The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (19 page)

Dr Franklin now rose to his feet, so as to prepare to deliver the head safely. As the nape of the baby’s neck was now visible, on the next contraction Dr Franklin grasped his ankles gently and, with slight traction, carried his body up over the mother’s abdomen. Mrs Frodsham looked on nervously but silently.
Her baby’s legs were now in her line of vision even though the delivery was not complete yet. She was doing very well indeed, and was breathing steadily.

I actually held my breath when the next contraction arrived, watching as Dr Franklin skilfully delivered the baby’s head as gradually as could be. He didn’t call for forceps; there was no need. I let out my breath with tremendous relief.

I could see the baby’s face at last. His little nose and mouth were free now, and I watched with delight as he took his first breath. I silently thanked God that the delivery was completed with textbook precision, and I had tears in my eyes as I saw Mrs Frodsham’s anxious face finally relax into a broad, incredulous smile. The relief when she finally saw her son’s scrunched-up little face was an absolute joy to witness. I would seek her out on the postnatal ward in a day or two and take her some of my father’s finest parkin, I thought giddily. That was the least she deserved.

When I left the delivery room that day, I noticed that Dr Franklin had watery eyes too, and I remembered Margaret Mulligan’s words on my very first day here. ‘Don’t worry about Dr Franklin,’ she had said. ‘He’s got a soft heart underneath all the bluster.’ Now I had finally seen it, and I admired him all the more for it.

To complete Part One of my course, I also worked in the Special Care Baby Unit (SCBU) and in the antenatal clinic. I didn’t feel at all comfortable in Special Care, and was very relieved that I was simply required to observe the tiny babies in their incubators. All babies below five pounds in weight had to be taken to Special Care, where they were looked after by specially trained nurses.

It was very hot and very regimented in Special Care. Babies were fed every one to three hours, and I had to help make up the feeds. To prevent the spread of infection nurses wore a different gown over their uniforms to attend to each baby. Only very few babies were well enough to be fed by their mothers.

I learned that a diabetic mother’s baby could be big but immature, which accounted for one or two of the larger babies I saw. However, the majority were so fragile they didn’t look like babies at all, and that was distressing to see. They appeared very pink, with shiny skin. Some looked like the skinned rabbits my mum used to make rabbit pie with, which was an image that upset me but wouldn’t leave me. I hated to see babies like that, attached to tubes and machines to help their tiny lungs inflate. Survival rates were low in those days, and I couldn’t look at the babies without fearing desperately for their perilously premature lives. It was like being suspended in a strange, dangerous world, where life and death played a heart-stopping game of chase. I couldn’t wait for my time there to end.

The antenatal clinic, by contrast, was a breath of fresh air. I loved seeing the women waddling in, full of optimism. The clinic was in a draughty, hut-like unit separated from the main hospital building. It was barely big enough to swing a cat in and it always seemed madly busy, but I loved its vibe.

Women who were pregnant with their first babies would attend every two weeks for a routine urine test and blood pressure check, and sometimes for internal examinations too. Those who already had children didn’t attend the clinic so often, as they would also be seen at home by a community midwife.

The midwife would weigh each patient, measure the woman’s stomach using her hands, and listen to the baby’s heartbeat using a Pinard stethoscope, which is like a little trumpet. A doctor or consultant would also perform a brief examination of the abdomen and record observations, and they’d do an internal examination if required.

In lectures we’d been told that this part of the midwife’s job was as much about talking, listening and observing as it was about the practicalities of routine tests and examinations. I found it a pleasure to share in each woman’s excitement, and I embraced the challenge of recognising when all was not well, whether it be swelling that might signal the onset of preeclampsia, or a personal problem the woman needed to get off her chest. Preventing trouble was much more satisfying than dealing with the after-effects of misfortune or calamity, which is how I saw Special Care. I felt useful and very much at home in the antenatal clinic.

‘Knickers and tights off, ladies!’ Sister Baxter called to a row of waiting women on my first morning.

I giggled as I watched them obediently take turns to go inside the cubicles and remove their undergarments before entering the examination room. This preparation was done so as not to waste valuable time with the doctor.

I enjoyed watching the easy camaraderie amongst the women waiting to be seen.

‘Took me half an hour to get me tights on this mornin’,’ one lady griped when it was her turn in the cubicle. Complaining that she had struggled to reach her toes she remarked, ‘I’d have been better off coming in with bare legs!’

‘I know,’ another chipped in. ‘Ooooh-er! Wait up!’ she added suddenly. ‘There’s a man over there!’

Each waiting woman turned her head to the open door at the end of the corridor, where a shy-looking young man was hovering nervously.

Sister Baxter was nose to nose with him in a flash. ‘What do you want? You can wait outside!’ she ordered bossily, taking hold of his arm and practically pushing him out the door.

‘Honestly!’ Sister Baxter huffed, turning to address the gaping ladies, who were all tut-tutting. ‘I do apologise for that. What
was
he thinking?’

None of the ladies owned up to knowing the errant father-to-be, but his exit prompted a lively discussion about the ridiculous things men did when their wives were pregnant.

‘My old man asked if he could go to an away match in Blackburn on the weekend the baby’s due. Told me: “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I get to a phone box at half time.” Cheeky beggar!’

‘I’d be grateful if I were you,’ another piped up. ‘Mine asked me if he was allowed to come in the delivery room and watch the birth!’

Everybody fell about laughing, especially a couple of middle-aged women who were accompanying their pregnant daughters.

‘The idea of it!’ one of the older women scoffed. ‘Can you imagine? Your father would have fainted on the spot if he’d seen me giving birth to you. What a carry-on that would have been! As if women haven’t got enough to cope with without husbands adding to their woes …’

I chuckled as I left the clinic that sunny afternoon at the end of June. That was my last shift before my holiday in Torquay but, much more importantly, it was my last shift of Part One, which Miss Sefton informed me I had now completed ‘competently’.

‘You show great promise, Nurse Buckley,’ she told me before I left. ‘I imagine you will do very well in the community.’

I was thrilled to bits. After my experience in the antenatal clinic, I was really looking forward to venturing out into the district. I imagined it would be a great privilege to get to know the pregnant mums more personally before they gave birth, and to be a part of their whole adventure.

Graham’s parents, Edith and Bill, had organised our holiday and had booked us into a pretty chalet called ‘The Haven’ near the beach. Graham drove us down to the south coast in ‘Isobel’, which he had specially polished for the occasion. His father sat in the front and navigated while my mother-in-law and I shared the back seat. I wore a new cream silk blouse, grey tight-fitting trousers with bell bottoms and some fashionable black wedge heels. Graham had bought me a Siamese silver ring as a ‘well done’ present for passing Part One, which I wore proudly on my finger. I was delighted that I’d be able to wear it for the whole week without taking it on and off as I had to do for work every day.

It took twelve hours to reach our destination, and this gave Edith and me ample time to chat.

‘I’m so proud of you, Linda,’ she beamed affectionately. ‘Being a midwife is such a wonderful career. My Graham is very lucky to have found a lovely wife like you.’

She asked me lots of questions about hospital life, delivering babies and how I felt about the inevitable tragedies that rubbed alongside the joys of childbirth. I enjoyed the chance to chat, especially with someone as genuinely interested and inquisitive as my mother-in-law.

‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ I heard myself saying to Edith at one point, and I remembered first hearing it in the MRI when I was a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year-old. It had been one of Miss Morgan’s stoical mantras, which was often regurgitated by her sisters. ‘Listen to me,’ I thought to myself. ‘Only twenty-two and churning out those words of experience!’

Edith was very good company and it felt as if we talked about everything under the sun as we lamented the lack of motorways and navigated the network of twisting A and B roads leading to Torquay. It was particularly refreshing to chat about the big wide world outside Ashton General, which I rarely got the time to do.

‘What will it mean for the NHS with the Conservatives now in power?’ Edith asked keenly at one point.

I didn’t really have a clue, but I’d heard good things about Edward Heath, our brand new Prime Minister. I thought he could be quite good for the country, though I wasn’t political at all and my rather vague view was based on hearsay.

The compensation that had finally been agreed for Thalidomide victims was another topic raised. I didn’t know the details but I welcomed news of the long-awaited settlement wholeheartedly. The morning sickness drug that caused such devastating birth defects had been withdrawn several years before I began training as a nurse, let alone a midwife, but just hearing the word ‘Thalidomide’ made me sad. I could vividly imagine the trauma of delivering a baby with stunted limbs, and was very glad I had never had to do anything like that, though I knew some of my older colleagues had. The aftershocks were still reverberating around midwifery circles, and it was only ever talked about in hushed, regretful tones.

‘What do you think about Paul McCartney leaving The Beatles?’ Edith asked next, to my relief. This was a subject I was happy to talk about.

‘I’m absolutely gutted! I bought
Let It Be
the other week, and I just can’t believe it’s their last album. I only hope John Lennon will have a solo career too if the Beatles don’t sort their differences out. Do you think he will?’

‘I’m sure he will, Linda,’ came the reply, which was exactly what I wanted to hear. We had a little sing-song after that, thinking we were so witty singing ‘The Long and Winding Road’ as we wended our way slowly southwards.

The four of us spent our days in Torquay sunbathing on towels and deckchairs on the beach, and each night Graham’s dad treated us all to a slap-up dinner before we retired to the chalet. Despite being a married couple, Graham and I giggled like teenagers and were careful not to make any noise in our bedroom that might embarrass his parents – or ourselves.

‘Are you happy?’ Graham asked one night.

‘Very,’ I replied, gazing into his eyes. We’d both had too much sun and I probably should have been lying in a cool bath, but I clung to Graham’s sunburnt body.

‘About babies …’ he said, looking lovingly into my eyes. ‘When do you think …?’

‘I’ll qualify in December, all being well,’ I mused. ‘Then I will automatically get a staff post. After twelve months as a staff midwife I’ll qualify as a sister …’

‘A sister?’ Graham asked anxiously, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

‘Don’t worry,’ I soothed. ‘I’m not trying to work my way up the ladder to become a Matron or anything like that. I’m not interested in delivering orders; I just want to deliver babies. It’s
simply the way the NHS works. It’s a tiered system and it’s just the next step along. I’d get more money and, eventually, a better shift pattern.’

Graham looked relieved. ‘So how exactly does a family of our own fit into this plan?’

I wondered if his mum had been subtly asking the same thing, and I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. Graham was a year younger than me, but nevertheless I had to admit that at twenty-one and twenty-two we were approaching the time we would be expected to start thinking about having children.

‘Let me see,’ I teased. ‘Staff midwife this year, sister by the end of 1971, then I’d need to find my feet in the job and … well, shall I pencil us in for, say, 1972 or 1973?’

‘Done,’ Graham said, kissing me.

‘I’m May Tattersall, pleased to meet you,’

It was July 1970 and I was going out for the very first time with community midwife Mrs Tattersall, my mentor for Part Two of my training.

‘Pleased to meet you too,’ I said, shaking her thin, outstretched hand.

Mrs Tattersall was a long-serving community midwife, and I knew she had an excellent reputation and was admired and respected by other members of staff. I’d seen her around the hospital many times and had been very much looking forward to meeting her. I was quite intrigued by her, actually, as from what I’d seen she didn’t look as I’d imagined a middle-aged community midwife would. I think I expected someone matronly or perhaps more serene, with a sensible grey perm, but from a distance I had noted curiously that Mrs Tattersall was wire-thin and bottle blonde. What’s more, she always appeared to be in a tearing hurry.

‘’Ow typical is that?’ she said, peering through her black-rimmed spectacles at her notes. ‘Your very first job in the community and it’s out in t’ middle o’ bloody nowhere! Never mind, love, pick up that bag and come with me to the car. No doubt it’ll be an education, this one.’

Her broad Manchester accent and the language she used took me by surprise, as did the state of her scuffed black lace-ups, which looked as if they’d never seen a brush or a tin of shoe polish, ever. Up close I could see that she had broken veins on her ruddy cheeks, and I could smell cigarettes on her breath.

Mrs Tattersall’s dirty green Avenger, parked haphazardly across two spaces, was another eye-opener. I had to remove a pile of tatty magazines and a couple of chewed pencils from the front seat before I sat down, and I was astonished to see the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette ends. The smell of stale smoke clogged the air and a rotting apple core rolled around the foot-well in front of my seat. Mrs Tattersall didn’t seem in the slightest bit bothered by this disarray and made no reference whatsoever to the state of the car.

‘I’ve been up to this place several times, and it’s always the bloody same,’ she groaned. ‘Flamin’ animals running round all over t’ place.’

We were headed for Ashton Moss, about three and a half miles away from the hospital on the outskirts of the town, heading towards Manchester. Maeve Blythe was expecting her fourth child and her husband Norris, a farmer, had walked two miles to the nearest phone box to telephone the hospital that morning. Mrs Tattersall explained this in between taking drags on a cigarette and grumbling ‘Bloody hell!’ at each red light and zebra crossing.

‘Mr Blythe is noted for his fine turnips and cauliflowers, I’m led to believe, but they’re a right daft pair,’ she told me. ‘Last time I visited, the mother-in-law was swinging a wedding ring over Mrs Blythe’s belly saying, “’Appen it’s another boy.’”

‘How could she tell?’ I asked, naïvely.

‘God only knows! I can’t be doin’ with those old wives’ tales, they’re a load of nonsense. Let that be your first lesson, Linda love. Don’t bother askin’ what it’s all supposed to mean, and if they ask you, never get involved. It’s your job to deal with what’s real, not all that clap-trap. Whatever you tell them, they’ll hang on your every word, so steer well clear, mark my words.’

‘OK,’ I said obediently. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

By the time we arrived at the run-down farmhouse I had really warmed to Mrs Tattersall. She might not fit the image of a senior midwife I’d been led to expect by my traditional training in Manchester, but she seemed laden with wisdom and I could tell there was a large, motherly heart inside her reedy body.

Mr Blythe greeted us at the gate. He was dressed in a mud-splattered shirt and dirty green wellingtons and was surrounded by three small boys in equally grubby, matching attire. There was a strong smell of manure in the air, and half a dozen scruffy hens were pecking noisily at the ground.

‘She’s in front room with Flora and Megan,’ Mr Blythe said, pointing at the house. ‘Please, go in, and I’ll put t’ kettle on.’

Mrs Tattersall gave me a look that said ‘Oh dear, what did I tell you?’ even though Mr Blythe had not yet, so far as I could tell, done anything to live up to his ‘daft’ reputation.

I helped Mrs Tattersall carry in the equipment, and we heard Mr Blythe call loudly to his wife: ‘The midwife’s here!’ He sounded very relieved.

‘Come in!’ Mrs Blythe called out, sounding equally pleased at our arrival. We followed her voice into a large, hot and dusty room on the ground floor, where she lay on a high
double bed that was covered with an assortment of hand-stitched quilts and crocheted blankets. Two Collie dogs lay either side of her, slathering and sniffing.

‘You’ve met Flora and Megan before, haven’t you?’ she huffed politely to Mrs Tattersall, wincing slightly as a contraction rippled across her belly.

‘Yes!’ Mrs Tattersall replied rather sharply. ‘But let’s be having them off the bed while I examine you, shall we? This is Nurse Buckley, my assistant, by the way.’

I had imagined Flora and Megan to be a clucking mother and mother-in-law, or perhaps a couple of sisters, but certainly not a pair of lolloping farm dogs. I was astonished they were even in the room, let alone allowed up on the bed.

It turned out that Mrs Blythe’s labour was already well established and, being her fourth child, it progressed very quickly. The dogs whimpered and whined each time they were batted away from the bed by Mrs Tattersall, and what with the noise of the now-squawking hens and the three excited lads playing tag in the yard outside the open window, we had a job hearing the nuances of Mrs Blythe’s peculiarly controlled cries of ‘oooumph’ and ‘yeeuuuurrr!’

Sometimes she gurned horribly when she cried out, which seemed to unsettle the dogs, and they both made repeated attempts to jump up and lick their mistress’s face back to normal. I could see that Mrs Tattersall was getting increasingly irritated with the dogs’ presence in the room, and when the pair of them started to sniff around the hem of Mrs Blythe’s nightdress Mrs Tattersall nearly had a fit.

‘Get down!’ she spluttered. ‘Be off with you!’

I was amazed she didn’t just throw the animals out of the room and shut the door, but after her outburst she managed to
bite her tongue as the labour continued to progress quite quickly. It was only when Mr Blythe appeared with another cup of tea for us all, just minutes before his fourth son burst triumphantly into the world, that Mrs Tattersall finally exploded once and for all.

Two scraggy hens had followed Mr Blythe into the room, and they strutted straight over to Mrs Tattersall squawking loudly, with chests puffed out as if they owned the place.

‘Enough!’ Mrs Tattersall bellowed. ‘Mr Blythe, please get these birds out of here, NOW! Where’s the hygiene? Tell me that? Where’s the hygiene? OUT! NOW!’

The poor man was taken aback at his telling off and began to chase the hens around the room in his haste to obey, leaving clumps of manure-scented mud across the carpet as he did so. Baby Blythe, a magnificent boy weighing almost ten pounds, was delivered in the midst of this chaos onto a quilt covered in dog hairs, to the sound of shouting and screeching that had nothing to do with his mother.

‘Could you not have insisted on taking the dogs out of the room?’ I asked Mrs Tattersall later.

‘Well,’ she said, in a voice laden with prudence, ‘it’s like this. When you’re a community midwife, you have to fit in with the community. Women who want to have their baby at home usually do so because they feel more comfortable in their home environment than in the clinical surroundings of a maternity hospital. It’s our job to fit in with them, not the other way around. If she wants her dogs there, then it’s best to try to accommodate her, as far as possible.’

‘But … not hens?’

‘Not hens, no, never hens,’ Mrs Tattersall said firmly.

I expected some pearls of wisdom about the dangers of toxoplasmosis or even salmonella poisoning, but Mrs Tattersall simply said with a rasp: ‘I flamin’ well hate birds!’

On the way back we called in to see Mrs Shawcross, who lived in a tiny terraced house close to the hospital. She had given birth to a little boy called Stanley the previous week, and Mrs Tattersall wanted to check that all was well. In those days, new mothers were visited by a community midwife every day for the first ten days after a home birth.

‘She’s a nice young girl, seems a bit anxious though,’ Mrs Tattersall told me. ‘It’s her first baby.’

Mrs Shawcross answered the door in her dressing gown, though it was now the afternoon. She had black circles under her eyes and looked utterly exhausted. We had to squeeze past a pram and bike that cluttered the hallway before finding baby Stanley sleeping soundly in a Moses basket on the floor of the cramped living room. Mrs Shawcross had clearly been dozing on the settee close to her son, but she nevertheless welcomed us warmly and began plumping up the cushions and removing a newspaper and a pile of cloth nappies from the seats, urging us to sit down in comfort.

When Mrs Shawcross went to put the kettle on, Mrs Tattersall had a quick look at Stanley, then said to me, ‘Get used to this, Linda. People treat midwives like local dignitaries! Quite flattering, I suppose.’

Mrs Shawcross reappeared with a tray of tea served in what must have been her best china cups and saucers. There was also a small glass on the tray, containing a purple-coloured liquid. ‘Stanley seems to like a bit of Vimto on his dummy,’ Mrs Shawcross said by way of explanation, gesturing towards the glass.

Mrs Tattersall shot a glance at Stanley, who had a large blue plastic dummy in his mouth. ‘Perhaps that isn’t a good idea,’ Mrs Tatterhall said tactfully. ‘Vimto’s not made for babies, you see. May I ask, did you put it on neat?’

‘Oh yes, I did. He didn’t like it diluted. He only settles when we give it to him neat.’

‘Well, I don’t think you’ve done him any harm, but let’s not give Stanley any more Vimto, shall we not?’

‘Right you are,’ Mrs Shawcross immediately agreed. ‘I probably wasn’t thinking straight, I’m so short of sleep.’

I loved the way Mrs Tattersall handled the situation. There was no embarrassment or chastisement; she had delivered her professional advice tactfully yet authoritatively, and Mrs Shawcross wasn’t in the slightest bit put out.

‘I can see for myself that you’re looking ever so tired,’ Mrs Tattersall went on. ‘How is Stanley sleeping at night?’

‘Not brilliant, as he doesn’t like sleeping upstairs,’ Mrs Shawcross said flatly. ‘Last night he just wouldn’t settle at all. We were up and down to him for hours, so we brought him downstairs. My husband eventually managed to get him to sleep on a blanket on the rug here, so we brought our bedding downstairs and slept beside him.’

I could hear Mrs Tattersall drawing in a long breath before telling Mrs Shawcross that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea either.

‘It’s like this,’ she said patiently. ‘Stanley probably doesn’t know whether he’s upstairs, downstairs or in m’Lady’s chamber for that matter, but he will certainly sense that his parents are getting a bit anxious about him. Take my advice and don’t sleep on the floor with Stanley again. Stay in your own bed where you will feel more comfortable, and try not to fret.
Stanley will settle better when you and your husband are more relaxed. How does that sound?’

‘Right you are,’ Mrs Shawcross said again. ‘Do you know, sometimes you can’t see the wood for the trees when you’re short of sleep, can you?’

On the pavement outside, Mrs Tattersall raised her eyebrows to the sky. ‘God help them, whatever next!’

‘Couldn’t she give the baby gripe water to help him settle?’ I enquired.

‘She could eventually, if colic is the problem, though it’s too early to tell and you don’t give it until the baby is at least a month old,’ Mrs Tattersall replied. ‘But in my experience gripe water works very well. I think it’s probably the alcohol in it that does the trick. Vimto indeed! Whatever was she thinking, giving a baby something so sugary!’

That night Graham lapped up my stories. He laughed his head off when I told him about the chickens at baby Blythe’s birth and he couldn’t believe that the entire Shawcross family had slept on the floor together because of seven-day-old Stanley.

‘I love being out in the community,’ I told him. ‘It’s such an eye-opener.’

‘You can say that again,’ Graham chuckled. ‘And I can see a change in you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re enjoying yourself,’ he replied. ‘You don’t seem nervous or daunted at all, yet you’re doing what’s effectively a brand new job. It’s as if you were made for this. I’m ever so pleased for you.’

Graham’s words rang true. I felt I could really be myself with Mrs Tattersall, and over the coming weeks and months I
looked forward to every day spent with her. She was a real, down-to-earth human being, and a very caring one at that. Funnily enough, I can’t say I got to know a great deal about her personal life. I knew she had two sons and some grandchildren and lived over by the Army barracks about half a mile from the hospital, but she wasn’t a great talker. Whenever we were together her focus was on the task in hand. I guessed she was in her late forties or early fifties, but I wasn’t sure and would certainly never have asked her anything like that. Likewise, I could never have called her May in a million years; she was always Mrs Tattersall to me.

In time I began to get to know how Mrs Tattersall’s mind worked, and I was constantly impressed by how very skilled she was at her job. I saw the way she expertly scanned the room whenever we walked into someone’s home, taking in much more than the mother and baby she had come to visit.

‘I’ve got some liquid here to put on their hair,’ she often said, after watching a young child scratch its head, then she would gently enquire about nits at the local school. Everything she said sounded matter-of-fact, and nobody ever took offence.

‘Have you finished with that other carrycot?’ she would ask if she spotted a new one in a house. ‘Only I know a family who could get some use out of that …’

We often left our routine visits carting out old baby baths or high chairs that might ‘do’ for somebody else, and people were always willing to help and share. Everybody seemed to respect and admire Mrs Tattersall for showing such generous community spirit.