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

by Linda Fairley

  I looked at her husband curiously. Embedded in his thick mop of wavy hair was one of those metal garter rings used by men to tuck their shirt sleeves up their arms, to keep their cuffs from becoming soiled while working. I’ve no idea how he managed it; it was practically knitted to his head.

  ‘He works at the printing press in Oldham,’ she said quite desperately. ‘He’s meant to clock on in ’alf an hour.’

  ‘Let’s get a pair of scissors, then,’ I said.

  I was too busy to question why they had taken the trouble to come into Casualty. They clearly wanted to salvage either the haircut or the sleeve ring or both, though neither looked particularly precious. I deduced that one of them had to go, and decided it was easier to sacrifice the hair, which looked in need of a cut anyhow. The wife looked close to tears as I cropped the thick silver ring out of her husband’s hair, leaving him with an unattractive bald patch above his left ear.

  I handed her the thatched ring without further ado and packed the couple on their way, thankful I could now attend to patients in real need of medical attention.

  ‘Perhaps you should have gone to a barber shop instead,’ I wanted to shout after them, but I held my tongue and thought, ‘If only Miss Morgan or Sister Bridie were here, they’d have given them what for!’

  The following week I’d just started my shift at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night when I heard the wail of an ambulance siren and the sound of screeching tyres outside. A small girl called Tabitha was stretchered in, followed by two hysterical women, who identified themselves as the girl’s mother and aunt.

  ‘Nurse Lawton will take care of you,’ I heard the male charge nurse, Dennis, tell them as he herded us together. ‘Follow her over there, into the side room.’

  I had never come across a male nurse before. I could instantly see how a man like him, who clearly stood for no messing, could be extremely useful in Casualty, but on this occasion I found his manner unnecessarily rude.

  As I gently ushered the wailing women into a side room and fetched them cups of tea, I felt an overwhelming urge to make them feel better.

  ‘There, there,’ I soothed. ‘Tabitha will be all right.’

  The girl’s distraught mother wiped her eyes with the backs of her trembling hands and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I do ’ope you’re right, Nurse,’ she said. ‘I do ’ope so.’

  As she spoke I sensed some tension falling away, but the poor woman’s ruddy face was still etched with worry.

  Several hours later I heard the most dreadful news: Tabitha had bled to death. She was just five years old and had been hit by a car, and the injuries she sustained were too catastrophic for her to survive.

  I never saw Tabitha’s mother again, at least not in person, but every night for weeks and weeks afterwards I saw her devastated face in my dreams. I saw the little glint of hope I gave that mother with my careless words. False hope. I had no idea how bad Tabitha’s injuries were and I gave her mother false hope with my erroneous comfort. How wrong had I been? I vowed never, ever to make that mistake again.

  One evening before bed I felt the need to ‘confess’ to someone what I’d done. I’d not told Graham about Tabitha, which was unusual, but after almost three years of comforting me though my training I felt I was putting a little too much on him. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t coping this far down the line.

  It was 1969 now, and we were getting married later in the year. We’d set the date for 22 November, two months after I would hopefully have qualified as an SRN, and during the period when I would be completing my final three months’ work at the MRI.

  I decided to have a chat to Linda about what had happened with Tabitha. She might help me cope with it. I tapped on her door and she opened it slowly, ashen-faced.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I asked. She threw her arms around my neck and began to cry.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Really, I’m so sorry to make such a fuss.’

  I let Linda take her time. She told me, in a series of sobs, that her mum had lost her long battle with cancer and the family had decided to move back to Scotland. Linda’s long-term boyfriend had secured a job in Edinburgh and she was planning to complete her training in a Scottish hospital, after taking a period of compassionate leave.

  I felt desperately sorry for Linda. She had helped nurse her mother for years, never once complaining about their circumstances. I found it hard enough coping with the deaths of patients on the wards, and I couldn’t begin to comprehend what she was going through. Just the thought of losing someone so close made me shiver. It was devastating and I wished I could do something to help ease Linda’s pain.

