The Midwife's Daughter

by Patricia Ferguson

  Even in sorrow she had not changed a bit, he thought. She was beautiful still. He had wanted to take her in his arms, not with the old lasciviousness, no, but in friendship, to comfort her. It seemed to him now that Bea Givens was simply the dearest of old friends. Whom he had loved, once. Whom he loved still, indeed.

  Well, a man may love many times, Dr Summers told himself, and wiped his eyes, for the ready tears of old age had filled them. Then he put his handkerchief back in his waistcoat pocket, and rang for the next patient.

  24

  He knocked, and opened the door. Her mother was there, or perhaps the other one, he could never be sure at first. Whoever it was signalled to him anyway, I’m going, and got up straight away.

  They met at the end of the bed.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ said whoever it was, and went away quietly. He heard the door close.

  ‘Gracie?’ He didn’t want to wake her, of course, though the desire to see her look back at him, herself again, was overwhelming. He sat down on the chair beside the bed.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. He took her hand, the whole left one, lying limp on the coverlet beside him. He waited a while. It was very quiet. Once he heard someone wheeling a squeaky trolley along the corridor outside, and sometimes there were footsteps. He remembered the trolleys the nurses used to bring to his own bedside in the convalescent hospital – Wooton, he was beginning to call it himself now, like a local – and how in those days his whole body had flamed all over with fear at the sound of approaching wheels.

  ‘Gracie? Please wake up.’

  As if she had heard him she opened her eyes. His own at once filled.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’

  He bent towards her, and held as much of her as he could, inhaling her breath, her closeness, the feel of her skin. He had been so sure she would die.

  She smiled up at him as he straightened. ‘You alright?’

  He almost had to laugh at that, though it made his tears spill. He wiped them off with the back of his hand.

  ‘You see him?’ she whispered.

  He nearly said, ‘See who?’ but remembered just in time. He nodded. ‘He’s smashing,’ he said, as he knew she would like him to, though in reality he didn’t give a damn about the baby, it had just looked like something run over in the street to him, left out in the rain, more than half-dead and anyway part of the horror. The cause of it all. Apart from himself, of course.

  He had to say it. ‘Thought I’d killed you, Gracie. I thought I had.’

  ‘What? Ain’t your fault. Ain’t no one’s fault.’

  ‘How you feeling now?’

  ‘Not so bad. If I keep still.’

  ‘Doctor says you’ll be fine.’

  ‘What him, the new one?’

  Grace hadn’t cared one way or the other of course, but her mother had been in even more of a taking when they couldn’t get her precious Dr Summers after all. But he had been with another patient, an emergency; even someone as clever as he could not be in two places at once. Still, his partner had been ready.

  ‘Good job he was there,’ said Joe. He could still hardly think of Heyward without a shudder of loathing. Like the baby, Dr Heyward was all part of the horror, he dimly recognized, part of something he was never going to be able to think about normally. Heyward punching his way down the stairs, full of vigour and bounce, Hospital case, yes, as soon as possible!

  As if he were pleased, as if he were rubbing his hands at the prospect of

  Here Joe had to stop his thought, for the idea of the forceps was still too much for him.

  At least they had put Grace into a sort of sleep, so that she would not feel the unspeakable things they were doing to her.

  ‘I seen it done, often enough,’ his mother-in-law had said once, as they sat together in the waiting room. It was dimly lit in there, no one about, silent. It was almost midnight by then, on the third day. He had not slept. He had sat on the hard wooden bench as long as he could, then got up and limped about until such time as he could sit down again. The time had gone so slowly. He had got past swearing God promises. Once or twice the glacier of darkness in some way presented itself. It touched his sleeve. He sat very still beside it, the woman who loved his wife on his other side. Warmth on one hand, death on the other. There he sat, very quiet, while vile things were done to his wife’s body in order to extract his child.

  ‘I seen it done often enough,’ said Violet, but her voice betrayed her. She had not seen it done to her daughter. ‘I knew there was something wrong, I said so, straight off, I knew it.’

