The Forget-Me-Not Girl

by Sheila Newberry

  The assistant matron met Emma at the door when she arrived, bag in hand. She was very pleasant, but obviously worried about the young woman in labour. ‘I’ll just put you in the picture, Mrs Meehan, before I take you to the infirmary, where the patient is in the isolation ward,’ she said. ‘This young woman was sleeping rough in a local barn, and the farmer’s wife, seeing her condition, contacted us and we took her in, because it was obvious she would soon give birth. I can’t even tell you her name, and it seems she is a vagrant. She must have been wandering for some time and is in a filthy condition, which is why she is isolated, as we follow Nurse Florence Nightingale’s rules here regarding cleanliness. Our nurse here is very efficient but she is young and unmarried, and the patient, well, she struck out at her – nurse was very charitable and put it down to the pain. She tried to give her a bed bath, but the patient would not allow it.’

  ‘Have you any of the old portable baths? And a basin for me to wash my hands frequently?’ Emma asked. ‘We will need gallons of hot water, Lysol, soap, washing cloths and some big towels, a nightgown and a bristle hairbrush for our patient, as no doubt her hair will be tangled. If you provide a screen, she can be bathed in privacy. Hopefully, a bath will provide some relief from the pain and will help the baby on its way.’

  ‘Will you need the nurse’s help?’

  ‘Only if I call out for it. Nurse should make the bed ready for the birth, so the patient can be returned there after she is cleansed. The doctor will be calling later after completing his rounds.’

  The young woman in the isolation ward turned her face to the pillow when she became aware that the midwife was looking down at her. Gently, Emma took hold of her left hand and felt her pulse. The patient said nothing, but she tensed up as another pain struck her swollen abdomen.

  ‘You may call me Emma,’ she said to her. ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear, I will be with you until after you have had your baby. Would you tell me your name? Trust me, I am your friend.’

  ‘Thyrza,’ she managed; she had a local accent.

  ‘That’s a lovely name, from the Bible, isn’t it? My sisters all have names like that, but I – well I was first called Emily, but then my mother decided on Emma. Have you come a long way from home?’

  The girl turned her face then and opened her eyes. Emma was still holding her hand. ‘It seems like that, but I got lost and I – I slept rough, and then I couldn’t ask the way because folk pretended not to see me.’

  ‘Where did you wish to go?’

  ‘I – was trying to find the Bridewell.’

  ‘Prison?’ Emma prompted her. ‘To visit someone there?’

  ‘He – laboured on the farm where I was a scullery maid. My mistress threw me out when she guessed I was – in trouble – and she shouted that I was a slut and he was a thief. She’d heard he’d ended up there, and said it was the best place for him – and me.’

  ‘Did he know you were expecting a child?’

  ‘Course he did, that’s why he went off one night and took the master’s cash box with all the wages in it.’ The girl was weeping now, and she was struggling to sit up.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Emma assured her. ‘But now, will you allow me to bath you behind that screen? You can’t bring a baby into the world unless you are clean, you know, and especially . . .’ She hesitated. ‘When the baby is born you could pass on any infection and endanger both the baby and yourself. Have you heard of childbed fever? Not many afflicted mothers survive that.’

  Emma’s mentors had stressed the need for constant washing of her own hands because in earlier times, puerperal fever was sometimes caused by nurses unaware of the importance of this practice during childbirth. The death rate was high. Three days after giving birth the mother would develop a high temperature, severe headaches, abdominal pain and vomiting, which inevitably led to peritonitis and septicaemia.

  ‘I’m sorry – I haven’t been able to wash for days,’ Thyrza whispered. This was obvious, for the dirt had become ingrained in places on her body.

  ‘We will have to burn your clothes and the linen from this bed. Nurse will disinfect the mattress and you will have a nightgown provided after the bath. Can you manage the few steps to the bath?

  It may not smell too nice because we use Lysol to kill the germs.’