  At the same time I was upset about Linda leaving the MRI. I knew I would miss her tremendously. Out of all the student nurses, she had become my closest friend. She always had a tale to tell and a knack of lifting my spirits. Linda had also earned a reputation for sticking up for herself against some of the more tyrannical sisters, which I admired and respected. I was losing a good friend and ally, and I felt the loss acutely.

  I also felt a strong pang of nostalgia. Linda’s departure would signal the end of an era, the end of our time together as student nurses. Although I had spent hours on the phone telling Graham how much I couldn’t wait to finish at the MRI and move out of the nurses’ home, I realised I would miss being a student. That reaction surprised me. I’d got used to my life, I suppose, and for the most part I was enjoying being a senior amongst the student nurses.

  There was an element of fear in my response to Linda’s news, too. We were all moving on, one way or another. The future was uncertain, and through Linda’s tear-filled eyes I could see that life never stood still, and that at times it could be very tough indeed.

  The last six months of my training were arduous as I studied hard for my final exams and completed two more placements. The first was in theatre, where I was put under the wing of Sister Helen Wood. I had met her before, many months earlier, when I was asked to provide an extra pair of hands during a haemorrhoid operation. Then, I’d been bowled over by her to the point where it was fair to say I idolised her. She was not only extremely good at her job, she was absolutely beautiful too, with eyes like lamps that bathed you in a warm, inspiring glow.

  I had helped Sister Wood sterilise and prepare the instruments for the operation and hung on her every word as she taught me how to ‘scrub’ by washing up to my elbows, and to put on the theatre gown, apron, mask, hat and gloves in the correct order. Inside the theatre I watched in admiration as she passed the skilful surgeon, Mr Thornton, exactly the right implement at precisely the right moment. It was clear Mr Thornton held Sister Wood in high regard too, as he grumbled to her afterwards, ‘Why can’t they all be like you?’

  Mr Thornton was an extremely well-respected surgeon and it was common knowledge that he did not suffer fools. I had felt honoured to be asked to scrub for him on that first occasion. In fact, I was so taken with the experience I barely focused on the operation in hand – although to tell the truth I wasn’t particularly enamoured with seeing what became of the bunch of grape-like haemorrhoids he removed from the poor patient. My main responsibility was to count the number of swabs in and out before and after the operation, lest one be left inside.

  I remember Nessa asking me, wide-eyed, what it had been like to witness an actual real-life operation, and having to confess that I was so enthralled by Sister Wood’s flawless performance and the ceremony of the theatre with the bright lights, curtains and white gloves that I barely focused on Mr Thornton’s surgical skills.

  As I was now a third year, Sister Wood explained that this time I would be working as the senior nurse in theatre, and as such it would be my responsibility to pass Mr Thornton the correct instruments as and when he called for them. The operation was a mastectomy on a patient with breast cancer, which Sister Wood talked me through in some detail.

  ‘Do you think you can manage that?’ she asked.

  I was nervous, but I also f
elt very privileged to have been given this opportunity. I gave an enthusiastic smile and an emphatic ‘yes’, ignoring the little voice inside me that wanted to say: ‘Help! What if I make a mistake?’

  Since I had watched Sister Wood in action, I knew that Mr Thornton appreciated nurses who had the correct instrument to hand almost before he called for it, a standard I knew I could not deliver as I had never worked alone with him before, and had no experience of what a mastectomy required.

  I was anxious, and I could feel my pulse throbbing against the strings of my mask as I finished scrubbing up. Mr Thornton was an enormous man, with bright red hair and a thick, severely clipped moustache. Beneath his gown he had a barrel of a stomach and, if you dared glance at the incongruous twinkle in his blue eyes, I swear you could see the spark of a furious fire. I’d heard countless tales of Mr Thornton bawling at nurses and, though I had never witnessed an explosion myself, I couldn’t help imagining him as a giant grenade, his red hair and flashing eyes already ignited. As I stepped into his theatre, scrubbed and willing to serve, ready or not, I felt sure he was about to blow.

