The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (11 page)

‘Seems so,’ Veronica shrugged sadly. ‘Baby’s fine, praise the Lord, even though his mother was suspected of having venereal disease.’

I actually gasped as she said it. I’d read about unspeakable infections like syphilis and gonorrhoea in the new 1968 edition of
Textbook for Midwives
by Margaret F. Myles in the library. I’d been absolutely horrified by the gruesome images and
explanations, but never for a moment did I think I’d come across anything like this at St Mary’s. I thought it was something that only happened to paupers in a bygone era.

‘Nurse Lawton, you have been granted permission to witness a birth if you come quickly,’ Sister Rose said, appearing unexpectedly in the doorway.

The nursery fell completely silent at the sight of Sister Rose. Even though she was a very easy-going sister compared to most I had met at the MRI, her rank meant there was an automatic response to her presence. Each midwife straightened her back and there was a rustle of throat-clearing and smoothing down of skirts and aprons. All talk of abortions and prostitutes was well and truly over, and the midwives tilted their heads diligently towards their tiny charges, cooing and shushing gently, as if a switch had been flicked.

Sister Rose’s eyes scanned the room approvingly before resting on me once more. ‘Follow me!’ she ordered. ‘You need to come right away.’

I hurriedly handed baby Paul to Veronica, my heart leaping into my mouth as I scuttled after Sister Rose, hanging on her every word.

‘This is a third baby and labour has advanced very nicely, without complications. Just stand quietly beside me and watch.’

I nodded, feeling a well of exhilaration rise from my heart and rush to every tingling nerve in my body.

Outside the delivery room was a young man in his mid twenties who was wearing workman’s boots and a donkey jacket with leather pads on the elbows. He was alternating between dragging heavily on a cigarette and biting his nicotine-stained nails nervously.

‘Look after ’er, won’t ye?’ he asked as he stepped aside to let us pass.

‘Of course we will, Mr Hollingworth!’ Sister Rose said reassuringly.

‘Thank you kindly, Nurses!’ he called after us, saluting us with the hand in which he held his cigarette.

His wife let out a piercing scream as we pushed through the delivery room doors. There was a midwife at the foot of the bed and another one busying herself with the resuscitaire trolley, which was next to a table where a gleaming pair of scales stood. I noted with some surprise that the scales looked like the ones the greengrocer used to weigh turnips and potatoes in Ashton Market.

‘Can you give me one last big push, Mrs Hollingworth?’ the midwife said in a voice that was somehow both authoritative and gently encouraging. ‘You are doing
ever
so well.’

Mrs Hollingworth seemed completely oblivious to our arrival and let out a loud cry of ‘Aye, I can do that, Nurse,’ before gobbling in air and gripping the sides of the blanket that were draped over her body. She was wearing a thick cotton nightdress with a stand-up collar laced tightly up her neck. Her face was so red and sweaty it looked as if it had been squeezed out of the stiff collar and was still throbbing with the effort.

A similar sight greeted me, unexpectedly, at the opposite end of the bed. The baby’s rosy head was visible, and I watched in fixated fascination as its shoulders and then its whole body plopped out onto the bed. It was a boy! His body was smeared with white, waxy vernix and he was plump and perfect, his little arms and legs unfolding and wriggling with life. Mrs Hollingworth let out a noise that was a cross between
a whoop and a wail as her baby was delivered, and I stood transfixed as the midwife set about cutting the scarlet-faced baby’s cord while telling Mrs Hollingworth she’d done the most tremendous job
ever
, and was the mother of a lovely new son.

She had indeed done a marvellous job, I thought. I became aware that I was standing there holding my breath with my mouth open, gaping at the scene that had unfolded before me. I was utterly astonished that the female body could stretch to such proportions, to deliver such a bouncing baby into the world so seamlessly.

The little boy let out a lusty cry, and I wanted to cry myself. I was shaking a little, and felt a powerful surge of excitement course through my body. It was a feeling I recognised but couldn’t quite place. Later, I realised the last time I had been flooded with so much adrenaline was when I was watching The Beatles perform in concert at the Apollo in Ardwick, Manchester, in 1965. It was absolutely electrifying, and I screamed and screamed as if my life depended it on it, just like all the other girls.

