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

old sour stout that she could get. Then it was poteen, which the knife-sharpener man distilled. I don’t know what she drinks now. Most likely it’s meths and cold tea.”
     
    The schoolmistress reported that the three younger children were playing truant, and that when they did come to school, they were half-starving and half-naked. They were taken away from their mother, and put into an orphanage. The mother didn’t seem to notice that they had gone. She had already hitched up with another man.
     
    “It’s probably a good thing that they were taken away, because I have two little sisters, and I wouldn’t want what happened to me to happen to them.”
     
    I shuddered. I had heard from Child Care Officers that if a mother takes another man into the house this can frequently be the death sentence for the children.
     
    “He was a big man. I had never seen him sober. There was nothing I could do. I never knew that anything could be so awful. He did it again and again, until I got used to it. It was when he started hitting me and my mam with anything he could get hold of that I knew I had to leave. Me mam didn’t seem to notice the wallops, I think she was too drunk to feel anything. But I wasn’t. I thought he would kill me.”
     
    She had slept in the streets of Dublin for a few nights, with her possessions in a string bag, but her thoughts were on London. She said, “Do you know the story of Dick Whittington and his black cat? Me mam used to tell us that story, and I always thought London must be a beautiful place.”
     
    She went to the docks, and enquired about the cost of the fare to England. It was equivalent to three weeks’ wages, so she continued at the factory, and slept in a store room at night.
     
    “I was as quiet as a mouse, and as secret as a shadow, and no one knew I was there. Even the caretaker didn’t find me when he did his rounds at night, or I would have been thrown out,” she said with a mischievous grin.
     
    She spent nothing on food, scrounging what she could from other girls in the factory, and at the end of the third week, she took her wages and left, saying she wasn’t coming back.
     
    There were many cargo boats going daily from Dublin to Liverpool in those days, but nonetheless, she had to wait until the Monday before she could get a passage.
     
    “I spent the whole of Sunday wandering around the docks. It was beautiful, with the great ships, and the water splashing, and the seagulls crying. And I was that excited about going to London, that I didn’t notice I was hungry.”
     
    After another night spent in the open, she paid all her money apart from a few shillings, on a one-way ticket and boarded the vessel.
     
    “It was the most exciting moment of my life, and as I said goodbye to Ireland, I crossed myself and prayed for the soul of me dad, and asked our Holy Mother Mary to look after me poor mam, and me brothers and sisters.”
     
    She arrived in Liverpool docks at about 7 p.m. on Monday evening. They did not seem to be quite as different as she had expected. In fact, they looked exactly like Dublin docks, only bigger. She did not know what to do. She enquired where London was, and was told three hundred miles away.
     
    “Three hundred miles,” she said. “I nearly fainted. I’d thought it was just around the corner. Can you believe I was so silly?”
     
    She’d spent another night in the open, and found some bread that had been thrown out for the seagulls. It was stale and dirty, but satisfied the worst of her hunger. In the morning, as the sun rose, her spirits and youthful optimism rose also, and she enquired how she could get to London without any money. She was told that 95 per cent of the transport lorries leaving that day would be going to London, and all that was necessary was to ask the driver if he would take her.
     
    “You shouldn’t have any difficulties, a pretty girl like you,” her informant had said.
     
    I know this to be true from my own experience. From the age of about seventeen, I had hitch-hiked all over England and Wales, always thumbing down long distance lorries and reaching my destination safely. I was always alone. I knew it was said that lorry drivers pick up girls for one purpose only, but this had not been my experience. All the lorry drivers I met were sober, hardworking men, who knew the road, had a load to deliver, and had a schedule to fulfil. Furthermore they were in a named company lorry, and any complaint