  Mr Thornton barely acknowledged me as he huffed and puffed his way through the long operation. I delivered each and every instrument he required as swiftly as humanly possible, but he was clearly not pleased. He was used to the immaculate Sister Wood, with her near-psychic ability to pre-empt his every request, and he let it be known I was not up to scratch. Tut-tutting and sighing, he snatched knives and swabs from me with astonishing rudeness, and I could feel my nerves stretching taut like elastic. My cheeks were burning and my hands were shaking but I bit my lip and told myself to concentrate on giving him the instruments he asked for, or the situation would get a whole lot worse.

  ‘Promise me, Linda, you will always work hard for your living.’ I heard Sister Mary Francis’s voice in my ear, and my own response that I most certainly would. I was working very hard here, so why did Mr Thornton have to make it so difficult for me to succeed? Surely he had been brought up to believe good manners were as important as hard work, just as I had?

  ‘Receiver!’ Mr Thornton growled. I reached for a small bowl and then changed my mind, catastrophically. It must have taken me less than a second to pick up the larger bowl on the other side of the tray, but I was too late.

  ‘Take this!’ Mr Thornton hissed. I felt it before I saw it: a warm, soft, bloody lump hit me right in the heart. I watched, horrified, as it slid down my apron and slapped on the theatre floor at my feet. It was a severed breast. Mr Thornton had thrust it at me so impatiently he had missed the bowl completely and hit me instead. He had actually thrown the cancerous breast at me!

  I burst into tears and ran out of the theatre as fast as I could, pulling off my blood-streaked apron as if it were contaminated. I knew I shouldn’t have done this, but I also knew there was another theatre nurse in there who could take over, so I didn’t stop myself.

  I was as disgusted and embarrassed as I was upset, and I couldn’t help sobbing noisily. After the operation was finished Sister Wood’s arm appeared around my shoulder, and I blubbed like a baby in her arms.

  ‘It was grotesque,’ I gasped. ‘I can’t believe that just happened. That poor lady, too. How could he do such a thing to her, to me, to anybody?’

  Moments later Mr Thornton crashed out of the theatre. He looked for all the world like a crazed villain stepping out of a horror film. He was splattered with blood, large globules of sweat were pricking his forehead and his eyes were ablaze.

  ‘What’s she crying for?’ he barked. ‘I wouldn’t waste my breath shouting if I didn’t think she had potential!’

  It took me quite a while to digest what he had said, and to accept and understand that he had paid me something of a compliment, albeit a very cruelly delivered one. I went on to scrub for Mr Thornton several more times, and though he never treated me with the reverence he clearly reserved for Sister Wood, there was an understanding between us after that. I was at least worthy of scrubbing for him, which was a huge vote of confidence from such a demanding surgeon.

  On the Saturday night before Linda left for Scotland in the spring of 1969, Jo, Anne, Nessa and I took her out to the Twisted Wheel in Whitworth Street. We’d all been there before and agreed it was the best dance club in town, though we’d never managed to go as a group before.

  ‘Isn’t it funny?’ Anne said wistfully. ‘When you look back to when we first met, thrown together in our little group, I imagined we’d be out together all the time.’

  ‘How naïve we were!’ Jo chortled. ‘Who’d have thought we’d have to work so hard? I think I’ve spent more Saturday evenings either doing nights or catching up on sleep and study than I have going out dancing.’

  Nessa nodded in agreement, though we all knew she was happier with her nose in a book than she was dancing. Despite their different personalities, she, Jo and Anne had decided to move into a flat together at the end of their training, as they all hoped to secure jobs at the MRI. They’d invited me to join them, but nobody had been surprised when I told them Graham and I had set a date for our wedding and intended to live near our parents’ in Stalybridge after our marriage.

  ‘Haven’t we had some laughs though, eh?’ Linda said cheerfully.

  She wanted to go out on a high, and we all did our best to give her a good send off. We’d certainly dressed for the occasion. Everybody was wearing a mini dress and brightly coloured tights. Anne had teased her hair into a beehive and even Nessa had spent an hour getting ready, pencilling neat black flicks at the corners of her eyes and painting her lips sugar-pink.

