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

himself, I thought. The placenta came out fairly quickly also, and there was no excessive bleeding.
     
    Len wrapped the baby tenderly in warm towels, and placed her in the crib. He called downstairs for hot water, and gave the message that a little girl had been born. Then he washed his wife all over, and deftly changed the sheets. He brushed her black hair, and put a white hair band on her, to match her white nightie. He called her his pet, his love, his treasure. She smiled dreamily at him.
     
    He called downstairs for one of his children, “Here, Liz, you take these bloody sheets, and put them in the boiler, will yer, love. Then we might think about a nice cup of tea, eh?”
     
    Then he turned back to his wife, and took the baby from the cradle, and handed it to her. She smiled contentedly, touching the baby’s little head, and kissing its wee face. She didn’t say anything, just chuckled with contentment.
     
    Len was ecstatic, and started talking non-stop again. During Conchita’s labour he had hardly said a thing. It was the only time I had ever known him to be silent for so long. But now nothing could stop him.
     
    “Oh, look at her. Jes look at ’er, nurse. Isn’ she beau’iful? Look at ’er li’l hands. See, she’s got fingernails. Oh, she’s openin’ her li’l mouth. Oh, you li’l swee’heart, you. See, she’s got long eyelashes, like ’er mum. She’s jes perfick.”
     
    He was as excited as a young father with his first baby.
     
    He called all the other children up, and they all sat round their mother, talking in a mixture of Spanish and English. Only the toddlers were asleep. The rest of the house was awake and excited.
     
    I packed up my equipment and slipped silently out of the room, feeling that the unity and happiness of the family would be all the greater if I was not there. Len saw me leave and courteously came out with me. As we left, I noticed that the conversation behind us slipped into Spanish.
     
    He thanked me for all I had done, although I had done virtually nothing. As he carried my bag downstairs, he said: “Let’s have a nice cup o’ tea together, shall us nurse?”.
     
    He chatted happily all the time we had our tea. I told him how much I liked and admired his family. He was a proud father. I told him how impressed I was that they all spoke Spanish so fluently.
     
    “They’re a clever lot, my kids, they are. Cleverer than their old dad. I never could pick up the lingo, meself.”
     
    Quite suddenly, with blinding insight, the secret of their blissful marriage was revealed to me. She couldn’t speak a word of English, and he couldn’t speak a word of Spanish.
     

SISTER MONICA JOAN
     
     
     
    “Light is the higher plane - life is the lower - light becomes Life. There is a fiery flash, a vision granted, a golden moment of offering.”
     
    I could listen to her all day - the beautiful modulated voice, the moving hands, the hooded eyes, the arch of her haughty eyebrows, the drape of her veil as she turned her long neck. She was over ninety, and her mind was going, but I was utterly captivated.
     
    “Shining questions, infinite response, the astro-mental plane of man lies in the etheric. The outer darkness is a monstrous dragon, with its tail in its mouth. Did you know?”
     
    I sat at her feet, bewitched, and shook my head, not daring to speak in case I broke the spell.
     
    “This is the cosmic body, the critical point, the translation of parallelisms running to the neutral centre of the disappearing point. Have you seen the clouds pass and float and roll as planets do? And so we see Him come, pierced. I am the thorn that pierced His brow. Can you smell burning, my dear?”
     
    “No. Can you?”
     
    “I think that Mrs B.’s ahrimatic unconsciousness has prompted her to make a cake. Let us go with God in all things. I think we should investigate, don’t you?”
     
    I would rather have continued listening to her talk, but I knew that once the spell had been broken, there would be no going back - for the time being - and the smell of cake for Sister Monica Joan was irresistible. She smiled appreciatively. “That smells like one of Mrs B.’s honey cakes. Come on, get a move on, don’t just sit there.”
     
    She jumped up, and with quick, light steps, head held high, back straight, she sped towards the kitchen.
     
    Mrs B. turned as she entered. “Hello, Sister Monica Joan, you’re a bit early. They’re not done yet. But I’ve kept the