The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (26 page)

‘Come quick, Nurse!’ Barry cried urgently, sticking his head round the door. ‘Get off your backside! This lady’s going to have her baby any minute!’

I rolled my eyes at him cheekily and stayed firmly put. ‘That’s what you said the last time, and the time before that,’ I teased. ‘And guess what? Those women are still on the labour ward despite their “emergency” ambulance dash.’

I drained my cup casually while Barry disappeared to help his colleague escort the patient, Mrs Cavendish, inside.

‘The midwife’s just coming, love,’ I heard Barry reassure her loudly as he manoeuvred her out of the ambulance. ‘You’ll be fine now you’re here.’

I headed down the corridor a minute or two later, and Barry informed me that Mrs Cavendish had been desperate for the toilet upon arrival and had insisted on being taken straight to the bathroom.

‘That’s good, I’ll get her to do a urine sample while she’s there,’ I said, walking up to the door of the toilet next to the delivery room and giving it a tap.

‘I’m not sure you’ve time for any of that,’ Barry fretted. ‘I told you, she’s about to have the baby!’

‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ I chided. ‘You ambulancemen are all the same. Always worrying the baby’s going to pop out at record speed. It only happens like that in films, you know!’

‘Mrs Cavendish!’ I called through the door. ‘It’s the midwife here, Nurse Buckley. Can I trouble you to do a urine sample whilst you’re in there?’

‘Too late!’ she panted.

‘Oh, never mind,’ I called back, thinking she’d have to drink some water and try to go to the toilet again in a bit.

‘Come in quick!’ she screamed, which took me by surprise.

Barry and I pushed the door open to find a startled Mrs Cavendish standing before us holding a grey plastic washing-up bowl containing what looked very much like a blood-
smeared baby girl. Oh my word, it was a baby girl! The umbilical cord, still attached to the baby, was swinging between mother and daughter.

‘Sorry,’ Mrs Cavendish said, sounding forlorn. ‘Found the bowl on the floor by the bath, seemed better than nothing. Lucky I didn’t make it to the toilet, eh?’

Mercifully, the baby looked fine and began making a little grizzling noise as I took hold of the bowl with her still inside. I didn’t want to lift her out because she was slippery and I was scared I might drop her on the bathroom floor. Mrs Cavendish, although clearly shaken, appeared to be in remarkably good form, considering what she’d just been through.

We needed to deliver the placenta, and I was very grateful when Mrs Cavendish agreed to walk cautiously to a bed just across the way, with me carrying the baby in the bowl on one side and Barry supporting her on the other.

Barry didn’t say a word, and was kind enough to not to give me a ‘told you so’ look. He didn’t need to. I was cross with myself for finishing that cup of tea and for being so cavalier. He knew me well enough to know I’d be mortified about it without any nudging from him.

Mrs Cavendish proved an extremely stoical patient and was on the postnatal ward with her daughter Hilary – her second child – within an hour of her arrival at the hospital. I went to see them before I finished my shift later that morning, still feeling deeply embarrassed that such a thing could have happened on my watch, and desperately hoping Mrs Cavendish wasn’t feeling aggrieved now she’d had a few hours to gather her thoughts.

‘Thanks very much for all your help, Nurse,’ she said sincerely, stroking her daughter’s soft head. ‘I can’t apologise
enough for leaving things so late, but how lucky am I? I was in here labouring for twelve hours last time round with Hazel, my first one. Mind you, I think I gave that poor ambulance-man a shock!’

‘Actually, I think you gave me more of a shock than him,’ I said, truthfully.

I was very relieved that Mrs Cavendish wasn’t complaining and, most importantly, that her daughter was not only unscathed by her unconventional birth but looked to be positively thriving.

Nevertheless, on my way home I silently scolded myself again for having been so arrogant. I was amazed at how cocky I’d become in such a short space of time, and I vowed never, ever to make the same mistake again. The ambulancemen generally treated us midwives like royalty, and from now on I was going to treat them with a lot more respect, too. Barry would no doubt give me some stick now the drama was over and no harm was done, but it would be a small price to pay for allowing complacency to creep in like that, and it would serve as a reminder to keep on my toes at all times, even when my feet were throbbing and my legs aching with tiredness.