  Emma helped the girl out of bed and supported her across the room. She was wearing a protective apron, her sleeves were rolled up, but her hands were bare, and she would scrub them well before she delivered the baby. She was concerned to discover, when the clothes were discarded and wrapped in newspaper for the porter to take away and incinerate, that her patient had bow legs, meaning she had suffered rickets as a child, as many from poor families did. This, Emma had learned during her training, often meant distortion of the pelvis in women and was probably the reason for the long labour.

  Once in the hip bath, Thyrza’s head was carefully positioned so that her hair could be washed with a solution of softened green soap and rinsed in a bowl of clean warm water, as it was believed that hair could harbour germs and must not be washed in the bath water. A small towel was wound round the damp hair. Emma mouthed to the nurse, ‘Not lousy, thank goodness.’ Then she helped Thyrza from the bath, while the nurse held out a big towel to wrap her in. They sat her on a chair, and this time the girl did not demur when the nurse aided in the drying process and helped her into a voluminous flannel nightgown. Then Emma applied the hairbrush to Thyrza’s hair, now restored to its normal colour. She was fair-haired and blue-eyed like many Norfolk girls, though she lacked their rosy plump cheeks. ‘Norfolk dumplings’ was not used in a derogatory sense, but affectionately.

  Thyrza’s face contorted as they laid her back in the clean bed; the mattress was covered with brown paper to protect it during the birth.

  ‘The pains are regular now,’ Emma observed. She went to change her apron and scrub her hands yet again. It was now early evening, and she thought of her children coming in from school. Was she expecting too much of her eldest daughter? At least it was still light, and they could play in the garden until supper time. Immi could cope.

  The screen was now round the bed and a familiar voice signalled the doctor’s arrival. ‘You have done well, Emma, as always,’ he complimented her.

  ‘Nurse was very helpful, and the patient has accepted her now,’ Emma said.

  The warm bath had done the trick and the doctor advised Emma as with gentle massage, she carefully manoeuvred the baby’s position in the birth canal. The only relief on offer to the mother was ether – a few drops on a cloth, pressed to the nostrils was administered to dull the pain. Chloroform was not generally used, and only by doctors, as midwives were not permitted to do so. However, when Thyrza became agitated and cried, ‘No – no!’ Emma couldn’t help recalling another mother who refused this help, saying, ‘I was told we have to suffer pain, that God punishes us like this because Eve sinned in the Garden of Eden. Our minister do tell us the pain make you love your baby more.’

  ‘I can’t do it!’ Poor Thyrza screamed. Suddenly the baby emerged and Emma caught it.

  Emma cried, ‘You have, Thyrza, you have! Your little daughter is here!’

  Later, as the exhausted new mother cuddled her baby in her arms for the first time, she asked Emma, ‘Can I call her after you?’

  Emma’s back was aching, she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, but she smiled happily and said, ‘Oh, I would love you to do so!’

  ‘I’ll take you home, Emma,’ the doctor offered. He looked at Thyrza with her tiny baby. ‘I will make enquiries at Bridewell about – what was his name?’

  ‘Reuben, I never knew his surname – oh, thank you, sir,’ the girl said.

  Emma wondered if she would see the girl and her baby again; she would not be calling in daily for two weeks after the delivery as she did with her local patients, because the staff at the workhouse would resume care of their charge. As they left the workhouse, Emma said to the doctor, ‘The man responsible may deny he
knew her, of course.’ The workhouse seemed to be a better place than it was when her siblings had been there, but she wondered what would become of the young mother and her baby.

  Later she related the story of her day to Sarah, as some of it was not for the ears of young daughters.

  ‘I’m glad you are seeing the workhouse in a better light,’ Sarah said. ‘But some things haven’t changed. The unmarried mothers have to earn their keep, like the rest of the residents, and she won’t have long with her baby. Babies are separated from their mothers and are looked after in a nursery. Some of them will grow up there, and, like your sisters, they will be found positions once they are old enough.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that,’ Emma said. ‘It’s not right to take a child from its mother . . .’

  ‘Some of them, Emma, are very young and not capable of caring for their babies,’ Sarah said sadly. ‘At least the children are well-fed and go to school while they are at Wicklewood.’

