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

greasy and shapeless, was pulled down low over her head, from which tufts of wispy grey hair escaped now and then. Summer and winter she wore the same long grey coat of indeterminate age, from beneath which protruded enormous feet. For such a tiny woman the huge feet were not only improbable, but absurd, and I am sure she received much ridicule as she shuffled her endless way around the neighbourhood.
     
    Where she lived, no one knew. This was as much a mystery to the Sisters as it was to everyone else. The clergy had no idea. She didn’t appear to go to church or belong to any parish, which was unusual among the older women. The doctors did not know, as she did not seem to be registered with any doctor. Perhaps she did not know that there was now a National Health Service and that everyone could have medical treatment free of charge. Even Mrs B., who always had her ear close to the ground as far as local gossip and information were concerned, didn’t know anything about her. No one had ever seen her going into a Post Office to collect her pension.
     
    I had always found her interesting but repugnant. My contact with her was frequent, but was always confined to her questions about the baby, and my cold reply, “Mother and baby are well”, to which she invariably replied “Fank Gaud, fank Gaud fer vat.” I never tried to initiate conversation, because I didn’t want to get involved, but once when I was with Sister Julienne, she went straight up to the woman, took both her hands in her own and, with her all-embracing smile, said, “Hello Mrs Jenkins, how nice to see you. What a lovely day it is. How are you getting on?”
     
    Mrs Jenkins shrank back, a half-afraid, half-suspicious look in her dull grey eyes, and pulled her hands away.
     
    “Ow’s ve baby?” she said. Her voice was rasping.
     
    “The baby’s lovely. A beautiful little girl, strong and healthy. Do you like babies, Mrs Jenkins?”
     
    Mrs Jenkins shrank away still further, and pulled the collar of her coat up over her chin.
     
    “A baby girl, yer say, doin’ nicely. Fank Gaud.”
     
    “Yes, thank God indeed. Would you like to see her? I’m sure I could get the mother’s permission and bring the baby out for a few moments.”
     
    But Mrs Jenkins had already turned, and was hobbling away in her large, man-size boots.
     
    An expression of infinite love and compassion spread over Sister Julienne’s face. She stood quite still for several minutes, watching the bent old figure shuffling along the pavement. I watched Mrs Jenkins too, and noticed that she shuffled because she hadn’t the strength to lift the boots off the ground. Then I looked again at Sister Julienne, and felt ashamed. Sister wasn’t looking at the boots. She was looking, I felt, at seventy years of pain and suffering and endurance, and holding Mrs Jenkins before God in her silent prayers.
     
    I had always been repelled by Mrs Jenkins, mainly because she was so dirty. Her hands and fingernails were filthy, and the only reason I spoke to her, reporting on the baby just born, was to avoid her grabbing my arm, which she would do with surprising strength if her questions were not answered. It was easier to answer briefly, and at a safe distance, and then to escape.
     
    On one occasion while I was on my rounds, I saw Mrs Jenkins step off the pavement into the road. She stood with legs wide apart, and peed into the gutter like a horse. There were a lot of people around at the time, and none of them looked surprised as a torrent of urine streamed into the gutter and down the drain. Once I saw her in a little alley between two buildings. She picked up a piece of newspaper from the ground, then lifted up her coat and started rubbing the newspaper around her private parts, intent on her task, grunting all the while. Then she let the coat fall and started examining the contents of the newspaper, poking it with her fingernail, sniffing it, peering at it closely. Finally she folded it up and put it in her pocket. I shuddered with revulsion.
     
    Another unpleasant thing about Mrs Jenkins was a brown stain on her face that extended from her nose to her upper lip, and was ingrained in the lines at the corners of her mouth. Having seen and observed her lavatorial habits, it is not hard to imagine what I assumed this brown stain to be. But I was wrong. As I got to know her better, I discovered that Mrs Jenkins took snuff (her “comfort”, she called it) and the brown stain was