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

“That’s a lovely noise,” observed Sister. “A few more screams like that will make me happy.”

The baby obliged, and screamed lustily.

The cord was clamped and cut, and the baby wrapped in warm dry towels and handed to Betty.

“Oh she’s lovely,” exclaimed Betty, “bless ’er li’l heart. She’s worth all the pain in the world.”

It’s a miracle, I thought. The mother literally forgets the agony she has been through the moment she holds her baby.

“It’s Christmas Day,” remarked Betty. “We must call her Carol.”

“That’s a lovely name,” said Sister. “Now we must get the placenta out, and I think you had better stay where you are because there is a tear, as I thought, and it will be easier for the doctor to stitch you up in this position.”

Doctor was drawing up a syringe and said to Sister: “I am going to give ergometrine now, to promote the expulsion of the placenta.”

She nodded.

I did not ask why. It was not normal practice to give ergometrine in those days, unless there was undue delay of the third stage, or severe bleeding, or an incomplete placenta. As I noted earlier, oxytocic drugs may be given routinely today, immediately after delivery of the baby.

Within a couple of minutes a contraction came on, and the placenta plopped out into the kidney dish held by the Sister.

“Right, I’ll hand over to you, doctor.” she said. You can take my place, now.”

This was easier said than done though. Sister tried to get up, but couldn’t. She gave a gasp of pain.

“My legs! I can’t feel them. I’ve got pins and needles.”

Not surprising, poor thing! She had been kneeling on the floor for over half an hour, in the same position, concentrating wholly on the work she was doing.

“I can’t move. You’ll have to help me, my legs have completely gone to sleep.”

The gallant doctor put his arms round her and pulled. She must have been a dead weight, because he made no impression. Ivy and I joined in, pushing and pulling. We were all laughing. Eventually we hoisted Sister to her feet, and got her stamping and moving her legs. Bit by bit the circulation and the nerve supply restored the function, and she was able to stand without help.

The doctor opened his suture case and scrubbed up again. He asked me to hold his torch, so that he had a direct light on to the tear. He anaesthetised the area with a local, and then examined it thoroughly.

“It’s not too bad, Betty,” he said. “I’ll soon have you stitched up, and it will have healed within a couple of weeks. I want to examine you internally, though, to make sure that the cervix is not torn also, because this can sometimes happen in a breech delivery.”

He inserted two fingers into the vagina and felt all around. He explained to me, “The breech is smaller in diameter than the head. Therefore the cervix may be sufficiently dilated to allow the passage of the breech, but not relatively open enough to allow the free passage of the head. This will obviously be one of the occasions when the cervix may tear. If that occurs, the mother will have to be transferred to hospital, because I do not have the facilities here to repair a cervix. However,” he continued in a confident voice, “you are lucky, Betty, there is nothing torn inside you. I just have to put a few stitches on the outside.” He selected his catgut and needle. He pulled the muscle together with forceps, and with a few circular movements of the wrist had made a neat repair. It only took a few minutes.

“There we are. That’s that. Now let’s get you back into bed, so you will be more comfortable.”

Meantime, Sister had been examining the baby. “She weighs five and a half pounds, Betty. Your little Carol is certainly not six weeks premature. She may be two weeks premature, but you must have been a month out with your dates. You must keep a better record next time.”

“Next time!” exclaimed Betty. “That’s a good ’un. There won’t be a next time. One breech delivery’s enough for me.”

The baby was out of danger, and the mother comfortable, and so Sister Bernadette and the doctor prepared to leave. I was left to clear up, bath the baby, and write up the notes. On her way downstairs, Sister had to shout through the crowd to get hold of Dave in order to tell him that he had a little daughter. Through the closed doors we in the delivery room heard the shouts of congratulations, and the strains of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”.

“Who’s a jolly good fellah?” said Betty. “Dave? Well, I like the sauce!” She cuddled her baby happily, and laughed.

Dave came up at once. He looked flushed, and only slightly the worse for wear, but he was proud and happy. He took Betty in his arms. I had found many East End men to be barely articulate, but not Dave. He was not a wharf manager for nothing.

“Yer wonderful, Betty, and I’m proud on yer.” he said. “A Christmas babe’s a miracle, and I reckons as how we can’t forget this one’s birthday. I reckons we should call her Carol.”

He took the baby and then, with alarm, said: “Cor, aint she little! I think I might break her. You’d best have her back, Betty.”

Everyone laughed, as Carol had that moment given a little whimper and puckered her face.

I was aware that the sounds from downstairs had changed. The noise of the party had subsided, and we could all hear shuffling and whispers and giggles outside on the landing. Dave said to me: “They are all there, wanting to come and see the baby. When can they come, do you think?”

I could see no good reason why they should not do so; after all, this was not a hospital. So I said, “I will finish cleaning up with Ivy, and when I’m bathing the baby the children can come in. I’m sure they would like that. In the meantime I will need more hot water brought up.”

Jugs of hot water arrived, and Ivy and I quickly cleaned up Betty and got her ready for visitors. Then I placed a tin bath on a chair by the fire and prepared water at the right temperature for the baby. Ivy opened the door, and said, “You can come in, now, but you’ve got to be quiet and good. Anyone who’s naughty will be sent straight out.”

Clearly grandmother’s word was law with small children. I didn’t count the number who entered the room, but probably about twenty little ones filed silently in, with big, round, awestruck eyes. It was a good thing the bedroom was large. They stood around me, sat on the bed, stood on chairs, on the windowsill, anywhere, in order to see. I looked around me with delight, for I like children, and this was an enchanting experience. Ivy told them that the baby’s name was Carol.

The baby was lying on a towel on my knee, still wrapped in a flannel sheet. I took a damp swab and wiped her face, her ears, her eyes. She wriggled and licked her lips. A little voice said, “Oo, she’s got a li’l tongue, look.”

The baby’s head was messy with blood and mucus, so I said, “I’m going to wash her hair, now.”

A little boy on the windowsill said: “I don’t like gettin’ my hair washed.”

“Shut up, you!” said a little girl bossily.

“Shan’t. Shut up yourself, bossy-bum!”

“Oo, I aint. You wait ... ”

“Now then,” said Ivy with menace in her voice, “one more word from either of you and you’ll both go out.”

Dead silence!

I said, “Well, I’m not going to use any soap, and it’s the soap in your eyes that is nasty.”

I held the baby face upwards in my left hand, with her head over the rim of the bath, gently splashed the water over her head, and wiped it with a swab. The main purpose was to get the blood off, and really only to make the baby look more presentable. Most of the vernix or mucus is best left on the skin as a protective covering. I dried her with the towel, and said to the boy on the windowsill, “Now, that wasn’t nasty, was it?”