Mrs Strongintharm had a huge bulbous body with skinny legs that stuck out beneath her as she sat jiggling away on the bed. I wondered how on earth such stick-like limbs could support her boulder of a body when she stood up. She was clicking her fingers now as she wobbled her body from side to side in time to the music, her face twinkling as gaily as the brightly lit Christmas tree in the middle of the ward. I could see that she was one of those patients who was more than happy to spend Christmas in hospital, and I didn’t want to upset her.
‘Mrs Strongintharm, Sister has asked me to have a word,’ I said softly.
‘Oh what fun it is to ride on a one-horse open sleigh!’ she trilled joyfully, totally ignoring me.
‘It’s time for your medication, and I think you may be disturbing some of the other patients,’ I appealed. This time I spoke as loudly and plainly as I could without sounding rude, for Mrs Strongintharm was belting out the song with even more gusto than before.
‘Dashing through the snow, laughing all the way …’ she continued, starting to conduct an imaginary orchestra with her short, swinging arms.
It was already a surreal scene, and I suddenly found myself watching in what felt like slow motion as Mrs Strongintharm lunged dramatically to the left, lost her balance, rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a thump. I made a grab for her in shock.
‘For pity’s sake!’ I heard a gruff voice shout. It was Dennis, the male charge nurse I’d worked with in Casualty. ‘Take her legs!’ he snapped as he hooked his hands under Mrs Strongintharm’s armpits and heaved and rolled her back into bed with impressive skill and speed.
‘Thanks, Dennis,’ I said later, once we’d checked her over and found no harm had been done. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been passing.’
‘It’s all right,’ he winked. ‘Lucky I had some parcels to deliver up here. At least the bump shut her up, eh? Strongintharm but weak in th’ head you’ll have to call that one from now on!’
Sister Bridie appeared soon afterwards. ‘I don’t know what you did to Mrs Strongintharm but she’s behaved herself perfectly since you dealt with her,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve come on in leaps and bounds, Lawton, haven’t you?’
‘The MRI has taught me well, Sister Bridie,’ I said diplomatically.
‘It has indeed,’ she said. ‘But take that silly tinsel off your dress. We’re here to work, not to decorate the place.’
As I untied the skinny strip of red glitter that was wrapped around my fob watch and slid it in my pocket, Sister Bridie eyed me approvingly.
‘Good luck in your new post, Lawton,’ she said with a dry smile.
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m looking forward to it very much indeed.’
On my last day I slipped away quietly. I had already said my goodbyes to Nessa, Anne and Jo, which was easy as we’d promised to keep in touch and were all staying locally. I was glad to be leaving, to be honest, and I didn’t imagine I would miss anything at all about the MRI besides my friends. It had served me well, standing me in good stead for the next stage of my career, and now it was time to move on.
I changed out of my uniform for the last time, folded it up and placed it neatly in a laundry bag. A feeling of sadness took me by surprise, and I wondered whether perhaps I had been too busy to consider how momentous the day actually was. I had removed the bronze penny from my uniform before taking it off, and now I looked at it with admiration and squeezed it in my palm. I’d always have it to remind me of my training, and I pledged to myself that I would always strive to maintain the high standards of the MRI, wherever I worked in future.
Chapter Nine
‘To qualify as a midwife you’ll need to deliver forty babies in ten months’
I fired up my moped and set off for Ashton General Hospital with adrenaline zipping about inside me. It was early in the morning on Thursday 1 January 1970, and at last I was starting my new post as a pupil midwife.
Cutting through the bitterly cold morning air and circling Stamford Park Lake as I neared the hospital, I remembered how I’d told Graham the interview here just a few weeks earlier was as ‘easy as pie’. The phrase stuck in my throat now. It reminded me of the blasé attitude I’d had towards the MRI after my very first visit as a naïve eighteen-year-old. Though I was giddy with excitement, I shivered inside my thick winter coat, suddenly wondering if I would rue my words and find the daily grind much harder than I expected.