Now I felt just as invigorated and ecstatic. Childbirth is the most incredible phenomenon, and in that moment, in that delivery room, my ambition was truly ignited.

‘I think I’d like to be a midwife,’ I said breathlessly to Graham that night on the phone. ‘It was just fantastic to see a new life, a new little person being born.’

Saying the word ‘midwife’ out loud seemed to validate my decision. Until now, I hadn’t been sure where my nursing training would lead me. After all, I had wanted to quit just a couple of months earlier, and when I stood in Miss Bell’s office with my resignation letter it had felt like exactly the right
thing to do. Working at St Mary’s had made me feel much better about my career and my future, and now I could see that becoming a midwife was
the
job for me. It was exactly what I should do and, more importantly, it was exactly what I wanted to do. The certainty in my mind thrilled me, and I felt the happiest I had in a long time.

‘That sounds wonderful,’ Graham said when he got a word in edgeways. ‘I knew you’d find your niche, my little nurse. But how do you go about becoming a midwife?’

There was a hint of worry in his voice, as Graham knew full well that my placement at St Mary’s was coming to an end soon. I had more than a year of my nurse’s training to complete and four tough exams to pass before I would become a qualified State Registered Nurse, or SRN, in September 1969. I would also have to complete a further three months’ work at the MRI after qualifying to become an official MRI nurse, as that was the rule. All told, that would take me to December 1969, and it was still only June 1968.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll just have to grit my teeth and get through the rest of my placements as best I can. I’ll have to keep telling myself it won’t be forever. I’m going to see about working at St Mary’s after I qualify. I’m going to find out what you have to do to train as a midwife.’

A few weeks later I found myself walking the familiar path to Miss Bell’s office. She had asked me to report to her immediately after finishing my placement at St Mary’s. I’d left the maternity hospital with a heavy heart, wishing I could stay and learn, and dreading my return to the MRI.

‘Come in, Nurse Lawton, and do take a seat,’ Miss Bell said when she answered my timid knock on her door.

I walked in nervously and sat down, watching Miss Bell reach purposefully into her desk drawer. She pulled out my resignation letter and waved it before me. For a moment fear made my heart contract. What if she had decided to accept my resignation after all?

‘What shall I do with this?’ she asked.

In that moment I knew there was only one answer she wanted to hear, and I knew wholeheartedly it was the right answer to give.

‘Tear it up!’ I said, a relieved smile on my face.

‘That’s right,’ Miss Bell said, before ripping the letter cleanly in two and depositing it in the wastepaper bin beneath her desk.

I felt thankful and exhilarated all at once. I would work hard to pass my exams and gain my qualifications, and then I could train to become a midwife.

‘Thank you, Miss Bell,’ I said politely. ‘I feel much happier now.’

At the time I saw it as a nuisance that I had many more placements to fulfil before I could pursue my training as a midwife. I viewed my final year as a means to an end, not realising how much more invaluable experience I was going to amass along the way.

Within days, I was dismayed to find myself heading back to Booth Hall Children’s Hospital to work in the dreaded burns unit, no less. I gritted my teeth and vowed to do my best, although I could not have asked for a worse placement and prayed I would not faint in front of the children again.

‘Welcome, Nurse Lawton,’ Sister Pattinson said, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, when I arrived for my first shift. She was a trim, tall lady who spoke in a sweet voice. I wasn’t
used to a sister being so tactile but I liked it, and thankfully she helped put me at my ease straight away.

This was to be a ten-week placement, and I had been allocated a room in the nurses’ home at nearby Monsall Hospital in Newton Heath, North Manchester, as it was close to Booth Hall. Founded in 1871, the grand old Monsall was an isolation hospital that specialised in the care of patients with tuberculosis and infectious diseases.

The idea of leaving my familiar digs at the MRI and living in the grounds of such a place hardly appealed, and I begged Graham to come and visit at least twice a week.

‘I don’t know about the patients,’ I grumbled, ‘I think it’s me who’s being put in isolation.’

‘I’ll visit as often as I can,’ Graham said. ‘Will I be able to see your room this time?’

