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

by Linda Fairley

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she smiled as she fished in her handbag for a Spangle sweet to suck on. ‘I feel better now you’re both here.’

  From past experience I knew Mrs Tattersall would not have made a song and dance about the fact I was still a student, as that might alarm the patient. I would simply have been introduced as ‘Nurse Linda Buckley’, possibly with the words ‘my colleague’ tagged on the end, which gave me a flush of pride.

  I surveyed the room. A brown-and-cream striped settee and armchair had been pushed back against the far wall to make way for the bed, which was covered in a very fashionable spiral-patterned quilt. I’d seen a similar one on display in the window of Marshall & Snelgrove in the centre of Manchester recently, so I knew it was all the rage and had probably cost a pretty penny. I was concerned the quilt would get ruined.

  ‘Don’t worry, Derek has seen to it that we have plenty of towels,’ Mrs Willis said, noticing me looking at her bed linen. ‘And there’s a towel and a piece of soap laid out for you in the bathroom, Nurse.’

  I felt very important, being welcomed into the Willis’s home on such a momentous day in their lives. Two bars of an electric fire glowed orange in the hearth, which was surrounded by an elaborate brick fireplace covering an entire wall of the sitting room. On the mantelpiece were displayed several souvenir plates from holidays in Prestatyn and Rhyl, depicting painted scenes of caravan parks and donkeys on the beach.

  ‘Linda, please see to it that the instruments are sterilised,’ Mrs Tattersall instructed. ‘Mr Willis will provide you with a pan.’

  I followed Mr Willis into the kitchen, where a large stainless-steel pressure-cooker pan was standing on the Formica worktop.

  ‘I hope it’s big enough; it’s the biggest we have,’ he apologised.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I assured him, and indeed it was.

  I remembered Mrs Tattersall’s words of wisdom as I shifted the pan onto the hob and struck a match to light the gas.

  ‘Sterility is not the be all and end all,’ she had told me. ‘Remember, the instruments have already been cleaned at the hospital. It is our job to make sure they are “socially clean”. By that I mean they are as clean as we can possibly get them in the circumstances. At the end of the day, any germs that are knocking about are the mother’s own germs, because we are in her house. Just do your best.’

  Mrs Tattersall examined Mrs Willis while I boiled up the forceps and scissors. Mr Willis busied himself in the kitchen, too, as it wasn’t the done thing for men to get in the way during an examination.

  ‘We could have hours yet, but you’re doing well,’ I heard Mrs Tattersall wheeze.

  Mr Willis made us all a cup of tea and we settled around the bed, chatting softly and pausing to offer words of comfort and encouragement whenever a contraction made Mrs Willis wince.

  Mrs Tattersall made a note of the time, followed by the scribbled observation ‘five centimetres dilated’, which she let me see but did not discuss with Mrs Willis. In those days women rarely asked questions and didn’t expect to be given medical details; they simply put their faith in their midwife and did as they were told. It was almost unprecedented for a woman to have read a book about pregnancy, and I had even heard midwives telling patients not to bother looking at what scant leaflets there were at the antenatal clinic, remarking that it might not do them any good to ‘know too much’.

  Mrs Tattersall put down her brief notes and began circling letters in a word search puzzle in her People’s Friend magazine.

  ‘I’d play a record but I’m afraid of waking the little ’uns upstairs,’ Mr Willis said earnestly.

  ‘My wife likes The Beatles. Do you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I do,’ I smiled. ‘John Lennon is my idol, he’s my Beatle. I saw them live at the Apollo in Ardwick in 1965.’

  ‘Never! You lucky duck!’ exclaimed Mrs Willis, with such vigour she brought on her biggest contraction yet.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ she panted, clutching her stomach and wrinkling her brow until the pain subsided.

  ‘Well, I nagged my dad to give me a lift up to the Apollo at 5.30 a.m. on the day the tickets went on sale,’ I said. ‘I remember I took a hard-boiled egg in my pocket in case I got hungry, but I was too excited to think about eating it. I felt like I’d won the Pools when I got my hands on that little yellow ticket. It cost me 15 shillings, and was the best thing I had ever bought in my life! My school friend Susan Thornley was with me, and we hugged each other and jumped up and down, we were so thrilled.’

