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

added quietly.
     
    As they lay in each other’s arms, watching the daylight banish the soft darkness, he whispered, “There, my little Mary, did you enjoy that? Did you think anything like that could come to you? There are many other things that I can show you also.”
     
    “Then I made a terrible mistake,” she said to me. “If I had not made that mistake, he would love me still. But I thought I should tell him all the truth about myself, so that there would be no secrets between us. I told him about me mam’s man in Dublin, and what he did to me.”
     
    “Zakir pushed me away from him then, and jumped up, shouting, ‘Why do I waste my time with you, you little slut. I am a busy man. I have better things to do with my time. Get up, and get yourself dressed.’
     
    “He slapped me in the face and threw my clothes at me. I was crying, and he slapped me again, and said, ‘Stop snivelling. Get your clothes on, and hurry up.’
     
    “I got dressed as quickly as I could, and he pushed me out of the door on to the landing. Then his mood changed again, and he smiled at me. He wiped my eyes with his handkerchief and said, ‘There, there, my little Mary. Don’t cry. It will be all right. I am quick tempered, but it is soon over. If you are a good girl, I will always look after you.’
     
    “He put his arm around me, and I felt happy again. I knew it had been my fault for telling him about the Irishman. You see, I had hurt his feelings. He had wanted to be the first.”
     
    Her gullibility astonished me. After all that she had been through and witnessed, did she really cling to the dream that Zakir had loved her, and prized her virginity so much that his love ceased when he knew that she had been raped by a drunken Irishman?
     
    “He took me down to the café area, and called over to one of the women I had seen holding the leg of the girl on the table the night before. He said to her, ‘This is Mary. She’ll be all right. Tell Uncle when he gets up.’
     
    “Then he said to me: ‘I have to go out now. I am a busy man. You stay with Gloria and she will look after you. Do what Uncle tells you. If you do what Uncle tells you, and are a good girl, I will be pleased with you. If you do not, I will be cross with you.’”
     
    Mary whispered: “When are you coming back?”
     
    He said, “Don’t worry, I will come back. Stay here and be a good girl, and do what Uncle tells you.”
     

CAFÉ LIFE
     
     
     
    During my time at Nonnatus House, I took many walks around Stepney to see what it was like. It was simply appalling. The slums were worse than I could ever have imagined. I could not believe that it was only three miles from Poplar where, although poor, badly housed and overcrowded, the people were cheerful and neighbourly. In Poplar everyone would call out to a nurse: ” ’Allo luvvy. ‘Ow’s yerself? ’Ow you doin’ then?” In Stepney no one spoke to me at all. I walked down Cable Street, Graces Alley, Dock Street, Sanders Street, Backhouse Lane and Leman Street, and the atmosphere was menacing. Girls hung around in doorways, and men walked up and down the streets, often in groups, or hung around the doors of cafés smoking or chewing tobacco and spitting. I always wore my full nurse’s uniform, because I did not want to be propositioned. I knew that I was being watched, and that my presence was deeply resented.
     
    The condemned buildings were still standing, nearly twenty years after they had been scheduled for demolition, and were still being lived in. A few families and old people who could not get away remained, but mostly the occupants were prostitutes, homeless immigrants, drunks or meths drinkers, and drug addicts. There were no general shops selling food and household necessities as the shops had been turned into all-night cafés, which in fact meant they were brothels. The only shops I saw were tobacconists.
     
    Many of the buildings apparently had no roofs. Father Joe, the vicar of St Paul’s, told me he knew of a family of twelve who lived in three upper rooms, with tarpaulins to shelter them. Most of the upper storeys were quite derelict, but the lower storeys, protected by the floor above that had not yet collapsed, were teeming with humanity.
     
    In Wellclose Square (now demolished) there was a Primary School that backed on to Cable Street. I was told that every kind of filth was thrown over the railings, so I spoke to the caretaker. He was a Stepney man born and