The Midwife’s Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain’s Longest Serving Midwives. Linda Fairley
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read a newspaper. Sometimes I didn’t even breathe fresh air for days on end, as the nurses’ home was attached to the main hospital by a covered walkway. Graham was my reality check, my link to the outside world.
‘Life is full of ups and downs, Linda,’ he said. ‘You have to take the rough with the smooth. Look at it like this. One minute the country is on a huge high, ruling the world with the football. The next, something terrible happens, like the Aberfan disaster. That’s life.’
It was just a few months since England had won the World Cup in the summer of 1966. I’m not a football fan, but I remembered Graham proudly telling me that Geoff Hurst, our hat-trick-scoring striker, was a local man who had been born in Ashton. Then in October the terrible Aberfan tragedy had united the country in the most dreadful grief. More than 100 children perished in that Welsh village when a slag heap collapsed on their school.
Life can be very cruel, and plenty of people had it a lot harder than me; that was an absolute certainty. In the big scheme of things, Sister Bridie’s harsh tongue was scarcely a hardship, and I resolved to do my very best under her watchful eye.
The night before my placement on the surgical ward began I noted in my diary that, thanks to my gentle introduction to basic nursing at the eye unit, as well as Graham’s words of wisdom and encouragement, I was feeling much more settled, and my confidence was slowly building.
The hospital and nurses’ home are now very familiar, and the strict regimes bring a sense of order and security, which I find comforting. Graham hasn’t actually ever proposed to me properly, but I like it when he suggests we’ll get married one day, and settle down. I would like that very much. I have learned that I prize security over uncertainty, and I want to pass my exams and qualify, because then my future will be set.
‘Lawton, attend to Mrs Roache in bed thirteen,’ Sister Bridie repeated impatiently, even though I was already picking up the notes to obey the order.
‘Yes, Sister,’ I said politely, giving her a nod. ‘Right away, Sister.’
I thought about being strong and making Graham proud as I strode to the far end of the surgical ward. I didn’t want to make any mistakes here. Sister Bridie had split purple veins etched across her grey complexion. Her silver hair was wrapped in a tight bun and a single white whisker protruded from a stone-like mole on her chin. She was as round and squat as a concrete mixer, and when she barked orders it felt as if she was spitting gravel at me. Sister Bridie was not a person I wanted to cross.
I hadn’t been prepared for the strong smell on the surgical ward, like nothing I’d ever encountered before. It clung in the air, and I found myself trying to take short, shallow breaths through my nose so as not to experience the full stench. Breathing like that made me tense my neck, and I could feel my starched white collar tighten around my throat, making me slightly light-headed. I remembered Janice telling us how she had embarrassed herself by gagging violently in front of the patients when she had to collect used bedpans on her first placement, but this smell was different and at first I couldn’t identify it.
I could hear trolleys rattling hurriedly past, Sister Bridie pebbling other nurses with orders and the unmistakable, upsetting sound of ladies crying out in pain. Against this background noise, all I could think about was the inescapable smell sticking to every pore on my skin. It made me clench my insides, to try and stop the smell getting through to me.
Mrs Roache was lying on her back with her right leg in traction. She had been hit by a speeding car as she crossed the Stretford Road in Hulme to collect her pension, and her thigh bone was very badly smashed. The old lady was on powerful drugs to help her cope with the considerable pain. Her leg had been dressed and strapped into what I recognised as a Thomas splint, which ran from beneath her pelvis right down to her ankle. Poor soul, I thought. She looked a sorry sight, propped up on top of her bedclothes, her blue-rinsed hair still matted into an ugly gash in her scalp.
‘How are you, Mrs Roache?’ I smiled as I approached her bedside. She was a generously proportioned lady who gamely attempted a smile, but her pain got the better of her. ‘Been better, t’ be honest, Nurse,’ she struggled. ‘Can I have some more p-p-painkillers?’ She winced as she squeezed her lips together to suppress a moan.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ I soothed. ‘You’re ready for your next dose. If you’ll just allow me to help you tilt your head, I’ll pass you a fresh glass of water.’
I offered words of encouragement as she eagerly placed the two pellet-like pills in her mouth and swallowed them down in one tremendous gulp. I had learned that it is not uncommon for patients to be sick after taking painkilling drugs, and I had brought a vomit bowl with me, which I was holding in my hand.
‘They should start to work quite quickly …’ I began, but I was promptly silenced by the sight of Mrs Roache simultaneously retching and lurching towards me.
I froze and looked on in helpless horror as she valiantly aimed for the metal bowl but missed it completely. Instead, she vomited right the way down my arm, splattering the sleeve of my uniform, my cuff and my bare forearm simultaneously. The sight and smell of her vomit, not to mention the warm feel of it clinging to my skin, made my own insides churn. As Mrs Roache was sick again, this time directly into the metal bowl I’d let drop beside her, I threw up the contents of my own stomach right into the same receptacle.
‘I’m ever so sorry, Nurse …’ Mrs Roache apologised. She looked ashamed and forlorn, and I didn’t want her to suffer any further distress.
‘It’s no bother. I’m sorry too.’ I wiped my face with the hem of my apron and took a slow, deep breath to gather my composure before I began to mop up Mrs Roache’s chin with a tissue from her locker. ‘What a pair we are,’ I smiled at her. Nausea was swimming through my insides now and I desperately hoped I wouldn’t be sick again. ‘Give me a minute to clean myself up and we’ll start again, shall we?’
‘Thank you, Nurse, I’m ever so sorry,’ she said as I walked unsteadily to the sluice to dispose of the contents of the sick bowl.
I was burning with a mixture of emotions. I felt sorry for the poor old lady, who had suffered the most appalling injury, and I felt mortified by what had happened. My cheeks flushed and I found myself saying a little prayer in my head, and imagining God was holding my hand. This was something Sister Mary Francis had encouraged us to do at school whenever we needed a little help and guidance.
‘Dear God,’ I began as I held my nose and emptied the vomit into the sluice. ‘Please help me to be strong. This job is going to be harder than I imagined.’
I heaved, changed my apron and headed back to attend to Mrs Roache again. Sister Bridie was patrolling the ward now, and I had to look competent and in control, though I felt anything but.
In the bed next to Mrs Roache lay a distinguished-looking elderly lady called Mrs Pearlman. If my memory served me correctly, the patient notes I’d seen when I arrived on the ward told me she was Jewish, and she had a fractured pelvis.
She raised a thin arm to attract my attention. I stepped towards her with a smile and said, ‘How can I help? I’ll be with you just as soon as I’ve finished with Mrs Roache …’
‘There is no need, my dear,’ she said in a raspy whisper. ‘I just wanted to say I think you are doing a marvellous job.’
I felt humbled.
That night I sat on my bed and cried. I’d had a long soak in the bath but I was sure I could still smell poor Mrs Roache’s vomit on my skin. It mingled with the scent of the powdered Ajax and Lysol cleaning liquid we used on the wards, and the medicated pong of Izal toilet paper that hung in the air around all the communal bathrooms and toilets in the nurses’ home.
I was scrubbing my hair with Sunsilk shampoo for the third time when there was a knock on the bathroom door from Anne, who was politely wondering if she could possibly hurry me up so she could ‘de-hospitalise’ herself as well.
Her words made me think of the putrid smell that hung in the air on the surgical ward and I suddenly realised why it was worse