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

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.
     

THE BOTTOM DROPPED OUT OF PIGS
     
     
     
    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