Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S

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.”
     
    I completed the report and had time to wash and change before lunch. At table, it was hard to join in the general conversation. I was hearing in my mind that horrible wolf-howl, thinking of Sister Evangelina’s explanation, and remembering. Her words brought to mind something my grandfather had told me years before, about a man he knew well who had fallen on hard times. The man had applied to the Board of Guardians for temporary relief, and had been told that he could not have it, but would be sent to the workhouse. The