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

colour?”
     
    “Mos’ly yellowish.”
     
    “Any swelling of the ankles?”
     
    “Nope.”
     
    “Any breathlessness?”
     
    “Nope.”
     
    “Any vomiting?”
     
    “A bit. Not much though.”
     
    “Constipated?”
     
    “Yep, not ’alf !”
     
    “Are you sure you are pregnant? You haven’t been examined or tested.”
     
    “I should know,” she said meaningfully, with a shriek of laughter.
     
    The children by now were rushing around all over the place. The hall, being large and virtually empty, was like a great play area for them. I didn’t mind - no healthy child can resist a wide open space, and the urge to run is powerful if you are only five years old. But Lil thought she must exercise some show of authority. She grabbed a passing child by the arm and dragged him to her. She gave him a great blow across the side of the face and ear with a heavy hand, and screamed.
     
    “Shut up and behave yourself, you li’l bleeder. And that goes for the lot of you and all.”
     
    The child squealed with pain and the injustice of the blow. He retreated about ten yards from his mother, and screamed and stamped, until he could scarcely breathe. Then he paused, took a deep breath, and started all over again. The other children had stopped running around, and a couple started whimpering. A happy but noisy scene with five little children had been turned in an instant into a battlefield by this stupid woman. I hated her from that moment.
     
    Novice Ruth came up to the child, and tried to comfort him, but he pushed her away, and lay on the floor kicking and screaming. Lil grinned and said to me: “Don’t mind him, he’ll get over it.” Then louder, to the child: “Shu’ yer face or yer’ll get another.”
     
    I couldn’t bear it, so to prevent her doing any more harm, I told her that I must examine her urine, gave her a gallipot, and asked her to go into the lavatory to supply a sample for me. After that, I said, I would want to examine her, and would need her undressed below the waist, and lying on one of the couches.
     
    Her slippers slapped across the wooden floor as she went. She came back giggling, and gave me the specimen, then flopped over to one of the couches. I ground my teeth. What has she got to giggle about, I thought. The child was still lying on the floor, but not screaming so much. The other children looked sullen, making no attempt to play.
     
    I went to the work surface to test the urine. The litmus paper turned red, showing normal acidity. The urine was cloudy, and the specific gravity high. I wanted to test for sugar, and lit the gas jet. I half filled a test tube with urine, and added a couple of drops of Fehlings solution, and boiled the contents. No sugar was present. Lastly, I had to test for albumen by refilling the test tube with fresh urine, and boiling the upper half only. It did not turn white or thick, indicating that albumen urea was not present.
     
    This took about five minutes to complete, during which time the child had stopped crying. He was sitting up and Novice Ruth was playing with him with a couple of balls, pushing them back and forth. Her refined, delicate features were offset by her white muslin veil which fell down as she leaned over. The child grabbed it and pulled. The other children laughed. They seemed happy again. No thanks to their rough and brutal mother, I thought as I went over to Lil, who was now lying on the couch.
     
    She was fat, and her flabby skin was dirty and moist with perspiration. A dank, unwashed smell rose from her body. Have I got to touch her? I thought as I approached. I tried to remind myself that she and her husband and all the children probably lived in two or three rooms with no bath, or even hot water, but it did not dispel my feeling of revulsion. Had she not hit her child in that heartless manner, my feelings might have softened towards her.
     
    I put on my surgical gloves, and covered her lower half with a sheet, because I wanted to examine her breasts. I asked her to pull up her jumper. She giggled, and wobbled around, pulling it up. The smell intensified as her armpits were exposed. Two large pendulous breasts flopped down either side of her, prominent veins coursing towards huge, near-black nipples. These veins were a reliable sign of pregnancy. A little fluid could be squeezed from the nipples. Just about diagnostic, I thought. I told her this.
     
    She shrieked with laughter. “Told you so, didn’t I?”
     
    I