Graham had bought me a little car by now and I was always particularly grateful for it after difficult shifts like that. Luckily, I passed my driving test first time despite making several mistakes. As my colleagues had cheekily advised, I wore my uniform and hitched my skirt up an inch or so, revealing far more of my black stockings than I normally did. During the test I hit the kerb while reversing round a corner, but the examiner simply gave me an admiring glance and said: ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’

I was jubilant and thanked him profusely. Now I absolutely loved driving round in my navy-blue Austin 1100. It was a godsend to sink into the driver’s seat after a hard night shift, and I wondered how I had ever managed on my moped, when my back ached and the early morning cold penetrated through my clothing.

‘Nurse Buckley!’ Miss Sefton bellowed one morning as I reported for duty and began unfastening my long navy-blue cape. ‘Please report to my office in five minutes, and you might as well leave your cape on.’

My spine stiffened and I immediately wondered what I had done wrong. It was November 1971 now. Surely Mrs Cavendish hadn’t complained about giving birth in a washing-up bowl after all this time? No patient had ever lodged a complaint about me, or any of my colleagues for that matter; it was simply unheard of. Nevertheless, Miss Sefton’s brusque manner made that unwelcome thought enter my head.

I had been working as a staff midwife for eleven months now. By January 1972, after successfully completing my first twelve months, I had expected to automatically qualify for a sister’s post. We would have finished moving into the brand new maternity unit by then. I had daydreamed many times about how wonderful it would be to work with all the new equipment and modern facilities.

Recently, we had benefited from a new centralised system of sterilisation in the old hospital. For midwives, this meant that, instead of having to sterilise instruments ourselves, all the equipment needed for a delivery arrived on the ward sterile and ready to use in a handy sealed pack. This was a huge help, and I could only imagine how much better life would become
when we moved into the new unit. I’d heard rumours we would get luxuries such as disposable nappies and ready-made formula milk, and I thought how much easier it would be if sterilising bottles and preparing feeds became a thing of the past too.

Now, though, my hands were clammy and I wondered if I’d somehow jeopardised my chance of working in the new building. Whatever was the matter?

‘We need to see Matron,’ Miss Sefton announced stiffly, looking at her watch in an agitated fashion, when I reported to her office. ‘Follow me!’

I very rarely saw Miss Ripley as she was usually in the Infirmary part of the hospital. Going to see her was a big deal. This must be something important, and I was seriously starting to panic. Miss Sefton was marching, sergeant major-like now, and I fell in line and followed her obediently, my heart pounding in my chest and my mouth paper dry.

We crossed the grounds at break-neck speed without talking, and Miss Sefton headed towards a heavy wooden door just inside the Infirmary. Pausing outside momentarily, she glanced at my worried face for the first time since I had arrived at her office and, surprisingly, gave me a reassuring smile.

‘Don’t fret, Nurse Buckley!’ she said. ‘You have done nothing wrong. Quite the contrary!’

With that she knocked briskly on the big door before pulling it open with a flourish and ushering me inside. To my amazement, projected on the wall opposite was a giant-sized picture of
me
, dressed in my nurse’s uniform and holding a beautiful newborn baby wrapped in a blanket.

‘Hello, Nurse Buckley!’ Matron beamed enthusiastically. ‘
Thank you
for coming. We would like to ask if we may have
your permission to use your photograph to advertise the new maternity unit.’

I was completely taken aback and wanted to cry with relief. ‘Of course, Matron,’ I stuttered. ‘I’d be delighted.’

‘That’s good,’ she replied warmly. ‘I think your image is perfect for us.
Absolutely perfect
. Thank you very much indeed.’

A man stepped forward who I recognised as the photographer. ‘Would you mind if we remove the little mole from your cheek, as in black and white it may look like a dirty mark?’ he asked politely.

‘Not at all,’ I smiled, finally feeling myself relax enough to enjoy the moment. I felt the urge to jump up and down and clap and cheer, but of course I remained calm and demure in front of my superiors.

Weeks earlier two other midwives and I had been asked to pose for some photographs, each holding a newborn baby. The idea, it was explained, was that the best picture would be used on posters, leaflets and in newspaper advertisements to promote the new maternity unit all over the Ashton region, both to potential employees and to mothers-to-be.

The photographs were taken rather hastily after the three of us were herded into a single-bedded side room without warning, on the orders of Miss Sefton. In fact, the photo shoot had been arranged in such a rush that we had to run into the postnatal ward and ask some mothers if we could borrow their babies for a few minutes, to which they all readily agreed.