  She had said all this many times already, but he knew she expected no answer anyway. It was true; he had seen her face, when he had run round to tell her. Remembered it afterwards.

  ‘Grace says to tell you her waters broke,’ he had said, breathless from trying to hurry. He had called in on the way at Silver Street, where he had spoken to the midwife, the droopy blonde one, who had opened to his excited drumming on the door.

  ‘She got any pains?’ Violet had asked.

  ‘None!’ he had answered, imagining in his ignorance that this was a good thing. But of course Violet had known better.

  It had been hours before the terrible pain had started in Grace’s back. It was very bad, she said, her face already drawn, when briefly they let him go in to her, but she could stand it, she said; needs must anyway; of course she could. And she had, without a murmur all day, and then all the following night, but by the late afternoon of the second day she could bear it no longer, and began at last to groan with each return of it. Sitting downstairs with his landlord he had heard her, heard the first one, and the hairs on the nape of his neck had risen with horror. At the end of the second groan old Jim Bullivant had said, Come on you, out of it, and taken him to the pub, but at closing time hours later, with three pints inside him and still stone-cold sober, they had come back along the quiet streets and heard her long thick deep-throated scream.

  A No-Man’s-Land scream, a mindless involuntary animal sound, that made him sweat, brought the beer back up. Violet already gone for the doctor, both midwives there, the dog one, the droopy one, darting to and fro, and the doctor not coming and not coming and finally Heyward screeching brakes outside, come in the old one’s car, and straight off to the hospital laid out across the back seat, the first time Joe had caught sight of her that day as they carried her down the stairs between them, the rag of half-conscious creature that had been Grace, who was his wife and child.

  A nurse coming to find them in the Waiting Room: ‘A boy, doing well!’

  As if he cared.

  I was called to the patient Mrs Grace Gilder, a negress, aged nineteen, primigravida 1+0, at ten o’clock in the evening, at the request of my colleague Sister Wainwright. I found the patient very nervous and fretful. She had for some time been refusing to allow Sister Wainwright to examine her or to carry out other necessary procedures. Dr Summers had already been contacted; messages had been left for him by Mr Gilder as well as by Sister Wainwright and by the patient’s adopted mother, Mrs Violet Dimond.

  I must state at this early stage that I felt sure that much of the patient’s agitation was the direct fault of Mrs Dimond who was already well-known to me as a troublemaker with very inflated notions as to her own medical expertise. It appears she had decided almost with the onset of labour that Mrs Gilder would be unable to bear her child safely and had wasted no time in communicating this idea to her unfortunate daughter.

  Her influence on the patient cannot be overestimated. Pregnant women are particularly open to suggestion and never more so than when in labour. I have had cause to cross swords with Mrs Dimond on more than one occasion in the past and I immediately protested in the strongest possible terms about her active and indeed irregular and illegal involvement in the case, though I still had the utmost difficulty in persuading her to leave the room while I examined the patient.

  In fact I had to refuse to proceed until such time as she left
the flat entirely. My colleague Sister Wainwright accompanied her downstairs to the shop below, where the back room was occupied by Mrs Bullivant. I did not at any time order her to be thrown out on to the street. That is a ridiculous falsehood.

  I examined the patient and found her to be febrile (99.3˚ F, p 92) and exhibiting signs of exhaustion. Fundus at term, lie longitudinal, presentation vertex. Foetal limbs readily palpable, foetal heartbeat heard just above the umbilicus (140 regular). On vaginal examination the vulva appeared normal, cervix fully taken up and fully dilated, sagittal suture palpable in the transverse. I was able to palpate the anterior fontanelle, at the left, at the level of the spines.

  Given the length of labour I therefore considered a possible diagnosis of deep transverse arrest and requested that Dr Summers be urgently informed. I also carried out a catheterization of the bladder, though the patient had earlier refused to allow Sister Wainwright to do so. I am unable to offer any explanation for this.

