The Wartime Midwives Read online

  Though only twenty-six, Ada had worked in busy hospitals in Leeds, Sheffield and Manchester after she’d qualified as a state-registered nurse. An ambitious and dedicated nurse, Ada had had little time for romance during her training; she always seemed to be working long, gruelling shifts or preparing for yet another nursing qualification. However, a girl with Ada’s natural beauty couldn’t go unrecognized for long. Stunned by her bright, sparkling blue eyes and abundance of luxuriously long, flame-coloured hair that forever escaped her nurse’s cap, trainee doctors would make detours along the winding hospital corridors to track Ada down. Though she enjoyed their company and laughed easily at their flirtatious jokes, Ada had never been interested enough to accept any of their invitations to the cinema or the local dancehall. Not that Ada didn’t like dancing – she simply adored it! But she preferred dancing the jitterbug and the jive with her girlfriends to being clasped in a stranger’s arms throughout the length of a steamy foxtrot.

  It was at the local palais that Ada had first met Brian, a handsome young musician who toured the country playing with a swing band. Catching sight of him on stage, swinging his hips as he played the trumpet with the glittering dancehall lights accentuating his sharp, high cheekbones and the swoop of silky black hair that fell over his high forehead, Ada’s pulse quickened. He certainly didn’t miss the long-legged, shapely girl in a clinging red crêpe dress dancing to the strains of ‘Little Brown Jug’ the band were playing out. During one of the group’s breaks Brian sought out Ada and politely asked if he could buy her a drink. Enchanted by her wide smile and perfect, even white teeth, Brian could barely drag his eyes away from her, and he begged to see her the next time he was in town. It was an ideal arrangement as far as Ada was concerned; she could continue concentrating on her career while still enjoying the company of broad-chested, handsome Brian whenever he showed up in Manchester. Unfortunately she never discovered the true depths of her affection for him, as shortly after their fifth meeting Ada was told (from another member of the band, jealous of Brian’s success with the best-looking girl in the ballroom) that Brian was, in fact, engaged to be married.

  Ada’s immediate reaction had been deep embarrassment: to think she’d been drinking and chatting with an engaged man in front of the band members, who probably knew his fiancée. How duplicitous of him! To flirt and kiss her in public when he had a girl waiting for him at home. Ada didn’t stoop so low as to have a row with two-faced Brian, or even to demand an apology; men like him weren’t worth it, she decided. Instead she simply turned her back on red-faced Brian, walked out of the dancehall and made sure she never went back there again if his swing band was booked to play.

  The experience of being duped and shamed left Ada cautious; realizing that, unlike most of her friends, she was in no rush to start courting, Ada threw all her time and energy into her work even more than before, and she loved it with an increasing passion. Competent, cool and compassionate, she’d worked her way up the career ladder, gaining an extra qualification in midwifery. It was her interest in obstetrics that had driven Ada – by then a respected and popular ward sister at Manchester Royal Infirmary – to apply for a senior nursing post at the Mary Vale Mother and Baby Home. When interviewed by Matron, Sister Ann, the convent’s Reverend Mother and Sir Percival, the chairman of the Home’s Board of Governors, Ada had shown such passion and commitment to her work that she’d been offered the job right there and then.

  Ada had been sad to leave Manchester and the nurses’ home where she’d made so many good friends; she knew she’d miss the buzz of the busy city dominated by cotton mills, whose belching factory chimneys regularly turned the air black and sooty. Nevertheless, through all the tearful farewells, Ada had no doubt about her move to Grange: something drew her to Mary Vale, where she knew she could provide needy women with expert nursing care. During her working life Ada had come across many so-called ‘shamed’ young women whom she’d seen dragged into hospital to give birth and then abandoned by their families. It had shocked and saddened her when later some of the same unfortunate women, who’d been working the streets of the city as prostitutes in order to survive, had returned to the hospital for treatment for syphilis or gonorrhoea. There had to be a better way to treat pregnant women who’d got into trouble, brave-hearted Ada had decided, and that was now her mission.