  I was wearing a tight-fitting burnt-orange leather jacket I’d fallen in love with in Lewis’s department store. It had a military collar with press-studs and two little zip-up pockets on the front. It had cost me the extortionate sum of £21 – practically a month’s salary.

  ‘Are you not going to take your coat off, Linda?’ the girls teased, knowing it was my pride and joy and I wouldn’t be parted from it for the world.

  ‘Honestly, Linda, you’re so extravagant,’ they mocked, knowing how frugally we had all lived for almost three years and that I was certainly not in the habit of splashing out.

  ‘What would our superiors say about my frivolity?’ I joked, provoking a string of mickey-takes from all but Nessa.

  ‘You reckless, foolish girl!’ Jo declared, putting on old Miss Morgan’s stern clipped tone of voice.

  ‘May the Lord have mercy on you!’ Anne exaggerated in Sister Bridie’s Irish brogue.

  ‘Fetch me the scissors – I can’t give CPR through a jacket like that!’ Linda laughed, taking off Sister Hyde to a tee.

  ‘We’ve certainly had some fun,’ Jo said, suddenly cracking up as she remembered one of her favourite tales. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever laugh as much as I did that time when Anne and I mixed up all the dentures on M5.’

  Anne, chubby as ever, almost rolled off her stool she began to chuckle so hard. ‘Me neither,’ she hooted. ‘I think it was when I heard you saying, “Mr Norton, would you mind trying this pair for size?” that I completely lost it!’ Slapping her thigh, Anne added: ‘The worst of it was, this was the same poor man we’d given a cottage pie to, forgetting he was a strict vegetarian. Shame on us! By the time he’d finished and told us it was the best vegetarian pie he’d ever tasted, we didn’t have the heart to admit it was nothing of the sort!’

  We laughed all night, drinking orange squash and dancing in the basement, where there were lots of iron wheels decorating the painted brick walls. The DJ sat behind a sort of cage and played some of our favourite 78s by The Beatles and The Dave Clark Five, which we had a good bop to. We talked about everything under the sun. Concorde had recently made its maiden flight, which was on everyone’s lips, and we fantasised about where we would fly to if ever we won the Pools and could afford supersonic travel.

  ‘I would follow The Beatles on their next world tour,’ I said firmly. ‘Vidal Sassoon would do my hair while I lounged back
and watched The Graduate on a giant screen!’

  The other girls made up similarly alluring scenarios. Jean Shrimpton and Mary Quant would come aboard to give fashion advice en route to ‘Flower Power’ concerts in America (though none of us really knew what happened at such events, beside the fact they always looked very hip and happening on news reports). Nessa, always the more intellectual of the group, would fly over the Berlin Wall so she could see both East and West Germany at a glance before dropping in on Andy Warhol and Indira Gandhi, to talk about Pop Art and women’s rights respectively.

  It was fun to dream about being part of the jet-set, but in reality I don’t think any of us experienced anything like the full force of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ in our little corner of Manchester. I certainly didn’t. I’d see headlines from time to time about hippies and free love and psychedelic drugs, but those kinds of things seemed a million miles away from the sober, daily grind of my life at the MRI.

  I knew I had more freedom and opportunities than my mother had done as a teenager in the Thirties and Forties. I could sense that change was happening more quickly than it used to, and I felt empowered by the women’s libbers who were fighting so hard for female equality, especially in the workplace. Their efforts filled me with optimism about my future, but I can’t pretend I felt part of a revolution. I was just living my life.

  We finished the evening by doing the Twist, joking as we did so that we were probably pretty good at it because we were always on our toes at work, and often contorted into silly positions doing bed baths and bedpans!

  ‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’ we all said to Linda as we made our way home.

  ‘Course I will!’ she said. ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easily!’

  We started to run in our little stiletto heels as we passed the mortuary entrance on the way into the nurses’ home. This had become something of a ritual at the end of a night out, because the mortuary workers all looked like Frankenstein’s monsters after dark. I enjoyed being out with the girls. We had become very comfortable in each other’s company, and that night I felt sure we’d always stay in touch, come what may.