by Jenny Holmes
Hazel’s grandmother sat in an upright wooden chair, keeping a beady eye on proceedings out in the yard.
‘I wouldn’t bank on that if I were you,’ Ada argued from her perch by the window. ‘I’ve known Mabel Jackson for fifty years and I can’t remember her backing down from an argument – not for anything or anyone. No; if you give that woman something to sink her teeth into, she’s like a dog with a bone.’
‘Ta for the warning.’ Hazel shuddered and prepared herself for cross-examination.
‘I caught you two having a chinwag earlier,’ Ada went on. ‘It looked to me like Mabel was giving you a good dressing-down. Why was that? Was it over Betty Hollings’ new baby, by any chance?’
‘It was,’ Hazel confessed. Here we go again, she told herself. I’ve barely sat myself down, and already I feel as if I’m being got at.
‘I hope you stuck up for yourself, our Hazel,’ her grandmother said more kindly. ‘You have to, or else Mabel will make mincemeat of you.’
‘Don’t worry, Nana. I won’t let her.’ Hazel meant it. Appearances were deceptive; beneath her youthful good looks there was plenty of grit and determination. ‘In any case, it’s not as if I’m setting out to argue with anyone,’ she insisted. ‘I only want to be allowed to get on with my work.’
Accepting tea from her Aunty Rose, Hazel was struck by how like a little bird her grandmother appeared, with her chest puffed out by creamy frills over the grey plumage of her fringed woollen shawl. And Rose in her loose crimson smock was a robin redbreast – hopping quickly from person to person for titbits of information.
Rose, the middle-aged, stay-at-home daughter, had never been expected to marry due to an accident she’d had as a child. This had happened when she’d been out playing with her brother, Cyril, and had fallen backwards from a high wall into a field below. Seven-year-old Cyril had carried her home in tears but at first Ada hadn’t noticed the lump on Rose’s spine and when she’d finally taken her to see a doctor the damage was done. Nothing could now remedy the resulting twist in her daughter’s spine or her stunted growth.
‘Let’s not talk about Mabel any more,’ Rose suggested with a hopeful pat of Hazel’s hand. Her own hand seemed big and bony in comparison to her small stature. ‘Tell us about you.’
This was more like it. Hazel settled into the familiarity of her surroundings, unchanged since she and her mother had moved in with her aunt and grandmother after Alec Sharpe had been killed in the war. Here was the old pot-bellied coal scuttle next to the range, the brass fender and red and blue rug, and on the walls a sampler worked in tiny cross stitch, next to an amateurish seascape painted by Hazel’s long-dead grandfather. ‘What would you like to know?’
Rose cocked her head to one side and studied Hazel with twinkling eyes. ‘For a start, did you meet any nice young men on your college course – the type you could bring home?’
While Hazel blushed and smiled, Ada stepped in with a timely reminder. ‘For heaven’s sake, Rose, since when did men study to be midwives? And even if they did, why would they traipse all the way up north to see the likes of us?’
‘Anyhow, I was too busy studying,’ Hazel explained. And too like a fish out of water, she might have added. She’d arrived in London to find herself the only Yorkshire girl in that year’s intake. Her fellow students were from Dublin, London and Bristol and they’d seemed to Hazel a lot more worldly wise and at home in the bewildering maze of city streets surrounding the college. It had taken months for her to find her feet and convince herself that rigorous training in transverse presentations, pre-eclampsia and placenta previa would eventually turn her into a real, hands-on midwife. Meanwhile, she’d found no time for Rose’s ‘young men’.
‘And were you homesick while you were away?’ her aunt asked, ever the eager robin tugging for worms.
‘I was,’ Hazel declared. Much as she’d felt that she didn’t belong at home and had dreamed of escape from her humdrum, downtrodden world, leaving Raglan Road had proved to be a wrench. ‘I stood at the door of my digs and pestered the postman for letters from Yorkshire every single day, poor chap!’
