Farewell To The East End

cancel the whole thing and just have the baby. But the thought of a seventh baby in that horrible flat filled her with such dismay that she thought anything would be better. Should she tell Bill? She didn’t know. Men are so squeamish, perhaps he’d rather not know. Then again he might start blabbing to his mates at work, and then, who knows where it might get to. Next thing they’d have the Law knocking on their door. She decided not to tell him.
    On Wednesday, Mrs Hatterton opposite agreed to have the two little ones for the day, and the older children had all been sent to school with instructions to have school dinners and not to come back until four o’clock. Hilda waited with pounding heart. She had carried up several buckets of water, laid out clean towels and sheets and provided a few rolls of cotton wool. She didn’t know what else to do. The waiting’s the worst, she thought. There was a knock on the door at nine thirty, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, though she had been expecting it.
    Mrs Prichard and her daughter entered. The two women were soberly, even drably, dressed in brown mackintoshes. They both had their hair wound up in curlers with a headscarf tied over the top, which was a common sight amongst East End women. They carried wicker shopping baskets from which protruded cabbages, leeks, turnip tops and brussel tops. They looked exactly like a couple of housewives coming back from market. It was a disguise to fool the police.
    ‘Now, dear, the sooner we get on with this, the sooner it’s over. Let me see your premises.’
    Mrs Prichard mounted the rickety staircase going up from the foul-smelling hallway and wrinkled her sensitive nose in disgust.
    ‘I’m not surprised, dear, that you wants to get rid of these stomach cramps.’
    She looked round Hilda’s rooms with a professional eye.
    ‘Can’t use the bedroom. We’ll have to do it on the kitchen table. I will need some hot water. Where’s the gas-stove? On the landing! That won’t do. The hot water must be ready and in here. Now, can we lock the door? No? Why not? The door must be locked from the inside. Find the key. Ah, is that it? Good. Now clear the table. Draw those curtains; we don’t want any prying eyes, do we, dear? Now dear, drink this. It’s my mother’s potion to numb the senses – and climb up on that table. Miriam, put that bucket there, and that bowl there, put those towels here, and get those sheets under her buttocks. I wants you to hold the knees against the chest, and to keep them there whatever happens.’
    Miriam was a large, silent female, and she grunted her acquiescence.
    Trembling, Hilda drank the potion as instructed and shakily climbed onto the table. She lay down in what is known medically as the ‘lithotomy position’, with her buttocks at the edge of the table, her legs drawn upwards and spread apart. Her head was spinning. A silky voice penetrated her hazy mind.
    ‘Have you got the other ten guineas, dear? A professional person can’t be expected to carry out professional duties without due payment.’
    ‘On the shelf, in the brown pot,’ Hilda answered thickly. Miriam went to the pot and took the money.
    Mrs Prichard delved amongst the leeks and brussel tops and produced her instruments. They were exceedingly old and made of rough, unpolished steel, virtually impossible to sterilise – if, indeed, Mrs Prichard ever made any attempts at sterilisation. They consisted of a few ancient surgical instruments, such as forceps, dilators, curettes and a Higginson’s syringe.
    ‘Just a little prick, dear, you’ll hardly feel a thing,’ Mrs Prichard cooed, as she inserted her fingers into the vagina. Hilda felt no discomfort. This is going to be all right, she thought. The drug she had taken made her feel light-headed and sleepy.
    Mrs Prichard glanced at her and muttered to her daughter, ‘Keep her firmly in that position and have the towels ready.’ She felt with her fingers until she thought she had located the cervix. She hissed, ‘Keep her still now,’ and with the forceps she grabbed the cervix and pulled it towards her. Hilda felt a pain like a knife stabbing her body, but she managed to suppress a scream. Holding the cervix quite firmly Mrs Prichard took one of the dilators and attempted to force it through the closed cervix, with no success. ‘Too big,’ muttered the abortionist and reached for a smaller dilator, which she pushed hard against the cervical orifice. Edna felt