The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (22 page)

Mrs Tattersall snapped in frustration. ‘Get out of this parlour NOW!’ she yelled, sounding more like a fishwife than a professional midwife. ‘Go on, move it! Get out of here!’

With that she literally pushed the lover out the door. Moira’s mum staggered out behind him and Mrs Tattersall closed the door firmly. ‘Good riddance,’ I wanted to say, and I knew that was exactly what Mrs Tattersall was thinking. Rubbing her hands together and smoothing down her apron, she went briskly back to attend to Moira, who was smiling sweetly and thanking her.

‘There now, where were we before we were rudely interrupted?’ Mrs Tattersall asked calmly, and order was magically restored.

I still felt on edge, but thanks to Mrs Tattersall my nerves were no longer fraught, and I felt a little less sick inside.

I delivered Moira’s baby, a little boy she named Jimmy, just before 1 a.m. It was a straightforward birth and, despite our grim surroundings, when I held the baby I felt the same incredible surge of exhilaration I’d experienced when I brought Lorinda Louise into the world. After I’d cleaned Jimmy up as best I could with some water boiled in a battered old metal pan, I was delighted to see Moira had a new set of clothes for him.

I dressed him in the little white vest, white knitted trousers and a pale yellow matinée jacket, which Moira told me had been made by a kindly old neighbour. Moira’s two sisters and her mother, who had sobered up considerably by now, all came to have a look at the new addition to the family.

‘Look at you, gorgeous – another flamin’ mouth to feed!’ one sister said as she gazed lovingly at her new nephew.

‘What are we going to do with you then, little Jimmy?’ asked the other sister. ‘We’re outnumbered now, girls, that’s for sure!’

There were no complications, and Mrs Tattersall and I left around 3 a.m.

‘I’m so glad he had a new set of clothes,’ I remarked as we stepped on to the pitch-black street outside. It was the only positive thing I could think of to say about the family.

‘Linda, love, they will be the only new clothes that child will ever have,’ Mrs Tattersall sniffed. ‘And I can guarantee that before we’ve turned the corner of Hope Street, Moira will be out of that parlour as quick as you like so the lover can install his fat backside in the best chair as per usual.’

I don’t know if that’s actually what happened on the night she gave birth, but when I returned for a home visit a few days later Moira was indeed crammed in the back room again with
her sisters and their seven young children. I had never seen any evidence of them cooking a meal during any of my visits, and the children seemed to survive on unbuttered buns, which their mothers dished out and let them roam around with, scattering crumbs on the floor that the dog wolfed down. My heart ached for Moira, but I tried to take comfort from the fact little Jimmy was in fine fettle in spite of his desperate surroundings.

‘I’m afraid it’s not your job to get involved in the whys and wherefores,’ Mrs Tattersall told me when Moira was discharged from our care a few weeks later. ‘That family is very unusual in these parts, thank God. It’s a crying shame for those girls, but our job is done. We’ve delivered her baby safely, Moira has no ongoing complications and we’ve dished out all the advice we can.’

I knew this was true, and I took some solace from Mrs Tattersall’s experienced words. Moira had been told how to boil up the bottles and teats in a pan before filling them with warm milk. The milk should be squirted onto the inside of the wrist to test it was not too hot or too cold, I told her. I also gave instructions about soaking cloth nappies overnight in a bucket before washing them out, and keeping the baby’s bottom clean so as to avoid nappy rash.

Moira nodded obediently but I knew full well the family did not even own a bath, and the other children in the house wore dirty nappies, scratched their heads because of the lice and smelled absolutely awful.

When I returned to my own home that night, I found a note on the kitchen worktop from Graham, who had gone out to the pub for the evening with some friends. It read: ‘Your mum brought a steak pie for tomorrow and some parkin. Are you
off next Friday and if so shall we go to The Sportsman for a meal? Love you, sleep tight.’ I felt almost guilty, having so much when the Pettys had so little, and I understood exactly why Mrs Tattersall often helped poor families with gifts of food and baby equipment.

This feeling stayed with me and was intensified two days later when my father came round to deliver the most wonderful news. My brother John and his wife Nevim had become the proud parents of a healthy little boy they named Kerem. He was born on Monday 7 September 1970 by Caesarean section at a hospital in Brussels, where my brother and sister-in-law were now happily living and working.

‘Shame you weren’t on hand, Linda,’ Dad smiled. ‘I expect they could have used your skills!’