The answer pleased a beaming Rose. ‘You hear that, Mother? Hazel is glad to be back. Now she’s ready to strike out and make a great success.’
Ada switched her gaze to two men in overalls who were emptying the ash pit outside the Hollings’ house. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said.
Success didn’t come easily, Ada knew. Look at Dan for a start. As a doting grandmother she’d held high hopes for her first grandson – a sunny-natured young chap who’d won favour wherever he went. But it turned out he’d done little with his life so far. Truth be told, Dan was on a downward slide and would end up going to the bad if he didn’t watch out. Then Eddie; he’d been stuck in a rut at the brass foundry for twelve years, glad to hang onto his job when men were being laid off left, right and centre. As for the girls, it was true Gladys held down an office position and could charm the birds out of the trees but Ada was afraid the girl thought too much about enjoying herself instead of settling down. And Sylvia – well, the less said about her youngest granddaughter’s present predicament the better.
Now here was Hazel, back at home after a year of study and expecting everything to fall neatly into place for her. Well, Ada knew that wouldn’t happen if the first thing she did was to put Mabel Jackson’s nose out of joint.
‘I wish you luck, love – you’re going to need it,’ Ada said, short and to the point as Hazel brought her brief visit to an end. She didn’t move from her straight-backed chair and only relented at the last second by turning her head and softening her tone. ‘Then again, you’ve always had something about you – I can’t put my finger on what exactly. So maybe it’s more than luck that will carry you through.’
On the following Monday Hazel arrived promptly at the imposing entrance to Dr Bell’s surgery on Westgate Road. The practice had been set up fifty years earlier by Dr Moss, then a young and ambitious general practitioner with a special interest in alleviating the painful symptoms of lung disease developed by workers in the Yorkshire woollen mills. He’d chosen a spacious terraced house from which to run his practice – approached by a wide flight of stone steps that led through a porch into a hallway decorated with an elaborate plaster cornice, complete with picture rail and several large oil paintings of Highland cattle and sheep set in mountain scenery.
Making a good first impression is important, Hazel reminded herself as she hesitated outside the panelled outer door. She’d chosen to wear her loose-fitting linen coat with wide lapels over a calf-length blue dress with crisp white collar and cuffs, all topped by her straw hat and finished off with white gloves and shoes.
‘Yes?’ A woman sat busily typing at a mahogany desk as Hazel opened the inner door and walked into the large reception area.
‘I have an appointment to see Dr Bell at twelve,’ Hazel began.
‘Sit.’ Instead of looking up from her typewriter, the woman pointed to a room off to the right – evidently the place where patients waited to be seen.
Hazel realized that the receptionist had made a mistake. ‘No, I’m not—’
‘Not what?’ came the sharp rejoinder as the tap-tap-tapping of the keys continued unabated.
‘My name is Hazel Price. I’m a midwife.’
‘Why didn’t you say so straight away?’ The prickly receptionist looked up at last, peering over the rim of her glasses. ‘Dr Bell is running late. You’re to wait in there.’
This time the direction was to go straight ahead, so Hazel thanked the woman and went into a small room furnished with a plain desk and two chairs, together with a doctor’s examination table, weighing machine and folding screen. Dr Bell’s framed certificate, not unlike Hazel’s own, hung on the pale green wall behind the desk, accompanied by anatomical prints of various kinds. Hazel filled the time by poring over a detailed drawing of a uterus and female reproductive organs and was so absorbed in the study of Latin names that she didn�
�t hear anyone come in until the door clicked shut and she turned to find a man of around forty standing with a smile on his face and his hand outstretched.
‘Hello, I’m David Bell. You must be Hazel Price,’ he began without ceremony.
‘That’s me.’ The new doctor’s handshake was predictably swift and firm, she noticed, though his appearance didn’t match the picture she’d built up during their brief conversation on the telephone. Back then she’d imagined someone tall and dark with a confident manner and penetrating gaze, not the shortish, slight figure with a pale complexion, steel-rimmed glasses and receding mid-brown hair who greeted her now. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ she added.
