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

Misery and monotony blurred days into weeks, and weeks into months. The women worked all day, mostly rough work: in the laundry, washing for the entire workhouse; scrubbing - the Master was fanatical about scrubbing; cooking poor quality food for all the inmates; heavy sewing, such as sacks, sails, matting; and, strangest of all, picking oakum. This was old rope, usually tarred, which had to be untwisted and unpicked into strands, which were then used for caulking the seams of wooden ships. This sounds easy; but it was not. The rope, especially if caked in oil or tar or salt, could be as hard as steel, and unpicking it tore the hands and left the fingers raw and bleeding.

Yet the working hours were less terrible than the hours of rest. Mrs Jenkins found herself among about one hundred other women of all ages, including the sick and infirm. Many of them appeared to be mad or demented. Tired from their physical work, there was nowhere to sit down, except on benches in the middle of the day room or the airing yard. In order to rest themselves, the women sat back to back on a bench, each supporting the other. There was nothing to do, nothing to look at or listen to, no books, nothing with which to exercise the mind. Many of the women just walked up and down, or round and round in circles. Most of them talked to themselves, or rocked backwards and forwards continuously. Some moaned aloud, or howled into the night air.

“I will ge’ like tha’ meself,” thought Mrs Jenkins.

They were ushered into the airing yard twice a day for half an hour of exercise. From the yard, Mrs Jenkins could hear the sounds of children’s voices, but the walls were fifteen feet high, and she could not see over them. She tried calling the names of her children, but was ordered to stop, or she wouldn’t be allowed out into the yard again. So she just stood by the wall where she thought the sounds came from, whispering their names, and straining her ears to catch the sound of a voice she would know to be her child’s own.

“I didn’ know wha’ I done wrong to be in there. I jus’ cried all the time. An’ I didn’ know wha’ they done wiv the li’l ones.”

When the spring came, and the days grew warmer and longer, and new life was surging all around in the world that she could not see beyond the workhouse walls, Mrs Jenkins was informed that her youngest child, a boy aged three, had died. She asked why, and was told that he had always been sickly, and that no one had expected him to live. She asked if she might attend the funeral, and was told that he had already been buried.

The little boy was the first to go. Mrs Jenkins never saw any of her children again. Over the next four years, one by one, they all died. The mother was merely informed of each death, she was given no cause. She did not attend any of the funerals. The last to die was a girl of fourteen. Her name was Rosie.

Always expect the unexpected, and you will never go wrong. Fred had suffered a severe setback from the enforced closure of his quail and toffee-apple empire, and was looking round for something new. The unexpected came from a chance remark from Mrs B. as she came bustling into the kitchen muttering, “I don’ know what fings is comin’ to. The price o’ bacon these days! I’ve never seen nuffink like it.”

Fred slapped his shovel down on the floor, raising a cloud of ash, and shouted: “Pigs! That’s the answer. Pigs. They was doin’ it in the war, an’ it can be done again.”

Mrs B. rushed over to him, broom in hand. “You messy bugger, messin’ up my kitchen.”

She held the broom aggressively, ready to strike. But Fred neither heard nor saw. He grabbed her round the waist, and twirled her round and round in a frenzied dance.

“You got it, old girl, you ’as. Why didn’t I think on it. Pigs.”

He made snorting, honking noises, supposed to represent a pig, which did not improve his looks at all. Mrs B. extricated herself from his embrace, and poked him in the chest with the broom handle.

“You crazy ... ” she started shouting, and he yelled back. When two Cockneys are engaged in a shouting match it is impossible to understand the lingo.

Breakfast was over, and we heard the Sisters’ footsteps. They appeared in the doorway, and the slanging match stopped.

In high excitement, Fred explained that he had just had a brilliant idea. He would keep a pig. It could live in the chicken run, which he could easily convert into a pigsty, and in no time at all the pig would be ready for the bacon factory, and his fortune would be made.

Sister Julienne was enchanted. She loved pigs. She had been brought up on a farm, and knew a lot about them. She said that Fred could have all the peelings and waste from Nonnatus House, and advised him to go round the local cafés begging similar favours. Shyly she asked if she might come to see the pig when it was installed in the hen/pig house.

Fred wasn’t one to hang around. Within a matter of days the pigsty was complete. He and Dolly pooled their resources and a pink, squealing little creature was soon purchased. Sister Julienne was profuse in her praise.

“You’ve got a fine pig, there, Fred. A real beauty. You can tell by the width of the shoulders. You’ve made a good choice.”

She gave him one of her sparkling smiles and Fred turned as pink as the pig.

Fred yielded to Sister Julienne for advice about bran mash and nut mix, as well as supplies of food waste from local cafés and greengrocers. They were frequently seen in deep and earnest conversation, Fred sucking his tooth and whistling inwardly as he concentrated on the detail. Sister also advised him on hay and water and mucking out, and she impressed us all with her knowledge in the art of pig rearing.

It was a busy and happy time for Fred. Each day at breakfast we heard details of the pig’s progress, her lusty appetite and rapid growth. As the weeks passed, mucking out consumed more of Fred’s time and labour. However, this proved to be a money-maker. Most small houses had tiny back gardens, no more than a yard in most cases, but quite sufficient to grow a few things. Tomatoes were popular, and so, surprisingly, were grapevines, which grew exceedingly well in Poplar and produced succulent fruit. Word soon got round, and Fred’s pigshit was in great demand. He concluded that there was no losing with pigs. The more he fed her, the more thick, black stuff she excreted, and the more money he made. Within a few weeks the sale of manure had covered the initial cost of the piglet.

The whole of Nonnatus House, Sisters and lay staff alike, took a deep interest in the pig and Fred’s financial aspirations. We read in the papers that the price of meat was rising, and concluded that Fred had been very shrewd.

However, the vagaries and vicissitudes of the market are notorious. Demand fell. The bottom dropped out of pigs.

The blow was heavy. Fred was glum. All that feeding and mucking and raking. All the plans and hopes. And now the pig was hardly worth the cost of slaughter. No wonder the bounce had gone out of Fred’s bent little legs. No wonder his North-East eye drooped.

Sunday was a day of rest in Nonnatus House. After church we were all gathered in the kitchen, having coffee and cakes left by Mrs B. from her Saturday bake. Fred was packing up to leave, but Sister Julienne invited him to join us at the big table. Conversation turned to the pig; his fag drooped.

“What’m I goin’ to do wiv ’er? She’s costin’ me money to feed ’er an’ I can’t ge’ nuffink for ’er.”

Everyone sympathised and muttered “hard luck” and “shame”, but Sister Julienne was silent. She stared at him intently, and then said, clearly and positively, “Breed from her, Fred. You could keep her as a breeding sow. There will always be a market for good healthy piglets, and when prices pick up, as they will, you could get a good price for them. And don’t forget, a sow always delivers between twelve and eighteen piglets.”