The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (13 page)

The last six months of my training were arduous as I studied hard for my final exams and completed two more placements. The first was in theatre, where I was put under the wing of Sister Helen Wood. I had met her before, many months earlier, when I was asked to provide an extra pair of hands during a haemorrhoid operation. Then, I’d been bowled over by her to the point where it was fair to say I idolised her. She was not
only extremely good at her job, she was absolutely beautiful too, with eyes like lamps that bathed you in a warm, inspiring glow.

I had helped Sister Wood sterilise and prepare the instruments for the operation and hung on her every word as she taught me how to ‘scrub’ by washing up to my elbows, and to put on the theatre gown, apron, mask, hat and gloves in the correct order. Inside the theatre I watched in admiration as she passed the skilful surgeon, Mr Thornton, exactly the right implement at precisely the right moment. It was clear Mr Thornton held Sister Wood in high regard too, as he grumbled to her afterwards, ‘Why can’t they all be like you?’

Mr Thornton was an extremely well-respected surgeon and it was common knowledge that he did not suffer fools. I had felt honoured to be asked to scrub for him on that first occasion. In fact, I was so taken with the experience I barely focused on the operation in hand – although to tell the truth I wasn’t particularly enamoured with seeing what became of the bunch of grape-like haemorrhoids he removed from the poor patient. My main responsibility was to count the number of swabs in and out before and after the operation, lest one be left inside.

I remember Nessa asking me, wide-eyed, what it had been like to witness an actual real-life operation, and having to confess that I was so enthralled by Sister Wood’s flawless performance and the ceremony of the theatre with the bright lights, curtains and white gloves that I barely focused on Mr Thornton’s surgical skills.

As I was now a third year, Sister Wood explained that this time I would be working as the senior nurse in theatre, and as such it would be my responsibility to pass Mr Thornton the correct instruments as and when he called for them. The
operation was a mastectomy on a patient with breast cancer, which Sister Wood talked me through in some detail.

‘Do you think you can manage that?’ she asked.

I was nervous, but I also felt very privileged to have been given this opportunity. I gave an enthusiastic smile and an emphatic ‘yes’, ignoring the little voice inside me that wanted to say: ‘Help! What if I make a mistake?’

Since I had watched Sister Wood in action, I knew that Mr Thornton appreciated nurses who had the correct instrument to hand almost before he called for it, a standard I knew I could not deliver as I had never worked alone with him before, and had no experience of what a mastectomy required.

I was anxious, and I could feel my pulse throbbing against the strings of my mask as I finished scrubbing up. Mr Thornton was an enormous man, with bright red hair and a thick, severely clipped moustache. Beneath his gown he had a barrel of a stomach and, if you dared glance at the incongruous twinkle in his blue eyes, I swear you could see the spark of a furious fire. I’d heard countless tales of Mr Thornton bawling at nurses and, though I had never witnessed an explosion myself, I couldn’t help imagining him as a giant grenade, his red hair and flashing eyes already ignited. As I stepped into his theatre, scrubbed and willing to serve, ready or not, I felt sure he was about to blow.

Mr Thornton barely acknowledged me as he huffed and puffed his way through the long operation. I delivered each and every instrument he required as swiftly as humanly possible, but he was clearly not pleased. He was used to the immaculate Sister Wood, with her near-psychic ability to pre-empt his every request, and he let it be known I was not up to scratch. Tut-tutting and sighing, he snatched knives and swabs
from me with astonishing rudeness, and I could feel my nerves stretching taut like elastic. My cheeks were burning and my hands were shaking but I bit my lip and told myself to concentrate on giving him the instruments he asked for, or the situation would get a whole lot worse.

‘Promise me, Linda, you will always work hard for your living.’ I heard Sister Mary Francis’s voice in my ear, and my own response that I most certainly would. I was working very hard here, so why did Mr Thornton have to make it so difficult for me to succeed? Surely he had been brought up to believe good manners were as important as hard work, just as I had?

