Jennifer Worth - Call The Midwife - A True Story Of The East End In The 1950S

Eclampsia is as much a mystery today as it was fifty years ago. It was, and still is, thought to be caused by some defect in the placenta. But nothing has been proven, even though thousands of placentas must have been examined by researchers attempting to isolate this supposed “defect”.

Sally’s case was typical of pre-eclampsia. Had she not been diagnosed, and received prompt and expert treatment, her condition could have led to eclampsia. But the simple treatment that I have described - total rest and sedation - may have averted its development.

Margaret, who died in that ghastly way, had a very rare onset of sudden, violent eclampsia, with no warning signs, and no preeclamptic phase. I have never seen another such case, but they do still occur occasionally.

Pre-eclampsia and eclampsia are still leading causes of maternal and perinatal mortality in the UK, in spite of modern antenatal care. What befell the women with pre-eclampsia when there was no antenatal care? It does not take a great deal of imagination to answer that one. Yet doctors who advocated the study of and provision for proper antenatal care were regarded, one hundred years ago, as eccentrics and time-wasters. The same attitude poured scorn on the idea of a structured and regulated training for midwives.

Let those of us who have borne children thank God that those days are now past.

A convent is essentially a female establishment. However, of necessity, the male of the species cannot be excluded entirely. Fred was the boiler-man and odd-jobber of Nonnatus House. He was typical of the Cockney of his day and age. Stunted growth, short bowed legs, powerful hairy arms, pugnacious, obstinate, resourceful; all these attributes were combined with endless chat and irrepressible good humour. His most striking characteristic was a spectacular squint. One eye was permanently directed north-east, whilst the other roved in a south-westerly direction. If you add to this the single yellow tooth jutting from his upper jaw, which he generally held over his lower lip and sucked, you would not say he was a beautiful specimen of manhood. However, so delightful was his optimism, good humour and artless self-confidence that the Sisters held him in great affection, and leaned on him heavily for all practical matters. Sister Julienne had a particularly strong line in helpless feminine appeal, “Oh Fred, the window in the upper bathroom won’t close. I’ve tried and tried, but it’s no use. Do you think ...? If you can find time, that is ...?”

Of course Fred could find time. For Sister Julienne he would have found time to move the Albert Docks. Sister Julienne was deeply grateful, and praised his skill and expertise. The fact that the window in the upstairs bathroom was fixed permanently closed from that time onwards was no inconvenience, and not mentioned by anyone.

The only person who did not respond with delight to Fred’s particular brand of Cockney charm was Mrs B., who was a Cockney herself, had seen it all before, and was not impressed. Mrs B. was Queen of the Kitchen. She worked from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. each day, and produced superb food for us. She was an expert in steak and kidney pies, thick stews, savoury mince, toad-in-the-hole, treacle puddings, jam roly-poly, macaroni puddings and so on, as well as baking the best bread and cakes you could find anywhere. She was a large lady with formidable frontage, and a particular glare as she growled, “Nah then - don’ chew mess up my kitchen.” As the kitchen was the meeting-point for all staff when we came in, often tired and hungry, this remark was frequently heard. We girls were very docile and respectful, especially as we had learned from experience that flattery usually resulted in a tart or a wedge of cake straight from the oven.

Fred, however, was not so easily tamed. For one thing, the orientation of his eyes being what it was, he genuinely could not see the mess he was making; for another, Fred was not going to kowtow to anyone. He would grin at Mrs B. wickedly, suck his tooth, slap her ample bottom, and chuckle, “Come off it, old girl.” Mrs B.’s glare would turn into a shout, “You ge’ out of my kitchen you ugly mug, and stay ou’.” Unfortunately Fred couldn’t stay out, and she knew it. The coke stove was in the kitchen, and he was responsible for stoking it, raking it out, opening and shutting the flues, and generally keeping it in good order. As Mrs B. did much of her cooking, and all of her baking, on that stove, she knew that she was dependent on him. So a strained truce prevailed between them. Only occasionally - about twice a week - a shouting match erupted. I noticed with interest that during these altercations neither of them swore - no doubt this was out of respect for the nuns. Had they been in any other environment, I felt sure the air would have been blue with obscenities.

Fred’s duties were morning and evening for boiler stoking and extra time by arrangement for odd jobs. He came in seven days a week for the boiler, and the job suited him very well. It was a steady job, but it also allowed him plenty of time to pursue the other activities he had built up over the years.

Fred lived with his unmarried daughter Dolly in the lower two rooms of a small house backing on to the docks. He had been called up during the war but, due to his eyesight, had been unable to enter the armed services. He was therefore consigned to the Pioneer Corps, where, if Fred is to be believed, he spent six years serving King and Country by cleaning out latrines.

Compassionate leave was granted to him in 1942, when his wife and three of their six children were killed by a direct hit. He was able to spend a little time with his three living children, who were shocked and traumatised, in a hostel in North London before they were evacuated to Somerset, and he was ordered back to the latrines.

After the war, he took two cheap rooms and brought up the remains of his family single-handed. It was never easy for him to find a regular job, because his eyesight was erratic, and because he would not commit himself to be away from home for long hours - he knew that his children needed him. So he had developed a wide range of money-making activities, some of which were legal.

Whilst we, the lay staff, took our breakfast in the kitchen, Fred was generally attending to his boiler, so there was plenty of opportunity to press him for stories, which we did unashamedly, being young and inquisitive. For his part Fred would always oblige, as he clearly loved spinning his yarns, often prefaced by, “You’re never going to believe this one.” A laughing audience of four young girls was music to his ears. Young girls will laugh at anything!

One of his regular jobs, and the best paid he assured us, as it was highly skilled, was that of a cooper’s barrel bottom knocker for Whitbreads the brewer. Trixie, the sceptic, snapped, “I’ll knock your bottom for you”, but Chummy swallowed it whole and said gravely, “Actually, it sounds frightfully interesting. Do tell us more.” Fred liked Chummy, and called her “Lofty”.

“Well, these here beer barrels, like, they’ve gotta be sound, like, and the only way of testin’ ’em is by knockin’ the bottoms and listening. If it comes up wiv one note, it’s sound. If it comes up wiv anover, it’s faul’y. See? Easy, bu’ I can tell you, it takes years of experience.”

We had seen Fred in the market selling onions, but did not know that he grew them. Having the ground floor of a small house gave him a small garden, which was given over to onions. He had tried potatoes - “no money in spuds” - but onions proved to be a money-maker. He also kept chickens and sold the eggs, and the birds as well. He wouldn’t sell to a butcher, “I’m not ’aving no one take ’alf the profits”, but sold directly to the market. He wouldn’t take a stall either, “I’m not paying no bleedin’ rent to the council”, and laid a blanket on the floor in any space available, selling his onions, eggs and chickens from there.