The standard of care in these private ‘homes’ for babies would depend entirely on the person in charge. One of my friends was an illegitimate child seventy-five years ago. She was sent from one private boarding or foster parent to another, and eventually went to live with a single lady who loved and cared for her and became a lifelong guardian and friend. By way of contrast a woman in Clapham was prosecuted in the 1920s for having eight babies (each of which she was paid to care for) in five cots in the basement of her house. The babies ranged from newborn to three years old. The toddlers could not walk. They had never been out of their cots. They could not talk; they had not heard enough language.
Traffic in children has been going on for as long as mankind has been sinning and suffering. Josephine Butler (1828-1907) writes in her journals, pamphlets and diaries of the second half of the nineteenth century about seeing thousands (yes, thousands) of little girls, some as young as four or five, in the illegal brothels of London, Paris, Brussels and Geneva. It broke her heart to see them. The children had a life expectany of two years, yet the brothel owners, frequently women, seemed to have an unlimited supply of little girls for their rich clients. ‘Clean’ children, who were free from venereal disease, commanded a high price. All this is well documented, but strangely Mrs Butler never mentions little boys, though this branch of the trade must have been going on.[9]
Where did all these children come from? It could certainly not have been from the Salvation Army or the workhouses or state orphanages, nor from the established management orphanages such as Coram, Barnardo or Spurgeon. So from where, then?
A basic law of economics is that supply will meet demand. If brothel keepers wanted ‘clean’ children, unscrupulous women who boarded unwanted babies would supply them, for a price. No questions asked. Many children were not named or registered, and for those who were, a false birth certificate was provided. The parents or relatives probably never knew what had happened to their children. They just vanished as though they had never been born.
Baby selling – the last resort of a starving mother – was rife throughout the population explosion of the nineteeth century. This led to the terrible evil whereby traders, usually women, secured the custody of unwanted little ones, took out an insurance policy on their lives and then by neglect, cold and starvation ensured the death of the child and claimed the insurance. There are many recorded instances of this practice. Dr Barnardo is on record as having thwarted the murderous designs of a ruthless old harridan who had acquired three babies, insured them all, pawned their clothes, covered them in rags and left them without heat or food.
This must make terrible reading for anyone who is seriously studying family history. But life is made of happiness and tragedy in equal proportions, and we will never change that.
SOOT
Within the midwifery practice it was noticed that several babies had developed various infections: sticky eyes, pustules, aural discharge, diarrhoea, an infected umbilical stump. Not all babies were affected, but of those that were, one became quite ill. Swabs were taken for analysis, and the report came back from the pathology lab. All the infections were caused by the same strain of staphylococcus aureus. Where was it coming from?
All Sisters and nurses had to be screened, and the analysis proved that Cynthia was carrying a staphylococcus aureus infection, which she was passing on to the babies. Gentle Cynthia was horrified that she was the cause, especially as she did not look or feel ill in any way. But the report from the lab was incontrovertible. She was taken off work straight away and treated with antibiotics, and the infection cleared.
All the babies were also treated with penicillin, and they recovered. In previous decades, before the advent of antibiotics, some of the babies affected might have died. Certainly one or two would have developed chronic otitis media, or pink eye, or a lung infection, which could lead to something worse. But antibiotics, being new in those days, were more effective.
Cynthia was off work for two weeks, and returned to the district with confidence. No more infections occurred amongst the babies.
The first case Cynthia went to on returning to work was in a comfortable little house in Bow. It was a nice sort of home to be working in and everything was going welclass="underline" the young mother having her fifth baby was progressing in labour; her mother was looking after the four young children downstairs; her grandmother, an experienced matriarch for whom childbirth was less alarming than a visit to the dentist, was competently helping Cynthia. She – the grandmother – was looking at the fire.
‘Sulky ole fire, that. Needs a bi’ of life in it afore this baby’s born. We wants a nice warm room for ve new baby, eh, nurse?’
She picked up the poker, stirred the sluggish embers and opened the air vent. Flames leaped up the chimney. There was a rumbling from somewhere near the roof and a cascade of soot fell, completely dousing the fire. The grandmother screamed and rushed forward with a sheet of newspaper in an attempt to contain the soot in the grate. But there was a second rumble, louder than the first, and another fall of soot came rushing down the chimney, smothering the poor woman and flying all over the room. Cynthia’s sterile delivery equipment, carefully laid out on the chest of drawers, was covered in soot; the white bed linen was black; the lovingly prepared crib with its white lace and bows was black; Cynthia, aseptically prepared for delivery in a sterile white gown, cap, mask and gloves, was black; and the woman lying on the bed was black, although she was past caring – the second stage of labour was approaching and she was suffering a massive contraction prior to full dilation of the cervix. Cynthia gazed at the scene and raised her gloved hands in horror. Her first instinct was to wash them, and she rushed over to where the washing bowl stood. But a film of soot was floating on the water, and soot clung to the sticky wet soap. She tore off her gloves and was relieved to see clean hands.
‘Oh my Gawd,’ moaned the grandmother, ‘I never seed nuffink like it. What’s you goin’ ’a do, nurse?’
‘There is nothing I can do. If a baby is going to be born, no power in the world will stop it. We will have to continue like this. You go downstairs for some more hot water, and take this bowl with you and get it washed. You can also ask if there is any more clean linen in the house. I don’t think there will be time to get another sterile delivery pack from Nonnatus House, but you could try.’
With the last contraction the waters had broken, and viscous amniotic fluid was flowing over the absorbent mattress coverings. Falling particles of soot were rapidly sticking to it.
As Cynthia spoke particles of soot blew off her mask, so she tore the thing off. She would be better without it. The upper part of her face and eyes were black, her mouth, nose and chin were white. She looked like a comic turn.
Poor Janet, sweating profusely from the pain and pressure of advanced labour, had soot sticking to her entire body. It had even managed to penetrate beneath her nightdress. She raised her legs and vaguely rubbed her hands down her thighs, perhaps to wipe the soot away, but it only served to make thick, slimy black streaks.
‘Oh Gawd, wha’ a mess,’ she moaned, beginning to pant. ‘Vere’s anuvver contraction comin’, I can feel it. Aaah ...’ she groaned in agony.
Cynthia did not need to make a vaginal examination. She could see the head descending.
‘Don’t push, Janet, whatever you do. Just pant, quickly, like a little dog. In, out, in, out – quick, shallow breaths. That’s right, keep panting. I need to turn you over onto your left side in order to deliver the baby.’ (We were taught, in those days, to deliver on the side.)