‘Receiver!’ Mr Thornton growled. I reached for a small bowl and then changed my mind, catastrophically. It must have taken me less than a second to pick up the larger bowl on the other side of the tray, but I was too late.

‘Take this!’ Mr Thornton hissed. I felt it before I saw it: a warm, soft, bloody lump hit me right in the heart. I watched, horrified, as it slid down my apron and slapped on the theatre floor at my feet. It was a severed breast. Mr Thornton had thrust it at me so impatiently he had missed the bowl completely and hit me instead. He had actually thrown the cancerous breast at me!

I burst into tears and ran out of the theatre as fast as I could, pulling off my blood-streaked apron as if it were contaminated. I knew I shouldn’t have done this, but I also knew there was another theatre nurse in there who could take over, so I didn’t stop myself.

I was as disgusted and embarrassed as I was upset, and I couldn’t help sobbing noisily. After the operation was finished Sister Wood’s arm appeared around my shoulder, and I
blubbed like a baby in her arms.

‘It was grotesque,’ I gasped. ‘I can’t believe that just happened. That poor lady, too. How could he do such a thing to her, to me, to anybody?’

Moments later Mr Thornton crashed out of the theatre. He looked for all the world like a crazed villain stepping out of a horror film. He was splattered with blood, large globules of sweat were pricking his forehead and his eyes were ablaze.

‘What’s she crying for?’ he barked. ‘I wouldn’t waste my breath shouting if I didn’t think she had potential!’

It took me quite a while to digest what he had said, and to accept and understand that he had paid me something of a compliment, albeit a very cruelly delivered one. I went on to scrub for Mr Thornton several more times, and though he never treated me with the reverence he clearly reserved for Sister Wood, there was an understanding between us after that. I was at least worthy of scrubbing for him, which was a huge vote of confidence from such a demanding surgeon.

On the Saturday night before Linda left for Scotland in the spring of 1969, Jo, Anne, Nessa and I took her out to the Twisted Wheel in Whitworth Street. We’d all been there before and agreed it was the best dance club in town, though we’d never managed to go as a group before.

‘Isn’t it funny?’ Anne said wistfully. ‘When you look back to when we first met, thrown together in our little group, I imagined we’d be out together all the time.’

‘How naïve we were!’ Jo chortled. ‘Who’d have thought we’d have to work so hard? I think I’ve spent more Saturday evenings either doing nights or catching up on sleep and study
than I have going out dancing.’

Nessa nodded in agreement, though we all knew she was happier with her nose in a book than she was dancing. Despite their different personalities, she, Jo and Anne had decided to move into a flat together at the end of their training, as they all hoped to secure jobs at the MRI. They’d invited me to join them, but nobody had been surprised when I told them Graham and I had set a date for our wedding and intended to live near our parents’ in Stalybridge after our marriage.

‘Haven’t we had some laughs though, eh?’ Linda said cheerfully.

She wanted to go out on a high, and we all did our best to give her a good send off. We’d certainly dressed for the occasion. Everybody was wearing a mini dress and brightly coloured tights. Anne had teased her hair into a beehive and even Nessa had spent an hour getting ready, pencilling neat black flicks at the corners of her eyes and painting her lips sugar-pink.

I was wearing a tight-fitting burnt-orange leather jacket I’d fallen in love with in Lewis’s department store. It had a military collar with press-studs and two little zip-up pockets on the front. It had cost me the extortionate sum of £21 – practically a month’s salary.

‘Are you not going to take your coat off, Linda?’ the girls teased, knowing it was my pride and joy and I wouldn’t be parted from it for the world.

‘Honestly, Linda, you’re so extravagant,’ they mocked, knowing how frugally we had all lived for almost three years and that I was certainly not in the habit of splashing out.

‘What would our superiors say about my frivolity?’ I joked,
provoking a string of mickey-takes from all but Nessa.

‘You reckless, foolish girl!’ Jo declared, putting on old Miss Morgan’s stern clipped tone of voice.

‘May the Lord have mercy on you!’ Anne exaggerated in Sister Bridie’s Irish brogue.

