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

did it in alleyways or doorways, up against a wall, anywhere - even the bomb sites. I hated myself. There were dreadful fights between girls about whose pitch was whose, and fights between the men. If a girl tried to go to another protector, she might get her throat cut. You just don’t know the dreadful things that go on.”
     
    “I was out all the time. I got some sleep in the mornings, but I had to go out every afternoon until about five or six the next morning. I hardly got any food, except some chips at the café, if I was lucky. I hated it, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I’m filthy, I’m bad, I’m … ”
     
    I cut her short, not wanting her to dwell on self-reproval: “Well, you left in the end. What made you do that?”
     
    “The baby,” she said quietly, “and Nelly. I liked Nelly,” she continued. “She was the only girl who was always kind to all the other girls. She never quarrelled and was never spiteful. She came from an orphanage in Glasgow and never knew who her father and mother were, nor if she had any brothers and sisters. She was always lonely, I think, because deep down inside, she was always looking for someone who belonged to her. She was two years older than me.”
     
    Then Mary told me the terrible truth.
     
    “Gloria found out that Nelly was expecting a baby. It had happened before, other girls had fallen pregnant, but I hadn’t been involved, because I wasn’t friends with them. Gloria made arrangements, and a woman came in. I don’t know who she was, but the girls said she always did it. It was a morning, and I was asleep after my night out. I heard terrible screaming, and I knew at once that it was Nelly’s voice. I ran downstairs and found her in a little room. She was lying on a bed screaming, and Gloria and two other girls were holding her legs open while this woman stuck what looked like steel knitting needles inside her. I rushed in and took Nelly in my arms, and told them to stop, but of course they wouldn’t. I couldn’t stop the pain for Nelly, either, so I just held her tight in my arms.”
     
    I asked Mary to tell me more about Nelly.
     
    “It was dreadful. The woman went on and on poking and scraping. Then suddenly there was blood everywhere. All over the bed, and the floor, and the woman. She said, ‘That’s all she needs. Just keep her in bed for a few days. She’ll be all right.’ They cleaned up, and threw the mess into the bomb site, while I stayed with Nelly. She was dead white, and still in dreadful pain. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed with her, and gave her water, and tried to make her comfortable. Gloria looked in sometimes, and told me to sit with her, and not to go out that night.”
     
    Mary started to cry.
     
    “Sometimes she knew who I was, sometimes she didn’t. She got terribly hot. Her skin was burning up. I wiped her with cold water, but it didn’t help. All the time she was bleeding, till the mattress was soaked with blood. I sat with her all day and all night, and the pain never left her. In the early morning, she died in my arms.”
     
    She was silent - then said bitterly:
     
    “I don’t know what they did with her body. There was no funeral, and no police came. I suppose they just got rid of her, and told no one about it.”
     
    I pondered, was it really possible to dispose of a body? If the girl had no relatives or friends, who would enquire about her if she disappeared? The other girls at the café knew her, but it seemed that they all lived in so much fear of Uncle, that they would say nothing. If Gloria or the abortionist were caught, it would probably have meant a charge of murder or at the very least manslaughter, so a web of protection was woven around them. I had little doubt that many other prostitutes had disappeared and no one ever missed them because they were usually homeless, unwanted girls.
     
    A couple of months later, Mary realised that she, too, was pregnant but fear made her conceal the fact. She continued to go out soliciting, even though she was sick most of the time. She told me that she wanted to get away but was too afraid to try. The baby didn’t mean anything to her, until she felt it moving inside her, and then a rush of maternal love swept over her. Some time later, as she was dressing in the attic one day, another girl screamed out:
     
    “Look at Mary. There’s a bun in the oven.”
     
    And then everyone knew.
     
    Mary was frantic, and knew she had to get away. She