I had been told in my job offer letter to report to Sister Kelly on Ward 16 of the Maternity Unit, in the part of the hospital known as ‘The Lake’. It was a very old building, originally a workhouse, and it was separated from the main Infirmary by Fountain Street. As I approached the hospital I suddenly felt daunted by its vast dimensions. I was used to the tall yet relatively compact MRI building, but this hospital sprawled outwards instead of rising neatly upwards. I’d never noticed how big it was before, but then again I’d never had to think about navigating my way around it before.
Apart from my interview, I’d only ever visited the hospital on two previous occasions. One was several years earlier when I went to visit my Auntie Mary, who was having treatment in the Infirmary, and the other time was when I had my appendix out at the age of fourteen, also in the Infirmary.
As I secured my moped to the railings at the side of the hospital and looked at window after window carved in the wide red-brick walls, I had a vivid flashback to lying in my hospital bed as a worried teenager, having just been visited by my mum and dad. I longed to go home with them and wanted to cry when they said goodbye, then all of a sudden they popped up outside the window next to my bed, smiling and waving and mouthing ‘See you later, Linda!’ through the glass. It really cheered me up, and I recalled how I clutched my newly stitched wound and laughed.
Now I could almost feel a pain in my abdomen all over again, but it had nothing to do with a burst appendix, just plain nerves. As I entered the main reception and headed along a wide corridor, a pleasant, sweet smell penetrated my nostrils. I noticed the walls were coated with speckled cream paint that was peeling in parts, and nurses in blue dresses rushed along, waving and saying ‘Happy New Year!’ to everybody but me – or so it seemed. The smell reminded me of pear drops, I thought to myself, and I liked it.
I didn’t have my uniform yet, and as I made my way upstairs to the Maternity Unit on the first floor I felt quite insignificant, invisible even, in mufti. For a moment I wished I was in my MRI uniform, but then instinctively felt glad I wasn’t. I didn’t want anybody to think that I thought I was a cut above the rest, showing off about coming from a fancy teaching hospital.
The uniform here was more modern and didn’t look quite as grand as the one I was used to. It was made of a similar sort of stiff fabric as the MRI dress, but was in a denim blue, and had a less flamboyant apron that simply pinned up onto the bust instead of crossing over the shoulders. I was pleased to see I would still wear detachable cuffs over my short sleeves, and wondered if the nurses here called them ‘frillies’ as we did at the MRI. I imagined they did.
‘Ah, pleased to meet yer, Linda!’ Sister Kelly grinned as I found her in a kitchen beside her office off Ward 16. ‘Sit yerself down here and have a drink of hot orange. You must be frozen to the bone!’
I obliged, smiling involuntarily at the sound of her strong Irish accent. It was even more pronounced than Sister Bridie’s, but it didn’t grate on my nerves as hers had. In fact, I found Sister Kelly’s voice instantly endearing.
I shook her large, outstretched hand and felt my fingers crushed roughly together inside her broad palm. I smiled as she turned to switch on the kettle that was already puffing out steam, no doubt from the recent brew that was sitting on the worktop beside her. A second later I felt the smile freeze on my face as I watched her give her left buttock a mighty scratch through the back of her navy-blue dress, before reaching down her front to reposition her bra and its contents. She then gave her bust a good long scratch, too. I was flabberg
asted.
It was at this point that I also registered the fact that Sister Kelly’s uniform had several stains on it, and she was wearing a scruffy knitted liberty bodice that was visible under her dress. Protruding from under her sister’s cap were straggles of what appeared to be quite greasy hair.
I’d never seen anything like this at the MRI, and I tried not to stare. What would Sister Craddock think of Sister Kelly? I couldn’t help wondering. The phrase ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’ would not be far from her lips, I was sure of that.
‘Get that down yer before yer catch yer death, while I tell yer what’s what around here,’ Sister Kelly instructed kindly, leading me into her office.
I’d never had hot orange before and I didn’t really fancy it, but I did as I was told and sipped the steaming liquid, which was served in a heavy mug that had a chip on the rim and was stained brown inside. Despite her somewhat off-putting appearance, Sister Kelly exuded the most amazing warmth, and I found myself very comfortable in her company as I listened intently to what I had in store.