‘Fetch me the scissors – I can’t give CPR through a jacket like that!’ Linda laughed, taking off Sister Hyde to a tee.

‘We’ve certainly had some fun,’ Jo said, suddenly cracking up as she remembered one of her favourite tales. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever laugh as much as I did that time when Anne and I mixed up all the dentures on M5.’

Anne, chubby as ever, almost rolled off her stool she began to chuckle so hard. ‘Me neither,’ she hooted. ‘I think it was when I heard you saying, “Mr Norton, would you mind trying this pair for size?” that I completely lost it!’ Slapping her thigh, Anne added: ‘The worst of it was, this was the same poor man we’d given a cottage pie to, forgetting he was a strict vegetarian. Shame on us! By the time he’d finished and told us it was the best vegetarian pie he’d ever tasted, we didn’t have the heart to admit it was nothing of the sort!’

We laughed all night, drinking orange squash and dancing in the basement, where there were lots of iron wheels decorating the painted brick walls. The DJ sat behind a sort of cage and played some of our favourite 78s by The Beatles and The Dave Clark Five, which we had a good bop to. We talked about everything under the sun. Concorde had recently made its maiden flight, which was on everyone’s lips, and we fantasised about where we would fly to if ever we won the Pools and could afford supersonic travel.

‘I would follow The Beatles on their next world tour,’ I said firmly. ‘Vidal Sassoon would do my hair while I lounged back
and watched
The Graduate
on a giant screen!’

The other girls made up similarly alluring scenarios. Jean Shrimpton and Mary Quant would come aboard to give fashion advice
en route
to ‘Flower Power’ concerts in America (though none of us really knew what happened at such events, beside the fact they always looked very hip and happening on news reports). Nessa, always the more intellectual of the group, would fly over the Berlin Wall so she could see both East and West Germany at a glance before dropping in on Andy Warhol and Indira Gandhi, to talk about Pop Art and women’s rights respectively.

It was fun to dream about being part of the jet-set, but in reality I don’t think any of us experienced anything like the full force of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ in our little corner of Manchester. I certainly didn’t. I’d see headlines from time to time about hippies and free love and psychedelic drugs, but those kinds of things seemed a million miles away from the sober, daily grind of my life at the MRI.

I knew I had more freedom and opportunities than my mother had done as a teenager in the Thirties and Forties. I could sense that change was happening more quickly than it used to, and I felt empowered by the women’s libbers who were fighting so hard for female equality, especially in the workplace. Their efforts filled me with optimism about my future, but I can’t pretend I felt part of a revolution. I was just living my life.

We finished the evening by doing the Twist, joking as we did so that we were probably pretty good at it because we were always on our toes at work, and often contorted into silly positions doing bed baths and bedpans!

‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’ we all said to Linda as we made
our way home.

‘Course I will!’ she said. ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easily!’

We started to run in our little stiletto heels as we passed the mortuary entrance on the way into the nurses’ home. This had become something of a ritual at the end of a night out, because the mortuary workers all looked like Frankenstein’s monsters after dark. I enjoyed being out with the girls. We had become very comfortable in each other’s company, and that night I felt sure we’d always stay in touch, come what may.

During my final months as a third year in the summer of 1969 I was back on Sister Craddock’s ward for another short placement, which seemed fitting as it had been my very first ward.

As I reported for a night shift with two second-year students, Sister Craddock informed us that most of the patients were in for routine ops and simply needed observation overnight. There was only one exception – a patient with leukaemia called John Fisher. He was in a side ward attached to a chemotherapy drip containing Endoxan, and we’d need to keep an extra eye on him.

‘As always, I expect all the charts to tally in the morning, without exception,’ she added, shooting each of us a warning glance. ‘To make myself plain, that means the amount of water drunk must correlate to the urine output.’ Eyeing the second-year students, she handed out a copy of my notes from the previous shift and added: ‘I would be very happy if you could take a leaf out of Nurse Lawton’s book. Her mathematics is exemplary, and if all my nurses were like her, most of our problems would be solved.’

