Farewell To The East End

tubes,’ I whispered.
    ‘Oh, I see. But how can they be crossed?’ she enquired innocently.
    ‘I’m tellin’ yer. Ve surgeon, ’e sewed ’er up wrong wiv her ’pendix an’ got ve toobs crossed. Vat’s why she’s sufferin’. Bin sufferin’ for years, she ’as.’
    Novice Ruth looked down at her crucifix, and I saw a flicker of a smile play at the corners of her mouth.
    ‘I will examine Mavis,’ she said quietly. ‘Please follow me to the examination room.’
    Meg gave me a triumphant glance and shot a look of pure venom at Trixie. Mave undressed as requested and lay down on the couch. Novice Ruth, an expert and experienced midwife, examined Mavis, asked several questions which Meg answered, and when she had finished the examination said, ‘Both you and your baby seem to be in perfect condition for thirty-two weeks of pregnancy. The baby is developing normally, and the heartbeat is good. You, Mavis, are perfectly fit. I have examined everything possible – heart, blood pressure, urine. I can find nothing wrong with you. If you are suffering discomfort, I think it is probably heartburn, or wind, which afflicts a lot of pregnant women.’
    ‘Heartburn? Wind? What about ve toobs?’ shouted Meg.
    ‘I was coming to the toobs,’ lied the saintly Novice Ruth convincingly. ‘I have examined them carefully, and can assure you that although they may have been crossed at the time of the unfortunate appendicitis operation, they have now uncrossed themselves. Nature is a wonderful healer. You have nothing more to fear from the Fallopian tubes.’

MEG THE GYPSY

    The practice was extremely busy. Every midwife will tell you the same story. You can tick over comfortably for weeks, and then suddenly there are more women in labour than midwives to cope with them. Some say it is the phases of the moon, others say it is the local beer.
    Trixie had been working all night. A delivery at 10 p.m. and another at 4 a.m. had left her exhausted, and she still had a day’s work to get through. An hour of sleep after lunch had helped, though the evening visits were heavy. At nine, a long luxuriant bath with her favourite salts had eased her mind, and she was looking forward to the bliss of sleep.
    The telephone rang. Not me, thought Trixie. Someone else is on first call, and she sank deeper into the water, turning on the hot tap with her toes.
    A moment later there was a bang on the door.
    ‘Trixie, old sport. You in there?’ Chummy’s voice sounded through the door.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ve got to go out. You’re on first call now.’
    ‘What! You’re joking. I can’t be.’
    ‘Sorry and all that. But Cynthia is already out on a delivery, and Jennifer has a day off. It’s up to you.’
    ‘I just don’t believe it.’ Trixie groaned and felt sleep enveloping her.
    ‘What did you say? Never mind, I can’t hang around.’
    Chummy’s footsteps retreated down the corridor.
    Trixie’s tired mind refused to take in the reality of the situation. She felt she might doze off in the bath, but forced herself to get out, dried and into bed, where she immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
    At 11.30 the phone rang. Usually a midwife on first call will hear it instantly, be out of bed and alert within seconds. The subconscious will keep the mind half-awake, ready for action. But Trixie slept on. Eventually the persistent ringing penetrated her ears, and she awoke confused – someone had better answer that damned phone, she thought. Then she remembered Chummy’s bang on the bathroom door.
    Horrified, she struggled out of bed and picked up the phone.
    ‘Yes. Nonnatus House here. Who is it?’
    ‘And about time, too! What d’you fink yer playing at? She coulda died afore you answered the telephone,’ a harsh female voice barked.
    Trixie shook her head vigorously, trying to focus her thoughts.
    ‘Who is dying? What is the trouble?’
    ‘Trouble? The trouble is you. You lazy good-for-nothing.’ Trixie groaned and sank onto the wooden bench beside the telephone, but her training came to the rescue. Mechanically she heard herself say, ‘Please give me your name and address and tell me, as clearly as you can, what is the matter.’
    ‘It’s Meg, from Mile End, and it’s Mave, see. Mave’s in labour, and you gotta come quick.’
    The clouds were lifting from Trixie’s tired brain.
    ‘But Mave is not due yet. Not for another month.’
    ‘Don’t you come vat one over me. You just get ’ere at the double,