The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  She followed this plan without incident, enjoying her time spent with a chatty Betty who, with infant Daisy at her breast, had resumed her chaotic daily routine. Dirty nappies soaked in a bucket just inside the door, within reach of Polly and Keith until Hazel found a new place for it up on the draining board. A smell of burnt toast mingled with soot and smoke from the unswept chimney, overpowering the more savoury smell of vegetables as the new mother fed her toddlers a meagre ration of bubble and squeak.

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ she told Hazel, who was relieved to see the slight, underfed woman tackling breastfeeding with her usual unruffled calm.

  Hazel moved a pile of old newspapers from the only available chair. ‘Are you drinking plenty and managing to rest?’ she asked.

  Betty laughed as if this was the best joke she’d heard in weeks. ‘Most of the drinking in this family is done by Len down at the Green Cross,’ she crowed. ‘As for rest – I don’t know the meaning of the word!’

  ‘Listen to me, Betty, you must try not to overdo it,’ Hazel instructed, startled to hear the rattle of a poker against the fire-back.

  ‘That’s only Doreen sending me a message by Morse code,’ Betty told her with a wink. ‘She’ll want to know if I need anything from Hutchinson’s. Since you’re here, can you nip next door and ask her to fetch me a packet of cream crackers – they’re Keith’s favourite.’ Seeing Hazel hesitate by the door, she rattled on. ‘I’ve no money to pay for them, if that’s what you’re wondering. Doreen will ask old man Hutchinson to put it on the slate till Friday. You never know, one of these days he might even say yes.’

  Hazel scanned the eager faces of Keith and his little sister sitting at the table with their unappetizing dinner. ‘Don’t worry, I think I can scrape together a couple of pence,’ she assured Betty, going outside. She had to dodge the wet laundry flapping in the breeze then took time to inhale a deep breath of fresh air as she mounted the steps next door and raised the iron knocker. She brought it down with a smart rap but was put off her stride by the appearance at the door not of Doreen but of Mabel Jackson, with Berta White close behind.

  ‘Well, well – look who it isn’t,’ a steely-eyed Mabel said almost without moving her lips. ‘Come in, young lady, welcome to the witches’ coven.’

  Hazel couldn’t help but smile. Doreen, Mabel and Berta made a fine triumvirate of wicked sisters, though doughty Doreen and po-faced Berta paled beside Mabel, whose deep voice carried authority and whose round, horn-rimmed glasses gave her an air of owlish wisdom. ‘I won’t stop, ta. I’ve just brought a message from Betty – she’d like a packet of cream crackers from the grocer’s if anyone is going that way.’

  That had torn it, she realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Now Mabel knew where she’d come from and naturally she didn’t look any too pleased.

  ‘You hear that, Doreen?’ Mabel said over her shoulder. ‘Betty’s after more cream crackers. I only took her a packet yesterday. She must have gobbled them up already.’

  ‘They’re for Keith,’ Hazel said, quaking in her shoes.

  ‘Says who?’ Mabel countered with a look of disbelief. ‘Whoever heard of a little nipper asking for dry crackers instead of something sweet? No, it was Betty who got a taste for them when she was expecting. I’ve seen her dip them in her tea and down half a packet in one go.’

  ‘It’s all right, Hazel – leave it to me,’ Doreen said from the recesses of her dark, stuffy kitchen.

  ‘Right you are. I’ll be off then.’ Hazel had backed down the steps and was on her way towards the ginnel connecting Nelson Yard to Raglan Road when Mabel followed her.

  ‘They tell me you’ll be working at the surgery from now on,’ she said with a confidential lowering of her voice followed by a pause that invited a reply.

  ‘Once a week, in the new clinic,’ Hazel confirmed, able to picture the scorn oozing through the pores of Mabel’s skin at the very word ‘clinic’.

  But to her surprise, Mabel tipped her glasses further up her nose then gave a nod of approval. ‘Good for you. Dr Bell is snowed under with new cases ever since those posters went up. He could do with a helping hand.’

  Was there nothing this woman didn’t know? Hazel wondered. And why on earth wasn’t she having a go at her for poaching the local mothers-to-be?

  ‘He’s not everyone’s cup of tea, though.’ Mabel glanced at her companion for support. ‘Is he, Berta?’

