‘Well, I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it was hopeless. The baby was quite cold and stiff.’
She was shaking, and her voice was barely audible above the noise of the street.
‘Let’s get off this main road into a quieter one,’ I said. ‘All this noise is getting on my nerves. Then you can tell me more.’
We pushed our bikes round a corner and continued in a more peaceful environment. Children were playing in the street, women were scrubbing their doorsteps or shaking mats. Several greeted us.
‘I went down the street to the phone box,’ Cynthia continued, ‘and rang Nonnatus House and spoke to Sister Julienne. She came straight away. It was wonderfully reassuring to see her. She christened the baby, even though he was dead, and prayed with the family and me, and then she went to inform the doctor and the police. I had to remain in the house with the baby’s body.’
She started crying again. I leaned over and squeezed her hand.
‘We didn’t have to wait long. The doctor came. He examined the little body and said he could see nothing to suggest the cause of death, but that a post mortem would be necessary before a death certificate could be issued. The family were terribly upset at this, saying they didn’t want to see their baby cut up, they just wanted him to have a quiet Christian burial. The doctor was ever so kind with them, but explained that a PM was unavoidable under the circumstances.’
We continued plodding along, circling around a group of little girls playing hop-scotch.
‘Two policemen arrived. They took notes and spoke with the doctor. Then they questioned me. It was awful. They weren’t nasty or bullying or anything like that ... it was just being questioned about a death, and seeing them write down everything I said that was so awful. I must have looked as white as a sheet, because the doctor was very kind and assured me that I was in no way at fault. I had been asked to tell them everything I knew, you see. They asked to see my records, and took my notes away with them. I think I had filled in everything correctly. I don’t know. It’s like a bad dream.’
She looked ill.
‘You need a good hot cup of tea,’ I said, ‘We’re nearly at the convent – good thing too. You look just about finished.’
‘It’s the shock, I suppose.’
‘I’ll say it is!’
‘I’m cold, too.’
‘Not surprising. You had no sleep last night?’
‘A couple of hours, then I had to go out.’
By now we had reached Nonnatus House. I took both the bikes to put them away. Cynthia said she had to report to Sister Julienne as soon as she got in.
In the bicycle shed Sister Bernadette was putting her bike away.
‘Ah, Nurse Lee. Just the person I wanted to speak to. Did I see you cycling with no hands down the East India Dock Road?’
Sister Bernadette was a midwife whom I both respected and admired, but she could be very sharp.
‘Me? Oh, er, well perhaps ...’
‘I am sure it was you. I can’t think of any other midwife who would cycle in that nonchalant fashion down the main road. And were you whistling by any chance?’
‘Whistling? Well, I’m not sure. I can’t quite remember, but I suppose I might have been.’
‘You certainly were. Now look here, Nurse Lee, you are not one of the local lads. You are a professional woman. They can do that sort of thing, but you can’t. It’s too casual, too lackadaisical. It gives the wrong impression. It simply won’t do.’
‘I’m sorry, Sister.’
‘Don’t do it again, Nurse.’
‘No, Sister. I won’t, Sister.’
But I did, and I’m sure she knew that I did!
Cynthia did not come in for lunch. She had been sent to bed with a couple of aspirins and some hot chocolate. Sister Julienne said grace and when we were seated told everyone what had happened.
‘Humph,’ grunted Sister Evangelina, ‘alive and healthy at six o’clock. Dead at ten. Sounds like smothering to me.’
‘Oh no, Sister. I am sure you are wrong. They are a nice family. They wanted the baby. They wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ Sister Julienne was shocked.
‘Can’t be sure. No one can. These secrets are well kept. There have been more unwanted babies smothered than I’ve had hot dinners. Desperation drives people to do it.’
‘But these people are not desperate,’ Sister Julienne replied. ‘I agree with you that desperation might lead a starving family to smother a newborn baby, but those days are past.’
Chummy, Trixie and I were wide-eyed with interest. We had heard nothing like this before, coming as we did from middle-class backgrounds. But Sister Evangelina had been born into the slums of Reading in the 1890s and had experienced more poverty and deprivation than we could ever dream of.
‘But wouldn’t they be caught?’ asked Chummy.
‘Probably not.’ Sister Evangelina glared at Chummy, and then at Trixie and me. ‘You young girls! Ignorant! Don’t know anything of the past! So many babies were born, and so many died, that the authorities would never have noticed a few smothered here or there – especially if a relative had assisted at the birth, and no one else. The family could just say the baby was still-born.’
‘But why?’ asked Trixie.
‘I’ve told you: desperation. Poverty, starvation, homelessness, that’s what drove people to do it. Read your history books!’
Sister Evangelina was a formidable lady. Her temper was irascible, and the fuse short. We dared not press her.
Aristocratic Sister Monica Joan, who was in her nineties and whose mind was not entirely reliable, had eaten very little. She picked at the mashed potato and onion gravy which Mrs B had lovingly prepared for her, pushed her plate aside and sat fingering her spoon, turning it this way and that as she held it between thumb and forefinger, with the other three fingers arched fan-like. She was watching the changing light in the bowl of the spoon and the reflections of those around her. She giggled.
‘Now you are upside down. Now the right way up, but your face is all fat ... hee, hee, hee! Now it’s thin. This is such fun. You should have a look.’
She appeared to be completely absorbed in the spoon and her own thoughts, and I doubted whether she had taken in a word of the previous conversation. How wrong one can be.
Sister Monica Joan had the instincts of an actress, and her timing was impeccable. She dropped the spoon onto the table with a clatter. Everyone jumped and looked at her. She was now the focus of attention, which she relished. She looked coolly around the table at each of us, and said unhurriedly: ‘I have seen several cases of smothered babies, or perhaps I should say, where I have strongly suspected smothering, but could not prove it.’
She looked around to judge the effect of her words.
‘We had a young maid at the convent – not this House, the one that was bombed out – she was a sweet girl from a respectable family. After a few months, it became clear that she was pregnant.
She was only a girl of fourteen. We were quite shocked, but kept her on, with her mother’s approval, until her time. Then we delivered her baby in their little house. One of our Sisters delivered it, and everything appeared to be satisfactory, if an illegitimate baby in a respectable family can be described as satisfactory. At any rate, mother and baby were alive and well when the Sister left them. A few hours later a note was brought to the convent saying that the baby had passed away. The Sister went to the house and found the baby dead, and the child-mother deeply asleep. She could not be roused. It looked like a sleep induced by laudanum. An inquest was held, but nothing was proved.’
Sister Monica Joan picked up the spoon again and turned it in the light, gazing intently at the changing shapes.
‘Everything looks so different from varying angles, doesn’t it? We see things one way and assume it is correct. But then, move the light just a fraction ...’, she turned the spoon slightly, ‘and you see it quite differently. Very often the death of a baby was seen as a blessing, not as a tragedy.’