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

by Linda Fairley

  In the next breath Muriel pushed out the tiniest baby I had ever seen. Its skin was transparent, showing webs of veins beneath the surface. There was no sign of life, and its eyelids looked knitted shut.

  It was a heartbreaking sight. Muriel said nothing, but just cried quietly. At twenty-six weeks, this would be classed as a miscarriage; technically she had delivered a foetus, not a baby. It wouldn’t have been deemed viable until a fortnight later, when she was twenty-eight weeks pregnant. With such a premature delivery, we were not encouraged to attempt resuscitation unless there were signs of life.

  I kept these thoughts to myself, not least because the scrap of human life before me looked very much more like a baby than a foetus, albeit a tiny, lifeless one.

  I silently attended to the cord. The baby, a little boy, didn’t breathe and showed no signs of life whatsoever. I laid his fragile body in a small green towel, which I placed gently in a kidney dish at the end of the bed before helping Muriel deliver the placenta.

  Still I said nothing, knowing from experience it was best to wait for Muriel to ask questions, when she was as ready as she could be. Muriel was silent too, but the silence said it all. Her baby hadn’t cried, and she knew what that meant.

  I would take the tiny mite with me to the sluice for the time being, I thought, and clear up the equipment before coming back to talk to Muriel. I would have to place the baby in a special receptacle, clearly marked, and decide whether he should be sent to the morgue or to the histology department, for investigations. Head bowed, I carried the baby away in the kidney dish and placed him on the worktop opposite the sink while I cleaned the scissors I’d used to cut the cord.

  As I switched off the tap and the sound of water rushing through pipes subsided, I thought I heard a faint little whimper coming from behind me. I span round on my heels, wondering if I was imagining it, but there it was again: the frail but unmistakable sound of the feeblest newborn cry I had ever heard.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. It was definitely coming from the kidney dish. It was Muriel’s baby, letting me know he was alive!

  I was up close now, holding my breath in shock as I marvelled at this little miracle. The green towel was moving. The baby’s minute chest, just inches across, was clearly rising and falling; this child was certainly not giving up without a fight.

  Clasping the dish tightly to my chest, I sprinted as fast as my legs would carry me to the Special Care Unit, which was thankfully on the same floor.

  ‘Out of my way!’ I cried as I ran down the middle of the corridor, forcing a nurse with a tea trolley and a lady in a wheelchair to swerve, grumbling, into the walls.

  ‘What’s up, Linda?’ I heard another midwife call as I clattered through the doors of the Special Care Unit and practically threw myself and Muriel’s baby at the nearest neonatal nurse.

  ‘This baby is twenty-six weeks but showing signs of life!’ I gasped. Though resuscitation was not routinely encouraged at this age, I knew help would be given in this instance, as the baby was clearly alive.

  I handed over the kidney dish and said a little prayer to myself. ‘Please let this one live. He’s a fighter. Please let him win his fight.’

  As the neonatal staff swung into action, allocating him an incubator and giving him oxygen, I slipped back to see Muriel, knowing her son was in the best place possible now. She was lying exactly in the same position as she had been before she’d given birth, very still and now with a devastated expression on her face.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she said flatly as I approached her bedside.

  ‘I think you might want to hear this,’ I said, bending over and giving her a hug. ‘Your baby is showing signs of life. I’ve taken him to Special Care. He’s alive!’

  Muriel’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘Is he going to make it?’

  ‘It’s very early days. I can’t predict what will happen. All I know is he’s one heck of a fighter. The nurses in Special Care are doing everything they possibly can to save him, and when I left him he was breathing.’

  Huge tears dripped from Muriel’s eyes and she shook her head from side to side, repeating: ‘I just can’t believe it! Is it true? I just can’t believe it!’

  I looked her in the eye and told her every word was true as I handed her a tissue. By now she had streaks of mascara running down her cheeks, and she was laughing and crying all at the same time.

  Her one-pound, twelve-ounce baby boy did indeed survive, and Muriel herself was soon well enough to be discharged. I never saw her again, but while he was still in Special Care I kept tabs on her baby, who she called Liam because the name means ‘strong-willed’. Little Liam stayed in hospital for twelve weeks, and every time I popped into Special Care to ask after him my heart was in my mouth.