The photographer wanted an image that captured the look of a ‘typical midwife’, he said, and I didn’t for one minute think my picture would be chosen. I was quite sure the other two girls were Miss Sefton’s favourites, and I thought they were both far more photogenic than me, with naturally pretty
faces and well-cut shiny hair. By contrast, my long hair was pinned back in a bun and draped across either side of my forehead like a pair of curtains. Scrubbed free of make-up, wearing no jewellery and with my nails cut short in line with the strict hospital rules, I looked decidedly plain.

I was photographed with several unsettled babies until I eventually found a contented little boy who didn’t cry in my arms. I didn’t know his name and didn’t think to ask or look at his name tag, as I honestly didn’t imagine our photograph would ever see the light of day. How wrong I was! That picture is now on the cover of this book, and I would dearly love to find out what became of my little co-star. Perhaps now I will?

I remember driving my mum all over town in my little Austin to admire the posters when they were pasted up on giant billboards and bus shelters in December 1971.

‘Oooh Linda, look at you!’ she beamed at every stop. ‘Don’t you look wonderful! Haven’t you done well? Can we go and find another?’

She said the same thing each time we stopped at traffic lights and bus stops dotted far and wide within a thirty-mile radius of the hospital. Adverts eventually appeared in the local papers too, along with the slogan ‘I’m crying out for you, Nurse’, which was a call to recruit more midwives for the new unit. ‘Any new hospital is only as successful and efficient as its staff, and so we’re relying on you, the trained midwifery sisters, pupil midwives and staff midwives,’ it said alongside my photograph, which was pasted in front of a picture of the new maternity unit.

Graham was chuffed to bits too. ‘Successful and efficient, that’s my Linda,’ he chortled when he saw me smiling out of the pages of the
Ashton Reporter
as he ate his Rice Krispies one
morning. ‘I’m sure you’ll have folk flocking to the new hospital after this.’

For me, this campaign was so much more than a publicity drive; it was an incredible personal endorsement. ‘That’s me, I
am
a midwife!’ I marvelled each time I saw my own image smiling back at me as I drove through Stalybridge, Hyde or Droylsden. If Graham was with me I’d feign embarrassment, but the truth was I was thrilled to bits by those pictures. They made me feel I had arrived at last. I was recognised in the street and in the newsagent’s once or twice, which also gave me a buzz, but the most memorable occasion was in the dead of night, when I delivered the first of several babies in the hospital car park. I will never forget the frantic young man who ran into the maternity unit, having left his labouring wife propped up against a wall, alone and in the freezing cold.

‘Come quick, Nurse!’ he shouted, charging onto the delivery ward. ‘She’s in the car park! She can’t move!’

I had my head in some notes and when I looked up he appeared stunned. ‘It’s you!’ he spluttered. ‘Please come quick! My wife’s having the baby in the car park!’

Mavis Crowther, a smashing auxiliary who was always extremely helpful to me, appeared at my side in a flash and offered to help. ‘I’ve seen a few of these in my time,’ she winked. I gratefully accepted her offer as I collected a pack of instruments, some towels and blankets and ran outside. Mavis, who was in her fifties and short and plump, grabbed her coat and scuttled along behind us as fast as her legs would carry her, clearly enjoying the excitement of it all.

We found the lady, Mrs Miller, bent over in agony and clawing at a wall in the car park with one hand while trying to hold the baby’s head back with the other.

‘The midwife’s here!’ the panic-stricken Mr Miller shouted to his wife as he sprinted towards her. ‘It’s the one …’

‘Aaaaarrrrgh!’ came her reply. ‘I’m gonna kill you, leavin’ me out ’ere in the dark! Aaaaargh!’

‘But you said you couldn’t move,’ Mr Miller argued. ‘You said you couldn’t take another step …’

Wise old Mavis swooped in at this point and asked Mr Miller to remove his coat. ‘We need to make a privacy screen for your wife,’ she instructed, which made me smirk. I knew she was simply trying to distract him. It was 3 a.m., pitch black save for the glow of a nearby street lamp, and we were the only people in the car park. There was no need for a privacy guard, but it gave Mr Miller something to do to keep him quiet. Mavis also asked him to stuff a blanket down the front of his shirt, to warm it up ready to wrap the baby in.