  A month later, Emma heard that the girl had vanished from the workhouse, leaving her baby behind. Enquiries at Bridewell revealed that Reuben had been released from prison around the same time. Whether they were reunited, Emma would never know. ‘Perhaps,’ TF said, trying to allay her fears for Thyrza’s safety, ‘she didn’t want to leave her baby behind, but did it for the best. She knew the baby would be well-fed and cared for.’

  Emma never forgot Thyrza and she said a little prayer for her most nights.

  *

  Several months after she had started midwifery, Emma decided to embark on a venture suggested by her husband. She intended to hold a monthly meeting for first-time expectant mothers to encourage them to learn about childbirth and how to care for their babies.

  ‘Try the Quakers, they have a meeting hall and they would be likely to let you have meetings there,’ Sarah advised. ‘Would an hour be long enough? TF doesn’t see enough of you as it is.’

  ‘You are right to remind me of that,’ Emma replied, ‘But he supports me, I know.’

  The first meeting was on a Wednesday afternoon. There were about two dozen expectant mothers, and a wide spectrum of ages, from fourteen to fifty years old. The older woman certainly was not a first-time mother, Emma knew, and she sensed she had come to make trouble. Sarah came along to take notes as Emma spoke to everyone present before she gave her lecture, which TF had helped her to prepare.

  It was a shock to both Emma and Sarah to discover that these young girls were often servants in more affluent households and had been taken advantage of either by their mistress’s husband or by a son of the house. Most of these girls had been summarily dismissed for ‘bad behaviour’, but as Emma would say indignantly later, ‘It is obvious who is to blame, but nothing can be done, and nothing can be said.’ However, most of the girls returned home to careworn mothers and were loved by their families, who would take on the babies also, when they arrived.

  ‘Their mothers are partly to blame,’ Sarah whispered to Emma, when they were getting ready for the lecture. ‘They are not aware of the facts of life, despite coming from big families. Did your mother tell you?’

  ‘I have to admit, she didn’t, but we learned a lot from the Bible, didn’t we – all that begetting, eh?’ Emma murmured ruefully.

  She began the lecture with a question and answer session. ‘Who knows where babies come from?’

  The mothers-to-be looked at each other, but only one spoke up. ‘I know how you get to expect a baby, but, miss, I dussn’t know where it comes out.’

  Emma was spared the explanation, because the fifty-year-old mother of six grown children spoke up. ‘Where it went in,’ she said baldly. The girls sat in embarrassed silence.

  ‘Thank you, Annie,’ Emma said.

  Annie was not to be silenced. ‘And don’t you believe drinking a bottle of gin while in a hot bath will get rid on it cos it didn’t do that for me!’

  Sarah saw Emma’s shocked expression and stepped into the breach. ‘We know that the young mothers-to-be here this afternoon wish to keep their babies and look after them well. Listen to Emma, she certainly won’t recommend gin.’ She turned to the older woman. ‘Perhaps you would like to help me make the tea now, so we can all have a cup after Mrs Meehan has given her talk.’

  The woman followed her reluctantly into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t mean—’ she began.

  ‘I don’t think that’s true, and you too need help and advice, Annie. Emma will not judge you, she never does, so listen when she speaks to you, please. Now, how many cups do we need?’

  Later, Annie would confess that it had been a shock to her to realise she was pregnant again just when she believed she was ‘past it’. She said, ‘I’ve got four grandchildren, after all.’

  ‘Are you sure you are expecting?’ Emma asked. ‘You need the doctor to confirm it.’

  The woman gave a sigh. ‘I know . . . and I know it ain’t a good thing to have a baby late in life like this . . .’ She sighed again. ‘And I had an almighty hangover after drinking mother’s ruin.’

  *

  When Emma relayed all this to TF later, he said, ‘I always felt, well, guilty when you told me we were having another baby, Emma. I know we welcomed every single one of ours, after losing little Gussie, but one day someone will work out how to limit the number of children a mother bears.’

  ‘I looked on our children as a blessing, not a burden, Tom.’

  ‘So did I, but then a father doesn’t go through all that, as a mother does.’ He paused, and then said softly. ‘Could you manage on your own, dear Emma?’

  ‘Of course I could! I work now, don’t I? And I have Immi—’

  ‘Her health may let her down, Emma, you must realise that. I know my time with you is limited, and I regret that, but our love will always be part of us.’ The children had gone to bed. He held out his arms to her. ‘Time to stop talking and put the light out.’ Every moment together was precious now, he knew.

  *

  Annie didn’t appear at the meetings after that, but Emma kept in touch with her, and after she was allowed at last to examine her, she was perplexed for she could not discern a heartbeat from the baby. She encouraged Annie to attend the surgery and waited for her while she was with the doctor. The terrible truth was revealed: Annie was not expecting a baby at all; she had a large tumour in her abdomen. It was unlikely anything could be done, and Emma had to console her as best she could.

  Just before Christmas, Annie was taken to the infirmary, and passed away shortly afterwards.

  Emma was invited to the wake, but Sarah warned her that the widower had spent the insurance money his wife had saved for many years on several bottles of gin. Within a few months Annie’s husband had taken up with a younger woman and moved away, and Emma realised that what had seemed an unlikely friendship was no more.

  She remembered Annie’s blunt answer to the question about where the baby would emerge, and what one of the young mothers had said when she attended her confinement. ‘At least I know that the baby isn’t coming out of my belly button, as most of us thought before Annie put us right!’

  *

  At the cottage, TF now slept on the daybed at night as well as during the day. If Emma arrived home late after attending a confinement, she shed her shoes and top clothes and joined him for a cuddle. This could lead to something more. It was not a passionate experience, as in the earlier days of their marriage, but a comfort to them both. After a precious half hour, she would reluctantly leave him and make her way up the steep stairs to the loneliness of what had been their shared room. Before she climbed into bed, she checked on the children. Immi would whisper, ‘Are you all right, Mother?’ and Emma kissed her beloved daughter and said softly, ‘Yes, I am. See you in the morning.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  1878

  A year after she began her work in Wymondham, Emma discovered that she would need a midwife herself in a few months’ time.

  Charles Edwin was named after their two good friends, but
known as Ted. Emma worked right up to the day he was born, and it was a quick and easy birth as Ted was not as large as Tommy and Ernie were when they came into the world. Emma’s colleague had been called to another patient, so it was a wide-eyed Immi who looked after her mother until her Aunt Sarah arrived. Immi was thirteen, but capable, as Emma had been at her age.

  ‘He’s so small, Mother,’ Immi said, cradling the baby in her arms as Sarah made Emma comfortable.

  ‘I’ll take him downstairs – very carefully, I promise,’ Sarah said, ‘to show him to his dada.’

  TF sat on the edge of the daybed. He was unable to climb the stairs, but he had listened for the call. ‘It’s a boy!’ Sarah said, as she laid the baby on the pillow beside him. ‘He has your fair hair – see?’

  He gently smoothed the baby’s still damp flaxen head. ‘Mine is more silver these days, as you will have noticed. Alice will be pleased he takes after her – is he smiling, or was that a grimace?’

  The door burst open and Alice, Tommy and Ernie rushed in. ‘Don’t frighten the baby!’ Sarah warned them. ‘He’s only one hour old!’

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ Ernie demanded, his lower lip trembling. He was five years old and had just started school, and would rather have been at home with his parents and Immi.

  ‘Mother is resting. Immi will be down to make your tea, and then you can see her.’

  ‘What’s the baby called?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Ted,’ his smiling father replied. He lifted the baby, kissed the top of his head and passed him back to Sarah. ‘Time to take him back to his mother. Tell her I love her and will see her soon. I wish I could get upstairs, but the doctor has forbidden it.’

  ‘Ted has the same colour hair as me!’ Alice cried triumphantly. ‘He’s not ginger like Ernie!’