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

stage had to be dealt with, and this was conducted in dead silence. While the doctor was busy with the mother, I bathed, checked, and weighed the baby. He certainly was a beautiful little thing, of average weight, clear dusky skin, soft curly brown hair. A picture perfect baby - if you are expecting to see a baby of mixed racial origins. But Ted wasn’t. He was expecting to see his own child. I shut my eyes in a futile attempt to obliterate the scene to come.
     
    Everything was finished and tidied up. The mother looked fresh in a white nightgown; the baby looked beautiful in a white shawl.
     
    The doctor said, “I think we had better ask your husband to come up now.”
     
    They were the first words to be spoken since the delivery.
     
    Winnie said, “I reckons as ’ow we’d best get it over wiv”.
     
    I went downstairs and told Ted that a baby boy had been safely born, and would he like to come up.
     
    He shouted, “A boy!” and leaped to his feet like a youngster of twenty-two, not a man of over sixty. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, entered the bedroom and took both his wife and the baby in his arms. He kissed them both and said, “This is the proudest and happiest day of my life.”
     
    The doctor and I exchanged glances. He hadn’t noticed yet. He said to his wife, “You don’t know what vis means to me, Win. Can I ’old ve baby?”
     
    She silently handed him over.
     
    Ted sat on the edge of the bed, and cradled the baby awkwardly in his arms (all new fathers look awkward with a baby!) He looked long at his little face, and stroked his hair and ears. He undid the shawl, and looked at the tiny body. He touched his legs, and moved his arms, and took his hand. The baby’s face puckered up and he gave a little mewing cry.
     
    Ted gazed at him silently for a long time. Then he looked up with a beatific smile, “Well, I don’t reckon to know much about babies, but I can see as how this is the most beautiful in the world. What’s we going to call him, luv?”
     
    The doctor and I looked at each other in silent amazement. Was it really possible he hadn’t noticed? Winnie, who had seemed unable to breathe, took a large shuddering breath, and said, “You choose, Ted, luv. He’s yourn.”
     
    “We’ll call ’im Edward, then. It’s a good ol’ family name. Me dad’s an’ gran’dad’s. He’s my son Ted.”
     
    The doctor and I left the three of them sitting happily together. Outside, the doctor said, “It is possible that he just hasn’t noticed yet. Black skin is pale at birth, and this child is obviously only half-black, or even less than that, because his father may have been of mixed racial descent. However, pigmentation usually becomes more marked as the child ages, and at some stage Ted is certainly going to notice and start asking questions.”
     
    Time went by, and Ted didn’t notice or, in any event, didn’t appear to notice. Win must have had a word with her mother and other female relatives to say nothing to Ted about the baby’s appearance, and indeed nothing was said.
     
    Win went back to work part-time at the paper shop after about six weeks. Ted had longer each day with the baby and assumed most of the parenting. He bathed and fed him, and proudly took him out in the pram, greeting passersby and inviting them all to look at “my son Ted”. As the baby grew older, he played with him all the time, inventing learning games and toys. In consequence, by the age of eighteen months, little Ted was very bright and advanced for his age. The relationship between father and son was lovely to see.
     
    By the time the child reached school age, his features were noticeably black. Yet still Ted did not appear to notice. He had made a wider circle of friends than he had ever had in his life before, largely due to the fact that he took the child everywhere, and people responded to this bright, handsome little boy, whom Ted introduced proudly as “my son Ted”. The child was just as proud, in his own way, of his father and as he clung to his big protective hand, gazed up adoringly with his huge black eyes. At school he always spoke of “my dad” as though he were the king himself.
     
    Ted, approaching seventy, had no inhibitions about waiting outside the school gates along with young mothers nearly half a century his junior. Only two or three little black or mixed race children would come running out of school, to black mothers, but one of them would fling himself