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

I was stunned when I saw Mary. She looked absolutely ghastly: her face was swollen, red and blotchy, with great rings under her eyes. She stared at me, unseeing. Her hair was dishevelled, her clothes were torn. I stood in the doorway looking at her, but she did not see me; instead she leapt up, rushed to the window, and began to hammer the glass with her fists, moaning all the while. Then she ran to the opposite side of the room and beat her forehead on the wall. It was hard to believe what I was seeing.

I went over to her and said “Mary” quite loudly. I repeated her name several times. She turned, eventually recognising me, and gave a cry. She grabbed me and tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.

I led her to a sofa, and sat her down.

“What is it?” I asked “What has happened?”

“They have taken my baby.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They won’t tell me.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. But she’s gone. She wasn’t there in the morning.”

I didn’t know what to say. What can one say to such terrible news? We stared at one another in mute horror, then she winced with pain, a pain that seemed to suffuse her entire body. She threw her arms outwards and fell back against the cushions. I saw at once what the trouble was. She had been breastfeeding, and now, with no milk being drawn off, her breasts were horribly engorged. I leaned forward and opened her blouse. Both breasts were enormous, as hard as stone, and the left side was bright red and hot to touch. ‘She could get a breast abscess,’ I thought. ‘In fact she probably has one already.’

She moaned: “It hurts,” and gritted her teeth together to stop herself from screaming.

My mind was in turmoil. What on earth had happened? I couldn’t believe that Mary’s baby had been taken away. When the worst spasm of pain had passed, I said, “I am going to see the Reverend Mother.”

She grasped my hand. “Oh yes, I knew you would get my baby back.”

She smiled, and as she did so, tears flooded her eyes, and she turned her head into the cushion, sobbing pitifully.

I left, and enquired my way to the Reverend Mother’s office.

The room was bare and sparsely furnished: a desk, two wooden chairs, and a cupboard. The walls were white, and only a bare crucifix broke the smooth surface. The Reverend Mother’s habit was entirely black, with a white veil. She looked middle-aged, and very handsome. Her expression was serene and open. I felt at once that I could talk to her.

“Where is Mary’s baby?” I demanded aggressively.

The Reverend Mother looked at me steadily, before replying, “The baby has been placed for adoption.”

“Without the mother’s consent?”

“Consent is not necessary. The child is only fourteen.”

“Fifteen,” I said.

“Fourteen or fifteen, it makes no difference. She is still legally a child, and consent is neither valid nor invalid.”

“But how dare you take her baby away without her knowledge. It is killing her.”

The Reverend Mother sighed. She sat perfectly straight, not resting against the back of the chair, her hands folded beneath her scapular. She looked timeless, ageless, pitiless. Only the cross on her breast moved to the rhythm of her breathing. She said evenly, “The baby is being adopted into a good Roman Catholic family who have one child. The mother, due to an illness, can have no more. Mary’s baby will have a good upbringing and a good education. She will have all the advantages of a good Christian home.”

“Good Christian home be bothered,” I said, my anger rising. “Nothing can replace a mother’s love, and Mary loves her baby. She will die, or go mad, from the grief.”

The Reverend Mother sat for a moment, quietly looking at the branch of a tree that was moving just outside the window. Then she turned her head slowly, and looked straight into my eyes. This slow, deliberate movement of her head, first towards the window, and then back towards me, helped to check my anger. Her face was sad. Perhaps she is not pitiless, I thought.

“We have done all we can to trace Mary’s family. We have spent three months searching parish and civil records in Ireland, with no success. Mary’s mother is a drunk, and cannot be traced. There are no living uncles or aunts. The father is dead. The younger siblings are in care. If we could have found any relative or guardian who would take Mary and her baby, and pledge responsibility for them, there is no doubt at all that she would have been able to keep her baby. However, we could find no one. In the wider interests of the baby, the decision was taken for adoption.”

“But it will kill Mary,” I said.

The Reverend Mother did not answer this, but said: “How can a girl of fifteen, with no literacy, no home, no trade beyond that of prostitution, support and care for a growing child?”

It was my turn not to answer the question.

“She has left prostitution,” I said.

The Reverend Mother sighed again, and paused for quite a long time before speaking. “You are young, my dear, and full of righteous indignation, which our Lord loves. But you must understand that it is very, very rare for a prostitute to leave the trade. It is too easy to make money. A girl is hard up, and the opportunity is always there. Why slave away all day in a factory for five shillings, when you can earn ten or fifteen shillings in half an hour? We know from experience that few things are more damaging to a growing child than to watch mother working on the streets.”

“But you cannot condemn her for what she has not yet done.”

“No, we do not condemn, nor blame. The Church forgives. In any case, it is quite clear that Mary was more sinned against than sinning. Our main concern is for the protection and upbringing of the baby. Mary has nowhere to go when she leaves here. Who will take her in? We endeavoured to find a residential post in service for Mary to go to, but with a baby no such post could be found.”

I was silent. The Reverend Mother’s logic was irrefutable. I repeated my earlier point, “But it will kill her. She already looks half mad.”

The Reverend Mother sat perfectly still, the leaves fluttering outside the window. She did not speak for about half a minute. Then she said: “We are born into suffering, uncertainty, and death. My mother had fifteen children. Only four survived childhood. Eleven times my mother suffered the agonies that Mary is going through. Countless millions of women throughout history have buried most of the children they have borne, and endured the sorrows of child bereavement. They have lived through it, as Mary will, and they have borne more children, as I hope Mary will.”

I could say nothing. Perhaps I should have ranted and railed about the arrogance and presumption of taking the decision out of Mary’s control; I could have sneered at the wealth of the Roman Catholic Church; I could have asked why could the Church not support Mary and her baby for a few years? I could, perhaps should, have said many things, but I was silenced by my own knowledge of the statistics of child mortality, by the depth of understanding in her words, and by the sadness in her eyes.

I merely said, “Will Mary ever know who has adopted her baby?”

The Reverend Mother shook her head.

“No. Even I do not know the actual name. None of the Sisters are ever told. The adoption is completely anonymous, but you can assure Mary that her baby has gone to a good Catholic family, and that she will have a good home.”

There was nothing more to be said, and the Reverend Mother rose from her seat. This was the signal that the interview was over. She withdrew her right hand from behind her scapular and held it out to me. Long, slender, sensitive fingers. It is not often that you see such a beautiful hand, and as I took it, her grasp was firm and warm. Our eyes met, with sadness and, I think, mutual respect.