Farewell To The East End

or I’ll report yer to the authorities for negligence, refusin’ to come to a woman in labour.’
    Trixie was wide awake now. Mave was thirty-six weeks pregnant. A premature labour would be a serious matter, and dangerous for the baby.
    ‘I’ll come straight away,’ she said and put down the phone.
    Trixie hastened into her uniform. But before going to the clinical room for her bag, she went to the Sisters’ corridor and knocked on Sister Bernadette’s door to tell her that, according to Meg, Mavis was in premature labour.
    ‘Go and assess the situation and inform me. If premature labour is established, she must be transferred immediately to hospital,’ were the instructions.
    Trixie collected her bag and attached it to her bicycle. She had a three-mile ride, and a fine drizzle was falling, the sort that gets you damp all over. Her legs were heavy, and turning the pedals seemed like one of the twelve labours of Hercules.
    She reached the Mile End Road, which is broad and straight, and cycled along it looking for the turning, but missed it, and had to go back. This can’t be happening to me, she thought. Once in the narrow street of identical terraced houses, the only light in a window led her to the correct address. She was met at the door by Meg.
    ‘Call vis straight away, do yer? More like a snail’s pace, I call it. You bin twenty minutes gettin’ ’ere.’
    If Meg thought she could intimidate Trixie, she was in for a shock.
    ‘If you can get here any quicker on a bicycle, you are welcome to try. Now, cut the criticism and take me to your sister.’
    In the bedroom it was hot and stuffy. A big fire was burning, and the windows were closed tight. Mave was lying on the bed moaning pathetically, clutching her stomach with both hands.
    ‘See, she’s sufferin’ somefink wicked. Bin like vis for a couple of hours, she ’as. Somefink wicked.’
    Mave moaned and whimpered. ‘When’s ve baby comin? I can’t stand much more of vis. They’ll ’ave to take it away. Cut me open.’
    Meg echoed, ‘She can’t stand no more. It’s ’orrible. Too much for ’er, with ’er weak constitooshun.’
    Trixie took off her coat and sat down beside the bed.
    ‘Ainchoo goin’ a do nuffink?’ demanded Meg.
    ‘I am doing something,’ said Trixie, ‘I’m assessing the progress of labour.’
    ‘’Sessin’? Wha’choo mean, ’sessin’? She needs treatment. Dr Smellie in ’is book, ’e says the midwife should put ve woman on a birfin’ stool.’
    ‘Birthing stool! Where do you get that rubbish from?’
    ‘It’s ’ere in ’is book. You read it. You’re supposed to know about vese fings.’
    Trixie glanced at the aged book.
    ‘That is two hundred years out of date. Don’t cram your head with a lot of stuff you don’t understand. No one uses birthing stools any more.’
    Meg stared hard at Trixie, and recognition dawned.
    ‘Ain’t you ve one what called me daft?’
    ‘Perhaps I did, and I wouldn’t have been far wrong. Now be quiet with all your mumbo-jumbo, and let me get on with my job.’
    ‘Look ’ere, I’m not ’avin’ you. You can send for someone what knows what to do.’
    ‘There’s no one else on call. I should be delighted to go back to bed, but there is no one else who could come. You’re stuck with me, and if you don’t like it you can lump it. Now be quiet. I want to examine Mave.’
    Trixie pulled back the bedclothes and palpated the uterus. The head was above the symphysis pubis, but she could not feel anything else definitive. There seemed to be lumps all over the place. She stood still, thinking, head on one side.
    ‘Well, Miss Stoopid, what you goin’ a do now?’
    ‘I’m going to listen to the baby’s heartbeat,’ replied Trixie coldly, trying hard to ignore the woman’s insults. She took out her Pinards and applied it to the abdomen.
    ‘You better get on wiv this and stop messin’ abaht. My sister’s in labour, I tells yer.’
    ‘Be quiet, will you? I can’t hear a thing with you making all that noise.’
    Meg rolled her eyes to the ceiling and sucked in her breath, indicating her total lack of confidence in the procedure.
    Trixie listened carefully and counted a steady 120 beats per minute. She stood up, satisfied.
    ‘Well, the baby is quite healthy. Now I must ask you some questions. When did you first feel contractions, Mave?’
    Meg answered, ‘About ten o’clock. Came on sudden. Terrible it was.’
    ‘Will you be quiet. I’m asking Mave. Not