I felt myself going pink as Sister Craddock went on to deliver her ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’ lecture for the
umpteenth time, but I barely heard her. Her compliment was buzzing round my head, and I could scarcely believe that the second-year students were looking at me in the admiring way I had looked up to the third years such a short time ago.

I floated off on my tea break later that night, leaving a second year in charge of the ward while Sister Craddock retreated to her office, as she often did, with a pile of input and output charts and a sharp pencil.

Nessa was sitting in the canteen sipping warm tea and eating a square of apple pie. ‘How are the wedding plans going, Linda?’ she asked sweetly. ‘It seems so silly, but I’ve hardly had a chance to ask you.’

‘Fine,’ I said, realising I didn’t have a lot to tell her. ‘To tell the truth I’ve hardly had a chance to think about it myself. I’m going shopping with my mum in a couple of weeks’ time to look for a dress and we’re having the reception at the Masonic Hall in Ashton. Dad’s not a Mason, by the way; we just like the hall. Oh, and Graham and I have found a house!’

Nessa’s eyes widened. ‘You lucky thing,’ she smiled. ‘I bet it’s lovely. Where is it?’

I explained that the house was an end of terrace in Grey Street, Stalybridge, which we’d bought from Graham’s uncle, who owned most of the row and would be living in the house next door. We’d agreed to pay £1,300 for it, with a mortgage of £13 a month. Graham was going to use the cellar to store the vending machines he now bought and sold, having left his car sales job to set up his own company with his brother. We would officially own it three weeks before the wedding, to give us a chance to do it up before we moved in.

‘It all sounds so grown-up,’ Nessa grinned. ‘Good for you, Linda.’

‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Have you settled on which flat you’re having?’

Nessa sighed. ‘Er, yes. It’s in Didsbury, is riddled with damp and is a complete rip-off, but at least it’s a step in the right direction!’

‘You’ll love it,’ I said, meaning it. While I knew I could never have coped without Graham’s support, I could see that I’d missed out on the social front a bit, having spent so much time with him. The rest of the girls had grown closer, I sensed. They went out to the university dances together more often, while Graham and I were planning our wedding and our future.

‘You’re right,’ Nessa nodded. ‘I’m not too bothered about the state of the flat. I’m just looking forward to the freedom. Three years in a nurses’ home is enough for anyone – even a bookworm like me! But you’re ever so lucky, Linda. You’ll be a married woman and a fully qualified nurse by the end of the year. I’m so pleased for you.’

I drifted back to the ward on a cloud. Nessa was right. I’d come a long way. I remembered my first tentative steps along these corridors, and the way I would pretend I was holding God’s hand to help me through the day. Now my hands were free, and I imagined giving myself an imaginary pat on the back. I really should count my lucky stars. If everything went to plan, by the end of the year I would have passed my nursing exams and started training as a midwife at St Mary’s. It was too early to approach the maternity hospital at this stage, as I needed to be a qualified nurse before applying for a pupil midwife post, but that day was drawing closer. As each week passed I allowed myself to dream just a little bit more about what it would be like to deliver baby after baby, day in, day
out. I couldn’t imagine a more rewarding way to earn a living, bringing new life into the world time and time again. I would never tire of that, I was certain.

My day-dreaming came to a crashing halt that night when I returned to the ward to find that John Fisher had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly in my absence. I was absolutely distraught. He had been fine when I left, and I immediately blamed myself for having left a second year in charge while I went on my break.

‘I’ve let a patient die!’ I gasped. ‘I’ve killed poor Mr Fisher!’ In my shock and panic I imagined I would be dismissed, or even sent to jail! I would never become a midwife, and I would not be able to marry Graham! I began to shake and sob.

Sister Craddock steered me into her office. ‘Nurse Lawton, you are an excellent nurse and I will always stand by you, if it is correct to do so. In this instance, there is no blame to be apportioned to anybody. Mr Fisher’s death was caused by his cancer, I’m afraid. That is a fact. Do not blame yourself. There is absolutely no need to feel guilty. You went on a perfectly reasonable tea break. Is that perfectly clear?’