  ‘Slow but steady,’ was always the response, thank goodness. He had lots of problems, some of them life-threatening. His lungs were so immature they collapsed several times, but I was very happy to end this story with the news that Liam eventually went home to his mum, and doctors did not expect him to have any serious long-term health problems.

  ‘That baby was definitely meant to live,’ Marjorie gasped when I’d finally finished talking.

  I looked at her face, illuminated under the bright sun, and saw that she was grinning widely, yet had tears in her eyes, almost as Muriel had done in her hospital bed when she heard the good news.

  ‘Look at you!’ I smiled. ‘We’re all the same, us women. One way or another, childbirth makes you laugh or cry and quite often it does both – even when you’re not the mother!’

  We had a wonderful holiday, visiting all the local ruins, swimming in the sea and taking it in turns to launch ourselves off the diving board into the hotel pool. Graham and I had bought new clothes for the trip and I wore a beautiful long A-line evening dress with a silk choker collar for a special meal out on our last night. I felt fabulous.

  ‘I don’t want to go back to work!’ Marjorie lamented as we shared a bottle of retsina at a local taverna.

  ‘Nor do I,’ the men groaned in unison.

  All three looked at me expectantly.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Ready to go back to work?’ they chimed.

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I replied. ‘I’ve loved this holiday, but I absolutely love my job too.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Marjorie said. ‘I’m going to get out of that bank. I’ve made up my mind. I want to train as a midwife!’

  I looked at her in alarm. ‘You can’t do that!’ I said, worrying that I’d painted too rosy a picture.

  ‘Yes I can!’ she beamed. ‘I’m going to make enquiries as soon as we get home.’

  Marjorie was true to her word and did indeed set the wheels in motion for her rather dramatic career change as soon as we were back in Ashton. It would take her three years to train, but she was adamant she was going to make it. I am very pleased to say that Marjorie did eventually fulfil her ambition, and qualified as a midwife in 1975. She even worked in the new Ashton Maternity Unit for a while. I never worked alongside her, but by all accounts she made a good midwife. At the time, though, I must admit I wasn’t sure it was the right move for her.

  ‘It’s quite different from banking,’ I had cautioned several times on our return home. ‘There are highs and lows like you could never imagine, often all on the same day. Honestly, it’s like being on an emotional rollercoaster sometimes.’

  ‘Bring it on!’ Marjorie said.

  One such rollercoaster of a shift happened in late August 1971.

  ‘Come on girls, you can’t sit down!’ shouted Barry, who was one of my favourite ambulancemen.

  From the nurses’ kitchen I could see dawn was just about breaking outside. I’d been on my feet all night as we’d had a steady stream of deliveries throughout my shift and many of the women had arrived by ambulance. This was the first time in hours there had been a lull, and I was enjoying a well-earned cup
of tea with a couple of staff nurses when the familiar sound of the ambulance siren wailed outside the open window.

  ‘Come quick, Nurse!’ Barry cried urgently, sticking his head round the door. ‘Get off your backside! This lady’s going to have her baby any minute!’

  I rolled my eyes at him cheekily and stayed firmly put. ‘That’s what you said the last time, and the time before that,’ I teased. ‘And guess what? Those women are still on the labour ward despite their “emergency” ambulance dash.’

  I drained my cup casually while Barry disappeared to help his colleague escort the patient, Mrs Cavendish, inside.

  ‘The midwife’s just coming, love,’ I heard Barry reassure her loudly as he manoeuvred her out of the ambulance. ‘You’ll be fine now you’re here.’

  I headed down the corridor a minute or two later, and Barry informed me that Mrs Cavendish had been desperate for the toilet upon arrival and had insisted on being taken straight to the bathroom.

  ‘That’s good, I’ll get her to do a urine sample while she’s there,’ I said, walking up to the door of the toilet next to the delivery room and giving it a tap.