I laughed. ‘Don’t be daft.’ Men were never permitted inside any nurses’ home, ever. ‘But I’m told there is a communal sitting room where we can welcome visitors.’

‘That’s fine,’ Graham said. ‘As long as we can see each other.’

I knew he meant it. Although we had been dating for almost four years we had still never slept together. Graham was a true gent and had never put me under any pressure to do so. We giggled when we sometimes saw other nurses emerging, breathless, from their boyfriends’ Minis and Capris in the most dimly lit corners of the MRI car park, but we could only guess at what they got up to. Graham and I had an unspoken understanding that we would wait until we got married before having sex. Until then I felt flattered and comfortable in the knowledge he would willingly drive all the way across Manchester just to come and hold my hand and give me a cuddle and a goodnight kiss.

I was very pleasantly surprised when I was shown to my new accommodation. The furniture was dark and old but my bedroom was on the ground floor and had patio windows that filled the room with light and gave me a lovely view over the most beautiful gardens. Pink roses nodded colourfully between lush evergreens and the sun glinted through the trees, projecting what looked like a pretty dappled rug over the grass. It was such a peaceful and idyllic scene that it helped me imagine I might perhaps enjoy my time here after all.

A taxi took me to Booth Hall each day and I was to wear my own uniform, which was disappointing as the staff nurses had pretty gingham uniforms that I was quite envious of. Not only that, I soon realised they were allowed to swap their white aprons for red, yellow and blue ones when they served food to the children. I thought it was a lovely touch, though it surprised me as it seemed so frivolous compared to the strict and bland uniform regulations I was used to at the MRI.

‘I have three special patients I would like you to meet,’ Sister Pattinson told me on my first full day, steering me gently from her office.

I prepared myself for the unbearable mixture of stifling heat and the overwhelming stench of livid flesh and clammy Vaseline that had become my abiding memory of the burns unit, but again I found myself surprised. The stuffy temperature and sickly smell could not have been described as pleasant by any means, but the ward wasn’t half as bad as I remembered it from my previous, truncated visit.

As I was taken on a little tour I felt my shoulders relax slightly, and I allowed myself to inhale fully through my nostrils, smiling with relief when the ward air hit my lungs without causing my head or my stomach to react.

‘This is Karen,’ Sister Pattinson said, slipping through a yellow curtain decorated with swirls of blue and orange snakes. ‘Karen, this is Nurse Lawton.’

Karen didn’t turn to look at me, for which I was grateful, as I needed a moment to compose myself. The little girl, who was no more than five years old, was lying face down on a bed that appeared to have been specially made for her from Plaster of Paris, as it was moulded perfectly beneath her little body. The entire back of Karen’s body, from her head to her heels, was covered in dressings and bandages. I registered with some shock that her hands were bound, too, and she was strapped to her bespoke bed by a pair of cloth belts, rendering her immobile. Karen was sucking a drink of orange squash through a straw, held for her by a nurse who sat on a stool by the little girl’s head. In between sucks, Karen writhed and sobbed.

Sister Pattinson tilted her head towards me and whispered softly that Karen had fallen backwards into a shallow bath of scalding hot water. Her mother had slipped out of the bathroom for a matter of seconds before returning to switch on the cold tap, but it was too late. Karen was so badly burned that she needed a series of complicated and painful skin grafts to the back of her head, trunk and thighs, and would be in here for many months.

‘One of your duties will be to help feed Karen, to read to her and generally try to help make her as comfortable as possible,’ she said. ‘Do you think you can do that?’

‘Yes,’ I said, looking at the matted mess of hair and flesh and gauze on the back of Karen’s head. I wanted to help her in any way I could. I crouched so I could see Karen’s pretty face. She looked withdrawn, but when I said ‘hello’ she mouthed ‘hello’ back to me.

The next patient I met was Michael, a little African boy who was three years old and had tightly sprung, jet-black curls and eyes like a couple of Maltesers. He was adorable, and I was very upset to hear that he had been burnt after pulling a pan of hot milk from the stove. He had bandages covering the whole of the left side of his face and eye, but Sister Pattinson assured me that he had been extremely fortunate and his injuries were not too severe.