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

Across the deck of the first barge there was no trouble. But then there were the two adjoining sides of the boats to be clambered over, before she could reach the second deck, and the barges were moving. It took all the strength of the big man, and two or three others besides, to get her over. I heard “gi’s a leg up, there’s a good lad” and “heave” and “hold me” and “push” and “good for you, Sis”. I followed nimbly enough, and couldn’t take my eyes off this game old nun, her veil blowing in the wind, rosary and crucifix swinging wildly from side to side, her nose growing redder with the exertion. Two men carried the bicycles, high above their heads, and she turned round and reprimanded them sharply: “Just you look after our bags. This is no laughing matter.”
     
    The second and third barges were traversed without mishap, but there was a gap of about eighteen inches before the fourth one. She looked at the water between and said “humph”. She pulled her skirts even higher, rubbed a dewdrop off her nose with the flat of her hand, and said to the big man: “You go over there first and be ready to catch me.” Three young men got hold of her - she was no lightweight - and she stepped up on to the side. She stood on the narrow edge of the moving barge, her two flat feet firmly planted, and looked resolutely at the big man on the other side. She was panting. She sniffed again loudly, and said: “Right, if I can put my weight on your shoulders, I’ll be OK.” He nodded, and raised his arms. Gingerly she leaned forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, and he caught her under the arms while the younger men steadied her from behind. My heart was in my mouth. If the barge moved at that moment, or if she slipped, there would have been nothing anyone could have done to prevent her from falling into the water. Could she swim? What if she went under the barge? It didn’t bear thinking about. Slowly, carefully, she lifted one foot, brought it forward, and put it on the edge of the next barge. She waited a second, gaining her balance, and then swiftly brought the other leg over, and jumped into the arms of the big man. Cheers went up all round, and I nearly collapsed with relief. She sniffed again.
     
    “Well, that wasn’t too bad. No worse than a fart in a colander. Let’s carry on.” The remaining barges all adjoined each other, and she reached the other side, red faced and triumphant. She pulled her skirts down, took her bicycle, smiled at them all, and said, “Thanks, lads, you’ve been great. We’ll be off now.” And with her usual parting comment to dockers, “Keep ’em open and you won’t need a doctor,” she cycled out of the harbour.
     

MRS JENKINS
     
     
     
    Mrs Jenkins was an enigmatic figure. For years she had been tramping all over the Docklands, from Bow to Cubitt Town, from Stepney to Blackwall, yet no one knew anything about her. The reason for her ceaseless tramping was an obsession with babies, specifically newborn babies. She seemed to know, God knows how, just when and where a home confinement would take place, and nine times out of ten would be found hanging around in the street outside the house. She never said much, and her enquiries about “’Ow’s ve baby? Ow’s ve li’le one?” were invariably the same. On being told the baby was alive and healthy, she often seemed satisfied and shuffled away. She was always seen on a Tuesday afternoon hanging around outside the antenatal clinic, and most of the young mothers brushed past her impatiently, or pulled their young toddlers away from her, as though she were contaminated or would put an evil spell on the child. We had all heard the muttered comments, “She’s an ol’ witch, she is, she gives the evil eye,” and no doubt some of the mothers believed it.
     
    Mrs Jenkins was never welcome, never wanted, often feared, yet this did not deter her from going out, at any time of the day or night, often in atrocious weather, to stand in the street outside the house where a baby was born, asking “Ow’s ve baby? Ow’s ve li’l one, ven?”
     
    She was a tiny woman, as thin as a rake, with birdlike features, and a long pointed nose that stretched sharply between hollow sunken cheeks. Her skin was a yellowish grey, criss-crossed with a thousand wrinkles, and she appeared to have no lips because they were drawn in over her toothless gums, and she chewed and sucked them all the time. A faded black hat,