  Berta, who was a small woman with a prim air, dressed from head to foot in church-mouse grey, spoke up for the first time. ‘He’s not,’ she confirmed. ‘A lot of people round here wish Dr Moss hadn’t retired. And it’s not just the likes of us who are long in the tooth. I’ve heard the younger ones say they’re not sure about Dr Bell either.’

  ‘Better the devil you know, I always say,’ Doreen chipped in as she pushed past her visitor with an empty shopping basket. ‘With Dr Moss you knew he wasn’t going to write a prescription for something you couldn’t pay for, for a start. And he didn’t send you off to hospital at the drop of a hat either. Come on, Berta; step aside, you two.’

  While Doreen locked her door and made off with Berta down the alley towards Chapel Street, Mabel kept Hazel talking a while longer. ‘You hear that? It’s hard for newcomers to make their mark, which could be the reason behind Dr Bell enlisting your help. At least you’re a familiar face in the neighbourhood.’

  Hazel felt the slight behind Mabel’s last remark and, forgetting her mother and Aunty Rose’s good advice, took the bait. ‘Oh, and my employment at the clinic has nothing to do with my training, I don’t suppose?’

  Mabel tucked her chin to her chest and peered over the rim of her glasses. ‘Training’s all very well …’

  ‘But experience is ten times better?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mabel said with such finality that Hazel blinked and took a step backwards. ‘That’s what matters in this job – getting to know how people tick, not taking things at face value, being ready for anything. And definitely not a fancy certificate on the mantelpiece and a stack of textbooks by your bed.’

  There were eight women waiting at the door of Dr Bell’s surgery next day when Hazel opened up the clinic at half past two on the dot. All were pregnant – some cheery and confident with toddlers in tow, while first-time mothers arrived alone and unsure about what might lie ahead.

  ‘Come in, everyone. Please follow me.’ Hazel led the way past Eleanor’s reception desk up a flight of stairs to a large, first-floor room whose cream walls were lined with tubular-steel chairs. There was a tall screen in one corner and a wooden playpen in the other. Scattered across a low table were toys to keep the children occupied – a wooden train, a set of farmyard animals, colouring books and a game of snakes and ladders.

  ‘Josephine, you play nicely while Mum sees the nurse,’ the first woman in the queue told her small daughter, taking off the toddler’s green knitted bonnet and coat then depositing her inside the play pen with the farmyard animals. Then she gave her name and address to Hazel. ‘Margie Daniels, 23 Ada Street.’

  Clipboard in hand, Hazel entered her name at the top of her list then asked her to step behind the screen and strip down to her underthings. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she told everyone else with a bright smile. ‘There’ll be tea and biscuits along shortly.’

  ‘It was worth coming, then.’ A woman in a shabby coat and worn-down shoes shared a deadpan joke with her neighbour. Her chin-length hair was pinned back behind her ears and her face was marked by old chickenpox scars.

  ‘Yes, that’ll be two sugars,’ someone piped up.

  ‘Make that three for me,’ a second woman said.

  Hazel left them chatting or leafing through magazines and went behind the green screen. ‘Your maiden name wouldn’t be Briggs, by any chance?’ she asked her first patient – a fresh-faced, dark-haired woman whom she thought she recognized.

  ‘That’s me,’ Margie replied. ‘And you’re Hazel Price; I remember you from school.’

&nb
sp; ‘You’re looking well,’ Hazel told her as she went about the business of weighing Margie and measuring her height.

  ‘I’m tickety-boo,’ Margie confirmed. ‘Happily hitched to Roy Daniels for the last year and a half, in case you’re wondering. I don’t know what I’m doing here really, except that my sister Lily pestered me so here I am.’

  ‘Lie down here, please. How is Lily?’ A quick glance told Hazel that Margie was around twenty-five weeks’ pregnant and a listen with her stethoscope confirmed a normal, regular heartbeat. After that, she palpated the abdomen and established that the baby was currently presenting as breech, although this was by no means unusual at this stage and it would probably change position several times in the coming weeks.

  ‘Lily’s fine, ta. She’s thinking of going back to dress-making work with Sybil Dacre next spring. I said I’d be happy to look after her littl’un for her since I’m at home anyway with mine and then with this one, touch wood.’ Margie patted her stomach.