I wiped away my tears and nodded uncertainly, feeling relieved but not quite believing her. It was unusual for her to be on night duty, and on reflection I felt very glad someone of her experience had been the night sister on that occasion. I thought I must have a guardian angel looking out for me, and I was comforted by that idea.

Still, it took me weeks to fully accept Sister Craddock’s words. Mr Fisher’s death played heavily on my heart and I saw his face many, many times in my dreams. Each time I was reminded how fragile and valuable life is and I shuddered at what a heavy burden it was to be a nurse. Midwifery was so
much more uplifting, I thought. Dealing with birth instead of death was definitely the way forward for me, and now, more than ever, I couldn’t wait to get started.

‘Nurse,’ hissed Marilyn Barton, ‘can I ’ave a word?’

It was 20 July 1969, and for my very last placement I was doing a night shift in charge of a female medical ward.

‘Would it be all right if we were to put telly on quietly? I’d like to watch them walking on the moon.’

Hilda Grimsditch in the bed next door pulled her curtain open.

‘Couldn’t ’elp overhearing, like. I were going t’ask same thing m’self.’

Before I knew it the ward was buzzing.

‘It’s history in the making,’ another lady, Mildred, exclaimed. ‘Did you hear that Neil Armstrong earlier? “T’ Eagle ’as landed,” he said.’

‘Put your teeth in, Mildred,’ a chortling pensioner with a purple rinse chipped in. ‘’Ave you ’eard yerself? “T’ eagle ’as landed!” I don’t suppose the BBC announcer would say it like that!’ The ward erupted with laughter.

It was uplifting to have something so positive to watch on the television. The news at that time was often dominated by the Vietnam War, and it always shocked me to see so much devastation, right there on the screen in front of me. It was the first time a war had been televised, and seeing such terrible images was so alien and upsetting, I often tried to avoid the news altogether.

By contrast, the moon landing was a rousing must-see. Excitement had clearly been building since well before my shift started at 9 p.m. As I’d dressed in my uniform I’d tuned in to the
World Service on the little Bush radio in my bedroom, and was thrilled to hear that the Eagle landing craft had touched down on the surface of the Moon at seventeen minutes past eight.

I was as excited as the patients were about seeing the astronauts actually set foot on the moon, which wasn’t expected to happen for a good few hours yet.

‘I’m sure it can be arranged,’ I said. ‘You know the night sister doesn’t like the television on at all hours, but if we’re all in agreement, and all keep quiet, I think we’ll be able to watch in the day room.’

A ripple of applause went round the ward and Marilyn, who was the youngest of the patients, agreed to keep her ear tuned to the hospital radio, which was doing its best to keep up with the latest news in amongst the usual hotchpotch of requests and hit parade music.

Just before midnight, Marilyn declared that it was about time we repaired to the nearby day room, where there was a small black-and-white television, donated by a grateful former patient, and a mismatched collection of chairs and faux-leather pouffes.

A few old dears were sound asleep and had not asked to be woken, but the rest of us – about sixteen in total – tiptoed, hobbled and shuffled to the day room in anticipation of this great historic event.

‘I feel like a naughty schoolgirl sneakin’ off t’ave a midnight feast!’ Hilda tittered. ‘Who’d a thought I’d be stuck in ’ere ’aving me varicose veins removed when man were landing on the moon? Ya couldn’t credit it, could ya?’

I was afraid we might all get into trouble for this, but I couldn’t help enjoying the moment and having a little laugh myself. The ladies looked a picture as they settled in front of
the television in their colourful collection of flannelette nighties, quilted bed jackets and fur-lined mules and slippers. Some also wore bandages and dressings and were attached to intravenous fluids rigged up to stands, but nobody gave two hoots what they looked like. This historic spectacle was all that mattered, and we sat with our eyes glued to the flickering box in the corner of the room.

A couple of patients enjoyed a cigarette and Marilyn generously passed round two paper bags of sweets to share. ‘I got my old man to buy these specially for the occasion,’ she giggled. ‘Guess what we’ve got?’

