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

by Linda Fairley

  When their families visited, proud new dads and excited siblings would stick their noses excitedly into the hammock cot beside the bed, and then the kids would exhaust the mother with a million and one questions. ‘Have we got enough tokens off the marmalade to send off for a Golly badge?’ ‘Where’s the new lace for my football?’ ‘Please can we get the cornflakes with the toy in the bottom of the packet?’

  The only time most married women stayed away from their husbands and children was when they were in hospital after giving birth, and it was touching to see their presence at home was clearly missed.

  ‘Will I be able to wear my roller skates when we take the baby out in the new pram?’ or ‘Can we make a go-cart out of the old pram?’ were questions I heard more than once, along with the old chestnut from the dads: ‘Is it OK if Mrs So-and-so takes in our washing, only I can’t figure out how the twin tub works …?’

  I enjoyed the daily routine on the ward. Once the bottles were made, I might help another midwife with douching the patients, which I learned was simply washing between their legs. I admired the midwives for the way they managed this task so efficiently, never compromising a woman’s comfort or dignity. Their skill seemed to strip away any embarrassment I’d imagined such a job might entail.

  Next it would be time to change and bathe the babies. The square cloths used to make up the terry nappies arrived in stiff piles from the hospital laundry each morning. They smelled so strongly of Ajax laundry detergent they made my nostrils tingle, but at least there was never any doubt about their cleanliness. They were always pristine and spotless.

  I was taught how to gently wash the baby down with warm water and cotton wool and apply a generous coating of zinc and castor oil cream to the bottom to ward off nappy rash, before folding the cloth into a neat nappy.

  Little girls, I learned, were best placed in kite-shaped nappies, where you folded the top down and then the side in, while little boys stayed drier in triangle-shaped nappies with more padding at the front. I tried to use the metal safety pins with pink guard covers for girls and save the blue ones for boys, as it was the only way of distinguishing between the sexes once the babies were dressed in their NHS nighties. Nobody brought their own baby clothes into hospital in those days, so it was regulation white cotton nighties all round. Dirty nappies, mercifully, were dumped straight in the wash bin and sent off to be dealt with by the laundry.

  It only took me a few weeks to become an expert at bathing babies, and to be able to show new mums how to do it.

  ‘Wish I could take ye home with me, Nurse,’ a new mum said to me one day as I gave her a demonstration in the nursery, where we had a special, low porcelain sink for bathing the babies.

  Her compliment thrilled me. Inside, I felt like such an amateur, so young and inexperienced, yet somehow I must have looked competent as I gently lowered her wriggling baby into the water, taking care to hold the little girl under her arms and keep her face out of the water.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I reassured the woman. She was probably only a year or two older than me, as most women started their families in their early to mid twenties back then, and I was flattered to see she was hanging on my every word.

  ‘Practice makes perfect. You just need to test the water temperature with your elbow to make sure it is not too hot or too cold, and make sure you have a steady grip on your baby. Here, come and try.’

  It was an honour to witness special moments like that. Many of the mums came from the most poverty-stricken areas spread around the city. They wore poor-quality nightdresses, often had a sneaky drag on a cigarette when Sister wasn’t looking, and many cussed routinely in their strong Manchester accents. Whatever their background, I found that the vast majority had the manners of a princess. They would thank me kindly for everything I did, tell me I was an angel and beam at me with gratitude when I made my way round the ward checking temperatures and pulses, or delivering mugs of Horlicks before lights out.

  I didn’t do many night shifts at St Mary’s, but I found myself looking forward to being on the ward after dark. Lights out was strictly at 10 p.m., and the night sister would discourage the new mothers from getting up unless they had a very good reason. Usually I was sent into the nursery, where all the babies were taken to give their mothers a chance to sleep soundly. Sometimes I had a baby in my arms and would be rocking one or two others in cribs, using my feet.

  ‘What a racket!’ the night sister often exclaimed when the babies were grizzling and fighting sleep. I didn’t like to hear them cry, but the noise didn’t offend me. I enjoyed cuddling the babies, however noisy they were. I found it very rewarding to soothe them with a gentle ‘sh-sh-sh’ as their fidgety little bodies and fragile, flailing limbs gradually turned to heavy, sleeping weights in my arms.

  It was warm in the nursery, and there was always a pleasant, convivial atmosphere. In the end, I often couldn’t hear the crying, I got so used to it. I’d sit and look out the window and watch amorous couples walking arm and arm into the Ritz or the Palace, amusing myself with thoughts of what the future held for them. Would they have babies, and would they look out of the window of St Mary’s one day and say, ‘Oooh, I remember going to the Ritz back in the spring of 1968 …’?

  ‘Eee, will you look at this funny baby,’ the midwives would giggle to each other from time to time. ‘Only a mother could love it!’

  It was gentle banter to pass the time and lighten the atmosphere, nothing more. The midwives all seemed to enjoy their work, and the chitchat flowed easily amid the chorus of newborn cries and snuffles.

  Once, I heard some older midwives whispering about a ‘termination’ case. I never joined in conversations like that, as I could tell when they wanted to keep something hush-hush and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. However, I picked up that a young girl without a baby was occupying bed eleven on the ward. She had been sent here to rest following her operation, I gathered, because there was nowhere else for her to go. The curtain was closed tightly around her bed, which was understandable. I thought how terrible it must be for her to hear newborn babies all around, not to mention the proud new mothers chatting happily away to each other.

  Abortion was something very new for the midwives to contend with, as it had only recently been legalised and was now offered free on the NHS. The Abortion Act of 1967 came into effect on 27 April 1968, after initially being introduced as a Private Member’s Bill by David Steel. I had followed the news with interest as the bill passed through Parliament, not realising how close I would come to the reality of it all. I learned that most women in this situation were cared for on a gynaecology ward at the MRI rather than at the maternity hospital, although a minority had started to trickle through to St Mary’s.

  ‘The cut-off points all seem a bit arbitrary,’ one midwife lamented. She was referring to the fact that unless there were extreme circumstances abortions were only carried out on the NHS up to fourteen weeks, and yet a foetus was not considered viable until it was twenty-eight weeks old. This meant that if a woman delivered prematurely prior to twenty-eight weeks, doctors and midwives were not encouraged to attempt resuscitation if there were no signs of life.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ another, much older, midwife replied. ‘I think twenty-eight weeks is about right, but then again we all know how well formed a foetus is just before twenty-eight weeks. It’s a tough call deciding when a baby is a baby and not a foetus.’

  A low hum of agreement went round the little nursery. I could feel tension in the air and could tell the midwives were not entirely comfortable with this topic. Delivering babies was their role, not this.

  ‘But at least this Act is a step in the right direction,’ the older midwife ploughed on. ‘It’s better to make abortion legal than force these poor girls into back-street clinics. Believe me, I’ve known some terrible cases. The NHS is much better off picking up the bill for terminations than forking out to put these poor women back together again after they’ve been butchered.’r />
  The word ‘butchered’ made me shudder, and I felt very glad that, thanks to the new law, the girl in bed eleven was being cared for by professionals in her time of need, rather than having to go to a back-street clinic.

  Even when opinions ran high the midwives didn’t appear to judge any of the patients, though one or two seemed to enjoy a good gossip.

  ‘Did you know this poor mite’s mum is a prostitute?’ I heard one midwife, Veronica, hiss to her colleagues one night.

  ‘Never!’ the other midwives replied, looking in alarm at baby Paul, the bonny, mixed-race little boy who was sleeping contentedly in my arms.

  When I heard the word prostitute I felt myself go red, and with all eyes pointing in my direction I stuttered, ‘Is she from the red-light district?’

  In my shock and embarrassment, it was the only thing I could think of to say about prostitutes.

  ‘Seems so,’ Veronica shrugged sadly. ‘Baby’s fine, praise the Lord, even though his mother was suspected of having venereal disease.’

  I actually gasped as she said it. I’d read about unspeakable infections like syphilis and gonorrhoea in the new 1968 edition of Textbook for Midwives by Margaret F. Myles in the library. I’d been absolutely horrified by the gruesome images and explanations, but never for a moment did I think I’d come across anything like this at St Mary’s. I thought it was something that only happened to paupers in a bygone era.

  ‘Nurse Lawton, you have been granted permission to witness a birth if you come quickly,’ Sister Rose said, appearing unexpectedly in the doorway.

  The nursery fell completely silent at the sight of Sister Rose. Even though she was a very easy-going sister compared to most I had met at the MRI, her rank meant there was an automatic response to her presence. Each midwife straightened her back and there was a rustle of throat-clearing and smoothing down of skirts and aprons. All talk of abortions and prostitutes was well and truly over, and the midwives tilted their heads diligently towards their tiny charges, cooing and shushing gently, as if a switch had been flicked.

  Sister Rose’s eyes scanned the room approvingly before resting on me once more. ‘Follow me!’ she ordered. ‘You need to come right away.’

  I hurriedly handed baby Paul to Veronica, my heart leaping into my mouth as I scuttled after Sister Rose, hanging on her every word.

  ‘This is a third baby and labour has advanced very nicely, without complications. Just stand quietly beside me and watch.’

  I nodded, feeling a well of exhilaration rise from my heart and rush to every tingling nerve in my body.

  Outside the delivery room was a young man in his mid twenties who was wearing workman’s boots and a donkey jacket with leather pads on the elbows. He was alternating between dragging heavily on a cigarette and biting his nicotine-stained nails nervously.

  ‘Look after ’er, won’t ye?’ he asked as he stepped aside to let us pass.

  ‘Of course we will, Mr Hollingworth!’ Sister Rose said reassuringly.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Nurses!’ he called after us, saluting us with the hand in which he held his cigarette.

  His wife let out a piercing scream as we pushed through the delivery room doors. There was a midwife at the foot of the bed and another one busying herself with the resuscitaire trolley, which was next to a table where a gleaming pair of scales stood. I noted with some surprise that the scales looked like the ones the greengrocer used to weigh turnips and potatoes in Ashton Market.

  ‘Can you give me one last big push, Mrs Hollingworth?’ the midwife said in a voice that was somehow both authoritative and gently encouraging. ‘You are doing ever so well.’

  Mrs Hollingworth seemed completely oblivious to our arrival and let out a loud cry of ‘Aye, I can do that, Nurse,’ before gobbling in air and gripping the sides of the blanket that were draped over her body. She was wearing a thick cotton nightdress with a stand-up collar laced tightly up her neck. Her face was so red and sweaty it looked as if it had been squeezed out of the stiff collar and was still throbbing with the effort.

  A similar sight greeted me, unexpectedly, at the opposite end of the bed. The baby’s rosy head was visible, and I watched in fixated fascination as its shoulders and then its whole body plopped out onto the bed. It was a boy! His body was smeared with white, waxy vernix and he was plump and perfect, his little arms and legs unfolding and wriggling with life. Mrs Hollingworth let out a noise that was a cross between a whoop and a wail as her baby was delivered, and I stood transfixed as the midwife set about cutting the scarlet-faced baby’s cord while telling Mrs Hollingworth she’d done the most tremendous job ever, and was the mother of a lovely new son.

  She had indeed done a marvellous job, I thought. I became aware that I was standing there holding my breath with my mouth open, gaping at the scene that had unfolded before me. I was utterly astonished that the female body could stretch to such proportions, to deliver such a bouncing baby into the world so seamlessly.

  The little boy let out a lusty cry, and I wanted to cry myself. I was shaking a little, and felt a powerful surge of excitement course through my body. It was a feeling I recognised but couldn’t quite place. Later, I realised the last time I had been flooded with so much adrenaline was when I was watching The Beatles perform in concert at the Apollo in Ardwick, Manchester, in 1965. It was absolutely electrifying, and I screamed and screamed as if my life depended it on it, just like all the other girls.

  Now I felt just as invigorated and ecstatic. Childbirth is the most incredible phenomenon, and in that moment, in that delivery room, my ambition was truly ignited.

  ‘I think I’d like to be a midwife,’ I said breathlessly to Graham that night on the phone. ‘It was just fantastic to see a new life, a new little person being born.’

  Saying the word ‘midwife’ out loud seemed to validate my decision. Until now, I hadn’t been sure where my nursing training would lead me. After all, I had wanted to quit just a couple of months earlier, and when I stood in Miss Bell’s office with my resignation letter it had felt like exactly the right thing to do. Working at St Mary’s had made me feel much better about my career and my future, and now I could see that becoming a midwife was the job for me. It was exactly what I should do and, more importantly, it was exactly what I wanted to do. The certainty in my mind thrilled me, and I felt the happiest I had in a long time.

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ Graham said when he got a word in edgeways. ‘I knew you’d find your niche, my little nurse. But how do you go about becoming a midwife?’

  There was a hint of worry in his voice, as Graham knew full well that my placement at St Mary’s was coming to an end soon. I had more than a year of my nurse’s training to complete and four tough exams to pass before I would become a qualified State Registered Nurse, or SRN, in September 1969. I would also have to complete a further three months’ work at the MRI after qualifying to become an official MRI nurse, as that was the rule. All told, that would take me to December 1969, and it was still only June 1968.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll just have to grit my teeth and get through the rest of my placements as best I can. I’ll have to keep telling myself it won’t be forever. I’m going to see about working at St Mary’s after I qualify. I’m going to find out what you have to do to train as a midwife.’

  A few weeks later I found myself walking the familiar path to Miss Bell’s office. She had asked me to report to her immediately after finishing my placement at St Mary’s. I’d left the maternity hospital with a heavy heart, wishing I could stay and learn, and dreading my return to the MRI.

  ‘Come in, Nurse Lawton, and do take a seat,’ Miss Bell said when she answered my timid knock on her door.

  I walked in nervously and sat down, watching Miss Bell reach purposefully into her desk drawer. She pulled out my resignation letter and waved it before me. For a moment fear made my heart contract. What if she had decided to accept my resignation after all?

  ‘What shall I do with this?
’ she asked.

  In that moment I knew there was only one answer she wanted to hear, and I knew wholeheartedly it was the right answer to give.

  ‘Tear it up!’ I said, a relieved smile on my face.

  ‘That’s right,’ Miss Bell said, before ripping the letter cleanly in two and depositing it in the wastepaper bin beneath her desk.

  I felt thankful and exhilarated all at once. I would work hard to pass my exams and gain my qualifications, and then I could train to become a midwife.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Bell,’ I said politely. ‘I feel much happier now.’

  At the time I saw it as a nuisance that I had many more placements to fulfil before I could pursue my training as a midwife. I viewed my final year as a means to an end, not realising how much more invaluable experience I was going to amass along the way.

  Within days, I was dismayed to find myself heading back to Booth Hall Children’s Hospital to work in the dreaded burns unit, no less. I gritted my teeth and vowed to do my best, although I could not have asked for a worse placement and prayed I would not faint in front of the children again.

  ‘Welcome, Nurse Lawton,’ Sister Pattinson said, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, when I arrived for my first shift. She was a trim, tall lady who spoke in a sweet voice. I wasn’t used to a sister being so tactile but I liked it, and thankfully she helped put me at my ease straight away.

  This was to be a ten-week placement, and I had been allocated a room in the nurses’ home at nearby Monsall Hospital in Newton Heath, North Manchester, as it was close to Booth Hall. Founded in 1871, the grand old Monsall was an isolation hospital that specialised in the care of patients with tuberculosis and infectious diseases.

  The idea of leaving my familiar digs at the MRI and living in the grounds of such a place hardly appealed, and I begged Graham to come and visit at least twice a week.

  ‘I don’t know about the patients,’ I grumbled, ‘I think it’s me who’s being put in isolation.’