Read Farewell to the East End Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
Farewell to the East End (13 page)
‘Never mind what Dr Smellie says. Contractions don’t just start and never stop. It’s not possible.’
Mave assumed her martyr’s expression.
‘You don’t understand. I’m dyin’. You don’t care.’
She hung onto her belly and rolled onto her side.
‘Stop all this fuss,’ barked Trixie. ‘You are no more dying than I am. I haven’t seen a contraction since I came into this house.’
‘That’s ’cause you don’t know nuffink. Meg, she says ...’
‘I won’t hear any more about Meg. Now tell me, when did you last open your bowels?’
‘What?’ Mave jerked round to face Trixie.
‘You heard. When?’
‘I’m not sure. Couple of weeks ago, p’raps.’
‘You are constipated. And what did you have for supper?’
‘Gooseberry pie and custard.’
‘Green gooseberries?’
‘Yes. Two ’elpin’s.’
‘Well, that’s the trouble, then. You’ve got gut ache. You’re not in labour at all, you old fraud. Getting me out of bed for a stomach ache!’ Trixie was furious. ‘Do you realise I have been working for forty hours with no sleep, and you wake me up for nothing. I will give you some castor oil and an enema, and then I am going back to my bed and leaving you to get on with it.’
That was the first of many false labours. During the next four weeks, twice a week, Meg called us out. Several times she sent Sid, their husband, with a message of impending disaster. Poor man! He stood cap in hand, his sheep eyes watering with embarrassment, muttering something quite unintelligible. Wearily we had to attend the call to assess the situation, but we knew that we were being led up the garden path. Meg was never grateful, nor even polite. She continued to tell us that we didn’t know our job, and we should read some of the books she had been readin’, an’ Mave should be confined in a darkened room, with a binding on her belly, an’ ’ad we got ve muvver’s caudle an’ ve birfin’ stool, an’ smellin’ salts an’ salt candle, an’ she ’ad jest got a book by Dr Jacob Rueff which was written in Latin in 1554, but she’d got an English translation, called
The Expert Midwife
, which says that ve baby’s cord must be cut with a special knife which was blessed by the Bishop an’ if it’s a baby boy ve cord must be cut long, because as ’e grew up it would make ’is penis long, see, an’ did we know all vis, wha’ she knewed? It was difficult to answer without giggling, and what with Doctors Smellie, Rueff and Coffin, the whole saga became an on-going joke around the big dining table each lunchtime, when we were all assembled together.
The Expert Midwife
, which says that ve baby’s cord must be cut with a special knife which was blessed by the Bishop an’ if it’s a baby boy ve cord must be cut long, because as ’e grew up it would make ’is penis long, see, an’ did we know all vis, wha’ she knewed? It was difficult to answer without giggling, and what with Doctors Smellie, Rueff and Coffin, the whole saga became an on-going joke around the big dining table each lunchtime, when we were all assembled together.
However, quite inadvertently, Meg did us a service, and I, for one, learned a great deal about the horrifying conditions in which women had given birth in previous centuries.
Sid stood at the convent door again. The market had just closed, and he was in his workman’s clothes. He was too conscious of his appearance to step into the hallway. Meekly he handed Trixie a note and muttered, ‘Meg, she says ...’ He shook his head sorrowfully, raised his eyes appealingly and left.
It was just after lunch, morning visits were done, the practice was reasonably quiet, and we had settled down in our sitting room for a nice, peaceful afternoon. Trixie burst in, note in hand.
‘I won’t go. It’s that infernal woman again.’
Cynthia looked up from her book.
‘Try telling that to Sister Julienne.’
‘But it will be another false labour.’
‘Very probably. But you are on first call, and you can’t refuse to go.’
Trixie sighed noisily, defeated by the facts.
‘Well, I won’t stay long, that’s all.’
Grimly she cycled the well-worn path to Mile End. Meg was at the door.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry to say it is.’
‘Well, I ’ope as ’ow you knows what yer doin’ vis time, because Mave’s in labour an’ we don’t want no bunglers.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Trixie drily.
