your sort. Medical neglect, vat’s what you get in ’ospitals. She needs special treatment. Look at ’er. Weak constitooshun, she’s got.’ Mave put on her martyred expression. ‘An’ all from medical blunders years ago.’
Mave pursed her lips. ‘Terrible, it was.’
Meg did the same, and echoed, ‘Terrible.’
They both rolled their eyes and sucked in their breath: ‘Shocking!’
The doctor could hardly refrain from laughing.
‘What do you want, then, if you don’t want to go into hospital?’
‘Special treatment, that’s what, the best.’
‘I’ll speak to Sister Julienne, the Sister-in-Charge of the Midwives of St Raymund Nonnatus. They are a very old established order of midwives who have been practising in the area since the time when Dr Coffin wrote his book. Sister Julienne might agree to accept Mavis.’
Sister Julienne accepted Mavis for antenatal care and for delivery at home, but she would require a doctor present at the birth because of the age of the mother having her first baby.
Meg rapidly became an expert in pregnancy, antenatal care and childbirth. She studied Nicholas Culpeper, a seventeenth-century apothecary famous for his herbal remedies, and his A Guide to Having Lusty Children , published in 1651. She applied all his remedies to Mavis. She found on a stall a copy of Culpeper’s Directory for Midwives , published in 1656, which greatly impressed her, because the burden of the text was the castigation of all other manuals on midwifery – an easy approach that suited Meg’s turn of mind precisely. However, she failed to notice the confession made by Culpeper that the book contained no practical advice as he, the author, knew nothing about midwifery.
Then she discovered Jane Sharp’s The Whole Art of Midwifery of 1671 and started talking about lily, hyacinth, columbine, jasmine and cyclamen, to hasten delivery and ease the pains of childbirth; cinnamon and aniseed to nourish the child in the womb; poultices of fennel and parsley to lay over the abdomen; caraway and cumin seeds to increase the breast milk. ‘Ancient wisdom,’ Meg said, with a knowing air.
In the 1950s the rules of the Central Midwives Board required women to be seen at antenatal clinic once a month for the first six months; once a fortnight from six to eight months pregnancy; and each week during the final month. This was not good enough for Megan’mave. They came in to clinic every week, and sometimes twice a week, because we held two clinics, one in Poplar and the other in Millwall. Each visit they reported another serious illness which must be examined at once, and every new complaint was accompanied by a new book, or a new chapter in an old book that had suddenly revealed there was something wrong with Mavis, which the ignorant and neglectful doctors and midwives had failed to notice. The consequences would have been calamitous had it not been for the untiring vigilance of Meg.
It had been an exhausting Tuesday afternoon clinic in the converted church hall next to Nonnatus House – hot, sticky, smelly, sweaty. I was just about at the end of my tether, having examined dozens of women, some of them none too clean, and boiled up dozens of urine samples to test for albumen, nearly being sick at the stench every time, when Megan’mave entered the clinic door. Four midwives were on duty, and one of the nuns. We all looked sideways at each other and groaned inwardly. My table was nearest to the door, and unfortunately no one was with me. Megan’mave sat down, and without a word of introduction Meg barked, ‘Well, what ’ave you got to say to vis?’ She pushed a book towards me.
Wearily I looked up at the four black eyes staring at me accusingly. The headscarves were pulled down low, identical features wore the same expression of mistrust, four hands rested on the table, four solid feet were planted firmly on the floor. They had come to do battle.
‘But Megan, I don’t know …’
‘Me name’s
Mave pursed her lips. ‘Terrible, it was.’
Meg did the same, and echoed, ‘Terrible.’
They both rolled their eyes and sucked in their breath: ‘Shocking!’
The doctor could hardly refrain from laughing.
‘What do you want, then, if you don’t want to go into hospital?’
‘Special treatment, that’s what, the best.’
‘I’ll speak to Sister Julienne, the Sister-in-Charge of the Midwives of St Raymund Nonnatus. They are a very old established order of midwives who have been practising in the area since the time when Dr Coffin wrote his book. Sister Julienne might agree to accept Mavis.’
Sister Julienne accepted Mavis for antenatal care and for delivery at home, but she would require a doctor present at the birth because of the age of the mother having her first baby.
Meg rapidly became an expert in pregnancy, antenatal care and childbirth. She studied Nicholas Culpeper, a seventeenth-century apothecary famous for his herbal remedies, and his A Guide to Having Lusty Children , published in 1651. She applied all his remedies to Mavis. She found on a stall a copy of Culpeper’s Directory for Midwives , published in 1656, which greatly impressed her, because the burden of the text was the castigation of all other manuals on midwifery – an easy approach that suited Meg’s turn of mind precisely. However, she failed to notice the confession made by Culpeper that the book contained no practical advice as he, the author, knew nothing about midwifery.
Then she discovered Jane Sharp’s The Whole Art of Midwifery of 1671 and started talking about lily, hyacinth, columbine, jasmine and cyclamen, to hasten delivery and ease the pains of childbirth; cinnamon and aniseed to nourish the child in the womb; poultices of fennel and parsley to lay over the abdomen; caraway and cumin seeds to increase the breast milk. ‘Ancient wisdom,’ Meg said, with a knowing air.
In the 1950s the rules of the Central Midwives Board required women to be seen at antenatal clinic once a month for the first six months; once a fortnight from six to eight months pregnancy; and each week during the final month. This was not good enough for Megan’mave. They came in to clinic every week, and sometimes twice a week, because we held two clinics, one in Poplar and the other in Millwall. Each visit they reported another serious illness which must be examined at once, and every new complaint was accompanied by a new book, or a new chapter in an old book that had suddenly revealed there was something wrong with Mavis, which the ignorant and neglectful doctors and midwives had failed to notice. The consequences would have been calamitous had it not been for the untiring vigilance of Meg.
It had been an exhausting Tuesday afternoon clinic in the converted church hall next to Nonnatus House – hot, sticky, smelly, sweaty. I was just about at the end of my tether, having examined dozens of women, some of them none too clean, and boiled up dozens of urine samples to test for albumen, nearly being sick at the stench every time, when Megan’mave entered the clinic door. Four midwives were on duty, and one of the nuns. We all looked sideways at each other and groaned inwardly. My table was nearest to the door, and unfortunately no one was with me. Megan’mave sat down, and without a word of introduction Meg barked, ‘Well, what ’ave you got to say to vis?’ She pushed a book towards me.
Wearily I looked up at the four black eyes staring at me accusingly. The headscarves were pulled down low, identical features wore the same expression of mistrust, four hands rested on the table, four solid feet were planted firmly on the floor. They had come to do battle.
‘But Megan, I don’t know …’
‘Me name’s
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