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

floor.
     
    “Well, get hold of him then, don’t stand around talking, chatterbox.”
     
    I ground my teeth and started throwing stones up at the window in a fury. It was surprising I didn’t break the glass.
     
    The man shouted out, “I come”, and hid behind the door again as we passed. However, he then added “I come no more. You go round back, see? I not answer no more.”
     
    In the dim light of Mrs Jenkins’ room a cat came towards us, mewing. The wind made a curious sound as it hit the hole in the roof. Mrs Jenkins was huddled in her chair, just as I had left her in the morning.
     
    Sister Evangelina called her name. No reply. I was beginning to feel justified - she would see that I had not been exaggerating. Sister walked over to the armchair. She spoke gently, “Come on, mother. This won’t do. Doctor says there’s something up with your ticker. Don’t you believe a word of it. Your heart is as good as mine, but we’ve got to have a look at you. No one’s going to hurt you.”
     
    The bundle of clothes in the chair didn’t move. Sister leaned forward to feel her pulse. The arm was pulled away. I was delighted. “Let’s see how Sister Know-all copes,” I thought.
     
    “It’s cold in here. Haven’t you got a fire?”
     
    No reply.
     
    “It’s dark, too. What about a light for us?”
     
    No reply.
     
    “When did you first feel bad?”
     
    No reply.
     
    “Do you feel a bit better now?”
     
    Again, total silence. I was feeling very smug; Sister Evangelina appeared as incapable of examining the patient as I had been. What would happen next?
     
    What in fact did happen next was so utterly unexpected that, to this day, more than fifty years later, I blush to remember it.
     
    Sister Evangelina muttered, “You’re a tiresome old lady. We’ll see what this does.”
     
    Slowly she leaned over Mrs Jenkins and as she bent down she let out the most enormous fart. It rumbled on and on and just as I thought it had stopped it started all over again, in a higher key. I had never been so shocked in all my life.
     
    Mrs Jenkins sat upright in her chair. Sister Evangelina called out: “Which way did it go, nurse? Don’t let it get out. It’s over there by the door - catch it. Now it’s by the window - get hold of it, quick.”
     
    A throaty chuckle came from the armchair.
     
    “Cor, that’s better,” said Sister Evangelina happily; “Nothing like a good fart to clear the system. Makes you feel ten years younger, eh, Mother Jenkins?”
     
    The bundle of clothes shook, and the throaty chuckle developed into a real belly laugh. Mrs Jenkins, who had never been heard to speak apart from obsessive questions about babies, laughed until the tears ran down her face.
     
    “Quick! Under the chair. The cat’s go’ it. Ge’ it off him quick, e’ll be sick.”
     
    Sister Evangelina sat down beside her, and the two old ladies (Sister Evie was no spring chicken) rocked with laughter about farts and bums and turds and stinks and messes, swapping stories, true or false, I couldn’t tell. I was deeply shocked. I knew that Sister Evie could be crude, but I had no idea that she possessed such an extensive and varied repertoire of stories.
     
    I retreated to a corner and watched them. They looked like two old hags from a Bruegel painting, one in rags, one in a monastic habit, sharing lewd laughter with the happiness of children. I was completely out of the joke, and had time to ponder many things, not least of which was how on earth Sister Evangelina had been able to produce such a spectacular fart at that precise moment. Could she command one at will? I had heard of a performer at the Comedie-Francaise, immortalised by Toulouse-Lautrec, who would entertain the Parisian audiences of the 1880s with a rich variety of sounds emitting from his backside, but I had never heard of, still less encountered, anyone who could actually do it. Was Sister Evangelina gifted, or had she acquired the skill through hours of practice? My mind dwelled with pleasure on the possibility. Was it her party piece? I wondered how it would go down at the convent on festive occasions, such as Christmas and Easter. Would the Reverend Mother and her Sisters in Christ be amused by such a singular talent?
     
    The two old girls were so innocently happy that my initial reaction of disapproval seemed to be churlish and mean-spirited. What was wrong with it, anyway? All children laugh endlessly about bottoms and farts. The