The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (24 page)

‘Hey, Linda, fancy coming for a peep next door?’

It was Maggie, friendly as ever, and she was gesturing towards our new maternity unit that was being built tantalisingly close to the old facilities.

‘Are we allowed?’ I asked cautiously, knowing that the men who worked on the site wore hard hats and had cordoned off the entrance doors with thick sheeting.

‘Barbara and I had a little look last week and nobody complained. Come on, it’s exciting!’

Maggie ran off down the corridor with me in hot pursuit, and minutes later we had crossed the grounds and entered what was to be our bright new workplace, still very much under construction.

I blinked as I stepped inside the building, dazzled by the shiny newness of everything around me. The pure white walls were spotlessly clean and huge windows let light flood through the corridors, making everything glint. Even the smell was novel, with a potent mixture of fresh paint and plastic packaging hanging in the air. I felt prickles of excitement in my fingertips, and wanted to explore every nook and cranny of this fantastic new environment, which felt like a giant present we’d been given.

‘Look, Linda,’ Maggie gestured, pulling back a dustsheet that covered a ward doorway and letting me peer inside. ‘These are going to be four-bedded wards. The windows over there will have brand-new Venetian blinds and they’re to be double glazed, no less.’

The wards looked nothing like the old Nightingale wards I was used to. Tiptoeing around, I saw brochures showing fancy floral curtains that would be hung around the beds, brand new plastic washbowls and pictures of tooth mugs without a stain or a chip in sight. Maggie pointed out spacious rooms that would become state-of-the-art day rooms and nurseries, and there was even a flower bay, she exclaimed gleefully.

‘I can’t wait to start work in here,’ I smiled.

‘Nor can I!’ Maggie replied. ‘Come on, let’s get back before Miss Sefton finds out what we’re up to.’

We skipped back, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls.

‘We’re getting this whole unit all to ourselves, all five floors of it!’ Maggie whooped. ‘I can’t believe it!’

From that day on I found myself counting down the months until we moved in. The date for the grand opening was set for 3 December 1971. That was ten months away, and I simply couldn’t wait.

For the time being I was on the antenatal clinic in the old hospital, and I enjoyed telling the patients all about the imminent new facilities.

‘What are you tellin’ me for?’ they joked. ‘This is my last baby. I’ll not be back after this one, mark my words!’

‘That’s what they all say,’ I often replied. ‘We’ll see!’

One morning I was delighted to see Mrs Sully waiting for her antenatal check-up. She was one of my favourite ladies at that time, and I was very much hoping I would be lucky
enough to deliver her first child, if I happened to be on duty when she went into labour. She was one of those women who positively glowed in pregnancy, to the point where it almost felt contagious.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked as I took her blood pressure and listened to her baby’s strong heartbeat through the Pinard trumpet I pressed to her abdomen.

‘Flippin’ fantastic!’ she replied, which is what she always said.

Her cheeks were as pink as rosebuds and her dark brown hair seemed to get shinier on every visit as she bloomed and blossomed. I always felt radiant myself after being in Mrs Sully’s presence.

‘Trust me to time it so I’ll be having my first baby in here instead of the new place,’ she chuckled. ‘Still, hopefully I’ll be over the road for the next one!’

‘That’s forward planning for you,’ I smiled. ‘Most women can’t bear to think about another pregnancy before they’ve got this one over and done with first.’

‘I know, but I’ve felt so fantastic being pregnant I can’t help dreaming about the next. I’ve always wanted a hatful of kids, I have.’

Next on my clinic list that day was a thin, anxious young girl called Dorothy Dunn who had asked me on her previous visit if she could bring her husband along to this next appointment.

‘He’s a bit nervous about everything, and so am I,’ she had admitted apologetically, wringing her bony fingers. ‘I know you don’t like having men in here, but I’d like it if he could hold my hand, see what’s going on. I think it might be good for us both.’

‘That’s fine,’ I had replied. ‘It’s not that we don’t like having men in here; it’s just not what most couples do.’

I thought about that other poor young man I’d seen unceremoniously pushed out of the doors of one of the very first antenatal clinics I worked on, but that was almost a year ago now, and I could see that things had very slowly started to change.

‘It’s not
quite
as unusual as it used to be to bring your husband in,’ I continued, wanting to put Mrs Dunn at her ease. ‘We’re starting to see one or two husbands shuffling in from time to time, and they’re very welcome in my opinion. If that’s what you want, it’s perfectly fine by me.’

I wondered if I might rue my words when I met Mr Dunn. He was a lanky, bespectacled young man with a miserable grey pallor. Like his wife, he was very young – probably barely out of his teens – and he appeared terribly nervous. I’d noticed that Mrs Dunn had bitten her fingernails to the quick, and now I saw that her husband had done the same. Mr Dunn looked worried sick and was fidgeting with his knitted tie and looking at the floor as he tentatively followed his twitchy wife into a side room.

‘Please try to make yourself comfortable,’ I implored, showing Mr Dunn to a chair beside the examination couch.

He sat in stony silence, looking like a condemned man, while I took his wife’s blood pressure, weighed her and checked her ankles for signs of swelling. I got the impression he didn’t want to be there at all.

‘What a pretty wedding band,’ I remarked to Mrs Dunn, trying to lighten the atmosphere as I listened to baby’s heartbeat and palpated her abdomen to assess the size and position of her baby. ‘Have you been married long?’

‘Eight months,’ she replied shyly. ‘I caught very quickly, on honeymoon in Anglesey.’

Mr Dunn blushed to the roots of his mousy hairline and continued to stare at the floor, no doubt wishing it would swallow him up.

I smiled. ‘The doctor would like to carry out an internal examination, to check everything is as it should be.’ This wasn’t a task midwives performed at the antenatal clinic in those days. ‘Mr Dunn, you are welcome to stay, or you can step outside if you wish.’

‘I’ll stay,’ he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on his shoes.

I was surprised by this response. Of the very few men who accompanied their wives to antenatal check-ups, I couldn’t recall a single one who stayed in the room while a vaginal examination was carried out. Mr Dunn had agreed he would accompany his wife, however, and he was clearly a man of his word.

I asked Mrs Dunn to remove her pants, and the doctor arrived seconds later and swiftly began his examination.

‘What is he doing?’ Mr Dunn demanded hotly, pointing at the startled doctor but addressing his question to me. He jumped out of his seat as if his backside had been set alight. ‘Why is he touching my wife there?’

I was so taken aback at his unexpected outburst I was rendered speechless for a moment. My eyes darted between Mr and Mrs Dunn and the doctor, who gave me a look as if to say, ‘Deal with it, will you?’ and carried on.

I began to explain, as calmly as possible, that the doctor was simply carrying out a routine internal examination, to check that everything was in order in advance of the imminent birth.

‘Not her privates!’ Mr Dunn spluttered, incredulous. ‘He’s not touching her privates!’

Mrs Dunn looked mortified and bit her quivering lips while the doctor finished his examination and stepped swiftly away, giving me the nod that his work was done. I thought the poor girl might cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said gently to Mr Dunn as the doctor scribbled up his notes and sped out of the room. ‘But it’s our duty to …’

‘Why?’ Mr Dunn demanded. He appeared totally flummoxed.

‘Well, when the baby arrives, of course it travels down the birth canal, which is in fact the vagina,’ I said, slowly cottoning on to the astonishing fact that Mr Dunn had no idea how babies were delivered.

‘Not from her privates!’ he gasped in horror.

‘Er, yes, the baby comes from her privates.’

Mr Dunn’s forehead was shiny with sweat as he glanced from one to the other of us, then said ‘Excuse me’ and hurried out of the room. It was left to Mrs Dunn to say exactly what I was thinking.

‘Where on earth does he think babies come from?’ she gaped, open-mouthed.

‘He knows now, and that’s what matters,’ I said as tactfully as possible. ‘I think it was a happy accident you brought him in today. I can’t imagine what might have happened if he hadn’t figured it out before the birth.’

‘I thought it was a good idea,’ Mrs Dunn replied. ‘I wasn’t sure how much he understood … or how little.’

I told my friend Marjorie that story one night during a drinks party at our house, taking care not to reveal the identity
of the hapless father-to-be in case he was one of her customers at the bank.

‘I still can’t get over it,’ I told her. ‘I know most men don’t have anything to do with childbirth, but how can anyone be so naïve?’