  Mrs Willis took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Hold my hand, Derek, this is a big one coming,’ she gasped.

  ‘Go on, Nurse, keep talking, please tell me moooore,’ she implored, the word morphing into the sound of a mooing cow.

  I glanced at Mrs Tattersall, who gave me an encouraging nod.

  ‘I can’t remember much about the music,’ I went on. ‘I don’t think I heard a thing. I just screamed and screamed, because that’s what everyone else did …’

  Bang on cue Mrs Willis let out an ear-piercing shriek.

  ‘Oooh heck, that was a big one,’ she puffed. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘We don’t mind the noise, but make sure you don’t hurt your throat,’ I smiled. ‘I don’t want you ending up like me after that concert. My throat was so swollen from all the screaming I couldn’t talk for days afterwards!’

  And so the night went on, and on.

  We chatted in a friendly but polite way, drank lots of tea and watched and listened as Mrs Willis, who eventually asked me to call her Brenda, huffed and occasionally screamed through her slow and steady labour.

  At 7.30 a.m. Mrs Tattersall wrote up some notes, stood up suddenly and announced, ‘I’m going out to find a telephone.’

  I followed her to the door anxiously as she pulled on her coat.

  ‘We’re never going to make the 8.30 a.m. clinic at this rate,’ she complained, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

  Seeing my own eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, she added, ‘You’ll be absolutely fine, Linda. I won’t be long. I expect she’s got a way to go yet.’

  Mr and Mrs Willis didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by Mrs Tattersall’s departure, but I was too busy fretting about being left alone and in charge to feel flattered by their reaction.

  ‘There’s a phone box down Wood Lane I used to call you from last night,’ Mr Willis instructed helpfully as he saw her out. ‘I’ll put another brew on when you get back.’

  I pulled up a brown leather pouffe to the side of the bed and patted Mrs Willis’s hand. ‘It’s been a long night. How are you feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘I think I want to push,’ came the unexpected reply.

  My pulse quickened but I didn’t flinch as I hastily adjusted her nightgown and bedclothes and prepared to examine her.

  ‘Oh, right you are. Deep breaths. Remember what we’ve taught you. Take your time …’

  ‘The baby’s coming!’ she panted. ‘It’s coming right now!’

  ‘I’m right here. You’re doing fine, Mrs Willis,’ I said, ignoring the static shock that crackled up the back of my stocking as I knelt on the thick nylon rug at the end of the bed. Mr Willis hurried out of the room in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘I can see the baby’s head,’ I said, surprised at how calm my voice sounded. ‘You’re doing magnificently, Brenda. One more push should do it … go on now!’

  I saw the baby give a little turn as it plopped out perfectly onto the chocolate-brown towels Mr Willis had laid beneath his wife.

  ‘Well done!’ I exclaimed, as much to myself as to Mrs Willis. ‘It’s a girl, a beautiful little girl!’ I picked her up and she let out a mighty cry.

  Mr Willis crept gingerly into the room and kissed his wife on her flushed red cheeks, while I cut the umbilical cord and watched the proud parents breathe a delighted sigh of relief.

  The baby looked completely adorable and I was thrilled at the sight of her too, but I couldn’t allow myself
to relax and celebrate until the placenta was delivered. Only then could I be sure that Mrs Willis wouldn’t haemorrhage, and my job would be done.

  Without delay, I injected Mrs Willis with Syntometrine. I’d already prepared it, thinking at the time that it might be my only hands-on role in the birth, with Mrs Tattersall in charge. As I gave the injection in her thigh I explained to Mrs Willis with as much authority as I could muster that it was to help her expel the placenta. I made myself smile brightly at her, wanting to reassure her that I was completely in control of the situation, even though I was thinking to myself, ‘Stay calm. This is still not over. I’m not in the hospital now; I’m in an ordinary house. I have no oxygen on the wall, no buzzer to press if things go wrong.’

  Thankfully, Mrs Willis delivered the placenta with impressive ease and was so preoccupied with gazing at her new daughter I don’t think she’d have picked up on my underlying anxiety even if I’d been dripping with sweat and shaking from head to foot with nerves. I proceeded to clean the little girl and weigh her before putting on a terry towelling nappy and white cotton nightdress and laying her in the waiting crib beside her mother. I did this swiftly and efficiently, wanting to finish the job professionally, and I felt a fabulous warm glow spreading around my body. ‘I did it!’ I thought to myself, an involuntary, genuine grin spreading across my face. ‘I’ve done this!’

