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

“I’ve got to get them off to put you in the bath.”

“Leave it,” she whimpered; “my Rosie’ll do it by an’ by.”

“But Rosie’s not here to help. If you will let me, I can get them off. Sister Evangelina says your boots have got to come off before you have your bath.”

It would be a long job, so I wrapped a blanket over her and knelt down on the floor. Some of the skin was indeed stuck to the leather, and tore as I eased the boot back and forth. God knows when they had last come off. Eventually I eased the boot over her heel and pulled. To my horror there was a sort of scratching, metallic sound. What was it? What had I done? As the boot came off, an extraordinary sight met my eyes. Her toenails were about eight to twelve inches long, and up to one inch thick. They were twisted and bent, curling over and under each other, and many of the toes were bleeding and suppurating at the nail-bed. The smell was horrible. Her feet were in a terrible condition. How had she managed to tramp all over Poplar for so many years with feet like that?

She didn’t even murmur as I was taking the boots off, though it must have hurt, and she looked down at her bare feet with no surprise - perhaps she thought everyone’s toenails were like that. I helped her over to the bath, and it was surprisingly difficult because, without her boots, she had lost her balance and the toenails kept getting in the way, nearly tripping her up.

She stepped over the edge of the big tin bath and sat down in the water with delight, splashing and giggling like a little girl. She picked up the flannel and sucked the water noisily, looking up at me with smiling eyes. The room was warm because I had stoked up the fire, and a cat strolled up and looked curiously over the edge of the bath. She splashed him in the face with a giggle, and he retreated, offended. The front door banged, and she looked up sharply. “Rosie, that you? Come ’ere, girl, an’ look a’ yer ol’ mum. It’s a rare sight.”

But the footsteps went upstairs, and Rosie didn’t come.

I washed Mrs Jenkins all over, and wrapped her in the big towels provided by the Sisters. I had washed her hair and wrapped it in a turban. I had not seen too many fleas, but I applied a sassafras compress to kill any nits. The only thing I could not cope with were her toenails - a good chiropodist would have to be called in for such monsters. (I am reliably informed, incidentally, that Mrs Jenkins’ toenails are to this day displayed in a glass case in the main hall of the British Chiropody Association.)

The nuns always kept a store of second-hand clothes, rescued from many jumble sales, and Sister Evangelina and I had sorted out some garments which I had brought with me. Mrs Jenkins looked at the vest and knickers and stroked the soft material with wonder.

“Is this for me? Oh, it’s too good. You keep ’em fer yourself, duckie, they’re too good for the likes o’ me.”

I had difficulty in persuading her to put them on, and when she did, she rubbed her hands up and down her thin body with amazement, as though she couldn’t get over her new underwear. I dressed her in the jumble-sale clothes, which were all too big, and quietly put her old clothes out the back door.

She settled comfortably in the armchair, stroking her new clothes. A cat jumped on to her knee, and she tickled him gently.

“What’ll Rosie say when she sees all this finery, eh, puss? She won’ know ’er ol’ mum, she won’, dressed up like a queen.”

I left her with the happy feeling that we were doing a great deal to improve her intolerable conditions. Outside, I put her flea-ridden clothes into a bag, and looked for a dustbin. There were none to be seen. There was no provision for waste disposal in the area because no one was supposed to be living in the condemned buildings, so no public services were provided. The fact that people were living there and everyone, including the Council, knew about it, made no difference to official policy. I left the bag of clothes in the street amongst the piles of rubbish already lying around.

A feeling of decay and menace hovered over the whole area like an evil vapour. The craters left by the bombs were filled with rubbish and smelled horrible. Jagged bits of wall, rose starkly towards the sky. No one was around: mornings in a red-light district are generally slow for business. The quietness had an oppressive quality about it, and I would be glad to get away.

I had barely turned the corner of the house when the sound started. I froze to the spot, the hair prickling on the back of my neck as a sort of terror gripped me. It was like the howl of a wolf, or an animal in dreadful pain. The sound seemed to come from everywhere, echoing off the few buildings, and filling the bombsites with an unearthly pain. The noise stopped, but I literally couldn’t move. Then it started again, and the window in the house opposite opened. The woman who had told me to throw stones to attract the landlord leaned out, shouting, “It’s that mad old hag. Yer lookin’ after ’er. Tell ’er to shu’ up, or I’ll come and kill ’er, I will. You tell ’er from me.”

The window banged shut. My mind raced.

Mad old hag? Mrs Jenkins? It couldn’t be! She couldn’t be making that anguished noise. I’d left her contented and happy only a few minutes ago.

The noise stopped and, trembling, I went back into the house, down the passage to her door and turned the handle.

“Rosie? That you, Rosie?”

I opened the door. Mrs Jenkins was sitting just as I had left her, with a cat on her knee and another preening itself beside her chair. She looked up brightly.

“If you see Rosie, tell ’er I’m coming. Tell ’er not to lose ’eart. Tell ’er I’m comin’, an’ the li’l ones, an’ all. I’ll scrub an’ scrub all day, an’ they’ll let me come this time, they will. You tell my Rosie.”

I was bewildered. She couldn’t have made that howling noise; it was impossible. I took her pulse, which was normal, and enquired if she felt all right, to which she did not reply but smacked her lips together and looked steadily at me.

There seemed no point in my staying, but I left with misgivings that morning.

Sister Evangelina took the morning report, and I told her that Mrs Jenkins seemed to enjoy her bath. I reported on the toenails and the fleas. I reported that her mental condition seemed fairly stable - she loved her new clothes, was chatting companionably to the cats, and was not at all withdrawn and defensive. I hesitated to report the unearthly noise I had heard in the street; after all it might not have come from Mrs Jenkins. It was only the woman opposite who had suggested it had.

Sister Evangelina looked up at me, her heavy features expressionless.

“And?” she said.

“And what?” I faltered.

“And what else? What have you not reported?”

Was she a mind reader? There was clearly no way out. I told her of the ghastly cry I had heard from the street, adding that I couldn’t be sure it was Mrs Jenkins.

“No, but you cannot be sure that it was not Mrs Jenkins, can you? Describe the cry.”

Again I hesitated, as it was so difficult to describe, but I ended by likening it to the howl of a wolf.

Sister looked down at her notes, not moving, and when she spoke her voice was different, subdued and low. “Those who have heard that sound can never forget it. It makes your blood run cold. I think the cry you heard probably did come from Mrs Jenkins, and it was what used to be called ‘the workhouse howl’.”

“What is that?” I enquired.

She did not reply straight away, but sat tapping her pen with impatience. Then, “Humph. You young girls know nothing of recent history. You’ve had it too easy, that’s your trouble. I will come with you on your next visit, and I will also see if we can get hold of any medical or parish records about Mrs Jenkins. Proceed with your report.”