The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives by Linda Fairley
Authors: Linda Fairley
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shared experiences had made us good friends. I would miss her, and for her sake I hoped she was making the right decision. Somehow I felt she was. The fun-loving, exuberant Janice I had first met hadn’t been evident for quite some time, and I realised nursing had been making her unhappy, so it was best to go.
Later that same week, I arrived for another night shift to find Heather’s bed occupied by an elderly male patient.
‘We lost her yesterday,’ Jennifer said, giving me a little hug. ‘Her husband left you this.’ She handed me a beautifully packaged gift, which I stared at. ‘He said to say thank you for everything you did, and he wants you to have this to remember Heather by.’
I wanted to open it in private but Jennifer was looking at me expectantly, so I untied the pink velvet ribbon and carefully opened the pretty tissue-paper parcel. Inside there was a small, wooden-handled hairbrush and a note that said: ‘Thank you for caring for my beautiful wife. I will always remember how pretty she looked in hospital.’
Unlike with Mrs Pearlman’s gold watch, I would not need to ask for permission to keep this gift. It had not been given to me by a patient and it was not a valuable item in monetary terms, but to me it was worth a great deal and I would treasure it.
I tucked it in my pocket and felt choked, as if the breath had been sucked out of my throat, but I didn’t cry. I wanted to sob and wail for Heather, but I couldn’t. I felt numb with shock and grief. My throat and eyes were as dry as bones. I was exhausted and wrung out. In that moment I decided I couldn’t go on either. I would quit, just like Janice, and in two weeks’ time I’d be out of there too.
Alone in my room, I composed a brief letter of resignation addressed to Miss Bell, requesting that I be released from my training and explaining briefly that I was struggling to cope and finding it too tough to continue.
The next day I made an appointment with Miss Bell so I could hand-deliver the letter, and if I was forced to explain myself further I intended to tell her I had decided to pursue a career as a nursery nurse instead. I didn’t know how I would go about this, but I was convinced that working with children who weren’t ill would be a perfect joy compared to nursing, and the thought of it filled me with relief.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell Graham what I planned because I knew he would try to talk me out of it, and I had made up my mind. Nor did I tell Nessa, Anne, Jo or Linda, as I knew it would make me feel a failure compared to them. I didn’t want a fuss; I just desperately wanted to go home and start again.
Mum would understand eventually, I reasoned. She’d thrown a wonderful engagement party for Graham and me just a few weeks earlier, to coincide with my twentiethbirthday in March 1968. As promised, she laid on an impressive spread which included potted salmon finger rolls, cheese and pineapple cubes on sticks, warm vol-au-vents topped with sliced cucumber and presented on doilies, fruit cocktail made with tinned peaches and glacé cherries, plus her signature sherry trifle, topped generously with grated chocolate.
‘Georgy Girl’ by The Seekers played on the record player in the corner as Graham and I cut our iced fruit cake, which had been lovingly baked by my father. Dad took a few photographs on his new Kodak Instamatic camera, and I still have one or two today. They show me posing happily beside Graham and the sets of crockery and glassware we received as engagement presents. I’m dressed in a long-sleeved black mini dress with little white spots, which has a Peter Pan collar and a row of tiny buttons down the front. When the assembled guests all clapped noisily to toast our happiness, I remember it made the needle on the record jump and Mum put on something by Manfred Mann instead.
After everybody had left and we were clearing up, Mum told me that what she wanted, more than anything, was for me to be
Later that same week, I arrived for another night shift to find Heather’s bed occupied by an elderly male patient.
‘We lost her yesterday,’ Jennifer said, giving me a little hug. ‘Her husband left you this.’ She handed me a beautifully packaged gift, which I stared at. ‘He said to say thank you for everything you did, and he wants you to have this to remember Heather by.’
I wanted to open it in private but Jennifer was looking at me expectantly, so I untied the pink velvet ribbon and carefully opened the pretty tissue-paper parcel. Inside there was a small, wooden-handled hairbrush and a note that said: ‘Thank you for caring for my beautiful wife. I will always remember how pretty she looked in hospital.’
Unlike with Mrs Pearlman’s gold watch, I would not need to ask for permission to keep this gift. It had not been given to me by a patient and it was not a valuable item in monetary terms, but to me it was worth a great deal and I would treasure it.
I tucked it in my pocket and felt choked, as if the breath had been sucked out of my throat, but I didn’t cry. I wanted to sob and wail for Heather, but I couldn’t. I felt numb with shock and grief. My throat and eyes were as dry as bones. I was exhausted and wrung out. In that moment I decided I couldn’t go on either. I would quit, just like Janice, and in two weeks’ time I’d be out of there too.
Alone in my room, I composed a brief letter of resignation addressed to Miss Bell, requesting that I be released from my training and explaining briefly that I was struggling to cope and finding it too tough to continue.
The next day I made an appointment with Miss Bell so I could hand-deliver the letter, and if I was forced to explain myself further I intended to tell her I had decided to pursue a career as a nursery nurse instead. I didn’t know how I would go about this, but I was convinced that working with children who weren’t ill would be a perfect joy compared to nursing, and the thought of it filled me with relief.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell Graham what I planned because I knew he would try to talk me out of it, and I had made up my mind. Nor did I tell Nessa, Anne, Jo or Linda, as I knew it would make me feel a failure compared to them. I didn’t want a fuss; I just desperately wanted to go home and start again.
Mum would understand eventually, I reasoned. She’d thrown a wonderful engagement party for Graham and me just a few weeks earlier, to coincide with my twentiethbirthday in March 1968. As promised, she laid on an impressive spread which included potted salmon finger rolls, cheese and pineapple cubes on sticks, warm vol-au-vents topped with sliced cucumber and presented on doilies, fruit cocktail made with tinned peaches and glacé cherries, plus her signature sherry trifle, topped generously with grated chocolate.
‘Georgy Girl’ by The Seekers played on the record player in the corner as Graham and I cut our iced fruit cake, which had been lovingly baked by my father. Dad took a few photographs on his new Kodak Instamatic camera, and I still have one or two today. They show me posing happily beside Graham and the sets of crockery and glassware we received as engagement presents. I’m dressed in a long-sleeved black mini dress with little white spots, which has a Peter Pan collar and a row of tiny buttons down the front. When the assembled guests all clapped noisily to toast our happiness, I remember it made the needle on the record jump and Mum put on something by Manfred Mann instead.
After everybody had left and we were clearing up, Mum told me that what she wanted, more than anything, was for me to be
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