The Midwife: A Memoir of Birth, Joy, and Hard Times (7 page)

She dashed off down the balcony and knocked on another door. I imagined her bearing the news all around Baffin Buildings, even if it took her the entire night. Tiredness had left me, and I sped down the stairs to street level, and just about ran to the nearest phone box. The police listened with concern to my story and said they would come at once. Marjorie had to be informed, I decided, so my next call was Ontario Buildings.

Poor woman. When I told her she crumpled, as though I had hit her in the stomach.

“Oh no, I can’t bear any more,” she moaned. “I guessed as much. She’s gone on the game, then.”

So innocent was I, that I didn’t know what she meant.

“What game?” I said, thinking she meant darts or billiards or gambling in a local pub.

Marjorie looked at me compassionately. “Never you mind, ducky. You don’t need to know about that sort of thing. I must go and see after them kiddies.”

We went together in silence. The police were already at the door working on the lock. I had thought that they would bring a locksmith with them, but no - most policemen are expert at picking locks. Do they learn it in College? I wondered.

A crowd had gathered on the balcony. No one wanted to miss a thing. Marjorie stepped forward saying that she was the grandmother, and when the door was opened she was the first to enter. The police and I followed.

The room was suffocatingly hot, and the stench putrid. The children were not to be seen, apart from the baby, who was blissfully asleep. I went over to her, and she looked surprisingly well cared for, clean and well fed. The rest of the room was indescribable. It was full of flies to begin with, and a heap of excrement and dirty nappies in a corner was crawling with maggots.

Marjorie went into the bedroom, gently calling the boys’ names. They were behind the chair. She took them in her arms, tears streaming down her face.

“Never mind, my luvvies. Nanna’s got you.”

The police were taking notes, and I thought perhaps I should leave, as the grandmother would now take charge. But at that moment, there was a commotion outside, and Dick appeared in the doorway. Obviously he had not known that the police were in his flat. As soon as he saw them he turned to run, but his path was barred by the onlookers. They had let him in, but they were not going to let him out again. Perhaps there were several scores to be settled between Dick and his neighbours. He was told that he would be cautioned about the neglect of three children under the age of five.

He swore, spat, and said, “What’s wrong with ’em? Kids are all right. Nothing wrong, far as I can see.”

“It’s a very good thing for you that there is nothing wrong. Leaving them alone with a paraffin heater alight and unguarded would have caused a fire if one of the children had knocked it over.”

Dick started to whine. “That’s not my fault. I didn’t put the heater on. The missus did. I didn’t know she’d gone out and left it. The lazy slut. I’ll give her what for when I sees her.”

The policeman said: “Where is your wife?”

“’Ow should I know?”

Marjorie shouted at him. “Yer villain. Yer know where she is. An’ you made her go, didn’t you. Yer swine.”

Dick was all innocence. “What’s the old cow on about now?”

Marjorie was about to scream a reply, but the policeman stopped her. “You can settle your differences when we have gone. We have put it on record that you have been cautioned about leaving your children unattended, and in a dangerous situation. If it occurs again, you will be charged.”

Dick was all wheedling charm. “You can take it from me, this will not occur again, officer. I apologise, and will see it never happens again.”

The police prepared to leave. Dick said, pointing to Marjorie, “And you can take her with you, and all.”

She gave an anguished cry, and held the two little boys closer to her. She appealed to the policemen, “I can’t leave them here, the baby, the boys. Can’t you see? I can’t leave them like this.”

Dick said in a soothing, cheery voice, “Don’t you worry, old lady. I can look after me kids. There’s nuffink to worry about.” Then, to the policeman: “Yer can leave ’em safe wiv me. You got my word for it.”

Neither of the policemen were fools and they were not taken in for a moment by this display of paternal devotion. But they had no power to do anything but caution him.

One of them turned to Marjorie, “You can only stay here if you are invited, and you certainly cannot take the children away without the father’s consent.”

Dick was triumphant. “You heard. You’ve got to have the father’s consent. And I’m the father, and I don’t consent, see? Now get out.”

I spoke for the first time. “Well what about the baby? She is only eight days old, and she is being breastfed. She will wake up hungry soon. Where is Molly?”

I don’t think he had noticed me before. He turned, and ogled me up and down. I almost felt him undressing me with his eyes. He was a nauseating specimen, but no doubt he thought he was God’s gift to women. He came over to me.

“Don’t you worry, nursey. My missus will feed her when she gets back. She’s just popped out for a minute.”

He took my hand in both of his own, and stroked my wrist. I pulled it sharply away. I wanted to smack his leering face, which he was pushing so close to my own, I could smell his foul breath. I turned my head away in disgust. He drew even closer, his eyes gleaming with mocking interest. He dropped his voice so that no one else could hear,

“Hoity-toity eh? I know how to take you down a peg or two, Miss Hoity-Toity.”

I knew how to deal with men like that. Height is a great leveller, and we were level. I didn’t need to say a word. I turned my head slowly to look him straight in the eyes, and held his gaze. Slowly his smirk faded, and he turned away. Few men can withstand a woman’s look of utter contempt.

Marjorie was kneeling on the floor crying uncontrollably, and hugging the two little boys. The policeman went over to her, took her elbow to help her to her feet, and said gently: “Come on mother, you can’t stay here.”

Marjorie got up, and the children retreated silently towards the chair in the bedroom. She gave a despairing moan, and allowed the policeman to lead her to the door. She stumbled out, a broken woman, looking twenty years older than when she had entered. She was led through the crowd at the door, and there were many sympathetic voices.

“Oh poor soul.”

“Oh it’s a shame.”

“Don’ yer jus’ feel for ’er, poor soul.”