‘What?’ Hilda replied, opening one of the red-and-white striped packets.

‘Space Dust and Flying Saucers!’ Marilyn chuckled.

Everybody tittered and tucked in – at least those who’d remembered to put their teeth in – and time slipped effortlessly by.

Some ladies dozed off as I flitted between the day room and the ward, while others refused to take their eyes off the small screen and promised to wake the rest when the big moment finally arrived.

It must have been about 2 a.m. when I heard the familiar tap-tap of the night sister’s shoes treading the corridor between the ward and the day room, where I was sitting quietly.

‘Matron’s coming!’ Hilda exclaimed in mock horror, enjoying the drama. I must admit my heart did a little flip, and I was relieved when it was the night sister, and not Miss Bell, who poked her head round the door a few moments later.

‘I hope you don’t mind …’ I started.

‘Not at all,’ she replied briskly. ‘But let’s have no more smoking, ladies. Mrs Spencer and Mrs Clayton, put those
cigarettes out quickly, please. Nurse Lawton, if you could fetch the charts and the medication, we can all stay in here.’

I swiftly obliged, while Sister settled herself into an armchair. Moments later we sat transfixed as Neil Armstrong emerged from the Eagle landing craft. We watched, mesmerised, as he set foot on the moon surface and declared dramatically: ‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’

The ladies clapped and cheered while sister dutifully shushed them and warned them not to wake the whole hospital. I looked at the fob watch I normally used for the routine task of checking pulse rates. The moon landing was officially recorded at four minutes before 3 a.m. on 21 July, and it was a moment in time I shall never forget.

My own life was leaping forward, too. By now I’d had a discussion with Mr Tate, my tutor, about how I should go about applying to become a pupil midwife. To my surprise, rather than recommending I return to St Mary’s, he suggested I might consider applying to Ashton-under-Lyne General Hospital. I would have to pass all my exams first, of course, for which I was studying very hard. I had four to take in total, each lasting three hours, and I was really feeling the pressure.

From a practical point of view, working in Ashton made perfect sense. With Graham now running his vending machine business from home, I did wonder how I would manage to commute into Manchester every day. It would be bad enough using public transport during the daytime, but how would I cope with night shifts? I couldn’t expect Graham to give me lifts all the time, as each round trip would take about an hour.

Mr Tate told me that a brand new maternity unit was to be built at Ashton General Hospital in the near future, which would provide excellent facilities and opportunities for pupil midwives. It seemed like the perfect opening for me, but I wanted to be absolutely sure it would be the right move. After all, this was a major decision for me. I had worked very hard to get this far, and I didn’t want to take the wrong path now. I had thoroughly enjoyed St Mary’s, and just thinking about it warmed my heart. I could still smell the cosy scent of talcum powder and sweet milk in the air, and if I closed my eyes I could feel the babies in my arms, snug and content, snuffling as I rocked them to sleep. What if Ashton wasn’t the same? I’d regret the decision very much.

I made an appointment to see Mrs Ingham at St Mary’s one afternoon to canvas her opinion. She told me Ashton General was a friendly hospital where she thought I would fit in perfectly thanks to my ‘equable’ temperament, and promised to give me a fine reference. I was chuffed to bits. I valued Mrs Ingham’s opinion highly and this was just what I wanted to hear. With Mr Tate’s help I wrote a letter of application a few days later, addressed to Miss Ripley, the Matron of Ashton General Hospital. The wheels were set in motion, and I could almost feel them rolling beneath my feet. This was incredibly exciting. My dream of becoming a midwife was within touching distance now.

On 27 August 1969 Miss Bell asked Mrs Ingham to provide a reference for me, and on 9 September Mrs Ingham filled in a questionnaire about the ‘obstetric nurse training course’ I had completed at St Mary’s, which was then sent to Miss Ripley, my prospective new matron. I never saw the documents at the time, but I know these dates now because in 2008,
when I tried to retire, I was presented with a copy of the original questionnaire. It had lain in my file for more than forty years, and this is what Mrs Ingham wrote about me: