Farewell To The East End

cobbles making it a slow and painful ride.
    Suddenly a female voice called out in the still night: ‘Is that the nurse?’
    ‘Yes, and I’m trying to find number 144.’
    ‘It’s me you are wantin’, me darlin’, and right glad I am to see you.’
    The soft Irish accent was unmistakable, but the voice trailed away into a groan of pain, and the girl leaned against the wall, her head thrown back and her face contorted with agony. She suppressed the scream rising in her throat, giving a high strangulated sound, even though she pressed both hands to her mouth. The midwife took her body in both hands to support her – she was just a slip of a girl, barely more than eighteen, small and thin and heavily pregnant. The contraction was powerful and long, but eventually it subsided. The girl relaxed and laughed.
    ‘Oh, that was a nasty one. Me mammy didn’t ever tell me it could be as bad as that.’
    ‘You shouldn’t be standing out here in the street.’
    ‘I didn’t want you to miss the house.’
    ‘Well, someone else could have looked out for me.’
    ‘There is no one else.’
    ‘What! You mean you are alone here, in labour?’
    ‘What else could I be doing!’
    ‘Oh, never mind. We’ve got to get you to your bedroom before the next contraction comes on.’
    ‘I’ve got a room on the third floor, and I’m feelin’ fine now.’
    Ruth removed her delivery bag from the bike, took the girl’s thin arm, and together they entered the house. It was completely dark inside, so she ran back to her bike to detach the cycle lamp. The torchlight illuminated the narrow stairway. They passed several closed doors, but there was not a sign of another human being. On the second-floor landing the girl started groaning and breathing heavily, doubled up with pain. Ruth was alarmed; it was possible that the girl was entering the second stage of labour. She took hold of the girl again to support her, and then suddenly felt a rush of warm fluid at her feet. The waters had broken.
    ‘Quickly,’ she said, ‘upstairs. Only one more flight. You have to get to your room. We can’t have the baby born on the landing.’
    The contraction passed, and the girl smiled.
    ‘I can get there. Don’t trouble yourself, nursey. I feel fine now the pain’s gone.’
    With surprising agility the girl mounted the stairs, followed by Ruth, and they entered a pitch-dark room, cold as a coffin. She looked around her and said cheerfully, ‘I’m so glad you brought a light with you, because the meter ran out, and I only had enough pennies either for the telephone or for the meter. I think it was the angels told me to use them for the telephone.’
    The torch light revealed a bleak, barren room, devoid of any comfort. A rough wooden bedstead stood against one wall. A dirty, stained mattress and pillow lay on the worn-out springs. There were no sheets or pillow-cases; two grey army blankets were the only coverings. A small table and chair and a chest of drawers were the only other furniture in the room. There were no curtains, no rug or mat. An enamel bowl and a jug half full of cold water stood on the table. The electric meter was high on the wall near to the door. In those days the majority of houses and flats received gas and electricity through payment into a coin meter. When the coin ran out, the power supply cut off. Every midwife carried a shilling in her pocket, because meters running out were a constant hazard in our work. Ruth climbed onto the chair, inserted a shilling and turned the key. A dim electric light bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling cast a gloomy light over the room, and now Ruth could see the girl more clearly. Her small face was delicately boned, and her mouth was beautifully shaped. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and her hair a glorious autumn brown. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding her stomach. Her eyes were laughing.
    ‘Trust a sailor! This is what happens to a girl when she trusts a sailor! What’s your name, nurse?’
    ‘Novice Ruth.’
    ‘Ruth. That’s me mam’s name. She always says …’
    ‘Look here, Kathy, we haven’t got time to chatter. You can tell me what your mother says after your baby is born. It won’t be long now because I can see you are in advanced labour, and your waters have broken. Undress and get onto the bed. I must examine you. Where is your maternity pack?
    ‘What’s that? I don’t know.’
    ‘Every expectant mother is given a box for her home birth containing