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

although as her eyes were now closed, she might have been asleep. Nonetheless, her hand was still firmly placed over the baby, and any attempt to remove it was resisted.
     
    With difficulty Liz and I cleaned up the bed again, and the houseman was given the messy job of checking the bits of placenta against the larger piece that had first been delivered, and measuring the blood that we had managed to contain.
     
    “Placenta seems to be all here, sir, and I measure one and a half pints of blood. Add to that about eight ounces lost in the bed, and you could say around two pints of blood loss.”
     
    The registrar muttered to himself, then said aloud, “She really needs a transfusion. Her blood pressure is already low. Can we do it here?” he added, turning to the GP.
     
    “Yes, I’ll take a sample now for cross-matching.”
     
    I had wondered why the GP had remained all the while, when he could have left. Now it became clear to me. He anticipated having ongoing responsibility for Conchita if she was to be cared for at home, and he wanted full cognisance of the facts.
     
    At that moment the ambulance arrived from Great Ormond Street to collect the baby.
     

A PREMATURE BABY
     
     
     
    It was a thousand pities, I thought, from the point of view of the good gossips of Limehouse, that all this had been carried out in a London smog. Had it been a clear night, every move would have been witnessed and reported - a midwife, police, teams of doctors, ambulances, each with a police escort. Such a sensation would have kept the gossips in business for a year at least. As it was, not even the next-door neighbour would have been able to see the two ambulances parked outside the Warren house, and police coming and going throughout the night. Their only consolation might have been that the whole street was wakened by the blood-curdling screams that lasted for about twenty minutes.
     
    The paraphernalia and personnel that emerged from the second ambulance was overwhelming. A doctor came hurrying past, carrying an incubator. Another followed with a ventilating machine. A nurse followed with a huge box. Two ambulance men and the policeman came last, each carrying oxygen cylinders. All this equipment had to be manoeuvred past the three coach prams and two ladders lining the hallway. The washing hanging overhead didn’t help, because it got caught up on the equipment and several small, dainty items, personal to the young ladies of the house were transported upstairs. The children, who had been in and out of bed all night, hung over the banisters, and hid in doorways, to get the full impact of the procession.
     
    On reaching the bedroom, the medical staff entered whilst the policeman and the ambulance men were directed down to the kitchen to join their colleagues for tea. Nevertheless, the bedroom, of average size, now contained five doctors, two nurses, a midwife, and Len and Liz. There was equipment everywhere. My delivery instruments still covered the dresser. The obstetrician’s was on the chest of drawers. The paediatrician’s had to be left on the floor, whilst we hastily cleared space.
     
    “I think we’ll push off, now,” said the registrar to his colleague.” I’m very glad to see you. The mother is to be nursed at home. Good luck with the baby.”
     
    They left, but the GP remained.
     
    The paediatrician looked at the baby and gasped.
     
    “Think he’ll make it, sir?” asked the young doctor.
     
    “We’ll have a damn good try,” said the paediatric registrar. “Fix up the oxygen, and the suction, and heat up the incubator.”
     
    The team got busy.
     
    The paediatrician leaned over Conchita to take the baby. You could not tell whether she was asleep or semi-conscious, but the muscles of her arm tightened, and she held the baby fast.
     
    He said to Len, “Would you tell her to let me have the baby, please? I’ve got to examine him, before we can transport him.”
     
    Len leaned over his wife and murmured to her, trying to loosen her hand. It tightened, and her other hand came up to cover the first.
     
    “Liz, luv, you tell yer mum we’ve got to ’ave the baby, to take to hospital.”
     
    He shook her gently, trying to waken her. Her eyes flickered, and opened a little.
     
    Liz bent over her and spoke to her in Spanish. None of us could tell what she said. Conchita opened her eyes more, and tried to focus on the little creature lying on her chest.
     
    “No,” she said.
     
    Liz spoke