‘No, it’s I who has to thank you for getting in touch,’ he countered, gesturing for Hazel to take a seat. His voice was courteous, with a strong north-eastern burr, and he displayed spotlessly manicured nails as he spread his freckled hands palms down on the desk. ‘As you know, I took over Dr Moss’s practice in April this year so I’m still finding my way.’
She nodded eagerly. ‘That makes two of us.’
David Bell studied Hazel closely and seemed to approve of what he saw. ‘You look younger than I expected. However, from what you told me on the telephone, your qualification will stand you in good stead. In fact, I’m hoping that you can be of as much help to me as I am to you. Shall I go first?’
Hazel nodded again, aware that she’d taken to the doctor straight away. He was less stuffy than old Dr Moss and not at all condescending.
‘Well then – speaking frankly, I’m interested to know which parts of your recent training you found most valuable and whether or not you’d be prepared to share some of that knowledge with me.’
Hazel felt wrong-footed by the directness of the appeal. ‘Of course,’ she said falteringly.
‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s fifteen years since I qualified as a GP and I’m the first to admit that obstetrics has moved on a lot since then.’
‘Yes, thank heavens,’ Hazel agreed. She knew from her studies that mortality rates even in some of the worst areas had finally started to shift from the fifty per cent that they had reached at their mid-nineteenth-century peak – mostly from eclampsia, haemorrhage or mal-presentation.
Dr Bell drummed his fingers gently on the desk as he continued. ‘It’s hard to believe, but when I first started out, hospitals weren’t even using rubber gloves and face masks to prevent infection. And checking urine for the first signs of pre-eclampsia was just being introduced.’
‘It’s routine now – but only if you can get expectant mothers to attend a clinic,’ Hazel assured him.
‘And that’s a big “if”,’ he agreed. ‘In fact, it’s precisely the problem I want to discuss with you. I recently set up a Tuesday-afternoon antenatal clinic here at the surgery, but patients seem reluctant to attend. Most of the time I still have to go out to them and it’s not everyone who can afford to pay for a doctor’s visit, even with their thirty shillings maternity benefit from the government, which they don’t all get, of course.’
As he warmed to his subject, Hazel had time to form a further opinion of the man. He was direct to the point of bluntness, she decided, and seemed committed to improving services for his patients. Better still, for the first time since she’d left college she felt hopeful that here was someone who would value her skills. ‘I’ll do my best to persuade the women in my neck of the woods to attend the clinic,’ she promised. ‘It helps that it’s not at the lying-in infirmary for a start.’
‘Yes; why do they hate the idea of that place so much?’
‘I can easily explain that,’ Hazel assured him. ‘It’s housed in the old workhouse building. Everyone, myself included, remembers tales of families shipped off there by the Board of Guardians. I was at school with the Tyler twins. The father had abandoned them so they went to the workhouse with their mother, who was set to work in the laundry. Henry Tyler got TB and died. It was diphtheria that did for Albert. They were both gone within the year.’
‘I see – the place is full of ghosts.’
This was as good a way of putting it as any, Hazel thought, though it went against the practical, professional tone Dr Bell had used so far.
He gave the desk a smart tap then stood up to take a sheet of paper from one of the drawers in his filing cabinet. ‘This is a carbon copy of my list of pregnant mothers who are registered with this practice – a total of fifty-three in all,’ he told her. ‘There’s a tick beside the names of those I’ve managed to visit in person, which as you can see is around one in three. Can I suggest that you take this and call on the remaining two-thirds with the intention of inviting them to clinic?’
Hazel took a deep breath. She too stood up from her chair. ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ she agreed, preparing to take the paper from him.
Dr Bell held it close to his tweed-suited chest. ‘The important thing is to tell them that the clinic is free – they don’t have to pay me any money to attend. The list covers the area between Westgate Road and Canal Road, including Ghyll Road, Chapel Street, Raglan Road and Albion Lane, plus all the courtyards of back-to-back houses in between.’