  When Ada had arrived at Mary Vale, she found to her joy and relief that she would be working alongside similar, like-minded women: Sister Ann and the Reverend Mother had given their lives over to helping girls outcast by society. Ada guessed that Sister Ann was a good ten years her senior, though it was difficult to judge the nun’s age, not just because she wore a wimple that covered her hair, but because of her completely clear complexion and serene smile that lent a sweet innocence to her face.

  As their friendship developed, Ada learnt that Sister Ann had studied midwifery in Bradford, after which she had followed her vocation and joined the Sisters of the Holy Mother in the convent attached to Mary Vale Home. Initially daunted at the thought of working with a nun, Ada soon discovered what a fine professional Sister Ann was; they complemented each other with their different skills and their vastly different life experiences. Ada had more advanced technical skills, while Sister Ann was more nurturing and intuitive; she was also, as Ada grew to find out, hilariously funny and a great mimic. Her take-offs of bumbling Dr Jones and bossy Matron had Ada in stitches, and, after a flying visit from grandiose Sir Percival, Ann stuck out her chest and strode about the sluice room in exactly the same pompous manner as Sir Percival.

  ‘Stop! Please stop before I die of laughter,’ Ada implored, with tears streaming down her face.

  After they’d both got their breath back, Ada managed to speak.

  ‘You’re an amazing impersonator – where did you learn to do that, Sister?’

  ‘Mi dad worked down the pit but at the weekend he’d earn a bit of extra cash by doing stand-up acts in Oldham’s working men’s clubs; he was a bit of a local legend,’ she added with a proud smile. ‘Sadly, he died when I was a teenager.’

  ‘But he passed on to you his gift of making people laugh,’ Ada said fondly.

  ‘Indeed,’ Sister Ann agreed. ‘You know, it was a serious dilemma for me when it came to deciding between a vocation in the Church or a life of entertaining working-class folk in pubs!’ she joked.

  ‘I’m glad you decided on God,’ Ada replied.

  ‘Me too,’ the nun agreed. ‘I don’t know where I’d be without Him.’

  After finishing her chores in the sluice room, Ada went to check on the girls feeding in the noisy nursery, where babies were waking up from their naps eager for their bottle. Ada immediately picked up Shirley’s mewling baby, and, after settling her comfortably in the crook of her arm, sat down and tried to feed her. When the fretful child resisted the bottle, Ada put it aside and gently rocked her back and forth, softly singing until she drifted off to sleep. The peace of the moment was disturbed by the distinctly recognizable sharp click-click of Matron’s approaching feet.

  Everybody stiffened. Matron Maud Harding, a tall, whipcord thin woman with dark, greying hair and an imperious expression, was a proud woman who had trained on the Western Front in the First World War; the toughness she’d developed there continued to this day. Where Sister Ann was a ministering angel and Ada a wonderful nurse, Matron was a vengeful tyrant who made sure her patients were regularly reminded of their sins of the flesh.

  ‘Here she comes,’ a girl close by muttered under her breath. ‘And, from the look on her face, she’s on the war path.’

  Matron peered at the sleeping baby cradled in Ada’s arms, wrinkling her nose as if she were staring at something unpleasant.

  ‘Shirley’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ada replied, as she laid a protective hand on the slumbering child.

  ‘Good, that’ll free up a bed in the pre-natal ward,’ Matron said shortly.

  Lowering her voice so that she wouldn’t be overheard by the g
irls around her, Ada spoke firmly. ‘Shirley will need rest in the post-natal ward; she’s lost a great deal of blood.’

  Ignoring Ada, Matron continued to stare disapprovingly at Shirley’s small, frail daughter. ‘It will be difficult to place such a feeble-looking specimen,’ she sniffed.

  Though bristling with indignation, Ada maintained the same low voice. ‘The child had some difficulty breathing to start with, but she’s fine now,’ she said defensively, before adding, ‘I’m sure Father Benedict will have no trouble finding a home for her; he has a natural gift for matching babies with the right families.’

  Yet again Matron ignored her comment, brusquely turning to the girls. ‘Who was responsible for polishing the staircase in the entrance hall this morning?’

