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

trapping the smoke fumes from all the coal fires, steam trains, and steam engines, the profuse smoke from the ocean-going vessels, and above all the factories, which were largely fuelled by coal. A thick London smog developed. One can have no conception these days of what they were like. The air would be heavy, foul-smelling, and a thick yellowish-grey colour. It was impossible to see more than a yard ahead, even at midday. Traffic was virtually at a standstill. The only way a vehicle could move would be for a man to walk ahead of it, carrying two bright lights - one to shine ahead of him, so that he could find his way, and the other shining behind him for the vehicle to follow. These smogs were a feature of many winters in London at the time, and lasted until the atmospheric pressure lifted, allowing the trapped fumes to escape.
     
    Conchita must have gone into the backyard for something. She either slipped on the ice, or tripped over something she could not see. She must have fallen heavily and lay partly concussed on the freezing concrete for some time. The only children in the house were the little ones under five. She was found by the other children when they came home from school. Apparently she was sufficiently conscious to crawl and with the help of her children, all under eleven, she got back into the house. There was evidence that she had tried to do so before but, being unable to see through the smog, had actually crawled away from the house. It is a miracle that she did not die of exposure. She was in a bad way. A small child went to get a neighbour, who wrapped her in blankets and gave her hot brandy and water. Older children began returning home after 4 p.m. and learned of their mother’s accident. Len and the oldest boys were last to return, because they had been on a job in Knightsbridge and the journey home had taken two and a half hours.
     
    That night Conchita went into labour.
     
    The phone rang at about 11.30 p.m. I was called to the phone, as it was my case. I was aghast - firstly because of the premature labour, and secondly because of the weather conditions. How on earth was I to find my way to Limehouse? I was speaking to one of the elder sons, who briefly explained the circumstances. My first question was, “Have you called the doctor?” Yes, he had, but the doctor was out. “Well, you must keep on trying,” I said, “because your mother may be ill. If she was concussed, and her temperature dropped a lot, she may need medical treatment, quite apart from the pregnancy. Ring the doctor again now. He may have difficulty getting to you, but so will I.”
     
    I replaced the telephone, and looked out of the window. I couldn’t see a thing. Thick grey swirls of fog seemed to be circling the window panes, trying to get in. I shivered, as much with apprehension for Conchita’s awful plight as reluctance to go out at all. The sirens from the river boats, and those in the docks, moaned a hollow call.
     
    We had hardly been out of the house for three days, hoping and praying that no one would go into labour before the smog lifted. It was a situation I could not, should not, handle alone.
     
    I went up to the Sisters’ floor to call Sister Julienne. Nuns go to bed at about nine o’clock because they get up before 4 a.m. for the first Office of the day, so eleven-thirty would be the middle of the night for them. Nonetheless, with the first light tap on the door, Sister was awake.
     
    “Who is it?,” she called out.
     
    I said my name, and that Conchita Warren was in premature labour.
     
    “Wait a minute.”
     
    I waited thirty seconds, and Sister joined me in the corridor, shutting the door of her cell behind her. She was wearing a coarse brown wool dressing gown, and, amazingly, her veil. The question, does she go to bed in the thing? flashed through my mind. It must be damned uncomfortable.
     
    But there was no time to reflect upon the habit of a nun. I told her briefly the story that had been given to me over the telephone.
     
    She thought for a moment and said, “Limehouse is over three miles away. You might not get there. There is no point in me, or any of the midwives, coming with you, because two people can get lost just as easily as one. You must have a police escort. Go now and ring the police, and God be with you, my dear. I will pray for Conchita Warren and her unborn baby.”
     
    The knowledge that Sister Julienne would be praying for us had an extraordinary effect.