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

went straight round to Baffin Buildings.
     
    She reported back that Molly was there, looking a good deal cleaner, but as sullen as ever. Dick was not at home. He was supposed to have been looking after the children whilst Molly was in hospital, but whether he had or not was anyone’s guess. Majorie had offered to take care of them, but Dick had refused, saying they were his kids, and he wasn’t going to let that interfering old bag poke her nose into his family.
     
    There had been no food in the flat. Perhaps Molly had anticipated this, and that was why she’d discharged herself. She had no money on her, but on the way home with the baby, had called in the cooked meat shop, and begged a couple of meat pies on tick. As the butcher knew and respected her mother, he let Molly have them. The two little boys, dressed only in filthy jumpers, were sitting on the floor devouring the pies ravenously when Sister Bernadette had arrived.
     
    Molly hardly spoke, Sister told us. She had submitted to being examined, and the baby, a little girl, to examination, but remained morosely silent all the while. Sister had said she was going to tell Marjorie that her daughter was home.
     
    “Please yerself,” was all the reply she got.
     
    Marjorie had had no idea of the turn of events, and ran round to Baffin Buildings straight away. Unfortunately Dick chose the same moment to return, and they met on the landing. He lunged at her drunkenly, and Marjorie ducked. Had he hit her, she would have fallen down the stone staircase. After that, all the poor woman dared to do was to buy food and leave it on the landing outside her daughter’s door.
     
    Our custom was to visit twice a day for fourteen days after delivery. Molly and baby were satisfactory, from a purely medical point of view, but the domestic situation was as bad as ever. Sometimes Dick was at home, sometimes not. Poor Marjorie was never seen there. She would have made all the difference in the world to Molly and the little boys. Her cheerfulness alone would have lightened the atmosphere, but she was never allowed in. She had to content herself with coming round to Nonnatus House to ask the Sisters how her daughter and grandchildren were getting on. One day she gave us a bag of baby clothes to take on our next visit. She said she didn’t like to leave them on the landing, in case they got damp.
     
    Over the next few days several nurses visited Molly, all reporting the same disquieting condition. One nurse said that she was very nearly sick in the room, and had to rush outside into the fresh air in order to control her stomach. On the eighth evening I called, and there was no reply to my knock. The door was locked, so I knocked again - no response. I thought Molly might be busy with the baby and unable to answer. As it was only 5 p.m., I continued my visits, intending to return later.
     
    It was about 8 p.m. when I got back to Baffin Buildings. I was tired, and it seemed a long climb up to the fifth floor. I was almost tempted to skip it. After all, Molly and baby were medically satisfactory, which was our remit. But something prompted me not to miss this visit, so I wearily climbed the stairs.
     
    I knocked, and there was no reply again. I knocked again, louder - she can’t still be busy, I thought. A door opened just down the balcony, and a woman appeared.
     
    “She’s out,” she said, her fag drooping off her lower lip.
     
    “Out! You can’t mean it. She’s only just had a baby.”
     
    “Well, she’s out, I tells yer. Saw ’er go, I did. Tarted up an’ all, she was.”
     
    “Well where’s she gone to?” It flashed through my mind that she had gone to her mother’s. “Has she taken the three children?”
     
    The woman uttered a shriek of laughter, and the fag dropped to the floor. She stooped to pick it up, and her hair curlers clacked together as she bent.
     
    “What! Three kids! You must be joking. Three kids wouldn’t do her much good, would it now?”
     
    I didn’t like the woman. There was something about the knowing way she grinned at me that was most unpleasant. I turned my back on her, knocked again, and called through the letterbox. “Would you let me in, please, it’s the nurse.”
     
    There was definitely a movement inside, I heard it quite distinctly. Self-conscious, because I knew that woman was sneering at me, I kneeled down and looked through the letterbox.
     
    Two eyes, close to mine, met my gaze. They were a child’s