting above myself’ or being ‘haughty’. Many children had to fight against their parents’ ideas of some sort of preordained ‘place’ in society, which they would inevitably fill. This sounds incredibly old-fashioned, but it was still an attitude that persisted for some time after the war in rural areas, where change was not welcomed and new ideas were slow to be accepted.
Another more subtle change was happening to me at home. I had become more and more convinced that, so far as Mum was concerned, I had never stopped being ‘the problem’. During the war years, there had been so much to think about and worry about and, on the whole, I had been useful and fitted in, so Mum had accepted me as part of the family. Now the war, with all its problems, was over. I was growing up and would be leaving soon and there was Robert.
Mum was not a ‘lovey-dovey’ mother to Robert, but she obviously loved her son very much. Rather than feeling any jealousy, I was very glad to know that he would have a better time than I had enjoyed. I realised that this was the family structure that Mum must always have longed for—Dad, Mum and their baby. I felt outside this; the one that did not fit into this picture. It was, perhaps, surprising that I didn’t really mind. I suppose I had always known somehow that Mum resented having to look after me and that Dad had never noticed, so it was not a new scenario; it just seemed more obvious now. I didn’t blame anyone. What would have been the point? It was just the way it was.
But at school I had found my place among the girls. I had always had my friend June, but, oddly, we never exchanged confidences and neither ever visited the other’s home. She was a strong, solitary character, whereas I needed other people, so my circle of friends had grown.
Also I discovered boys. Or perhaps boys discovered me!
The single exception to the social restrictions imposed from home was to allow me to learn ballroom dancing! We combined with the Bath Boys School, our twin school, for some lessons, and one of the teachers involved started the Friday Socials. They took place in the boy’s school hall from about 6:30 to 9:30 p.m., the first half consisting of instruction in the waltz, foxtrot, quick-step, samba, rumba, tango, Viennese waltz and some fun dances. The second half was when the boys, overcoming their shyness, asked the girls to dance. A ‘Lady’s choice’ was always included.
Luckily, a letter had been sent to all the parents of senior girls (aged sixteen to eighteen), announcing the formation of these classes. The mistress concerned had made the letter most persuasive, and Mum fell for it. I was amazed. She said that she had liked dancing, so she thought I would enjoy it, too. So, at seventeen, I began for the first time to get a little pocket money to cover the cost of the classes. I started to enjoy the company of boys.
One very serious and gentle boy started to ask me to dance more often than any other, and he eventually flattered but horrified me by asking me to go to the pictures with him. I wanted to go, and I said I would ask Mum. But it was Dad who was against it.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘That’s too much like courting.’
Even then this was a very old-fashioned term.
‘Bring him to tea,’ Mum suggested.
I was aghast! He would see what a child I really was.
When Gordon came, he was very polite, if a little bemused, and was approved. We went to the pictures once or twice, and then he just gently faded from the picture. My one romance was over before it had begun. My one romance? There had been another. I had been all of eight years old when a small boy blushingly gave me two birthday cards because he could not afford a present, he said.
Mock school-leaving examinations were held and were quite difficult, so my marks were only average. But in the real ones some six months later I did very well—and even Mum was impressed. I think Dad had begun to realise that I had a few brains after all and was no longer surprised if I achieved good marks.
I did not think about my mother quite so often now, but somewhere in my mind was a little space kept only for her. Now, I wondered if she might know that I had done well at school. Had I been able to ask Auntie Jinny, she would have said, ‘Of course she knows!’ Auntie was always so positive about these things.
I had wanted to go to St. Thomas’s Hospital in London to train for nursing. It was well-known as being the place for nursing training. But Mum and Dad would not hear of it, as it was too far away, and I think they felt that London was a den of iniquity.
So I applied instead to Bristol Royal Hospitals for a place on their training programme, which consisted of practical time on the wards with lectures interspersed for several months every year for three years, by which time, assuming I passed all the examinations, I would be a State Registered Nurse: SRN. Mum came with me to the interview and answered all Matron’s questions for me. Matron looked rather surprised, but I was accepted with no problem, as my educational standard was satisfactory. I was still too young to start, so I went back to the sixth form until the end of the year.
At school, those
who had passed the final examination were presented with the appropriate certificate. To my surprise, my school certificate showed my two distinctions, six credits and one pass (which was the way in which our marks were classified) and stated that my work had been ‘very satisfactory’. I was amazed and gratified. At least I had something to show Mum and Dad this time, unlike the scholarship!
While in the sixth form, those who had chosen nursing as their future were assigned to the local college for three days a week to attend a ‘pre-nursing course’. This did not carry any qualifications but was just an introduction to nursing. It was purely theoretical, dealing with the anatomy and physiology of the human body, an understanding of sepsis and its causes, the difference between a virus and a bacterium, some of the minor procedures that we might meet and the names of some pieces of equipment like spatula, swab, kidney dish, a mysterious solution called eusol and some dressings, with a brief idea of how these things were used. We were taught how to sterilise utensils, treat pressure sores, address patients and so on. All this was purely theoretical and taught in the classroom. It proved to be of minimal use once we were on the wards, as the ward sisters were gods of their own domain, and everything had to be done their way.
The lectures that I enjoyed the most involved the diagnosis of conditions by signs and symptoms and their treatment. Perhaps I should have been a doctor after all.
Eventually, I reached seventeen and a half, the age at which I could be accepted at the hospital, so, at the end of the term, my last day at school dawned. Once more, I stood outside the headmistress’s study. Miss Prestige had retired about two years ago, and Miss Banks had been appointed. She was not the gentle, ladylike person that the popular Miss Prestige had been, but a large, sarcastic woman with a grating voice. I went in when the green light showed, and, in a dismissive way, I was briefly wished good luck in my chosen career. Miss Banks seemed to disapprove of any career that did not involve maths, but I did not have the courage to tell her that I would be using maths to work out drug dosages. She would not have been interested, I’m sure.
The Country Nurse Remembers Page 19