  ‘I’m not sure you’ve time for any of that,’ Barry fretted. ‘I told you, she’s about to have the baby!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ I chided. ‘You ambulancemen are all the same. Always worrying the baby’s going to pop out at record speed. It only happens like that in films, you know!’

  ‘Mrs Cavendish!’ I called through the door. ‘It’s the midwife here, Nurse Buckley. Can I trouble you to do a urine sample whilst you’re in there?’

  ‘Too late!’ she panted.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ I called back, thinking she’d have to drink some water and try to go to the toilet again in a bit.

  ‘Come in quick!’ she screamed, which took me by surprise.

  Barry and I pushed the door open to find a startled Mrs Cavendish standing before us holding a grey plastic washing-up bowl containing what looked very much like a blood-smeared baby girl. Oh my word, it was a baby girl! The umbilical cord, still attached to the baby, was swinging between mother and daughter.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mrs Cavendish said, sounding forlorn. ‘Found the bowl on the floor by the bath, seemed better than nothing. Lucky I didn’t make it to the toilet, eh?’

  Mercifully, the baby looked fine and began making a little grizzling noise as I took hold of the bowl with her still inside. I didn’t want to lift her out because she was slippery and I was scared I might drop her on the bathroom floor. Mrs Cavendish, although clearly shaken, appeared to be in remarkably good form, considering what she’d just been through.

  We needed to deliver the placenta, and I was very grateful when Mrs Cavendish agreed to walk cautiously to a bed just across the way, with me carrying the baby in the bowl on one side and Barry supporting her on the other.

  Barry didn’t say a word, and was kind enough to not to give me a ‘told you so’ look. He didn’t need to. I was cross with myself for finishing that cup of tea and for being so cavalier. He knew me well enough to know I’d be mortified about it without any nudging from him.

  Mrs Cavendish proved an extremely stoical patient and was on the postnatal ward with her daughter Hilary – her second child – within an hour of her arrival at the hospital. I went to see them before I finished my shift later that morning, still feeling deeply embarrassed that such a thing could have happened on my watch, and desperately hoping Mrs Cavendish wasn’t feeling aggrieved now she’d had a few hours to gather her thoughts.

  ‘Thanks very much for all your help, Nurse,’ she said sincerely, stroking her daughter’s soft head. ‘I can’t apologise enough for leaving things so late, but how lucky am I? I was in here labouring for twelve hours last time round with Hazel, my first one. Mind you, I think I gave that poor ambulance-man a shock!’

  ‘Actually, I think you gave me more of a shock than him,’ I said, truthfully.

  I was very relieved that Mrs Cavendish wasn’t complaining and, most importantly, that her daughter was not only unscathed by her unconventional birth but looked to be positively thriving.

  Nevertheless, on my way home I silently scolded myself again for having been so arrogant. I was amazed at how cocky I’d become in such a short space of time, and I vowed never, ever to make the same mistake again. The ambulancemen generally treated us midwives like royalty, and from now on I was going to treat them with a lot more respect, too. Barry would no doubt give me some stick now the drama was over and no harm was done, but it would be a small price to pay for allowing complacency to creep in like that, and it would serve as a reminder to keep on my toes at all times, even when my feet were throbbing and my legs aching with tiredness.

  Graham had bought me a little car by now and I was always particularly grateful for it after difficult shifts like that. Luckily, I passed my driving test first time despite making several mistakes. As my colleagues had cheekily advised, I wore my uniform and hitched my skirt up an inch or so, revealing far more of my black stockings than I normally did. During the test I hit the kerb while reversing round a corner, but the examiner simply gave me an admiring glance and said: ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’

  I was jubilant and thanked him profusely. Now I absolutely loved driving round in my navy-blue Austin 1100. It was a godsend to sink into the driver’s seat after a hard night shift, and I wondered how I had ever managed on my moped, when my back ached and the early morning cold penetrated through my clothing.

  ‘Nurse Buckley!’ Miss Sefton bellowed one morning as I reported for duty and began unfastening my long navy-blue cape. ‘Please report to my office in five minutes, and you might as well leave your cape on.’