She went upstairs to the bedroom. It was pitch dark inside, so she went straight to the curtains and drew them back. Daylight flooded in.
‘Don’t do that,’ shouted Meg.
‘I must see what I am doing.’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Yes, it will be dangerous if I can’t see.’
‘I mean, a woman in labour must be confined in a dark room.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Don’t you rubbish me.’
‘I will if you talk rubbish. Now I’ve come to look at Mave, not to talk to you.’
She went over to the bed. Mave was sitting up, looking quite comfortable.
‘Meg gets worried. I ’ad a few pains an hour ago, but they’ve gone, an’ I reckons as ’ow you can go home now.’
Trixie ground her teeth crossly.
‘You’ll cry wolf once too often.’
‘Wha’choo mean?’
‘I mean if you carry on like this, you’ll call when you really need us, we won’t believe you, and we won’t come.’
‘That’s negligence,’ shouted Meg.
‘It’ll be your own fault.’
Both women sucked in their breath – ‘shockin’, a disgrace, I tells yer. Vey don’t care, vey don’t. Can’t trust no one.’
Trixie ignored them and sat down beside Mave.
‘I must examine you, and then I shall go. Lie flat, please.’ She palpated the uterus, and could feel a head low down, which satisfied her that the woman was close to full term, but not necessarily in labour. The foetal heart was very vigorous and could be heard in several places. Just then, the uterus tightened, and Mave gave a slight moan. Trixie sat still with her hand on the uterus, and took out her watch, counting about fifty seconds before the tightening relaxed.
Meg opened her mouth to speak, but Trixie silenced her.
‘Would you go and make a cup of tea, please? Mave looks thirsty and needs a drink.’
Meg, grumbling about not being anyone’s servant, left the room.
Trixie sat quietly. Ten minutes later she felt another contraction, slightly stronger than the first.
‘You are in labour, Mave. And this time it is not a false alarm. Your baby will be born today.’
Meg came in with the tea.
‘I’m in labour, Meg. Our baby’ll be born soon.’
Mave looked unusually cheerful, but Meg turned white, and the teacups rattled in the saucers so much that they nearly fell out of her shaking hands.
‘I must go to the telephone on the corner to ring Sister Bernadette,’ said Trixie.
‘You’re not leavin’ ’er. That’s negligence, that is,’ shouted Meg.
‘It would be negligence if I didn’t go. I’ll be back before the next contraction comes. You two have your tea, and you can discuss my negligence while I’m gone.’
Sister Bernadette said she would come straight away. A primigravida of thirty-eight years requires careful treatment. Mave had been told quite categorically that she should have her baby delivered in hospital, but she had refused. The fear of hospitalisation was so entrenched in working-class women of limited education in those days that nothing could shift it. They associated hospitals with the old infirmaries that were converted workhouses. Very likely if she had been taken into hospital, Mave would have been so tense and terrified that the psychological strain would have had a damaging effect on labour. So a home delivery, with an experienced midwife and if possible a doctor present, was the best compromise.
Trixie returned to the bedroom, which was in darkness again. She went over to the curtains to draw them back, but Meg stopped her.
‘She’s gotta be in a dark room.’
‘She has not.’
‘She must. Ve book, it says ...’
‘I don’t care what your old book says. I’m in charge here, not you.’
Quite a tussle ensued, but the curtains were finally drawn back, filling the room with daylight. Mave was sitting up in bed looking quite fit and cheerful, but Meg was hovering around, grumbling under her breath and throwing nasty looks at Trixie.
‘If you two have finished your tea,’ said Trixie, ‘you can take the cups away. I want to prepare my equipment for a delivery.’
Meg took the cup and saucer from Mave and stared into it. She gasped, and stared harder, then went deathly pale and trembled all over. The cup fell from her hand and shattered into pieces on the floor. She moaned, ‘Oh no, no, no,’ and fell against the wardrobe, half fainting. Trixie grabbed her arm.
‘Hold on! Steady. What’s the matter with you?’
Meg seemed unable to speak.
‘You had better get out of here.’
