The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives by Linda Fairley Page B
Authors: Linda Fairley
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but I was suddenly delighted at the prospect. I knew it had to be far better than looking after people who were ill.
My first taxi journey to St Mary’s, in April 1968, was quite a thrill. There were three other girls with me, none of whom I knew personally but all of whom seemed equally as excited as me to be going on secondment to St Mary’s. I’d only ever ridden in a taxi on a handful of occasions and I felt quite important, being transported along Oxford Road in a shiny black cab, wearing my thick green cloak over my uniform.
I had been told many times that MRI nurses had a reputation for being a ‘cut above the rest’ and I really felt it now. For the first time I fully understood why Sister Mary Francis had insisted that she only wanted her girls to go to the very best hospital, and I felt extremely proud to wear my uniform in public. I was glad I hadn’t quit. I was taking on a new challenge, and I hoped and prayed I would enjoy it a great deal. Surely I would be better suited to dealing with birth than illness?
In the morning rush hour it was about a twenty-minute taxi ride along Oxford Road, which became Oxford Street as you approached the heart of the city. I knew the drive well, as when I went into town shopping with the girls we would take the trolley bus along the same route. Sometimes the electric-powered bus would lose its connection with the cable above and the conductor would have to get off and use a long pole to reconnect it to the electric wire running overhead. The trolley bus stopped every few minutes to pick people up, or so it seemed, and no sooner had you breathed a sigh of relief at a throng of passengers disembarking than another crowd pushed on.
The taxi was luxurious by comparison. I looked out the window at the office workers walking briskly in the early spring sunshine. The men wore wide-collared shirts and knitted ties, and the women were mostly dressed in mini skirts and kitten heels, or draped in voluminous pastel-coloured macs, secured at the neck with a fancy brooch or neatly tied scarf. There was quite a bit of traffic on the roads at this hour of the morning. Everyone was going somewhere, and there was a definite buzz in the air.
The cab’s engine hummed as we pulled up outside St Mary’s. The splendid-looking red-brick hospital stood next to the Ritz and opposite the Palace Theatre, on the corner of Oxford Street. All of the buildings looked unfamiliar in the morning light, and I felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of exploring my new surroundings. I was entering unfamiliar territory all over again, yet I sensed this was going to be much more manageable than the MRI. It might even be fun.
I’d been asked to report on arrival to the office of Mrs Ingham, the senior obstetric nursing tutor at St Mary’s. I knew nothing about her, except that Miss Bell had spoken to her about me.
As I stepped inside the maternity hospital for the first time, I was struck by how bright and cheerful it felt for such an old building. Beams of light were streaming in through the windows, of which there were many, and there was a low but distinctive chorus in the air of babies snuffling and crying, and mothers and midwives soothing and shushing.
‘Welcome to St Mary’s,’ Mrs Ingham said warmly when I entered her office. She smiled from ear to ear, and I found myself smiling back. ‘I’ve heard some very good things about you, Nurse Lawton. It sounds to me as if you have the makingsof a very good nurse, perhaps even an obstetrics nurse, and I am here to help you on your way.’
I felt instantly at ease with Mrs Ingham. She was middle-aged with grey hair and had the demeanour of a kindly older aunt. She appeared rather no-nonsense on the surface but, as I later found out, she had a heart as soft as putty.
‘I have assigned you to one of the postnatal wards for normal deliveries,’ she explained. ‘You are here principally to observe, but you will learn how to bathe and swaddle
My first taxi journey to St Mary’s, in April 1968, was quite a thrill. There were three other girls with me, none of whom I knew personally but all of whom seemed equally as excited as me to be going on secondment to St Mary’s. I’d only ever ridden in a taxi on a handful of occasions and I felt quite important, being transported along Oxford Road in a shiny black cab, wearing my thick green cloak over my uniform.
I had been told many times that MRI nurses had a reputation for being a ‘cut above the rest’ and I really felt it now. For the first time I fully understood why Sister Mary Francis had insisted that she only wanted her girls to go to the very best hospital, and I felt extremely proud to wear my uniform in public. I was glad I hadn’t quit. I was taking on a new challenge, and I hoped and prayed I would enjoy it a great deal. Surely I would be better suited to dealing with birth than illness?
In the morning rush hour it was about a twenty-minute taxi ride along Oxford Road, which became Oxford Street as you approached the heart of the city. I knew the drive well, as when I went into town shopping with the girls we would take the trolley bus along the same route. Sometimes the electric-powered bus would lose its connection with the cable above and the conductor would have to get off and use a long pole to reconnect it to the electric wire running overhead. The trolley bus stopped every few minutes to pick people up, or so it seemed, and no sooner had you breathed a sigh of relief at a throng of passengers disembarking than another crowd pushed on.
The taxi was luxurious by comparison. I looked out the window at the office workers walking briskly in the early spring sunshine. The men wore wide-collared shirts and knitted ties, and the women were mostly dressed in mini skirts and kitten heels, or draped in voluminous pastel-coloured macs, secured at the neck with a fancy brooch or neatly tied scarf. There was quite a bit of traffic on the roads at this hour of the morning. Everyone was going somewhere, and there was a definite buzz in the air.
The cab’s engine hummed as we pulled up outside St Mary’s. The splendid-looking red-brick hospital stood next to the Ritz and opposite the Palace Theatre, on the corner of Oxford Street. All of the buildings looked unfamiliar in the morning light, and I felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of exploring my new surroundings. I was entering unfamiliar territory all over again, yet I sensed this was going to be much more manageable than the MRI. It might even be fun.
I’d been asked to report on arrival to the office of Mrs Ingham, the senior obstetric nursing tutor at St Mary’s. I knew nothing about her, except that Miss Bell had spoken to her about me.
As I stepped inside the maternity hospital for the first time, I was struck by how bright and cheerful it felt for such an old building. Beams of light were streaming in through the windows, of which there were many, and there was a low but distinctive chorus in the air of babies snuffling and crying, and mothers and midwives soothing and shushing.
‘Welcome to St Mary’s,’ Mrs Ingham said warmly when I entered her office. She smiled from ear to ear, and I found myself smiling back. ‘I’ve heard some very good things about you, Nurse Lawton. It sounds to me as if you have the makingsof a very good nurse, perhaps even an obstetrics nurse, and I am here to help you on your way.’
I felt instantly at ease with Mrs Ingham. She was middle-aged with grey hair and had the demeanour of a kindly older aunt. She appeared rather no-nonsense on the surface but, as I later found out, she had a heart as soft as putty.
‘I have assigned you to one of the postnatal wards for normal deliveries,’ she explained. ‘You are here principally to observe, but you will learn how to bathe and swaddle
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