Authors: Jennifer Worth

Farewell to the East End (31 page)

BOOK: Farewell to the East End

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I have seen much mutilation and two deaths. The first was a girl of nineteen whose internal mucosa and cervix had been burned by a carbolic acid or some other caustic solution used during a flushing-out abortion. There was little we could do, and she lingered for a while, but she was in constant agony and died after a few days.

I recall another tragic woman, the mother of five children, who developed a massive sac of pus in the peritoneum after a surgical abortion. We tried to drain it without success, and for many weeks pus oozed from her abdomen. The five children coming into hospital just before their mother died can never be forgotten.

The Criminal Abortion Act 1803 was repealed in 1967. Knowing that I had been a midwife I was sometimes asked if I approved of it or not. My reply was that I did not regard it as a moral issue, but as a medical issue. A minority of women will always want an abortion. Therefore it must be done properly.
¹³

STRANGER THAN FICTION

Life, my dear Watson, is infinitely stranger than fiction; stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We could not conceive the things that are merely commonplace to existence. If we could hover over this great city, remove the roofs, and peep in at the things going on, it would make all fiction, with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions flat, stale, and unprofitable.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A couple of months passed, and Hilda was just about able to cope with her household again, but the constant clamour of young children, incessant washing, endless meals to prepare and above all the squalid surroundings were dragging her down. She became more and more depressed, irritable with the children and quiet with Bill. He hadn’t seen her like this before. They had always had fun together. Now she was a woman who hardly spoke. Sometimes he wondered what he had done wrong. He’d always been a good husband and a good father – or he’d tried to be – he’d always brought his money home, not like some of the blokes who drank all their money, and then beat their wives for not cooking a hot dinner for them.

Hilda roused herself and went to the Council. She was going to have it out with them. But she could have saved herself the effort. No four-bedroom houses or flats were available. They were scheduled for building next year, and the Hardings would be informed. Yes, they were top of the list, and they would be the first to be offered a place. In the meantime ...

In the meantime, Hilda came close to throwing herself under a bus. But suicide is not so easy, and she balked at the actual fact of doing it. Life dragged on.

Another couple of weeks passed, and something strange was happening in Hilda’s body. At first she thought it was wind, and she took a dose of Epsom Salts. After a good clear-out, it seemed to settle down, and she thought no more of it. But a week later it came back, and then again with added emphasis. She put her hands on her tummy, and at that instant felt an unmistakable kick. With horror and disbelief the truth dawned upon her: the bleeding she had experienced must have come from a rupture to an artery, and the abortion achieved with so much pain and suffering, not to mention expense, had been a failure. She was still pregnant.

In a furious rage she took the bus to the Commercial Road and knocked on Mrs Prichard’s door. The house was the same, the plush interior the same, Mrs Prichard – overdressed and over-painted – was the same, but gone the welcoming smile, the sympathetic voice, the womanly understanding.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘You fraud. I’m still pregnant.’

‘If you are going to descend to calling names of me, I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘Did you ’ear? I’m still pregnant.’

‘You never was pregnant when I saw you. You had stomach cramps, if you cast your mind back, and I treated you for stomach cramps, with my dear deceased mother’s secret remedies.’

‘You liar. You did an abortion on me.’

‘I did no such thing. And don’t you call me a liar, you dirty little rat-bag.’

‘You did, you stinking liar.’

‘If you use that word again, you can leave my house. I’m a herbalist. I practise ancient remedies, passed on to me by wise women.’

‘Then what did you do at my place, when you nearly killed me?’

‘I came to your stinking hovel out of the kindness of my heart, because you kept a-pesterin’ me with your stomach cramps. In the goodness of my nature, I do occasionally visit clients.’

‘You nearly killed me.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘You did. The pain nearly killed me.’

‘Well you look all right now.’

‘No thanks to you, you bloody butcher.’

‘Ooh, I can’t stand this foul language any longer. I must ask you to be a-leave-taking of.’

‘Not till I get my twenty guineas back.’

‘Twenty guineas! What twenty guineas? I never heard such fairy-tales in all my life. I charged you two guineas for the secret herbal potion as was passed on to me by my dear deceased mother for the efficacious treatment of stomach cramps, remedies as what is known only to the select few.’

‘Damn your dear deceased mother!’

‘Oh, my poor mother. She would turn in her grave.’

Mrs Prichard took a lace handkerchief, and applied it to her mascara-ed eyes. Hilda was beside herself with rage.

‘Are you goin’ to give me back my twenty guineas what you took off me for a bungled abortion?’

‘Excuse I, but I did not take twenty guineas off of you.’

Mrs Prichard walked swiftly to the door, her high-heeled shoes clicking as she walked.

‘Miriam, dear. Come here, will you?’

Miriam entered, strong and silent, and stared hard at Hilda.

‘This, er – lady, shall we say – this lady, Miriam, says that I took twenty guineas off of her. I did not. Did you receive any money, Miriam?

‘No.’

‘There you are, you see. Neither of us took any money off of you. You are fabricating, I’m afraid. I’ve met the likes of you before.’

‘Then what did you do at my place, what nearly killed me?’

‘Don’t exaggerate. We gave you an enema for stomach cramps and left you well and comfortable.’

‘An enema?’

‘An herbal enema. That was all.’

‘But it nearly killed me. I bled like a pig.’

‘Piles, my dear. Piles. If you got piles what bleed in your – er – lower passage, you can hardly hold me responsible. Now, if you will excuse me, I have important work to do. I am expecting her ladyship, Lady Lucrecia, who won’t hear of going to no one else for her migraines and dizzy spells.