‘Don’t worry; I know the streets around here like the back of my hand.’ Her eyes were fixed on the sheet of paper. This was better than anything she could have dreamed of – a ready-made list of women who might soon need her professional help.
‘However, before you agree to follow up the names on this list, I’d like your assurance on one thing.’
‘Anything!’
‘This is it. I need to be sure that you won’t simply poach my patients away from me in your capacity as a self-employed midwife. Your task is to get them here to Westgate Road for regular antenatal check-ups.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes – I understand,’ Hazel said, her forehead creasing into a frown as she decided to be as forthright as the doctor had been. ‘But then, what’s in it for me? I mean, I’m all in favour of women using the service you offer – that goes without saying—’
‘Quite,’ Dr Bell interrupted. ‘And you’re canny enough to tackle the financial side of things with me – which is what I suppose you’re leading up to?’
Hazel met his eye and managed not to blush. ‘It is,’ she agreed.
‘Then this is what I propose. For every new woman who attends clinic because of your efforts, I will pay you the princely sum of one shilling.’
Hazel grimaced at the small amount.
‘And …’ He raised a forefinger for her to hear him out. ‘If, in the event of that patient subsequently choosing a home delivery that I’m not free to attend because of other commitments, then you, Hazel Price, will step in as a qualified midwife to answer all their needs. You will charge them a fee to be settled between you – I will have no involvement in that arrangement. Is that clear?’
‘Completely. That seems fair.’
‘Good. Then we’re both happy.’ Dr Bell passed the list to Hazel before glancing at his wristwatch and looking up again with a serious expression. ‘I like both you and your qualifications, young lady, and I can see that this cooperation between us will work well. Nevertheless, I ought to issue a word of warning.’
Hazel frowned, not knowing what to expect – only that it probably wouldn’t be good.
‘I don’t need to remind you that times are hard – I know, I know, it’s what everyone says and you smart young people are sick of hearing it. You want to make your way in the world regardless.’
‘No – I do know what it’s like,’ Hazel insisted. She thought back to Betty Hollings’ bare, cold bedroom and the threadbare, dirty towel hanging from its rack.
‘It was bad enough back in my home town of Durham when the coal mines shut down. But here, men and women are being laid off from the mills and foundries in their droves without the hope of any other job to go to. I’ve seen some bad cases of malnutrition in my surgeries, and if a family can’t afford to put basic food on the table, what hope is there of paying for a docto
r or a midwife to attend a birth?’
‘And does that mean we give up on them? What do we do – turn our backs and walk away for the sake of a few shillings? Is that how you think we should act?’
Hazel’s spirited reply had brought colour to her cheeks. He liked her idealism and the energy in her voice. ‘Obviously not,’ he argued. ‘And I don’t want to dent your enthusiasm, believe me. But be aware that your bills may not always be paid – either on time or in full. And try not to blame or look down on those who can’t pay their debts. Remember, if it’s uncomfortable for you to be in that situation, it’s likely to be a hundred times worse for them.’
In the ensuing pause, Hazel took a deep breath to regain control of her feelings but said nothing.
‘And meanwhile,’ Dr Bell said with another glance at his watch, ‘perhaps you should think of a way to supplement your income.’
‘Another job, you mean?’ The casual suggestion appeared like a dark cloud on Hazel’s horizon.
‘Part time,’ he explained as he held open the door.
Hazel saw the narrow back and crimped dark hair of the receptionist and heard the clickety-clack of her typewriter then the ping of a tiny bell as she pushed a lever and the carriage shot sideways.
‘You could try office work to fill in the gaps between delivering babies,’ Dr Bell suggested helpfully as Hazel shook his hand and prepared to leave. ‘There are many worse fates than typing letters and licking envelopes – ask Eleanor on your way out. She overhears stories from patients in the waiting room that would make your hair stand on end.’