  I was not aware at the time that Dr Summers was unwell. Mrs Gilder has a very great regard for him and I was particularly anxious to reassure her that he was on his way. I therefore told her an untruth; Sister Wainwright had not spoken directly to him, as I said she had. I stand by this however. I feel as I felt then that this small lie was in the patient’s best interests. Indeed for some considerable time she was less fretful. I do not think the delay had any bearing on the outcome as a whole. Dr Heyward arrived at eleven o’clock and confirmed my diagnosis.

  I have nothing more to add in any discussion of this case.

  Finding the old boy laid out on the floor of his own consulting room – it was something of a shock, certainly. Though looking back, he had perhaps been even more vague than usual. No telling how long he’d been lying there: twenty minutes? Maybe longer.

  Funny looking back, thought Dr Heyward, how instantly he knew he must conceal what had happened as far as he could. You just acted on instinct, in a way, he thought, had quickly made sure Summers was still alive and gone straight out again, closing the door behind him with no appearance, he was sure, of concern. Walked quietly past the full waiting room and nipped upstairs to the sitting room, gentle knock.

  ‘Mrs Summers?’

  ‘Oh, good morning, Dr Heyward – I wasn’t expecting you – is everything alright?’

  And in a way it had been. By the time they had hurried back downstairs together Summers was sitting up on the carpet, dazed of course, poor old boy, but able to speak again. Luckily there were the backstairs; between them they had got him out of the surgery and helped him up to his room.

  After that though – typical – it was simply one thing after another. The place quiet as may be weeks on end and then as soon as you’re single-handed all hell breaks loose, waiting room crowded with the usual bellyaches and coughs and fevers, but at the same time the factory incident that took him all afternoon to sort out, and then the motor-car collision, three complex cases there, and the retained placenta in the farmhouse – he’d had to remove it manually there and then, and the noise the woman made had gone right through his head – and then to cap it all the negro – interesting case, of course, and very good experience – had gone off almost before he’d had time to so much as change his shirt.

  But he was in his element, and knew it. In charge again, making the decisions, acting on them. Knowing all the time there was nothing else for it anyway. The negro woman was particularly challenging, of course; he had had so little experience with forceps, particularly these new ones. But he had seen others like them used often enough, and knew the theory as well as anyone. And as they had said at medical school: see one, do one, teach one.

  And besides there was no real alternative. This way was suffering and possibly life; the other, suffering and certain death, for both parties, as he’d explained to the husband – decent young cove, taking it like the ex-soldier he was.

  ‘The baby’s stuck, d’you see? Got his head facing the wrong way, and he can’t turn it. So I come along, use the forceps to turn it round for him. Out he pops – d’you see?’

  The soldier looking very sick at this, poor sod, as well he might. And of course there was still no guarantee that the child would deliver alive. But it had all gone pretty well. Thank the Lord for twilight sleep though, after the ear-splitting racket in the farmhouse. Perhaps too it was true about negresses, that they were built more strongly than white women, made of tougher coarser stuff: the good deep cut hadn’t bled too much, and each blade of the forceps slipped in as easy as you like.

  Locked together.

  Hand like a lacemaker’s, grip like a sailor’s. Medical school stuff again.

  Turn.

  Turn into full rotation, with your keen sailor’s grip. Damage yes obviously to the surrounding parts but no omelette without breaking eggs, and there: the thing was done. Finally, the moulded head in descent at last, a head all caput, like Nefertiti’s hat; and then almost at once the whole limp blue body of the child had delivered in a feeble gush of blackened waters, and Wainwright had promptly dived in to make herself useful, taking it away while he was busy with the rest.

  So intent he hardly heard the cry at first! But he had to turn round, just to see. Cheerful sight, pink – well, pinkish, as Wainwright pointed out, you could hardly expect a proper colour considering – and screaming like a good ’un. He’d done it. Delivered a live child. Saved a – yes, saved a life. Saved two.

