Читать книгу Bundles of Joy: Two Thousand Miracles. One Unstoppable Manchester Midwife - Linda Fairley - Страница 10

Chapter Two

‘Please God, look after Mrs Sully this time’

I had an unsettling sense of déjà vu when I began work on the postnatal ward one warm and sunny morning in July 1972.

There was a new arrival in bed one: a raven-haired lady who was wearing a beautiful bat-wing nightgown made of a lovely blue chiffon material. She had a neat little chignon pinned into the back of her shoulder-length hair and she had clearly spent quite a bit of time applying her make-up, which was practically unheard of for a tired new mum. Her eyebrows were pencilled in dark kohl, her sharp cheekbones were highlighted with a dark rouge and she was wearing fetching coral-coloured lipstick, which I’d read in a magazine was the height of fashion.

‘Good morning,’ I said brightly, scanning the notes as I approached her bed. ‘I see you’ve had a lovely little boy Mrs Prince, congratulations! Phillip’s a lovely name.’

Beneath the blusher, I was confused to see the colour suddenly and completely drain from Mrs Prince’s face, and I asked her if she was feeling all right.

‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled, lowering her eyes shyly and putting one hand up on her brow, as if shielding her face from the sunlight shining through the window. ‘Everything is perfect. I think I’ll get some sleep, whilst Phillip is settled.’

I knew Mrs Prince was an accountant by trade, as one of my colleagues had mentioned it in passing. I had started to notice that the more educated the woman, the more pressure she put herself under to be the perfect mother and the perfect wife. I wondered fleetingly if perhaps Mrs Prince was one of those high-achieving people who had to have everything ‘just so’. That would certainly explain her fine appearance.

I left her in peace, closing the curtain around her bed, and went about my duties on the ward. I chatted to several women about how much milk their little one had taken, whether the baby’s umbilical cord was drying up nicely or how uncomfortable the new mother’s stitches were.

There was a little alarm bell ringing in my head all morning, though, and I started to wonder if I had seen Mrs Prince before. I thought I might have done, but I just couldn’t place her. I would keep an extra eye on her today, as there was something about her I just couldn’t put my finger on.

The three other new mums in this room on the postnatal ward were chatting easily to each other, discussing the latest plot on the television soap opera Crossroads and giggling about a well-thumbed copy of Cosmopolitan magazine one of them had picked up in the day room.

‘I don’t think my Barry would agree with this!’ Mrs Vaughan snorted.

I could see she was holding the first-ever issue of the women’s glossy magazine Cosmopolitan, as I’d flicked through it myself one day in a spare moment. It had caused quite a stir when it was published several months earlier, in March 1972, as it was far more outspoken and controversial than any of the other women’s magazines available at that time.

‘Listen up, ladies,’ Mrs Vaughan chuckled as she began to read out one of the headlines on the bright red cover. ‘“An extraordinary interview: Michael Parkinson talks about his vasectomy – the most beautiful thing a man can do for a woman.”’

All three women fell about laughing, clutching their abdomens and wincing as they did so.

‘And there’s me having me tubes tied on Friday!’ hooted Mrs Rogers from the bed opposite.

It was very common in those days for women who had completed their family to stay in hospital and have a Pomeroy sterilisation under general anaesthetic approximately five days after giving birth. It means having an abdominal incision and both fallopian tubes clamped, cut and tied to prevent future pregnancies. Doctors carried out at least half a dozen each week, if not more, which was part of the reason the postnatal wards were always full.

Condoms, often referred to as ‘Johnnies’, were the other preferred choice of contraception at that time, although many couples tried to manage without and lived in fear of unwanted pregnancy, as you still had to pay for the Pill back then. It was typical for married women, rather than their husbands, to take responsibility for sterilisation. Very few men were as enlightened as Michael Parkinson when it came to vasectomies, I think it’s fair to say.

‘Well, I wish Parky would tell that to my Eddie,’ chipped in Mrs Griffiths, who had just given birth to her second child. ‘I’d certainly consider it a beautiful thing if he had the snip!’