Ward 16, I learned, was a postnatal ward for normal deliveries. The women here had no complications, and would typically stay with us for two days after giving birth. For the first two months it would be my duty to assist with the general running of the ward by making beds, caring for the new mothers, feeding, bathing and changing their babies and generally helping out in the way I had done on my placement at St Mary’s. My midwifery training would not commence officially until March, when I would attend lectures with tutors, one of whom was Miss Sefton. Mrs Ingham would also put in the odd appearance to give talks, which I was pleased to hear.
Sister Kelly barely drew breath before explaining that she would then ‘lose me’ to Ward 18, which was for women who’d had forceps, Caesarean or other more complicated deliveries. I would also do short placements on the antenatal ward, labour ward, the neonatal unit and in the antenatal clinic. All of this would take me up to June, and would constitute Part One of my midwifery training.
As I was a qualified SRN and had done my obstetric nurse training, I only had to complete a ten-month course. The subsequent six months that made up Part Two would see me venturing out into the community with an experienced community midwife called Mrs May Tattersall, who would be my mentor. If all went to plan, I would be a qualified midwife by December 1970.
‘I know it’s an awful lot to take in!’ Sister Kelly laughed. ‘But I’ve heard yer good with numbers, Linda, and yer’d need to be for the next ting I’m going to tell yer.’
I smiled obligingly, not wanting to tell Sister Kelly that I’d already been given much of this information in the letter offering me the post. She was clearly enjoying being my mother hen, and I was quite enjoying being clucked over in her cosy office.
‘This is the important bit, my dear. To qualify as a midwife you’ll need to deliver forty babies in ten months, from March to December in your case. Forty sounds like an immense number, doesn’t it?’ she chuckled.
I nodded, mentally calculating that meant at least one a week, and that’s if I started on day one of my training course.
‘On top of that you have to witness six breech births, six forceps deliveries and six Caesarean sections, but don’t you worry ya’self one bit. This daft old hippy ting of wanting to have babies at home is changing, mark my words. We’re getting busier by the day in here. The bigwigs in London want more women to give birth in hospital, didn’t ya know? Better for the infant mortality figures, that’s what they reckon. You won’t have any trouble at all, Linda, and when I say you have to deliver the babies, I don’t mean all by yerself. And don’t forget, you can always come and talk to me if anyting is botherin’ yer. I’m always ready for a chat. I like a chat, so I do!’
Sister Kelly handed me my new uniform and directed me to the female changing rooms on the ground floor. I was relieved to get changed, as I didn’t want to stand out as the new girl in mufti. I put the uniform on quickly, checking myself just once in the mirror. The denim blue dress had a navy-coloured belt that fitted comfortably around my waist and was secured with Velcro on top of my apron. I wore black stockings and suspenders and flat black leather lace-up shoes, and carried scissors in my pocket that were attached by a chain to my belt. On the left-hand side of my chest I pinned a new fob watch that I’d received as a gift from Sue’s mum, and I added the detachable cuffs that I would soon discover were indeed referred to as ‘frillies’ here too. I felt a million dollars as I stepped back out onto the corridor and started to make my way upstairs to Ward 16.
My head was in the clouds a little as I tried to retrace my steps. I was thinking how strange it was that I felt at home there so quickly. The whole atmosphere seemed so friendly, so much more relaxed than at the MRI. The pleasant pear-drop smell was certainly better than the omnipresent smell of powerful cleaning fluid and disinfectant I was used to. I could detect the scent of talcum powder and fresh laundry in the air, too, as I walked dreamily along. That, coupled with the smell of newborn babies, seemed to be what gave the pear-drop smell.
‘Have you never heard of contraception?’
I nearly jumped out of my uniform. The question boomed very loudly from behind a thin screen, as if blasted through a loudspeaker, and was quickly followed by the quivering sound of a young girl saying meekly, ‘I’m sorry, Dr Franklin, really I am.’
I wanted to stop in my tracks and listen, but I kept walking, even though I realised I was heading in the wrong direction.
‘How stupid can you be?’ the gruff doctor raged, his voice somehow sounding louder the further away I walked. ‘We’ll have to bloody well sterilise you!’