  ‘That sounds like a good arrangement.’ Satisfied that all was well, Hazel noted down more details and asked Margie to get dressed. ‘If you can remember to bring a sample of urine next week, we’ll be able to do some more checks.’

  ‘Oh, I’m coming again, am I?’ Margie raised an eyebrow as she sat up and slipped her dress down over her head.

  ‘Yes. Regular check-ups are important,’ Hazel insisted, confident that Margie’s minor rebellion was just for show. ‘Everything looks straightforward at the moment but nearer to your due date I’d like to get Dr Bell involved.’

  ‘So long as it’s still free,’ Margie agreed, doing up her buttons and slipping on her shoes, ‘I’ll be a good girl and do as I’m told.’

  Hazel smiled and nodded as Margie made her exit. She called for the next in line – the poorly dressed woman with the scarred face, who came behind the screen with a worried expression.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to prod and poke me about,’ she muttered, unsure of what to do until Hazel put her at her ease, asking her name and address – Irene Bradley, 14 Nelson Yard – and telling her to take off her outer clothes and stand on the weighing machine.

  Irene’s weight was low and her manner listless. Her face was pale, her scraped-back hair thin and her skin unwashed. ‘How many pounds do you think you’ve gained since you found out you were pregnant?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Irene replied with a touch of resentment. ‘I’ve never been on one of these weighing contraptions before.’

  ‘And how far gone are you?’

  ‘I don’t know – you tell me.’

  ‘We’d have to work it out from the date of your last period.’

  The remark elicited a weary smile. ‘That’s a tricky one. I’ve not had one of them for going on two years.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Putting down her clipboard and asking Irene to lie down on the examination table, Hazel was already starting to think Dr Bell might have to be called from his afternoon surgery. Irene Bradley was severely underweight and this could have led to her long-standing amenorrhoea. Of course, improved nutrition and a slight weight gain could have brought her back into fertility just at the point when the menstrual cycle had started again – hence she’d become pregnant without realizing that such a thing was possible.

  ‘That’s freezing cold,’ Irene complained as Hazel put her stethoscope to her abdomen.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Hazel listened hard, trying to pick up a heartbeat. When she found one, it seemed faint and irregular. That decided it. ‘All right, Irene, I want you to stay right where you are while I fetch Dr Bell.’

  ‘You what? I’m only here in the first place because I mentioned to Betty Hollings I couldn’t feel baby moving like he should and she said for me to come,’ Irene complained peevishly.

  ‘That was good advice.’ Hazel placed a blanket over her patient then hurried downstairs to speak to Eleanor. ‘Would you ask Dr Bell if he can leave off what he’s doing and come upstairs for a few minutes?’

  Eleanor reacted quickly, coming out from behind her desk and knocking on the door of the examination room where Hazel had first met David Bell. He came straight out and followed Hazel upstairs. By now, their sense of urgency had caught the attention of the women in the clinic still waiting to be seen.

  ‘What’s up, Doctor?’ one of them asked as he and Hazel disappeared behind the screen. ‘She’s not going ahead and having it while we sit here and twiddle our thumbs, I hope?’

  Dr Bell ignored the curious looks and got down to business. He too listened for the foetal heartbeat then palpated Irene’s stomach. He stepped back and spoke kindly but firmly. ‘Now, my dear, Hazel is going to go downstairs again and ask for an ambulance to come and take you to the infirmary.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ Irene shook her head and made an effort to get up. ‘I’m not going there.’

  ‘Call the ambulance,’ Dr Bell told Hazel regardless. ‘Now, Irene, we want this baby to be born safe and well, don’t we?’

  Following orders, Hazel ran back downstairs. When she returned, she found Irene obediently sitting up with the blanket around her shoulders and Dr Bell quietly explaining what would happen next.

  ‘The ambulance will come and whisk you there before you know it. The doctors and nurses will carry out all the tests that we can’t do here in clinic.’

  ‘I don’t want to go. I’ve been there before. I know what it’s like.’

  Hazel sat down beside her and spoke softly. ‘When were you at the infirmary, Irene?’

  ‘When I was a little kid. I’m not going back.’

  ‘Listen to me – it was different in those days. It wasn’t a hospital.’