“’E’s a bad’un, an’ all.”

“It’s a shame, oi sez.”

She was escorted back to Ontario Buildings, and I returned to Nonnatus House, with much to think about that night.

 

The hidden steel of a Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne was revealed to us over the next few weeks as Chummy mastered the skills of riding a bicycle. After the accident Sister Julienne was seriously in doubt as to whether it would be possible, but Chummy was adamant. She could and would learn.

Every spare minute of her time was spent practising. All her district work had to be done on foot in the meantime, and this took far longer than it would have taken on a bicycle. Consequently she had less spare time than anyone else. But she utilised each and every minute of freedom. She would push the old Raleigh up Leyland Street, a slight incline, and then free wheel down; up and down hundreds of times until she acquired her balance. She got up a couple of hours early each morning, and went out every evening from about 8 to 10 p.m., coming back exhausted and breathless. “Well, actually, there’s no point in just learning to ride in the daylight,” she argued gaily, with irrefutable logic.

These rides in the dark were usually accompanied by crowds of cheering or jeering children. This might have been a menace, had Chummy not gained the respect of an older lad who had joined us on the first day when Cynthia, Trixie and I had been trying to teach her. Jack was a particularly tough specimen of about thirteen, accustomed to fighting for his rights. He soon dispersed the little kids; a few blows, a few kicks, and they were gone. Then he presented himself in front of the bicycle, her champion.

“You gets any more trouble from that lot, Miss, jes’ call me. Jack. I’ll take care of ’em.”

“Oh, that’s frightfully good of you, Jack. Actually, I’m most awfully grateful. This old machine’s a lively little filly, what?”

Chummy’s posh voice must have been as incomprehensible to Jack as his Cockney accent was to her, but nevertheless, they struck a friendship then and there.

After that Chummy learned rapidly. Jack was out early and late, running, pushing, helping her in every way. He developed a particularly ingenious way of teaching her to steer the bike and turn corners; he pedalled whilst she steered! Chummy controlled the handlebars, sitting on the saddle, her legs trailing, whilst he stood on the pedals, doing all the hard work. To propel her twelve stone weight must have been hard work, but Jack was no puny thirteen-year-old, and took pride in his manliness. Early and late he could be heard shouting: “Turn left, Miss; NO, LEF’, yer dafty. Easy does it. Not too sharp, now. Aim for that phone box, and keep yer eyes on it.”

Neither of them saw defeat as a possibility, and within three weeks they were riding all the way from Bow to the Isle of Dogs in the dark November mornings.

Jack did not own a bicycle, and reluctantly he had to admit that the time had come for Chummy to try on her own. He pushed her off, and she pedalled confidently down the street and round the corner. Sadly he waved as she turned out of sight. He had been useful, and now the fun was all over. He kicked a stone, and slouched off homewards, hands in pockets, one foot in the gutter, the other on the kerb.

But Chummy was not one to let a friendship die, still less to allow kindness and help to pass unnoticed. She discussed it with us at lunch, and we agreed that a gift of some sort would be appropriate. Various were the suggestions - a jar of sweets, a football, a penknife - but Chummy was not happy with any of these ideas. Sister Julienne, ever practical and wise, pointed out that the time, effort and commitment on Jack’s part had been very great, so therefore her debt to him was great.

“I don’t think the boy should be fobbed off with a trivial token. I feel he should receive something that he really wants and would value. On the other hand, it depends entirely upon what you, the giver, can afford, and only you can know this.”

Chummy brightened, and a huge smile lit her features. “Actually, I know what Jack wants more than anything else - a bicycle! And I’m pretty sure Pater would buy one for him if I explained the circumstances, what? He’s a sporting old stick, and always coughs up for a good cause. I’ll write to him tonight.”

Of course Pater coughed up, happy to see his only daughter fulfilled at last. He could no more understand her determination to become a missionary than he could understand her passion for midwifery, but he would support it to the end.

A new bicycle meant a new life for Jack. Very few boys had such a possession in those days. For him, it meant more than status. It meant freedom. He was an adventurous boy, and went miles beyond the East End on his bike. He joined the Dagenham Cycling Club and competed in time trials and road races. He went camping alone in the Essex countryside. He went as far as the coast, and saw the sea for the first time.

Chummy was delighted, and his continued friendship was her greatest joy. He seemed to feel she needed his protection, and so every day after school Jack would turn up at Nonnatus House to escort her on her evening visits. His instinct that the children of the Docks would tease and torment her were right, because on the whole the cockneys did not take to Chummy, and made fun of her behind her back. Her huge size, pedalling steadily along the streets on an ancient solid-wheeled bicycle, brought crowds of children to a standstill, and they lined the pavement shouting things like “what-ho” and “jolly good show, actually” or “steady on, old bean” amid loud-mouthed guffaws. And, to rub salt into the wound, they called her “The Hippo”. Poor Chummy treated it with good humour, but we all knew how deeply it hurt her. But when tough, pugnacious, street-wise Jack was with her, the children kept their distance. We all saw him on different occasions, standing in the street or the tenement courtyards, holding two bicycles, his lower jaw thrust forward, his stocky legs slightly apart, coolly looking around him, confident that a look was all that was needed to to protect “Miss”.

Twenty-five years later, a shy young girl called Lady Diana Spencer became engaged to marry Prince Charles, heir to the throne. I saw several film clips of her arriving at various engagements. Each time when the car stopped, the front nearside door would open, and her bodyguard would step out and open the rear door for Lady Diana. Then he would stand, jaw thrust forward, legs slightly apart, and look coolly around him at the crowds, a mature Jack, still practising the skills he had acquired in childhood, looking after his lady.