‘It beggars belief,’ Marjorie agreed. ‘Did he think the stork was going to deliver his baby, or what?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I said. ‘We’ll never know, but one thing’s for sure, I’ll never forget that young man!’

It was Easter 1971 when I met my new nephew, Kerem, for the very first time. John and Nevim brought him over to England when he was about six months old, and I was delighted to see them all at my parents’ house after work one evening.

‘He’s huge!’ I exclaimed when I saw the chunky bundle in my mum’s arms, draining a bottle of milk like there was no tomorrow.

‘He’s absolutely perfect, just right for his age,’ Mum clucked. ‘You’re just so used to dealing with newborns, Linda.’

She was right. To me, a typical baby weighed about seven or eight pounds, had to be encouraged to take milk and looked and felt incredibly fragile. By contrast, Kerem was a very sturdy little boy indeed.

I held him in my arms and fell in love with him instantly. The shine in his eyes, the sweet smell of his tufty fair hair and the musical gurgles that bubbled from his little lips made my heart swell. He was adorable, and I was totally smitten.

‘Look at you,’ Nevim grinned. ‘It’s as if you have never held a baby before!’

‘I haven’t held one like this before, not one of ours,’ I replied.

Kerem began to grizzle and I suggested he might need another bottle, as I’d noticed how rapidly he demolished the last one.

‘Our midwife told me just to give him two ounces at a time, then stop for a while and burp him,’ Nevim explained.

‘Oh,’ I replied, thinking that if he were one of my babies at the hospital I’d keep feeding him if he’d take more. I held my tongue, though, aware that I was here in the role of auntie, not midwife. ‘You know best, Nevim.’

Mum and I exchanged knowing glances, and I realised we were both sharing the same thought about a universal truth: brand new mothers are all the same. Fired up with powerful maternal instincts, they all hang on their midwife’s every word, never daring to deviate from the professional’s advice lest they put their new baby’s life in peril.

As an experienced mother, Mum knew that this phase would pass and Nevim would make her own rules when she was good and ready. I knew this too, despite being the only childless woman in the room. It was quite a strange experience, and of course I couldn’t help wondering what I would be like as a mother one day, given my job. I wasn’t quite ready yet, I knew that. I was too involved in laying the foundations of my career and I had only just turned twenty-three years of age, so time was still on my side. But looking at Kerem, I knew more than ever that I definitely wanted to have babies of my own before too long.

John and my father struck up a conversation about decimalisation, which had taken place just a couple of months earlier and was still a hot topic for debate.

‘How are your customers coping?’ John asked Dad. ‘I can’t imagine the older generation taking too kindly to the change, if you’ll pardon the pun!’

‘Let’s just say that if I had half a crown for every time I’ve heard a customer ask, “How much is that in old money?” I’d be a rich man,’ Dad chortled.

Mum chipped in with a funny story about old Mrs Woodcock, one of Lawton’s Confectioners’ most loyal customers.

‘She’s been chuntering on about the loss of her beloved shillings and sixpences for yonks,’ Mum said. ‘I kept telling her that by the time Decimal Day finally came, she’d be well prepared. It’s been long enough coming, what with all those adverts on the television telling us the same thing over and over again. But do you know what she said to me yesterday when I tried to explain it all for the umpteenth time?’

We all shook our heads and waited for the punchline. ‘Without a word of a lie, Mrs Woodcock said to me: “I still don’t understand, I’m afraid, Mrs Lawton, but don’t you worry yourself. I’m going to live in Southport with my daughter, and they don’t do it there.”’

‘Mrs Sully is in the first-stage room,’ Barbara Lees told me when I arrived for a shift on the labour ward several weeks later, on a balmy morning in May 1971.

‘Oh, that’s good,’ I smiled at Barbara, who was now a sister. ‘I was hoping I’d be on duty when she came in. She’s one of those ladies who always brightens up my day.’

Mrs Sully was propped up comfortably on a chair next to the bed in the labour room. She looked as radiant as ever and greeted me with a wide grin.

‘I hoped I’d be seeing you this week,’ I told her. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Marvellous!’ she said. ‘Hurts with contractions, but they’re regular enough and I’m doing all right with the pain, touch wood.’

She leaned over and touched the wooden trim on a cupboard.

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Can I ask you to pop in the toilet and provide me with a urine sample, then I’ll take a look and see how things are progressing?’