  I will never forget the overwhelming feelings of relief and sheer, unbridled delight I experienced in that front room. The baby’s warm skin and soft downy head, the tiny bubbles of saliva that popped daintily on her lips as she let out her first cry, and the minute, shell-like fingernails on the tips of her wriggling fingers all captivated me. I’d brought a new life into the world! I was sure I couldn’t have felt happier if I were Mrs Willis herself, and she was indeed a picture of pure joy and triumph.

  All that remained was for me to record the delivery time and birth details in my notes. While I did so, Mr Willis fetched his two young sons from upstairs and they scampered with great excitement into the sitting room to meet their little sister.

  ‘Meet Lorinda Louise,’ Mr Willis beamed.

  Stepping back, I felt incredibly satisfied as I took my pen from my apron pocket and proudly recorded the time of the textbook delivery as 7.45 a.m. precisely.

  I looked at the Willis family. They were all quiet now, gazing at Lorinda Louise in awe.

  ‘Aren’t we lucky to have a little girl?’ Mrs Willis beamed as she admired her sleeping daughter, who was snugly wrapped in a hand-crocheted yellow blanket. ‘If we’d known I’d have got Nana to knit that in pink!’

  She turned to me and said, ‘Thank you, Nurse. You were marvellous! I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you so much!’

  The big brothers, dressed in matching Thunderbirds pyjamas, began to jostle for prime position at the side of the crib, elbowing each other but never once taking their eyes off their new little sister. The entire family could not have looked happier if they tried.

  The magnitude of the occasion hit me with even greater force. I hadn’t just delivered a baby; I’d performed a miracle! Lorinda Louise was the very first baby I had delivered all by myself! There was no qualified midwife guiding my hands, as I was used to. I was out in the community on my own, and I’d done it without so much as a whisper from my mentor. I didn’t have Sister Houghton’s hands to guide me and I didn’t have Mrs Tattersall by my side. All my training and hard work had paid dividends. This was the very best feeling in the world, ever. Midwifery was my vocation, and I could actually do it! I had done it! I’d delivered a baby – me, Linda Buckley!

  A knock at the door interrupted my triumphant thoughts.

  ‘Eee, it’s brass monkeys out there,’ I heard Mrs Tattersall exclaim loudly as Mr Willis let her in. I noticed it was 8.30 a.m., and it was only then that it dawned on me she had been gone a full hour.

  Mr Willis was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Mrs Tattersall knew the look of a proud new father when she saw one.

  ‘So you’ve had the baby?’ Mrs Tattersall said in a kindly tone as she crossed the sitting room and peered in the cot. ‘Oh, that’s good. Let’s have a cup of tea and a cigarette then.’

  Mr Willis obliged yet again with the tea and Mr and Mrs Willis and Mrs Tattersall each lit up a cigarette from a packet of John Player’s No. 6. All three proceeded to smoke contentedly around the sleeping baby.

  I sipped my tea quietly, taking in the scene before me. I was surrounded by clouds of smoke and I was floating on cloud nine. I felt like shouting out: ‘How can you all act so normal? I’ve just performed an absolute miracle and look at you puffing on your cigarettes!’

  I didn’t, of course. I dutifully helped pack the equipment away, said my goodbyes and rode my moped back to the hospital, where I was expected to carry on with clinic duties. Normally I’d have been dead on my legs after working all through the night, but I was buzzing with the thrill of my first solo delivery.

  ‘So you’ve got your “confidence case” nicely under your belt,’ Mrs Tattersall smiled later, when I was called to her office to receive my report.

  I’d heard the term many times before, but only now did I fully appreciate its meaning. I was brimming with confidence, that’s for sure, and I couldn’t wait for my next delivery.

  ‘I think you’ll find I’ve given you a very good report,’ Mrs Tattersall said, passing me a brown folder. This was a record that had to be written up by the mentor whenever a pupil midwife delivered a baby. ‘You thoroughly deserve it, Linda. Well done, love.’