‘Damn you, d’you hear me, you painted ol’ sow.’

‘Oh, I have never been so insulted in all my life.’

Mrs Prichard patted her hair, her crimson fingernails fluttering. A gold bangle flashed on her wrist. It was an action calculated to make Hilda feel shabby.

Poor Hilda, clinically depressed, anaemic, weary, worn down by work and worry, still suffering from the pain inflicted by this woman, was sudderly made aware of her seven-year-old utility coat, her down-at-heel shoes, her straggly hair, her swollen hands and broken fingernails. The unspoken taunt drove her beyond the limits of self-control. She lunged out, trying to grab the blonde curls and pull them out by the roots, but Miriam stepped forward quickly and held her. Pinioned she screamed with frustration.

‘You painted bitch, you, with yer false bloody eyelashes, and yer blonde wig and yer la-di-da accent. Yer nuffink but a sly, filthy, thieving ol’ cow.’

‘Oh, this is too much. If my dear deceased husband could hear you, he would defend me.’

‘An’ damn your dear deceased husband, an’ all.’

‘Now you’re insultin’ my hero hubby, Captain Prichard, what died an ’ero’s death at the Battle of Agincourt in the last war. Miriam, show this person out.’

Miriam, strong, silent and menacing, took Hilda’s arm, propelled her towards the street door and pushed her out onto the pavement. Blinded by tears, Hilda dragged herself back to her place – she always used ‘place’ in her mind; ‘flat’ was too posh a word for the dump. She bought four pounds of sausages and a couple of loaves at the corner shop. That would keep them quiet for the evening. ‘Everything OK, Mrs Harding?’ enquired the shopkeeper brightly. Nosy devil, always tittle-tattling, thought Hilda. ‘Yes, everyfink’s OK,’ she said, sullenly. All that pain and suffering, all that time in bed feeling ill – and for nothing. She was back to where she started, and twenty guineas lighter.

In the evening, after the kids had gone to bed, she told Bill that the abortion had been a failure and she was still pregnant. He received the news in silence, drawing deep on his Woodbine. She’d seemed a bit off colour. So that was it.

‘You’re sure, are you?’

‘Quite.’ At least he didn’t seem cross. Resentful, perhaps, but not cross.

‘We’ve got too many kids as it is.’

‘I know.’

‘We can’t do wiv any more.’

‘I know.’

‘Isn’t there anyfink else you can do?’ he asked hopefully, ‘something what’ll get rid of it?’

She sighed. If only he knew what she’d been through.

‘I’ve tried. I’ve done everything I can, an’ I’m still pregnant. There’s nothing for it but to go through with it. I’m sorry, Bill.’

Then he did something surprising, something she had not expected. He took her hand. A simple gesture, but it made all the difference. He squeezed her hand and said, ‘You don’t need to be sorry, duck. It’s my fault, as much as your’n. We’ve always had fun together, you an’ me. That’s the trouble – too much fun.’ He grinned and winked at her. ‘We’ll see it through together. You’ll see. As long as we sticks together, we’ll see it through. There now, don’t cry. Everythings gonna be OK. I’ll go out and fetch a jug of ale. That’ll see you right.’

When he had gone, Hilda dropped her head on the table and sobbed with relief. Just to know that she had the support of her Bill turned the tide of despair into a flood of hope. Nothing had changed, they still had too many children in a slum flat, and she was expecting another, but, as Bill had said, they would see it through together.

The story of Hilda and Bill was told to us by a friend and fellow midwife, Ena, who was attached to the Salvation Army Maternity Hospital in Clapton. The hospital had several district midwifery centres at the time, and Ena was based at the one in Hackney Road, Shoreditch, which bordered on our area. Consequently we often saw each other when we were out on our bikes. Their district was just as busy as ours, but when we had time we would meet and swap yarns. Most midwives in those days had some pretty ripe stories to tell, which provoked peals of laughter, or gasps of dismay from the rest of us, but Ena’s story is the most astonishing and the most macabre that I have ever heard.

She first met the Hardings when there was a knock at the door late one afternoon. Ena opened it and a man stood before her. ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired. He did not say anything but just stood there, cap in hand, turning it round and round. ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked. Still he said nothing. He pulled a packet of Woodbines from his pocket and with shaking fingers opened it and pulled one out. He stuck it in his mouth. ‘Have you come to us for any reason?’ Ena enquired, puzzled. He took a box of matches from his pocket and fumbled with it. His awkward fingers could not seem to pick one up. Ena noticed blood around the edges of his nails. ‘Here, let me help you,’ she said kindly, and took out a match, lit it and held the flame to his cigarette. He inhaled deeply.

‘Now, can I help you?’

‘Is you ve midwife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s come.’

‘What’s come?’

‘Ve baby.’

‘Whose baby?’

‘My wife’s.’

‘Who is your wife?’

‘’ilda. Mrs ’arding.’

‘Is Mrs Harding booked with us?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Let’s get this straight. Your wife, Mrs Harding, has had a baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Abaht quar’er of an hour ago.’

‘You mean it’s just been born?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘At ’ome.’

‘Who was with her?’

‘I was.’ He drew deeply on his fag and spat on the pavement. He seemed ill at ease and would not look at her. Ena was growing increasingly alarmed. A baby born before arrival (a BBA we used to call it) happened occasionally, but usually the midwife had been called in advance and literally could not get there in time.

‘Did you call anyone?’

‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’

He drew on his fag again and chewed his bloodied fingernails. Ena was putting two and two together.

BOOK: Farewell to the East End

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