Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  Miriam’s weight held her legs fast against her body so that she could not move.

  Mrs Prichard had a curette at her disposal. So she poked with it in a blind attempt to force entry through the cervix into the uterus. When she thought she had succeeded she started scraping around and continued scraping until blood began to flow. The pain was so intense that Hilda passed out, and when she regained consciousness she was vomiting, but the towel that had been thrust into her mouth was still there so she started choking. ‘Pull that towel away; we don’t want her to choke on us,’ muttered Mrs Prichard.

  The fresh blood flowed freely, but Hilda was unaware of it. She was conscious only of the vomit that was rising in her throat and of the towel being snatched away just in time, before she inhaled her own vomit, which would probably have killed her. She was aware of a silky voice saying, ‘There now. A nice flow of blood. That’s all you needed, dear. A nice new broom to sweep away them stomach cramps. You’ll be all right now, dear. You might feel shaky for a day or two, but it’ll soon pass, and you’ll be fine. Now get up, dear. Yes, you can get up all right and go and lie on the bed for an hour or two. We’ll do the clearing up. It’s all part of the service. I pride myself on never leaving a mess behind.’

  Hilda staggered to her feet and with the help of Miriam went to the bedroom. As she passed the end of the table she saw a bowl full of blood and blood dripping off the table onto the floor. Has that all come from me, she thought and clung to the towel the women had put between her legs. She vomited again. ‘Have some more potion, dear,’ said Mrs Prichard smoothly. ‘It will ease the stomach and help you sleep. These cramps can be real nasty, can’t they, dear?’ Hilda drank the potion, and lay down on the bed. She drifted again into unconsciousness, a state that kept coming and going for the rest of the day.

  The two women cleared up, after a fashion, Mrs Prichard muttering ‘If she expects us to clean this hovel, she’s got another think coming,’ then left Hilda bleeding, shocked and semi-conscious.

  Mrs Hatterton brought the toddlers back at three o’clock. She saw the state that Hilda was in and put two and two together. ‘You poor soul,’ she murmured. She took the children back to her place and returned with clean towels and sheets and carried fresh water up, because Hilda was raging with thirst. She took away the bloodied linen and packed the clean around the injured woman. Later she took the older children to her place too, and fed them, returning to Hilda several times to change the linen and to give her a drink. When she saw Bill returning at six o’clock, she stopped him in the street and told him his wife was ill. Nothing more. She told him that she would keep the children till her old man came back, but then they would have to return home. Bill just assumed that his wife had ’flu – ‘She’s bin a bit off colour lately.’ He had no idea, and was aghast when he saw Hilda, deathly white, scarce able to move or speak. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ he said. ‘No, no, don’t, you mustn’t,’ was the woman’s anguished reply. She had to tell him, but he did not comprehend. ‘Women’s troubles,’ was his reaction. No man had anything to do with women’s troubles. He made his tea and went out. Mrs Hatterton brought the six children back at seven thirty and put them to bed, two in the cupboard and the others on the sofa or in the cot which she pulled into the main room. She gave Hilda some more water and changed her linen again. ‘You’ll have to manage,’ she said. She did not suggest getting a doctor. She knew, as Hilda did, that a doctor would probably mean police involvement and prosecution. These things had to be kept quiet. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ she said as she left.

  Bill returned at ten thirty. He had been drinking, but was not drunk. Hilda looked no better. ‘You sure you don’t want no doctor?’ he asked, concerned. She had to explain to him that a doctor was legally bound to inform the police of a criminal abortion. He didn’t really understand, but the mention of police kept him silent. Seeing Hilda so pale and weak stirred his old tenderness for her. ‘How about a nice cup o’ tea, eh, duck?’ he said kindly, ‘do you good.’ Hilda forced a smile, ‘A cup o’ tea would be nice. And Bill, thanks. Thanks for everything.’ The children slept on.

  It took about three weeks for Hilda to recover her strength. The bleeding stopped within a few days, but the shock, the pain and the general weakness kept her in bed for most of that time. Mrs Hatterton was good to her. She came in daily and saw the bigger children off to school. She cared for the toddlers, and did the washing, shopping, cooking and carrying of water up and down stairs. Mrs Prichard was not seen again. Her professional services did not include post-operative care.

  BACK-STREET ABORTIONS

  A woman’s right to control her own body is so taken for granted now that younger people can scarcely believe that abortion used to be a criminal offence in the UK punishable by a prison sentence for the woman and the abortionist. The Criminal Abortion Act of 1803 was law for 165 years. It was only repealed in 1967.

  There have always been women who wanted or needed an abortion. For rich women it was relatively easy – a clandestine visit to a secret address, often abroad, where a doctor working in an unregistered clinic would operate illegally, and usually successfully, leaving little damage to the woman. Sometimes it was possible to procure an abortion legally if two doctors, one a psychiatrist, would testify that the woman seeking the abortion was mentally and physically incapable of carrying the pregnancy to full term. It cost a lot of money, but the risk of prosecution was removed.

  For poor women it was a different story. Most working-class people lived in a perpetual state of poverty, the whole family crowded into one, two or at most three rooms, with not enough food, lighting or heating. Contraception was inadequate, and women had too many children, far more than they could decently house or feed. Another baby was frequently a disaster. For single women pregnancy was a catastrophe, and many preferred suicide to the stigma of bearing an illegitimate child.

  So millions of women sought an abortion. The first method attempted was usually a simple vaginal douche. But this was unlikely to work, because the fluid has to enter the uterus to be effective. If a caustic solution was used it caused chemical burns to the vagina and cervix.

  Thousands of women tried medicinal ways of evacuating the uterus. Violent purgatives, such as a pint of Epsom Salts, were used. Gin and ginger, turpentine, raw spirit, aloes and sloes were also employed. None of them worked. Disreputable newspapers and journals advertised what they called ‘cures for menstrual blockage’ for a sum of money. These were poisonous and sometimes fatal. Quinine was common, and some ‘cures’ even contained arsenic or mercury.

  ‘Wise women’ have known for millennia that the black fungal growth on rye grain will induce an abortion. It was called ‘ergot’, and was also known to cause the deadly disease commonly called St Anthony’s Fire. When I was a young pupil midwife doing my theoretical training at a teaching hospital, a colleague was having an affair with a doctor and she became pregnant. She stole a bottle of ergometrine from the ward medicine cupboard and took the tablets over a period of days until she aborted. She became terribly ill, but such was her desperation that she continued working throughout. If Matron had discovered that she was pregnant, my colleague would have been dismissed, and if it had come to light that she had been stealing ergometrine, her name would have been removed from the register (she was an SRN) and very likely reported to the police for prosecution under the Criminal Abortion Act.

  Some women tried violent methods, such as falling downstairs, or half drowning, or taking a scalding hot bath, in the hope that they would provoke a spontaneous miscarriage. If the woman survived, she would usually still be pregnant, because one would virtually have to kill the mother before the foetus could be destroyed.

  Driven to extremes by despair, women would go to unbelievable lengths in trying to make themselves miscarry. Knitting needles, crochet hooks, metal coathangers, paper knives, pickle spoons, curved upholstery needles, spokes of bicycle wheels have all been forced into the uterus by desperate women who preferre
d to do anything rather than continue the pregnancy.

  How any woman could push an instrument through the closed os of her own cervix is more than I can imagine – but it has been done, times without number, sometimes successfully.

  I have given talks to women’s groups on the early days of midwifery. In the course of many of these talks, some lady in the audience has told us a story about a grandmother or great aunt who had induced an abortion on herself. I have heard many such stories, and in diverse circumstances, and they are all so dismally similar that the oral evidence cannot be in doubt.

  One story, related by a lady at a Women’s Institute meeting, will suffice: ‘My aunt was a respectable single woman of thirty-five living with her mother, who was very proud of the family reputation. While on holiday my aunt became pregnant and tried to abort herself with a crochet hook. She bled profusely, and her mother found out what was going on. The old lady was so horrified at what the neighbours might say that at first she refused to call a doctor. It was not until it became obvious that her daughter would die that, in great secrecy, she summoned a doctor who performed an evacuation of the uterus and suturing on the kitchen table of their home, Afterwards he said, “this must not go beyond the walls of this house. No one but we three will know what has happened tonight.” The story was not told in the family for forty years.’

  The doctor had saved the woman’s life but he had risked his career in doing so. Had the story become known and his name reported to the General Medical Council he would have been brought up before a disciplinary committee for professional misconduct. He might have got away with it by pleading that it was a life-saving emergency operation, but there would have been no certainty of exoneration and whatever the outcome such an experience would have been traumatic for a conscientious doctor.

  The alternative to attempting to make oneself miscarry was a visit to an illegal abortionist. Back-street abortionists favoured one of two methods: the surgical procedure or the flushing-out method. Both are highly dangerous, and only a doctor trained in surgery is competent to conduct an abortion. However, that did not stop countless numbers of women practising for a fee. They had a vague idea of female anatomy and operated with improvised instruments such as those described, or with obsolete instruments often stolen from a hospital. There was no sterility, no anaesthetic, no proper lighting, and operations frequently took place on kitchen tables.

  It is easy to push a metal object into the vagina, but the cervix lies at nearly a ninety-degree angle to the vaginal wall. Without surgical knowledge the instruments could easily miss the cervix and go straight through the vaginal wall. Working blind, abortionists had been known to push a sharp object into the bladder or rectum. If the instrument did enter the uterus, it was sometimes pushed right through and out the other side. Even if all these hazards were avoided, bleeding was frequently uncontrollable.

  In my book Call the Midwife, I recall meeting Mary, a young Irish girl who was lured into prostitution. She told me the tragic story of her only friend in the brothel, who became pregnant. The madam called in an abortionist, who used the surgical method. The girl haemorrhaged and died in Mary’s arms. Her body disappeared, and no one was prosecuted.

  In 2004 a film about an abortionist – Vera Drake – was released. It is a brilliant film exploring the social dilemmas of the time. The film is probably regarded by millions as an accurate template of back-street abortions in the 1950s, but it does contain inaccuracies.

  In the film, the flushing-out method was favoured. Vera Drake was seen supposedly pumping a solution of carbolic soap and water into a woman’s uterus with a Higginson’s syringe. But what she was doing was no more than a simple vaginal douche, which was unlikely to have any effect on the course of pregnancy because the fluid would only enter the vagina, not the uterus.

  Flushing-out may seem less traumatic than the surgical method – in the film it is made to look very simple, even gentle – but it is still fraught with danger. Firstly, the caustic solution has to be exactly right; too weak and it will have no effect, too strong and it will burn the mucosa of the internal organs. Secondly the quantity of fluid and the rate of introduction into the uterus have to be accurate. One of the most severe pains a human being can endure is the sudden distension of a hollow organ. If too much fluid is pumped too fast into the uterus it could cause shock, a sudden drop in blood pressure, heart failure and even death.

  At a talk I gave to the East London History Society in 2006, a woman in the audience told us that, in the 1930s, in the small Essex village where she was born, there was a bona fide midwife who was also an abortionist. She was a good practitioner, experienced and respected. A mother in the village came to her and said that her fourteen-year-old daughter was pregnant and begged her to carry out an abortion. The woman did not want to, but the mother pleaded so earnestly that eventually she agreed. The flushing-out method was used, and the girl died on the table. Mother and abortionist were sent to prison.

  As nurses and midwives we often had to clear up the mess after a bungled abortion, especially when we worked on gynaecological wards. The outcome for these women was frequently chronic ill health. Conditions such as anaemia, scar tissue with adhesions, prolapse with chronic pain, incontinence, cystitis or nephritis could be expected, along with many others. Thrombosis of the leg was not uncommon. This could lead to a clot travelling in the bloodstream and lodging in the lungs. Anticoagulants were not available until the 1950s.

  I have seen much mutilation and two deaths. The first was a girl of nineteen whose internal mucosa and cervix had been burned by a carbolic acid or some other caustic solution used during a flushing-out abortion. There was little we could do, and she lingered for a while, but she was in constant agony and died after a few days.

  I recall another tragic woman, the mother of five children, who developed a massive sac of pus in the peritoneum after a surgical abortion. We tried to drain it without success, and for many weeks pus oozed from her abdomen. The five children coming into hospital just before their mother died can never be forgotten.

  The Criminal Abortion Act 1803 was repealed in 1967. Knowing that I had been a midwife I was sometimes asked if I approved of it or not. My reply was that I did not regard it as a moral issue, but as a medical issue. A minority of women will always want an abortion. Therefore it must be done properly.13

  STRANGER THAN FICTION

  Life, my dear Watson, is infinitely stranger than fiction; stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We could not conceive the things that are merely commonplace to existence. If we could hover over this great city, remove the roofs, and peep in at the things going on, it would make all fiction, with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions flat, stale, and unprofitable.

  The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  A couple of months passed, and Hilda was just about able to cope with her household again, but the constant clamour of young children, incessant washing, endless meals to prepare and above all the squalid surroundings were dragging her down. She became more and more depressed, irritable with the children and quiet with Bill. He hadn’t seen her like this before. They had always had fun together. Now she was a woman who hardly spoke. Sometimes he wondered what he had done wrong. He’d always been a good husband and a good father – or he’d tried to be – he’d always brought his money home, not like some of the blokes who drank all their money, and then beat their wives for not cooking a hot dinner for them.

  Hilda roused herself and went to the Council. She was going to have it out with them. But she could have saved herself the effort. No four-bedroom houses or flats were available. They were scheduled for building next year, and the Hardings would be informed. Yes, they were top of the list, and they would be the first to be offered a place. In the meantime ...

  In the meantime, Hilda came close to throwing herself under a bus. But suicide is not so easy, and she balked at the actual fact of doing it. Life dragged on.
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br />   Another couple of weeks passed, and something strange was happening in Hilda’s body. At first she thought it was wind, and she took a dose of Epsom Salts. After a good clear-out, it seemed to settle down, and she thought no more of it. But a week later it came back, and then again with added emphasis. She put her hands on her tummy, and at that instant felt an unmistakable kick. With horror and disbelief the truth dawned upon her: the bleeding she had experienced must have come from a rupture to an artery, and the abortion achieved with so much pain and suffering, not to mention expense, had been a failure. She was still pregnant.

  In a furious rage she took the bus to the Commercial Road and knocked on Mrs Prichard’s door. The house was the same, the plush interior the same, Mrs Prichard – overdressed and over-painted – was the same, but gone the welcoming smile, the sympathetic voice, the womanly understanding.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘You fraud. I’m still pregnant.’

  ‘If you are going to descend to calling names of me, I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Did you ’ear? I’m still pregnant.’

  ‘You never was pregnant when I saw you. You had stomach cramps, if you cast your mind back, and I treated you for stomach cramps, with my dear deceased mother’s secret remedies.’

  ‘You liar. You did an abortion on me.’

  ‘I did no such thing. And don’t you call me a liar, you dirty little rat-bag.’