Farewell To The East End

appeared to be complete. The consultant palpated the woman’s abdomen. The uterus was firm and hard, about the size of a grapefruit, as it should be. He looked around the small, stuffy room that contained not a vestige of clinical apparatus; at the woman in a state of primary obstetric shock; at the volume of blood loss; at the first baby sleeping peacefully in the crib; at Sister Bernadette tending the asphyxiated twin.
    ‘In circumstances like these, undiagnosed twins, a transverse lie, premature separation of the placenta and haemorrhage could spell certain death. You have done really well, old chap.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said the doctor wearily. He seemed to be in a state of exhaustion. ‘We do our best.’
    ‘You done yer best!’ shouted Meg. ‘You wants lockin’ up, I say. If you’d done like what I said an’ put ’er on a birfin’ stool in ve first place, vis would never ’ave ’appened.’
    The consultant looked at Meg in astonishment.
    ‘Take no notice, we’ve had this the whole time,’ whispered the doctor. ‘Nothing will convince her.’
    The nurse took the baby from Sister Bernadette and placed the child in the incubator, warmed to 95 degrees F, and humidified to avoid drying of the respiratory mucous membranes. The baby was breathing, but her breaths were shallow. Her muscle tone was flaccid, and her skin tone bluish. Her heartbeat was regular, but faint. The paediatrician, after examining the baby, injected 1 cc of Lobeline into the umbilical vein in the cord and milked it towards the abdomen. Oxygen was attached to the incubator, and the oxygen input adjusted to 30 per cent.
    The paediatrician advised immediate transfer to Great Ormond Street Hospital. Paradoxically, Meg, who had so violently opposed hospital for Mavis, did not object. The baby was kept in Great Ormond Street for six weeks until her weight was over five pounds, and then she returned home. Both babies thrived. They grew up to be strong, healthy girls, brought up entirely by their mother and aunt. They were a regular sight in Chrisp Street market, helping on the fruit and veg stall, and they became great favourites with the locals.

    Thirty years later I was visiting Trixie, who had recently moved to Basildon in Essex. We went shopping, and she insisted we call at the market. It was a large and lively market, with open stalls and old-fashioned costers crying out their wares. I heard the strident voice of a woman calling out, ‘Best apples, only thirty pence a pound. You won’t find cheaper anywhere. Best bananas. Melons. Grapefruits.’
    We approached the stall.
    ‘Well? Wha’choo want?’ demanded the female.
    I gasped, staring at two identical women in drab brown dresses, leather belts at the waist, men’s boots, and tight headscarves pulled down low over the forehead. I could not speak.
    ‘If you don’t know wha’choo want, I can’t hang about. Next.’
    The years rolled back. ‘Megan’mave,’ I exclaimed.
    ‘What?’ The two women drew together. Black eyes flashed a challenge.
    ‘Megan’mave! But you can’t be – it’s not possible!’
    ‘Mave’s our mum, an’ Meg’s our aunt. D’you wanna make somefink of it?’
    No, I didn’t. Trixie grinned at me, and we slipped quietly away, chuckling.

MADONNA OF THE PAVEMENT

    I saw them in High Holborn. They stood out from the tense, jostling crowd because they seemed to have no object in life, nowhere to go, nothing to do; they were aimless, lost. They stood out also because they were so poor. Poverty is such a relative thing; but no man is really poor till life becomes a desert island that gives him neither food nor shelter nor hope. They were such obvious failures at this game of getting and keeping called success. If they had suddenly shouted in pain above the thunder of the passing wheels they could hardly have been more spectacular in their misery, this man, this woman, this child.
    He slouched along a few yards in advance of the woman. He looked as though Life had been knocking him down for a long time, then waiting for him to get up so that it might knock him down again. His bent body was clothed in greenish rags and his naked feet were exposed in gashed boots. He was not entirely pathetic. He was the kind of man to whom you would gladly give half a crown to salve your conscience; but you would never allow him out of sight with your suit-case!
    She carried her baby against her breast in a ragged old brown cloth knotted round her shoulders. Perhaps