  ‘No, it was a prison.’ Irene shed bitter, angry tears. ‘As good as. They took me away from my mum, stuck me in a room with a lot of other poor blighters then locked the door.’

  ‘It’s not like that any more.’ Determined to get Irene’s cooperation, Hazel took her hand. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. Everything’s different now, you’ll see. The people are kind. They’ll look after you and your baby.’

  Slowly growing calmer but still not loosening her grip on Hazel’s hand, Irene waited for the ambulance to arrive then allowed herself to be walked out of the clinic and down the stairs.

  The ambulance driver parked on the pavement. ‘Right you are, love, we’ll take it from here,’ he told Hazel as he and his assistant jumped down from the cab.

  Reluctantly Hazel wrested her hand free and watched as Irene was led into the back of the cream ambulance. It was a pitiful sight – the malnourished mother-to-be walking with head bent between two strong ambulance men into the back of the vehicle. Knowing that the baby was at risk of being stillborn only made it worse. ‘Good luck!’ she called as the door slammed.

  Giving herself a good shake, Hazel hurried back to the clinic, passing Dr Bell on the stairs.

  ‘Nicely done,’ he told her in his lilting Geordie accent. He gave her an approving smile then went on his way.

  ‘Next please!’ Hazel’s brisk announcement as she took up her clipboard meant that normal service was resumed. She was quietly pleased by how she’d succeeded in winning Irene’s confidence and given her at least a chance of going to term and producing a healthy baby, but now there were half a dozen women still to be weighed and measured, forms to be filled in and lists ticked.

  But no Myra Moxon, worse luck, she said to herself. It seemed that in spite all of her and John’s efforts, Myra was still not willing to seek the medical help she so obviously needed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink,’ was Robert’s opinion when he sat across the tea table from Hazel and Jinny that night.

  ‘Or, in this case, “her”,’ Jinny added. She’d listened to Hazel’s worries about Myra and agreed with Robert. ‘It turns out Myra is as pig-headed as her mother over some things – like forking out for doctors’ visits for a start.’

  ‘But the clinic is
free,’ Hazel pointed out. ‘I even persuaded John to take some time off work to fetch her, but to no avail.’

  ‘“To no avail”?’ Jinny echoed the highfalutin phrase with a quizzical look.

  Robert took a sip of tea then shook his head. ‘Leave the lass alone. What do you think, Hazel – is it Myra or her mother who’s in charge?’

  ‘Well, it’s clearly not John. He admitted he was worried about her so he wanted her to come.’

  ‘As I said: like mother, like daughter,’ Jinny observed. ‘I’ve heard on the grapevine that life is not always a bed of roses for John Moxon up at number 80.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ Hazel said, shying away from the topic, ‘on a more cheerful note, we did manage to get one poorly patient off to the infirmary.’

  Jinny went to the kettle and refilled the teapot. ‘So clinic wasn’t a washout?’

  ‘Definitely not. We had eight altogether. Five of them came because they read our posters, so that was five shillings I earned. Then Dr Bell paid me three shillings for doing the clinic and it’ll be the same again next week, all being well.’

  ‘And what about Betty Hollings – has she paid you yet?’

  ‘No,’ Hazel admitted. Then, before Jinny could go any further down that particular road, she stood up and took her plate and cup and saucer to the sink. ‘Dr Bell said clinic went better than he expected, which is a compliment, isn’t it? And I didn’t feel awkward or shy working there – in fact, I felt right at home.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ her father said.

  ‘And was there any sign of Sylvia?’ Not afraid to break the unspoken rule that such things shouldn’t be mentioned until Sylvia herself came out into the open, Jinny forged ahead. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robert, there’s no point beating about the bush, is there? We all know that there’s only one reason why Sylvia and Norman were in a rush to get to the altar.’

  ‘She wasn’t at clinic,’ Hazel interrupted. ‘I expect she’ll come in her own good time, though. I did pop in on Nana and Aunty Rose on my way home and picked up some news there. They said Sylvia and Norman are settled in at number 15. Sylvia’s bright as a button and not letting marriage or anything else slow her down, according to Aunty Rose. She wants to come to the jazz club again on Friday night, along with me and Gladys. It’s the same Dixie band as before and Earl Ray is Sylvia’s all-time favourite.’