Trixie led her to the door. The woman looked stricken and clung to her arm for support.
Finally Meg found her voice. ‘It’s an omen, an evil omen.’
‘What is?’
‘Ve tea leaves. An’ then ve cup breakin’. It’s bad. Bad. I ain’t seen worse.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Vey never lie. Never.’
‘Who don’t?’
‘It’s an omen. Bad, I tells yer. Ve tea leaves never lie.’
Sister Bernadette arrived, required to see Mave at once, and said that the doctor would come as soon as he had finished his surgery. She examined Mave vaginally and assessed an os two fingers dilated with a foetal head low down, anterior presentation. The foetal heart was strong, the mother relaxed and cheerful. Mave looked happier than she had been throughout pregnancy.
By contrast, Meg was going to pieces. She hovered in the doorway, whimpering and moaning. Her face was the colour of one of her old books. Whenever Mave had a contraction, Meg groaned and rolled her eyes and many times looked near to collapsing. She moaned ‘Vis is goin’ to kill ’er, vis is. She can’t stand it. She’s got a weak constitooshun. You gotta do somefink – it can’t go on like vis. The omens are bad.’
Quietly but firmly Sister Bernadette ordered her to leave the delivery room. Meg wailed and whined, but just for once Mave did not agree with her. She looked at Sister Bernadette and nodded. Then she said, ‘You go, Meg. I’ll be all right without you.’
Labour was progressing normally. Sister Bernadette and Trixie settled down to waiting and watching. Sister took out her breviary and said her evening office. Time ticked by. The doctor came, saw that things were going well and said that he had a few evening visits to make, but would return after they were completed. Trixie showed him to the door.
Returning through the living room, she heard strange sounds coming from the kitchen, so she looked round the door. The kitchen was filled with a weird greenish-yellow light. Smoke was coming from a burner and she spied Meg dressed from head to foot in a long green robe. A green scarf covered her head, pulled down low over her brow. Her face was white, and dark circles surrounded black, black eyes. She did not see Trixie, so engrossed was she in her activity.
Meg the gypsy was dealing out cards. She was cutting the pack methodically, laying down four cards face upwards, slowly and deliberately, then cutting the pack again. She was muttering, ‘Death! I see it. Mortuary. Coffin. Grave.’ Then she would shuffle the cards and cut again. ‘Ve same. Always ve same. Them cards never lie.’ She shuffled again, and laid down four different cards, and lastly, slowly, fearfully, cut the pack once more. Her skin shone with a ghastly greenish light. ‘Ve same. First, ve teacup, now ve cards, vey cannot lie. Death. Death.’ Her head fell forwards onto her arms, and the cards slithered across the floor.
MAVE THE MOTHER
The atmosphere in the delivery room was quiet and cheerful. Sister Bernadette had a presence. She was a young woman of about thirty to thirty-five, deeply religious, and her monastic vocation filled her with happiness. She was also a highly professional nurse and midwife. She radiated control, confidence and calm, which had a soothing effect on any woman with whom she was working. Mave looked quite different. Her martyred air had gone, her eyes were bright, and she seemed excited. Contractions were regular, every ten minutes. Sister had given Mavis a dose of castor oil, and Trixie had shaved her and given her an enema (the required practice in those days).
The doctor returned at 9 p.m. and agreed that he would stay. General practitioners, although they were not trained obstetricians, were the first point of call for a midwife. In fact, a medical student’s training involved 50 per cent clinical experience in hospital under an obstetrician and 50 per cent district midwifery under a midwife. Consequently the general practitioner, unless he had a great deal of experience, frequently knew less about childbirth than the midwife. This could sometimes lead to a strained situation, particularly if the midwife did not trust the doctor’s judgement. But we were fortunate. The Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus had been practising for so long in the East End of London, with such a good record, that all the local doctors respected their judgement.
Mave was sleeping lightly between contractions, having had a dose of chloral hydrate. At 11 p.m. the waters broke. Sister prepared to do a vaginal examination, but with the next contraction the head was visible. She told Trixie to scrub up and to take the delivery.
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