  My spine stiffened and I immediately wondered what I had done wrong. It was November 1971 now. Surely Mrs Cavendish hadn’t complained about giving birth in a washing-up bowl after all this time? No patient had ever lodged a complaint about me, or any of my colleagues for that matter; it was simply unheard of. Nevertheless, Miss Sefton’s brusque manner made that unwelcome thought enter my head.

  I had been working as a staff midwife for eleven months now. By January 1972, after successfully completing my first twelve months, I had expected to automatically qualify for a sister’s post. We would have finished moving into the brand new maternity unit by then. I had daydreamed many times about how wonderful it would be to work with all the new equipment and modern facilities.

  Recently, we had benefited from a new centralised system of sterilisation in the old hospital. For midwives, this meant that, instead of having to sterilise instruments ourselves, all the equipment needed for a delivery arrived on the ward sterile and ready to use in a handy sealed pack. This was a huge help, and I could only imagine how much better life would become when we moved into the new unit. I’d heard rumours we would get luxuries such as disposable nappies and ready-made formula milk, and I thought how much easier it would be if sterilising bottles and preparing feeds became a thing of the past too.

  Now, though, my hands were clammy and I wondered if I’d somehow jeopardised my chance of working in the new building. Whatever was the matter?

  ‘We need to see Matron,’ Miss Sefton announced stiffly, looking at her watch in an agitated fashion, when I reported to her office. ‘Follow me!’

  I very rarely saw Miss Ripley as she was usually in the Infirmary part of the hospital. Going to see her was a big deal. This must be something important, and I was seriously starting to panic. Miss Sefton was marching, sergeant major-like now, and I fell in line and followed her obediently, my heart pounding in my chest and my mouth paper dry.

  We crossed the grounds at break-neck speed without talking, and Miss Sefton headed towards a heavy wooden door just inside the Infirmary. Pausing outside momentarily, she glanced at my worried face for the first time since I had arrived at her office and, surprisingly, gave me a reassuring smile.

  ‘Don’t fret, Nurse Buckley!’ she said. ‘You have done nothing wrong. Quite
the contrary!’

  With that she knocked briskly on the big door before pulling it open with a flourish and ushering me inside. To my amazement, projected on the wall opposite was a giant-sized picture of me, dressed in my nurse’s uniform and holding a beautiful newborn baby wrapped in a blanket.

  ‘Hello, Nurse Buckley!’ Matron beamed enthusiastically. ‘Thank you for coming. We would like to ask if we may have your permission to use your photograph to advertise the new maternity unit.’

  I was completely taken aback and wanted to cry with relief. ‘Of course, Matron,’ I stuttered. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she replied warmly. ‘I think your image is perfect for us. Absolutely perfect. Thank you very much indeed.’

  A man stepped forward who I recognised as the photographer. ‘Would you mind if we remove the little mole from your cheek, as in black and white it may look like a dirty mark?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Not at all,’ I smiled, finally feeling myself relax enough to enjoy the moment. I felt the urge to jump up and down and clap and cheer, but of course I remained calm and demure in front of my superiors.

  Weeks earlier two other midwives and I had been asked to pose for some photographs, each holding a newborn baby. The idea, it was explained, was that the best picture would be used on posters, leaflets and in newspaper advertisements to promote the new maternity unit all over the Ashton region, both to potential employees and to mothers-to-be.

  The photographs were taken rather hastily after the three of us were herded into a single-bedded side room without warning, on the orders of Miss Sefton. In fact, the photo shoot had been arranged in such a rush that we had to run into the postnatal ward and ask some mothers if we could borrow their babies for a few minutes, to which they all readily agreed.

  The photographer wanted an image that captured the look of a ‘typical midwife’, he said, and I didn’t for one minute think my picture would be chosen. I was quite sure the other two girls were Miss Sefton’s favourites, and I thought they were both far more photogenic than me, with naturally pretty faces and well-cut shiny hair. By contrast, my long hair was pinned back in a bun and draped across either side of my forehead like a pair of curtains. Scrubbed free of make-up, wearing no jewellery and with my nails cut short in line with the strict hospital rules, I looked decidedly plain.