  ‘Nancy Wheelan,’ one of the girls informed her.

  Matron shook her head. ‘I should have known,’ she said. ‘Where is the hopeless child?’

  ‘She went for a lie-down after we had our dinner,’ another girl volunteered.

  ‘What does she think this is?’ Matron scoffed. ‘A five-star hotel?’

  With her black brogues click-clacking on the highly polished wooden floor, Matron walked away, leaving the girls sighing with relief at her departure.

  ‘If it was one of the posh girls who was having a lie-down, Matron wouldn’t be complaining,’ a bold girl whispered behind Matron’s ram-rod-straight back.

  Her neighbour snorted as she winded the child she’d just finished feeding. ‘Snobby old bitch! She always prefers the ones with the money!’ Rolling her eyes melodramatically, she added, ‘God help poor Nancy when the old bat tracks her down.’

  2. The Prettiest Nippy in Manchester!

  Carrying a loaded tray of soup of the day, grilled kidneys and green beans, Emily Todd made her way across the Lyons Corner House café in Manchester city centre, where just about every person present noted the sexy sway of her shapely bottom and the swell of her chest, emphasized by her trim waist. Radiating a charming smile, Emily transfixed almost every male in the room.

  ‘There you are, Mr Carter,’ she said as she set the food before one of her many devoted customers. ‘Piping hot, just as you like it.’

  Cleverly circumnavigating Mr Carter’s big outstretched hands, which had more than once landed where they shouldn’t, Emily placed the contents of her tray on the table, squirming with the knowledge that Mr Carter would be ogling the edges of her lacy brassiere as she bent forwards.

  ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ Mr Carter jabbered like a grateful chimpanzee.

  ‘I’ll be back for your pudding order,’ Emily promised. ‘And my tip too,’ she thought to herself. ‘I’ll be needing every extra penny I can get hold of from now on.

  Tearing his mesmerized eyes from Emily, Mr Carter gave a yearning sigh before dipping a spoon into his vegetable soup. Emily took orders from two middle-aged women in dowdy hats, who stared disapprovingly at her thick, mahogany-brown hair, which always escaped from the confines of her lacy nippy’s cap. A noisy family flagged her down for tea and toast, while Mr Carter ate his food and waited expectantly for her return, an eager smile on his face.

  Nobody could have guessed that Emily, with a welcoming word for all her customers and a bright smile plastered on her face, was hiding inner turmoil. For the news she had been fearing had been confirmed that very morning by her doctor: she was pregnant. As she waltzed in and out of the kitchen trying her best to ignore her rising panic, the only thoughts in Emily’s head were: ‘What on earth am I going to do; and where in God’s name is George?’ Tall, handsome, brave, bold Squadron Leader Holden, her George whom she’d been in love with since he’d first walked into her café and ordered lunch. Smiling softly, she allowed herself a moment to remember. She’d all but swooned at the sight of him, sitting on a spindly chair wearing his smart new blue RAF uniform, casually smoking a Senior Service cigarette while being dazed by Emily’s deep blue eyes and pouting red lips. Unable to take her eyes off him, Emily had blushed as she remembered she was supposed to take his order.

  ‘What can I get you, Sir?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ he had said, grinning flirtatiously.

  Trying to keep her face straight, Emily had suggested the dish of the day,

  ‘Rissoles!’ she’d exclaimed, which had caused both of them to collapse with laughter.

  That had been a year ago; and since then Emily and George had met up whenever they had a free moment and George could get away from RAF Padgate in Warrington, where he was stationed. They’d both struggled to control their growing passion, but eventually there had come a point when their need for each other licked through them like a red-hot flame, consuming sense and reason. Lying in George’s arms, Emily had had no regrets; their love-making had felt as natural as breathing. Now she was entirely his and one day soon they planned to get married. They’d continued to have sex regularly, always taking care to use precautions – although Emily recalled shakily the one night when George had discovered that the condom he’d used had split.