To a choir of approving noises, Mrs Griffiths went on to complain that it was far easier for a man to have a vasectomy than for women to be sterilised. ‘It’s a tiny op for them by comparison, for goodness sake! If you ask me, we’ve done our bit by giving birth. Going under the knife is beyond the call of duty!’

The other women were in wholehearted agreement, including Mrs Rogers, who was already booked in for the operation. ‘You’re right, love,’ Mrs Rogers said wistfully. ‘But by the time I’d argued that one with my husband I’d probably be in the family way again. I’ll not be taking any more chances.’

With that the conversation shifted to the next headline. It was something about ‘How to turn a man on when he’s having problems in bed.’ This set off a predictable chorus of groans and remarks like: ‘No thanks – I’m done with all that for the time being, thank you very much!’ and ‘I’d rather learn how to turn him off!’

Mrs Prince remained very quiet, keeping herself to herself behind her drawn curtain while all of this banter was going on. I made a mental note to check her previous notes when I got the chance, in case that might enlighten me. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I’d seen her before, somewhere else in the hospital perhaps.

At visiting time I wondered if seeing her husband might trigger my memory, but when Mr Prince arrived with an extravagant bunch of carnations, I definitely had no recollection of ever having seen him before.

‘Congratulations, Mr Prince,’ I said, having a good look at him. He was wearing some expensive-looking velvet bell-bottom trousers and appeared extremely well to do.

‘Your son is doing well, I’m glad to see,’ I remarked, hoping to engage him in conversation.

‘Thank you very much indeed, Nurse,’ he said politely. He looked thoroughly smitten as he peered in Phillip’s cot as his wife sat silently in bed, watching a little nervously.

‘I don’t mind admitting that I really wanted a son and heir, and I’m so pleased! I’ve got two weeks off work to get to know him, too. I couldn’t be happier!’

‘Well, I’m very pleased for you …’

Mrs Prince interrupted our little chat, asking her husband to keep the curtain drawn and telling him she felt tired and wanted peace and quiet. She looked tense and very serious, and kept her eye gaze down.

‘Of course you need to rest, darling,’ he said, kissing her gently on the forehead. ‘Look at you – immaculate as ever despite having just given birth … can I go and fetch you anything from the shop?’

I was still none the wiser, and so I dug out Mrs Prince’s file as soon as visiting was over. Scanning her most recent notes, nothing gave me a clue, although of course in those days we only kept written copies that were certainly not as lengthy as the computerised patient records we have today.

I saw that the couple lived at a smart address in Broadbottom. Mrs Prince had no health problems and her pregnancy and delivery had been completely routine. Looking further back, my eyes bulged as they fell on a brief page of notes dated February 1971, which were fastened at the back of this thin brown file. Mrs Prince had delivered a healthy baby boy more than a year ago and, according to a very scant note, had given the child up for adoption at birth. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the words ‘Social Services’ leaped out, telling me the local authority had organised the adoption.

My brain whirled. That’s why I recognised Mrs Prince! Last year, I had seen her at the old hospital. She had attended an antenatal appointment alone, dressed smartly in a business suit and constantly looking at her watch, worrying about getting back to her desk before her lunch hour was over, or at least that’s what she told me. Her hair was longer then and her make-up was different, but this was definitely one and the same person. Racking my brain, I recalled how she had told me that her husband was away working, on the oil rigs.

It was all coming back to me now, though I could hardly believe it. When Mrs Prince went on to give the baby up for adoption I remembered how it came as a real surprise to all the midwives on duty, as this had not been discussed at all during her pregnancy. My mind was in overdrive as I fished for more memories to help piece this puzzle together. I was sure Mrs Prince had told a colleague that she intended to go back to work straightaway. Her husband was not ready to start a family, and she did not want a child to disrupt her career, that’s the story she told when she made her surprise announcement about the adoption.

At the time, her explanation didn’t seem to ring true and rumours abounded. I remembered the gossip in the office one day. Was there actually a husband working away on the oil rigs, and if there was, did he even know about this baby?

‘It’s my betting this is a secret love child,’ my colleague Maggie had said to me back then, eyes widening.

I wasn’t convinced. ‘Maybe it is her husband’s baby and she just doesn’t want to tell him, because she’s the one who’s not ready to start a family yet,’ I had replied.

Both scenarios were as difficult to believe as Mrs Prince’s own story about the adoption, and I remembered feeling resigned to never knowing the truth.

Now, I felt compelled to confide in Sister Kelly. I took a deep breath and walked into her office.

‘I-I need to talk to you,’ I stuttered. Sister Kelly put down her mug of Bovril and was all ears.

‘I recognise Mrs Prince, and Phillip is not her first baby,’ I blurted, feeling instantly relieved at having shared the burden of my discovery.

‘Well my dear, yer never fail to be surprised in this business,’ Sister Kelly shrugged, peering at the notes I thrust at her. Mrs Prince clearly hadn’t lied on paper, as all her previous records were intact and tallied with everything we knew of her. It was only here, on this postnatal ward, that she had tried to cover up the fact she’d had a previous baby.

I explained all this to a rather bemused looking Sister Kelly, and concluded that Mrs Prince must have succeeded in keeping her poor husband away from her recent antenatal appointments as well as Phillip’s delivery, which was not a difficult feat in 1972.

‘But it’s no wonder she is so tense here on the ward, trying to keep such an enormous secret!’ I said.

Really, it had not been rocket science to piece together her full history. Any of the midwives, even if they hadn’t recognised her as I had, could have stumbled across this information. I was astonished she had the nerve to try to pull this off at all, but Sister Kelly hardly turned a hair.

‘It’s really none of our business now, is it, Linda?’ she sighed. ‘I mean, if a woman turns up on the postnatal ward and tells you this is her first pregnancy, why would you doubt her? If it were me, mind, I think I’d have gone to a different hospital, but it takes all sorts.’

‘But … how could she?’ I asked. I was completely nonplussed. ‘Surely he should know, Mr Prince, whether the other child was his or not?’

‘Well, Linda, when you look at Mr Prince, happy as a sand boy as he clearly is, what would be gained from spilling the beans now? Tell me that.’

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ I replied resignedly.

‘That’s right,’ Sister Kelly said, shoving her hand down her dress and repositioning her bosom matter-of-factly, as if to show me everything was back to normal. ‘Nothing at all! Put it to the back of your mind, dear. Now, would you like a hot orange?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘I could probably do with something stronger, but a good cup of well-brewed tea will do fine!’

I’m sure I’d been refusing Sister Kelly’s offer of hot orange for two years now, but she never failed to offer it to me when she felt I needed looking after. I’ve no idea why. I completed my shift that day, going through the motions of carrying out all my usual jobs on the ward, but I couldn’t get Mr and Mrs Prince out of my head.

‘Have you been to the bathroom?’ I asked several ladies in turn, just as I always did. ‘Let me have a little feel, make sure your uterus has contracted as it should … now then, have you got any pains in your legs?’

The routine postnatal checks were second nature to me, which was just as well as I felt quite distracted. I just couldn’t stop wondering how people could live such complicated lives. How did people get themselves into such a muddle? I couldn’t help reflecting on the very sad case of Mrs Johnson, too. Terrible things happened to people; tragic events beyond anybody’s control. So why do others choose to go down a difficult path, all of their own accord?

I thought about my own life, and not for the first time I thanked my lucky stars for the hand I’d been dealt. I couldn’t have asked for a better start. My parents always wanted the very best for me, and fortunately had the means to send me to a private school. It was strict at Harrytown High School, being educated by straight-laced nuns, but as an adult I could see how it had given me a good, solid foundation in life.

If it wasn’t for the high expectations the headmistress Sister Mary Francis had for me, I would never have applied to do my nurses’ training at the prestigious MRI. I was very glad I did, even though it was extremely tough. I would not be here today if I hadn’t worked as hard as I did, passing my exams and gaining a pupil midwife place at Ashton General.

‘Let’s have a look at baby’s cord … shall we give baby a little top and tail, as I see she has some white stuff under her arms? Don’t worry, it’s just the waxy vernix that’s been protecting her in the womb, a little wash will sort that out.’

I’d said the same things countless times on this ward, but on this day I couldn’t help worrying that little bit more about each mother and her baby. I looked at them and hoped everything was as normal as it seemed, and if it was, I wished Mrs Prince could be just like them. How awful it must have been for her, living with such a lie, not to mention having to see me on the ward, an uncomfortable reminder of the past. She clearly remembered me, and for all she knew I could blow her whole world apart in an instant with an ill-timed recollection.

I wanted to reassure Mrs Prince that her secret was safe with me, but I certainly didn’t want to cause her any more stress, so I just kept quiet. Towards the end of my shift I diligently asked Mrs Prince if she wanted to join some of the other ladies in the nursery for a baby-bath demonstration, or whether she needed any help at all with little Phillip’s feeds. The answer was a firm but polite ‘no’ to both, as I thought it would be.

I think I was as relieved as Mrs Prince herself when she was discharged forty-eight hours after giving birth, which was typical then, provided there were no complications. I happened to be in the car park, just arriving for work in my electric blue Volkswagen Beetle – my pride and joy at that time – when I saw Mr Prince proudly carrying Phillip out of the hospital in a Silver Cross carrycot. He placed the carrycot carefully on the back seat of a brand new BMW as a smiling Mrs Prince looked on. I silently wished them all the best, hoping they could go on and live a happy life together.

My life seemed so very simple by comparison to theirs. I was just seventeen when I met Graham, and we married when I was twenty-one. Now, after seven years together, we were on the cusp of starting our own family. We’d talked about it excitedly for months, and had recently decided to stop taking precautions. As we were already in July by now, I calculated that even if I caught quickly I would have worked for more than a year as a junior sister before I might be taking maternity leave in 1973. I had it all worked out, and I was very grateful to have not only had such a solid, comfortable start in life, but to have landed on my feet in a loving marriage, where we had no secrets from one another.

* * *

September 1972 proved to be a very busy month. ‘All dem Christmas parties!’ Sister Kelly commented, referring to the fact that September, being nine months after the Christmas party season, is traditionally the busiest month on the maternity unit.

‘Yer hear the same thing every year,’ she lamented. ‘Forgot the Pill. Threw up because of the drink. Honest to God, it’s the same story year in, year out. Will these women never learn?’

I had to smile at her reference to ‘the drink’, because it was well known that Sister Kelly herself liked a little tipple from time to time, when she was off duty.

One morning I was dispatched to the labour ward, as it was ‘bustin’ at the seams’ according to Sister Kelly. ‘They need an extra pair of hands, so they do. It’s like a conveyor belt in those delivery rooms.’

I was pleased to see Sister Judith Houghton on duty. I’d had a soft spot for Sister Houghton ever since she helped me deliver my very first baby as a pupil midwife, and every time I saw her I remembered the warmth of that first baby’s head in my hands. It never failed to thrill me, and I was delighted to be with her on the labour ward today.

‘We have Mrs Sully on her way in,’ Sister Houghton told me as she allocated the jobs.

My heart jumped on hearing that name. Just as when I’d seen Mrs Sully at antenatal clinic back in March, I had a somewhat mixed reaction to seeing her again. I was absolutely thrilled that she was having another baby after losing her first so tragically, but I was also very anxious that nothing should go wrong this time round. ‘She’ll be here any minute.’

Sister Houghton explained to me that Dr Bedford, one of our consultants, had kept a very close eye on Mrs Sully in recent months. She was slightly overdue but there was nothing whatsoever to indicate she might suffer complications this time round, as the prolapsed cord that proved so calamitous last time was caused, very cruelly, by extreme bad luck.

‘Would you like to take care of her?’ Sister Houghton asked.

‘Of course,’ I replied without hesitation. ‘I’d be very pleased to.’ I meant it, and Sister Houghton gave me a knowing smile. When a mother has lost a baby as Mrs Sully did, there is nothing the midwives want more than to see her return and deliver a healthy baby. Sister Houghton knew very well that I had been deeply affected by Mrs Sully’s loss, and she knew how much it would mean to me to deliver her baby this time round.

I took a moment to compose myself in the office. ‘Please God, look after Mrs Sully this time,’ I said silently.

I pulled my shoulders back and held my head high. I wanted everything to run smoothly for Mrs Sully, I really did. When she arrived on the ward, escorted by her husband, I was pleased to see she looked radiant and remarkably calm. Her face lit up when she saw me.

‘It’s good to see a familiar face, I’m pleased it’s you,’ she smiled, hands linked protectively underneath her extremely large bump.

‘I’m pleased, too,’ I replied. I had been prepared to step aside should Mrs Sully have wished, and I was very glad that was not necessary.

Taking careful steps and supported by her attentive husband, Mrs Sully went into the first-stage room.

‘This is Malcolm,’ she said. ‘He’s staying with me all the way through.’

I was glad to hear that. It was still quite uncommon for men to accompany their wife during the delivery, but if we thought they might help in any way, most midwives had started to encourage the men to consider it. The majority of expectant fathers refused, but recently I’d started to notice a very slight shift, with a few more men shuffling in to the delivery rooms. In my experience, the trick was to suggest they would have an important job to do.

‘I think it would help your wife if you could rub her back,’ I might say, or, ‘Your wife is a little anxious; perhaps if you held her hand and talked to her you might be able to keep her calm … There’s no need for you to be at the other end of the bed – unless you want to be, that is …’

I never put pressure on men to attend, but if I thought their wife might gain some comfort or benefit from it, I tried to encourage it. In Mrs Sully’s case, I suspected her husband would be a great support and I was glad the decision was already made. He was an impressively tall and strong-looking man, and he appeared as calm and good-tempered as his wife.

‘I work in the labs at Manchester University,’ he said confidently. ‘Don’t worry about me, I am used to blood and that kind of thing.’

At that precise moment a woman in the neighbouring delivery room let out a blood-curdling cry, followed by a string of expletives.

‘Don’t you bloody well touch me!’ she shrieked, presumably to the poor midwife. ‘And ya can tell that fella of mine the same, wherever he is! I don’t want him near me EVER again! I NEVER want to have another kid! Aaaargghhhhh! Arrrghhhhh! Bleedin’ hell. Make it stop NOW! Why don’t the men have to do owt? Why is it all left to US? Aaaaarghhhh!’

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to hear that,’ I said apologetically. ‘But I’m afraid we do hear quite a lot of effing and jeffing in here.’

To my surprise and relief, Mr and Mrs Sully both started to laugh.

‘Effing and jeffing!’ Mr Sully said. ‘I’ve not heard that expression before. It’s really funny!’

‘Have you not? I say it all the time. I think it sums up the nonsense we have to hear sometimes quite well!’

With the ice broken, I felt comfortable enough to ask Mrs Sully to go to the bathroom and produce a urine sample. This, we all knew, was the point where things had started to go so dreadfully wrong last time, but Mrs Sully did not make a drama. Her husband helped her into the adjoining toilet and stood guarding the door, and a couple of minutes later the process was completed.

All was well with the sample, and I helped Mrs Sully up onto the bed for an internal examination. This was all going to plan, I was sure. I must admit, though, it was still a relief when I saw with my own eyes that nothing untoward was happening down below. I felt my shoulders relax ever so slightly inside my dress as I noted that Mrs Sully was doing very nicely indeed, and was already four centimetres dilated.

‘Thank you, Nurse,’ she said to me kindly when I told her she was progressing well. ‘I wasn’t looking forward to that bit at all, but I’m fine. Can I just ask one thing? Would it be all right if I didn’t have a shave and all that? It’s just that with Malcolm here …’

‘Of course!’ I replied. ‘Honestly, not long ago the Senior Sister would have asked questions if we didn’t stick to those routines, but things are starting to change, I’m glad to say. It’s not so strict any more.’

Mrs Sully looked visibly relieved, and I thought how ridiculous it was that any woman should have to worry about such things as a shave and enema at a time like this. I’d always been a bit dubious about the benefits of shaving a woman in labour anyhow. As for enemas, well, let’s just say if nature required the bowels to be emptied, in my opinion usually the woman could manage this without the aid of soapy water being administered up her rectum in the ‘high, hot and a hell of a lot’ fashion I had been taught in the Sixties.

It was another three hours before Mrs Sully was fully dilated and ready to push. Because of her previous obstetric history, Dr Bedford had stepped into the delivery room and the theatre staff were alerted and kept informed of her progress throughout. Mr Sully held his wife’s hand tightly as her contractions made her groan and shake her head from side to side on the pillow.

‘You are doing absolutely brilliantly,’ I said. ‘Do you think you can give me one big push, when I tell you?’

‘Ye–yeeessssss,’ she moaned, biting her lips and wrinkling her brow.

I could see the head now, and I knew this baby was tantalisingly close to being delivered. Mrs Sully gripped her husband’s hand so hard she made him yelp like a puppy as she gave an almighty push, exactly when I wanted her to. To my surprise the baby, complete with a thick mop of black hair, practically shot out in one fell swoop. Mrs Sully had delivered him with such force and determination that if I hadn’t been ready to catch him, he might have shot clean off the end of the bed.

‘It’s a little boy,’ I declared breathlessly as the red-faced baby let out an ear-splitting cry. His head appeared slightly squashed, which was very normal, but apart from that he appeared to be perfectly healthy.

‘Congratulations!’ I said, tears leaking down my cheeks. ‘Well done to you both!’

I looked at Mrs Sully and saw that she was sobbing and laughing all at once.

‘I’ve done it!’ she said, sounding triumphant and ecstatic despite being completely exhausted. ‘Can I hold him?’

‘Any minute now,’ I said as I swiftly cut and clamped the cord with trembling hands.

It had been such a high-speed delivery I was throbbing with adrenaline. As I cleaned and weighed the baby as quickly as possible, I suddenly realised Mr Sully had been very quiet. I glanced to where I expected him to be, standing at the side of the bed, and was puzzled to see him sitting in a chair by the window, his head between his legs. Dr Bedford, whose intervention had thankfully not been required during the delivery, was standing over him, which was a very unexpected turn of events indeed.

‘There, there, my good man,’ Dr Bedford was saying. ‘Stay seated, I will get a nurse to attend to you.’

To my amusement I learned that, despite working with blood samples in the university laboratories, Mr Sully had passed out momentarily when he witnessed his son’s dramatic arrival into the world. Dr Bedford’s medical skills may not have been necessary during the birth, but the consultant’s swift reactions meant that he spotted that Mr Sully was about to faint, and had steered him expertly into a chair, no doubt preventing him from cracking his head on the floor.

‘Malcolm!’ Mrs Sully exclaimed when she realised what had happened. ‘You daft ’apeth! We’ve got a little boy! We’ve got a little boy! And he’s all right!’

Mrs Sully was holding her son in a blanket by now. By this time there was another doctor, a paediatrician and another midwife as well as myself and Dr Bedford in the room, and Mrs Sully’s joyful words set everyone off with wobbling lips and tear-filled eyes. We all took it in turns to congratulate the beaming new mum and take in the wonderful scene. My legs felt like jelly, and I imagined us all standing like dominoes, about to tumble around the bed because our bodies were quivering with so much emotion. It was a day I will never forget.