I’d heard variations on this comment for months now, ever since we discovered Nevim was pregnant. Everybody I told about the baby asked me, ‘Oooh, will you be their midwife?’ to which I always laughed and explained that they lived abroad. Besides, my sister-in-law had been advised to have a Caesarean section as she is very petite and Kerem was a large baby. My brother had everything organised, and had booked her in to a private clinic. ‘Just because you bake bread doesn’t mean you should deliver John’s bread in Brussels, does it?’ I teased my father in return. ‘Anyway, I haven’t passed all my exams yet!’

Looking back, I’m surprised to recall that my training didn’t affect how I felt about Nevim’s pregnancy in any way. I didn’t worry more than anyone else as we counted down the months and waited excitedly for news of Kerem’s safe arrival. Nevim was my sister-in-law, not a patient, and despite tragic cases like Mrs Wainwright’s, which still weighed heavily on
my mind, for the most part I remained full of the optimism of youth. I had eagerly awaited this very exciting new arrival and I couldn’t wait to meet him.

My mum had departed on the first available train and was planning to stay and help Nevim for three weeks while John went back to his job as a journalist for United Press International.

I was absolutely thrilled at becoming an auntie. Kerem was the first baby born into our family for many years. He would be loved and cherished, and I felt grateful that my brother and his wife had the means to give him the best possible start in life. If only every baby could be as lucky as Kerem.

‘There you are!’ a familiar voice called out. ‘Wherever did you get to, Linda?’

‘Sorry, Mrs Tattersall,’ I replied, ‘Had to see Miss Sefton about my exam.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you did, but Gwyneth Griffiths’s baby won’t know anything about that. Let’s go. She got her husband to phone for us, and I must have had the message more than ten minutes gone!’

Mrs Tattersall carried a pager which she called a ‘bleep’ and when husbands and neighbours, and occasionally even the labouring mothers themselves, called from phone boxes on street corners, a message was relayed via the hospital switchboard operator, telling Mrs Tattersall she was needed. The majority of homes in the district had no telephone and, typically, the ‘pips’ went on the payphone before anything more detailed than the name of the patient and possibly an address were relayed to the telephonist. As a result Mrs Tattersall rarely had the opportunity to make any sort of assessment of the situation before she dashed off to what might be a false alarm or an imminent delivery. This meant she had to treat each call as if it might be an emergency, which accounted for her always appearing to be in a tearing hurry.

I had grown used to my heart rate quickening whenever Mrs Tattersall used the word ‘bleep’, and that morning I responded as she had taught me to, immediately focusing on the job in hand. I took the gas and air cylinder from her and we dashed to the car park together, with me apologising again and having a job keeping up with her impressively fast pace.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ Mrs Tattersall wheezed, hauling her heavy bag of equipment into the boot of the car. ‘First baby, should be slow, and it’s very close by. Had a couple of false alarms already, so we might be on a wasted journey in any case.’

It was November now and I’d been working alongside Mrs Tattersall for five months – long enough to know she often said something along those lines. Even if her own heart was pounding faster and faster as we sped to each labouring mother, you would never have known it.

‘I remember Mrs Griffiths,’ I said, registering that she lived close to Moira Petty along Hope Street. ‘Little two-up, two-down, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, one of them you can’t swing a cat in,’ Mrs Tattersall sighed. She paused for a moment to light a cigarette before pushing her foot hard on the accelerator.

Mr Griffiths threw the front door open dramatically as we stepped out of the trusty Avenger less than ten minutes later.

‘Midwife’s here!’ he called to his wife upstairs. He turned back to us. ‘Come quick, baby’s coming!’ he told me, his voice agitated, imploring me to get a move on. With mounting panic in his voice, he added breathlessly, ‘She’s at top o’ stairs!’

There was a narrow hallway at the foot of the stairs and when I stepped inside and looked up I was greeted by the startling sight of Mrs Griffiths standing on the very top step,
groaning and holding two rather tatty-looking tartan tea towels between her legs. She was wearing a long skirt that was hitched up around her hips and I was shocked to see that she was, in fact, trying to hold the baby back in with the tea towels.

‘I’ll get the gear,’ I heard Mrs Tattersall call over my shoulder as I shot up the stairs like a rat up a drainpipe.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Griffiths,’ I soothed. ‘Let’s get you comfortable.’

There was no way in the world I could have shifted her, so I helped Mrs Griffiths lie down right where she stood, on the tiny square of landing that divided the two bedrooms on either side of the house. She was a large woman and she filled the entire space, while I crouched perilously on the top stair.

‘Waters went,’ she gasped. ‘Tried to stop baby comin’ as best as I could.’