Clearly, I was passing through antenatal, and I deduced this must be a poor young girl who had found herself pregnant by accident, obviously not for the first time. This Dr Franklin sounded like an angry headmaster chastising a naughty pupil. How terribly sad for the pregnant girl, and how dreadfully embarrassing to be told off so publicly. Surely he must know the whole ward could hear him ranting?
‘There he goes again, cheeky devil!’ a nurse walking behind me mumbled to a colleague. I turned to see them raise their eyes to the heavens before disappearing into a side room. I carried on, eventually finding my way back to Ward 16 via a maze of unfamiliar corridors. A friendly staff nurse called Margaret Mulligan greeted me.
‘I’m told we’re on bed-making together,’ she said. ‘Do you like The Fivepenny Piece?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen them quite a few times in the Broadoak Hotel.’
‘I think we all have!!’ Margaret smiled. ‘Us nurses must be their biggest fans. We sing their songs all the time while we make the beds. Helps pass the time.’
With that she led me to the linen cupboard, gave me a pile of sheets, blankets and pillowcases and proceeded towards the far end of Ward 16. It was a Nightingale ward, yet it seemed very different to the ones I was used to.
‘Hello, Nurses!’ a couple of ladies chirped as we passed their beds. Their babies were lying quietly beside them in their small linen hammock cots, and the two proud new mums were chatting to each other about a knitting pattern in a magazine.
‘I’ll bring it over to yours when I’ve finished with it,’ the first woman said.
‘Thanks, Lottie, love. I’ll look forward to that. We’ll have a cuppa and a chin-wag.’
‘That’s lucky,’ I commented to Margaret. ‘Fancy two friends ending up in neighbouring beds.’
‘Oh, they weren’t friends before,’ Margaret smiled, ‘but they’ve never stopped jawing since they met. Often happens in here. Having a baby on the same day seems to bind people together like nothing else. Nice, isn’t it?’
I nodded. That’s what was so different about this ward. It had an incredibly homely, friendly feel to it, even more welcoming than at St Mary’s, I felt.
Margaret started singing The Fivepenny Piece’s eponymous signature tune as we set to work, encouraging me to join in. Before I knew it we’d made five
beds and also sung ‘Mountain Climber’ and ‘Stories from the Wishing Well’.
By now a couple of patients were humming and singing along, and one lady was walking up and down the ward, rocking her baby in her arms in time to our music.
‘Oooh, it is a giggle in here,’ Lottie exclaimed. ‘Makes you want to come back!’
Several women groaned playfully at her suggestion. ‘How could you even think about having another baby?’ one exhausted-looking young woman winced. ‘I never want to have marital relations again, let alone another baby!’
‘You’ll change your mind soon enough, love,’ Lottie chuckled. ‘Most of us do, more fool us!’
When the steaming lunch trolley arrived, twelve of the ladies seated themselves around the long wooden dining table in the middle of the ward, leaving their babies lying in their cots. If it wasn’t for the fact the women were all in their twenties and dressed in candlewick dressing gowns and slippers, they would have looked for all the world like a group of giddy classmates waiting for their school dinner.
‘I ’ope it’s not blessed tripe or liver,’ Lottie’s pal Bessie hissed loudly behind her hand.
‘Blinkin’ ’eck, don’t say that!’ Lottie sniggered. ‘Makes me come over all queasy. I’m still recoverin’ from the sight of that placenta!’
The whole table erupted in a collective chorus of complaints. ‘Stop it, you’ll put us off us dinner!’ ‘Don’t be so crude!’ ‘How could you!’ ‘Ooooh, don’t make me laugh, you’ll ’ave me stitches falling out!’
The sound of Sister Kelly’s heavy footsteps approaching made the women stop talking and laughing as they looked up to see who was coming. I think they knew better than I did that Sister Kelly wasn’t strict and liked nothing better than having a chat and a cuppa at every opportunity. Still, all the patients treated her with respect, cutting out their cheeky banter and behaving themselves impeccably in her presence.
The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives Page 15