  I never did find out what took her so long when she went to the telephone box, and I never asked.

  ‘Maybe the clever fox knew quite well what would happen,’ I said to Graham later that day. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have taken any chances if she didn’t have complete faith in you,’ he replied, pulling me in for a cuddle. ‘I’ve always said you’re a natural. I’m so proud of you, my little nurse.’

  Graham always drew out the letters of the word ‘n-u-r-s-e’ when he called me that, as if softly savouring the sound.

  ‘I’m a midwife now … well, very nearly. You’ll soon have to call me “my little m-i-d-w-i-f-e” instead.’

  It thrilled me to think I would soon become a fully qualified midwife, and I kissed Graham and thanked him for all his support over the years.

  ‘I wouldn’t have got this far without you,’ I told him.

  ‘Course you would!’ he smiled. ‘It’s your calling!’

  ‘I mean it,’ I replied. ‘It’s been really tough, tougher than I ever imagined. Without your support I would have quit years ago.’

  Later that same week Mrs Tattersall rushed purposefully along the hospital corridor towards me. It was Saturday night, she had a delivery bag in one hand and a packet of cigarettes in the other, and I could see we had another birth to dash to. I immediately felt excited, but my heart sank like a stone when she said, ‘Meet me at Moira Petty’s on Hope Street.’

  I’d been to the Petty house several times before, and of all the homes I’d visited this was the only one that pushed me right out of my comfort zone. Moira lived with her mum and two sisters. Each of the girls, all in their late teens or early twenties at most, had two children. This would be Moira’s third baby, making it the seventh infant in a house that was already bursting at the seams.

  The house was filthy and damp. The first time I did a home visit I was horrified to see several dirty mattresses leaning up against the walls in the back dining room. Mrs Tattersall explained that there were so many people living under the one roof, and one of the rooms was so damp upstairs, that the sisters and their children had to sleep downstairs. This meant when they needed the space during the day they just propped up their mattresses.

  The air was permanently thick with the pungent smell of sweaty, dirty bodies. Children with scraggy hair and grimy faces scampered about in vests and sagging nappies, and a scruffy black dog stuck its nose
into everything and appeared to be the family’s only means of cleaning the tiled floor in the back room, where the girls slept. I say this because on my first visit a few weeks earlier, one of the sisters knocked a box containing two eggs off the dining table, which stood in the centre of the room. Both eggs smashed on the quarry tiles, making a huge mess, but nobody attempted to clean it up. I soon realised why not, when the hungry hound ran in and gobbled up not only the broken eggs but their shells too, licking the floor so clean the only evidence he left was the empty egg box.

  Even on a bright day it was always dark and cold in the house, and the family had no hot water. ‘We won’t have a cup of tea,’ Mrs Tattersall had said as we pulled up outside on that very first visit, and I understood why as soon as we stepped inside. I had never encountered a family as poverty-stricken as the Pettys, and their lifestyle shocked and upset me. It wasn’t just the dirt and the fact they were obviously very poor that was so distressing; it was that none of the girls seemed to have any purpose to their life. They were just surviving, producing babies they had no means of supporting. Their world was as far away from my own as I could imagine.

  ‘How can they live like that?’ I asked Mrs Tattersall one day. ‘I know they have no money, but I don’t understand why they don’t even wash themselves. I mean, they must know they smell awful.’

  ‘Some people don’t know any different,’ she explained plainly. ‘If your mum’s never taught you how to wash properly, you don’t learn, do you? They will never have seen their mum brush her teeth or keep herself clean, so they don’t know any other way of being. They have no hot water, so God only knows it would be hard enough for them even if they knew what they were doing.’

  The Petty family’s circumstances were by no means typical of the area. There was industrial unrest grumbling away in some parts of Britain, but here in Ashton, from what I saw, life generally seemed to trundle on regardless and most people got by and certainly didn’t live below the breadline. I had seen some worrying reports on the news about job losses and fears of wage cuts amongst postal workers and miners elsewhere in the country. Closer to home, the local Granada Television workers were planning strike action, complaining about pay and refusing to work with colour television equipment. I remember that clearly as there was talk that some episodes of Coronation Street might have to be recorded in black and white again, instead of the new colour that everyone was raving about.