  Emily had tried to ease her concerns, but there was no avoiding the fact that she’d missed a period, as luck would have it during a time that George’s squadron had been ordered to stay on their base and therefore he couldn’t see her. He’d written an urgent letter to Emily a few months ago, telling her that they couldn’t meet until restrictions were lifted.

  ‘With all the news coming from Europe, Hitler’s latest antics with the Czechs, and us trying to keep the Poles happy, we’re on high alert. I’m so sorry, my darling, you’re constantly in my thoughts, I miss your lovely face so much. I hope you are missing me as much as I’m missing you?’

  And that was the last Emily had heard from her beloved. Now, her condition confirmed, she desperately needed to talk to George; they must marry. She knew he loved her – of that she had no doubt – but how would he take the news of a child? As time passed, Emily had begun to seriously worry about George. She’d immediately replied to his letter telling her of their orders to remain on the base, but she’d not heard anything back since. WHY hadn’t he got in touch? Was he all right? Was he even still at Padgate? For all she knew, he could already have been moved. The forces were famously tight-lipped about imparting any information; government propaganda posters everywhere declared LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS! BE LIKE DAD – KEEP MUM! But now she was more than worried; she was in trouble. Desperate for advice and comfort, and having to face the fact that, for now, George was out of reach, Emily decided to confide in her closest friend at work: Ivy. When she finally had a break, she found the older woman chain-smoking in the staff canteen.

  ‘Have you got five minutes?’ Emily asked, as she settled down on the chair beside Ivy, who offered Emily a Woodbine. ‘You look in need of a fag.’

  Formerly a heavy smoker, Emily shook her head: since she’d fallen pregnant, she couldn’t abide the smell of tobacco. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

  Ivy listened attentively to Emily’s outpourings before she asked, ‘When did you find out for sure?’

  ‘The doctor confirmed it this morning,’ Emily whispered, her face sheet-white.

  Ivy pursed her lips. ‘Have you had a chance to think what you’re going to do, lovie?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of nothing else,’ Emily blurted out. ‘I’m going round and round in circles,’ she tearfully confessed.

  ‘Do you need to get rid of it?’ Ivy asked bluntly.

  The idea of an abortion hadn’t even crossed Emily’s mind, but instinctively she knew this wasn’t for her. She and George loved each other, and the plans they’d made for a future life together always involved having children of their own. Emily was certain George would want her to keep his child as much as she now knew for sure she did. It would all be all right, once she had got hold of him.

  ‘I know George would want me to keep it,’ she answered with absolute conviction.

  ‘Has he told you that?’ Ivy asked.

  Feeling like a fool, Emily muttered a feebl
e, ‘No, he doesn’t know yet.’

  Ivy looked directly at her. ‘You haven’t told him?’ she gasped.

  Emily’s shoulders drooped as she shook her head, and, mumbling self-consciously, she quickly added, ‘Like I said, I only found out for sure this morning.’

  ‘Then you somehow need to break the news soon,’ Ivy said sharply. ‘If you want to keep it, he needs to know.’

  With fear building up inside her, Emily confessed that she hadn’t heard from George in weeks. ‘He hasn’t had any leave at all or been allowed off the base,’ she explained. ‘He might not even be in the country for all I know,’ she added despairingly.

  Looking concerned, Ivy said urgently, ‘You must write to him immediately, God help you if he’s been posted abroad: with all the trouble brewing in Europe, his squadron could have been sent anywhere. But if he’s still in the country, he’ll get your letter and he’ll find a way to contact you if he loves you as much as you say he does.’

  Emily’s lovely blue eyes overflowed with tears. ‘Oh, Ivy! I know George would make contact if he could – he loves me, he’d never let me down,’ she cried.

  Ivy, a hard-headed realist, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray before she replied, ‘He might well love you, Em, but that’s not necessarily going to help you if he’s not even in the country to get your message.’ Looking Emily straight in the eye, she asked, ‘You just have to hope he’s still on the base.’

  A tearful Emily frantically nodded her head in agreement with Ivy.

  ‘And if not,’ Ivy continued, ‘would your family support you through a pregnancy?’