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

week before the expected delivery. The blue bag contained our instruments and drugs. We fitted them both to our bicycles, and pushed out into a cold windless day.
     
    I had never known London to be so quiet. Nothing seemed to stir, except for two midwives cycling silently along the deserted road. Normally the East India Dock Road is dense with heavy goods lorries going to and from the docks, but on that day the broad thoroughfare looked majestic and beautiful in its solitary silence. Nothing moved on the river or in the docks. Not a sound, but the occasional cry of a seagull. The stillness of the great heart of London was unforgettable.
     
    We arrived at the house, and Dave let us in. Through the window we had seen a big Christmas tree, a fire, and a room crowded with people. About a dozen little faces of curious children were pressed to the window pane as we arrived.
     
    Dave said, “Betty’s upstairs. I didn’t see no cause to send them home, and she don’t want it. She likes a bit of noise, says it will help her.”
     
    The sound of lusty singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” came from the front room, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano. Full vocal justice was given to the animal noises by various uncles, expert in being the horse, the pig, the cow, the duck. The children screamed with laughter, and shouted for more.
     
    We went upstairs to Betty’s room, where the peace and silence contrasted with the noise and clamour below. A fire had been lit and was burning brightly. Hardly any time had been given to Betty’s mother to prepare a delivery room, but she had worked miracles. Surfaces had been cleaned, extra linen provided, hot water was available, even the cot had been prepared. Betty’s first words were, “This is a turn up for the books, eh, Sister?”
     
    She was a cheerful, down-to-earth sort of woman, who took everything in her stride. No doubt she had the same confidence in Sister Bernadette that I had.
     
    I opened the delivery pack, and covered the bed with brown waterproof paper, then the draw sheets and maternity pads. We gowned and scrubbed up, and Sister examined her. The waters had broken an hour earlier. I saw intense concentration on Sister’s face, and then a look of grave concern. She said nothing for a few moments as she slowly took off her gloves, then said gently:
     
    “Betty, your baby seems to be a breech presentation. That means the bottom is coming first, instead of the head. This is a perfectly normal way for the baby to lie until about thirty-five weeks, but then the baby usually turns, and the head is presented first. Your baby has not turned. Now, whilst thousands of babies are born quite safely in breech, there is a greater risk than a head presentation. Perhaps you should consider a hospital delivery.”
     
    Betty’s reaction was immediate and dogmatic. “No. No hospital. I’ll be OK with you, Sister. All me babies have been delivered by the Nonnatuns and born in this room, and I don’t want nothing else. What do you say, mum?”
     
    Her mother agreed, and recalled that her ninth had been a breech, and that her neighbour Glad had had no less than four, arse first.
     
    Sister said, “Very well then, we will do our best, but I am going to ask Dr Turner to come.” Then to me: “Would you go and ring him, nurse?”
     
    In spite of his comparative affluence, Dave did not have a telephone. There would have been no point, because none of his friends or relatives had a phone, so no one would ever have rung them. The public phone box was sufficient for their needs. As I went downstairs, a stream of shouting children in paper hats, faces alight with excitement rushed past me. A voice from downstairs called out:
     
    “Everyone hide. I’ll count twenty, then I’m coming to find you. One, two, three, four … ”
     
    The children rushed higher in the house, screaming and pushing, hiding in cupboards, behind curtains, anywhere. By the time I got to the front door, all was quiet except: “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen - cummin’.”
     
    I went out into the cold of the deserted street to find the telephone box. Dr Turner was a general practitioner who not only had a surgery in the East End, but also lived there with his wife and children. He was utterly dedicated to his work and his practice, and it seemed to me that he was always on call. Like most GPs of his generation he was a first-class midwife, with a knowledge and skill gained from the experience of his