  For a moment then he was almost unmanned. Felt something almost give inside him. But he caught himself at it, and told himself what was what, and got back to work again.

  I entered the abode of Mr and Mrs Joseph Gilder with every good intention. Live and let live is my motto. It is true there were regrettable misunderstandings almost from the start. I was not aware that the patient, Mrs Gilder, had arranged for personal care from Dr Summers. It seemed obvious to me that Mr Gilder did not have available means. I therefore did not immediately summon him, though of course as it turns out he would not have been able to attend the patient anyway, due to his indisposition. However I did my best to reassure the patient. It was clear to me that her labour was not going to be a short or easy one, as the baby was posterior and the head not yet fully engaged. I did not tell her this, whatever her ‘mother’ may claim. It is true that I advised the patient to lie down safely on the bed, and that Mrs Dimond took it upon herself to argue with this elementary nursing care.

  It is true I did not stay with the patient throughout her labour. There was never any question of my doing so. I had other patients to deal with and so did my colleague Sister Goodrich. As is normal practice I made several brief visits throughout the first day until labour was sufficiently advanced for the patient to require full attention.

  I was not at all happy with the continued presence in the room of Mrs Dimond, and finally was forced to request that she leave. I did so politely, however, especially as the patient herself, poor creature, clearly drew some comfort from her presence, and indeed begged me not to send her ‘mother’ away. Under these circumstances I departed from my own best practice and allowed Mrs Dimond to re-enter, on condition that she did not make any further attempt to interfere in the case. I made these conditions privately, not in the patient’s hearing; and Mrs Dimond agreed to them.

  I make no comment on the patient’s later refusal to allow me to attend her. She had by then been in strong labour for some considerable time. Also there is the racial difference. I dare say she is unable to account for many of her decisions herself. It is well known that these people are less rational under most circumstances, and in adversity much more prone than the European to complete moral collapse.

  He slept all that first day, Sunday, as it turned out, then all the following night, and got to work next day on time still half-asleep, though they’d been very good about it, joshing him a little about fatherhood, and congratulating him, and Mrs Lavery had iced a cake with a little picture of a stork on it, and there was genial talk about wetting the baby’s head
. Squaring all that with what had happened to Gracie, at home and in the hospital, made as much sense as the old first night on leave from the Front, when you caught a train from deathly chaos, nipped across the Channel, went straight out dancing and heard someone complaining about the band, or that their chicken was a bit stringy.

  Everyone at the bakery seemed to think that things were fine and dandy. But then, surely they were? It had been worse than anything he could possibly have foreseen, but it was over, and Grace would get better, and the baby was alright too, and she was so happy about that.

  After work he went to the cottage hospital. It was Monday 15th September, 1919, just on six in the evening, and a beautiful warm evening, the light golden.

  Mrs Gilder was in a private room, they said, two doors down, to the right. Visiting time until seven sharp if he pleased; one visitor at a time only.

  He went down the corridor pointed out to him and knocked at the right door. Violet opened it, until he saw that it was Bea.

  ‘Alright?’

  Bea nodded. For once she seemed to have nothing to say, and took herself off; immediately he forgot all about her. He went round the foot of the bed to the other side. He had flowers with him, a bunch of something Mrs Lavery had put into his hands as he left, little purple things a bit like daisies.

  ‘Hello, my lovely,’ he said, and bent to kiss her cheek.

  She lay very still in the bed, and hardly opened her eyes, but she smiled at his touch.

  ‘How you feeling?’ he whispered.

  There was a pause before she said, ‘Sleepy,’ still with a faint smile.

  ‘You’re worn out,’ he said.

  ‘See him … see … the baby …’ she murmured.

  That made him sit up. He had forgotten the baby again. But there it was on the other side of the bed; he stood up, saw the cradle.

  ‘Oh aye.’

  ‘No … get him, pick him up, give him here, they won’t let me.’