‘Keep breathing and try not to push just yet,’ I instructed. ‘Mrs Tattersall is …’

‘Right here!’ I heard my mentor puff.

I turned and saw her mounting the stairs two at a time, gas and air in one hand and her equipment bag in the other. The sight of her instantly reassured me. I even managed a smile, as I saw that she still had her cigarette in her mouth as she dashed towards us. With no free hand, she was dragging on it through puckered lips.

Dropping her baggage, Mrs Tattersall deftly manoeuvred herself into a position behind Mrs Griffiths and rasped through her half-smoked cigarette: ‘Try to squat, that’s it, lean back on me, on my legs if you like … Linda, can you see the head?’

‘Yes I can,’ I answered, though I could barely see Mrs Tattersall through the swirls of grey smoke gathering all around us.

‘It’s coming!’ Mrs Griffiths coughed.

Her baby daughter was born moments later into a thick cloud of smoke while Mrs Tattersall continued to suck on the last dregs of her cigarette. The elated parents didn’t seem to bother about that one bit, and I had long ago learned never to be surprised by what happened on my rounds with Mrs Tattersall.

Mr Griffiths, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gave us a hearty round of applause when he heard the little girl cry, while Mrs Griffiths thanked us over and over again and apologised for leaving it so late to phone.

‘Good job I had the tea towels,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want the baby to arrive before you did. Anyway, I can’t thank you enough, I really can’t.’

As I drove home from work on my moped that evening I was mulling over the events of the day and feeling quietly pleased with myself for dealing with Mrs Griffiths so calmly in the circumstances. It was very dark, damp and foggy. My legs were aching with tiredness as I rode the moped, but my mind was alert with the excitement of the day. I was almost a qualified midwife and I was thoroughly enjoying myself, delivering babies out in the community. I’d been studying hard, too, and I was fairly confident I would pass my final exam, which was an oral and written test, without a hitch.

I’d heard there was a woman expecting triplets attending the antenatal clinic, and I thought about how interesting it would be to be involved in their birth next year. Perhaps I could ask if that were possible? Of course it was possible, I realised, thrillingly. I was already capable of delivering babies all by myself, and I would be a fully fledged, qualified midwife
by then, I was sure. I had delivered Lorinda Louise and little Jimmy, and I had all but delivered Mrs Griffiths’s baby today in such unconventional conditions. What a triumph!

As I approached the last set of traffic lights before home I became aware that the red Hillman Imp in the left-hand lane beside me was drifting across the white line on the road. Blinking through the drizzle I decided to speed up to get past the little car as quickly as possible. I accelerated, and a terrifying noise filled my ears. I couldn’t make it out. It was the crunch of metal on metal. It was the eerie screech of brakes not working fast enough. It was the sound of me yelling and crying out, becoming painfully aware that I was lying on the pavement on the opposite side of the wet road to where my moped lay.

Mr Fox was the motorist’s name. He took me home, shaking uncontrollably, in his damaged car and told Graham what had happened.

‘She hit the side of me and went straight over the bonnet,’ I heard him explain, white as a sheet. ‘I’m very sorry, I didn’t see her. I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. Poor visibility. Wet road, I’m afraid.’ I had to agree with him, though I wasn’t sure exactly how the accident happened.

Remarkably, my coat and uniform were unscathed. I had a large, throbbing bruise on my hip but no cuts or even scratches despite this being a far worse crash than my accident at the doors of Casualty. I sat shaking from head to foot and nursing a cup of sweet tea while Graham gave Mr Fox five pounds to cover the damage to his dented car and took the details of where my moped needed to be picked up from. It was propped up next to a lamppost on the side of the road, and would probably need a bit of work done to it, Mr Fox advised. I’m pretty
sure he caused the accident, but I can’t be certain I didn’t steer into him in the heat of the moment when I accelerated, and I was happy for Graham to give him the money.

‘I think it’s time we thought about getting you a car,’ Graham said.

I nodded half-heartedly. The accident had really frightened me and in that moment the last thing I wanted to think about was taking to the roads again, especially in a car, but I didn’t want Graham to worry.

‘The girls at work said it’s easy to pass your driving test when you’re a nurse,’ I told him, giving a brave little laugh.

‘How come?’ Graham asked curiously.

‘Apparently the trick is to wear your nurse’s uniform and hitch your skirt up an inch or two,’ I smiled. ‘They say it works every time, even if you’re not much good behind the wheel.’

Graham laughed, which is what I wanted him to do. I was feeling embarrassed about the crash, and now the initial shock had subsided I wanted to play down how much it had shaken me up. In my job I was used to being the one people looked to for help, not the other way around. I joined in with Graham’s laughter, even though it made my sore body ache.

‘Put your feet up, Linda, while I go and get the moped. We’ll fix it up and sell it and get you a decent car.’

Once I was qualified my pay would increase and we would comfortably be able to afford a new car. It seemed like a good idea.

As soon as Graham had gone I shuffled tentatively into the kitchen. Over the previous few weeks I’d made two Christmas cakes, one for my parents and one for my in-laws. I’d followed an old recipe I had on a typed card from school, when we’d been taught traditional baking in Domestic Science. I really
wanted these Christmas cakes to be perfect. Both sets of parents had given us so much support in our first year of marriage, and I wanted to prove that I was the perfect little wife, capable of running the home as well as working hard for my final exam and completing Part Two of my training.

The day before, I’d put the finishing touches to the marzipan and royal icing, and now, even though my hands were still trembling and sore, I added the finishing touch – a red and green frill around each cake – and set them on top of the fridge for safe-keeping. They were loaded with dried fruit and brandy and weighed an absolute ton, and my arms ached just lifting them.

Graham returned just as I put them down. ‘I’ll get the dinner on,’ I called down the hallway. ‘I feel as right as rain now.’

‘More than can be said about your moped,’ he remarked.

The Honda needed quite a bit of patching up, but Graham said he would deal with it, and then place an advert in the
Manchester Evening News
to sell it as soon as I had passed my driving test.

‘Mind that paint in the vestibule,’ I shouted, suddenly remembering I’d left two tins of emulsion balanced next to the telephone table. I wanted to spruce up the paintwork in the lounge before Christmas, so determined was I to prove my worth as a competent little homemaker.

December 1970 was an incredibly busy month. The wards were teeming with patients and I found myself working long hours and, as I was still a pupil midwife, being given the worst ‘off-duty’. This meant moving around the wards frequently and taking on more night shifts, which was extremely tiring.

One evening I arrived at work feeling utterly exhausted before I’d even started. I’d spent the day cleaning the house in preparation for the decorating, as well as writing out scores of Christmas cards. Graham and I had been receiving cards for a week or so now, but I had scarcely had time to put pen to paper. The arrival of a card from Linda Mochri had jolted me into action. ‘All fine here in bonny Scotland,’ she had written brightly. ‘Hope you are well.’

I realised, to my shame, that the best part of a year had passed since I’d heard from Linda and I had no idea how she was getting on. I had been so caught up in my own life I had not made time to keep in touch with old friends. I hadn’t a clue how Nessa, Anne or Jo were doing either, and I resolved to send them all a Christmas card and wish them well for 1971. In my heart I knew that our friendship, as we knew it, could never be rekindled, but nevertheless I hoped to keep in contact.

‘You look shattered!’ Barbara Lees remarked when she saw me putting on my apron on the postnatal ward that night. ‘And it’s not a good night to be tired!’

‘Why ever not?’ I asked.

‘The wards are absolutely fit to burst. I heard they had two women labouring in the same delivery room earlier and had to wheel one of them out while the other gave birth!’

‘No! Why is it so busy?’

‘No idea, but thank goodness we’re getting a new hospital, that’s all I can say.’

I nodded. There had been a lot of excited talk about the new maternity unit. Our old maternity facilities within Ashton General would be gradually shut down, and by the end of 1971 we would have a large, purpose-built maternity unit, which was being built next to the existing hospital.

With more women than ever opting to have a hospital birth as opposed to a home delivery, it was anticipated the new maternity unit would be an extremely popular and thriving facility.

Talking to Barbara, I suddenly had a sense of being in the right place at the right time, which spurred me on that night despite my weariness. That feeling was magnified when I was summoned to see Miss Sefton before I began my duties. I had a good idea what she wanted to talk about, and I had been waiting for this moment. My record of deliveries had been sent to the Central Midwives Board for scrutiny, and I had been awaiting the result of my final exam, which I thought had gone very well. I had been hoping that any day now Miss Sefton would be able to confirm that I had passed my Part Two. This was it!

‘Congratulations,’ she said warmly when I entered her office. She expressed her great pleasure in informing me that I had passed my final exam with flying colours and that I had ably assisted in the various required births from March to December. Margaret Mulligan had been right, I thought. It wasn’t that hard to clock up the necessary deliveries.

‘In passing Part Two you have automatically earned yourself a position as a staff midwife here at Ashton General Hospital,’ Miss Sefton confirmed. ‘In my opinion you should stay here, as you will probably be ready for a sister’s post in twelve months’ time.’