Farewell To The East End

husband, an’ all.’
    ‘Now you’re insultin’ my hero hubby, Captain Prichard, what died an ’ero’s death at the Battle of Agincourt in the last war. Miriam, show this person out.’
    Miriam, strong, silent and menacing, took Hilda’s arm, propelled her towards the street door and pushed her out onto the pavement. Blinded by tears, Hilda dragged herself back to her place – she always used ‘place’ in her mind; ‘flat’ was too posh a word for the dump. She bought four pounds of sausages and a couple of loaves at the corner shop. That would keep them quiet for the evening. ‘Everything OK, Mrs Harding?’ enquired the shopkeeper brightly. Nosy devil, always tittle-tattling, thought Hilda. ‘Yes, everyfink’s OK,’ she said, sullenly. All that pain and suffering, all that time in bed feeling ill – and for nothing. She was back to where she started, and twenty guineas lighter.
    In the evening, after the kids had gone to bed, she told Bill that the abortion had been a failure and she was still pregnant. He received the news in silence, drawing deep on his Woodbine. She’d seemed a bit off colour. So that was it.
    ‘You’re sure, are you?’
    ‘Quite.’ At least he didn’t seem cross. Resentful, perhaps, but not cross.
    ‘We’ve got too many kids as it is.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘We can’t do wiv any more.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Isn’t there anyfink else you can do?’ he asked hopefully, ‘something what’ll get rid of it?’
    She sighed. If only he knew what she’d been through.
    ‘I’ve tried. I’ve done everything I can, an’ I’m still pregnant. There’s nothing for it but to go through with it. I’m sorry, Bill.’
    Then he did something surprising, something she had not expected. He took her hand. A simple gesture, but it made all the difference. He squeezed her hand and said, ‘You don’t need to be sorry, duck. It’s my fault, as much as your’n. We’ve always had fun together, you an’ me. That’s the trouble – too much fun.’ He grinned and winked at her. ‘We’ll see it through together. You’ll see. As long as we sticks together, we’ll see it through. There now, don’t cry. Everythings gonna be OK. I’ll go out and fetch a jug of ale. That’ll see you right.’
    When he had gone, Hilda dropped her head on the table and sobbed with relief. Just to know that she had the support of her Bill turned the tide of despair into a flood of hope. Nothing had changed, they still had too many children in a slum flat, and she was expecting another, but, as Bill had said, they would see it through together.

    The story of Hilda and Bill was told to us by a friend and fellow midwife, Ena, who was attached to the Salvation Army Maternity Hospital in Clapton. The hospital had several district midwifery centres at the time, and Ena was based at the one in Hackney Road, Shoreditch, which bordered on our area. Consequently we often saw each other when we were out on our bikes. Their district was just as busy as ours, but when we had time we would meet and swap yarns. Most midwives in those days had some pretty ripe stories to tell, which provoked peals of laughter, or gasps of dismay from the rest of us, but Ena’s story is the most astonishing and the most macabre that I have ever heard.
    She first met the Hardings when there was a knock at the door late one afternoon. Ena opened it and a man stood before her. ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired. He did not say anything but just stood there, cap in hand, turning it round and round. ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked. Still he said nothing. He pulled a packet of Woodbines from his pocket and with shaking fingers opened it and pulled one out. He stuck it in his mouth. ‘Have you come to us for any reason?’ Ena enquired, puzzled. He took a box of matches from his pocket and fumbled with it. His awkward fingers could not seem to pick one up. Ena noticed blood around the edges of his nails. ‘Here, let me help you,’ she said kindly, and took out a match, lit it and held the flame to his cigarette. He inhaled deeply.
    ‘Now, can I help you?’
    ‘Is you ve midwife?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, it’s come.’
    ‘What’s come?’
    ‘Ve baby.’
    ‘Whose baby?’
    ‘My wife’s.’
    ‘Who is your wife?’
    ‘’ilda. Mrs ’arding.’
    ‘Is Mrs Harding booked with us?’
    ‘I dunno.’
    ‘Let’s get this straight. Your wife, Mrs Harding, has had a baby?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Abaht quar’er of an