Farewell To The East End

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

It was well that Chummy was on first call. Who else would have had the grit, the stamina and the sheer physical strength and courage to do what she did in the Docks that night?

Camilla Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne came from a long line of ‘Builders of the Empire’. District Commissioners and Colonels were her forebears. All the women seemed to be Lady This, That or the Other, and could not only run a garden party or a county ball for thousands but could also live in torrid isolation, maintaining the Hill Stations for their husbands the District Commissioners, who single-handedly governed areas the size of Wales. Whatever one may say about the British Empire, it certainly bred self reliance and courage in its administrators.

Chummy was typical of her family in this respect. In other ways, though, she was a misfit, because she was gauche, awkward and shy. Roedean and expensive finishing schools had been a failure. Chummy possessed no social graces whatsoever – a fact of which she was quite unaware – and she was always surprised and hurt when her mother let her know that she was an embarrassment to the family. The fact that she was over six feet in height and that she could not seem to control her long limbs did not help. She was always falling over or bumping into things, and after several disasters in public places her parents decided they could not take her anywhere. Many genteel and ladylike occupations were proposed, but after a fair trial, it had to be admitted that she was no good at any of them. ‘Whatever are we to do with Camilla?’ her mother would ask despairingly. ‘She can’t do anything, and no one is going to want to marry her.’

Demoralised and bewildered, Chummy accepted her role as the family failure. But the ways of man and the ways of God are not the same thing. Quite suddenly she found her vocation. Chummy was going to be a missionary. For this purpose she trained as a nurse and was an instant and brilliant success. Then she trained as a midwife, which is how we came to meet at Nonnatus House.

And, as I said, it was well that Chummy was on first call that night.

The telephone rang at 11.30 p.m., getting her out of bed.

‘Port-of-London-West-India-Docks-nightwatchman speaking. We needs a nurse, or a doctor.’

‘What’s the matter? An accident at the docks?’ asked Chummy.

‘No. Woman ill, or somefink.’

‘A woman? Are you sure?’

‘’Course I’m sure. Think I can’t tell the difference?’

‘No, no. I didn’t mean that. No offence, old chap. But women are not allowed in the Docks.’

‘Well, this one’s ’ere all right. Captain’s wife or somefink, the mate says. Least, that’s what I think he’s tryin’ ’a say, because he can’t speak no English. Just rolls his eyes and groans and rubs ‘is tummy – vat’s why I called ve midwives.’

‘I’ll come. Where do I go to?’

‘Main gate. West India.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Chummy dressed in haste and went out into the night. It was windy. Not cold or raining, but a strong head wind made cycling slow, and it took Chummy nearly twenty minutes to reach West India Dock. The nightwatchman was sitting by the burning brazier next to the gate, which he unlocked.

‘You bin a long time. Bloody wind, I s’ppose. Don’t like ve wind.’

Chummy had never been inside the Dock gates before, and the place seemed eerie and alien in the darkness. The stretch of water in the basin looked vast, as she gazed down it, and the hulks of huge cargo boats loomed over the oily water. On the skyline numerous cranes criss-crossed each other. Some of the boats were dimly lit, but others were completely dark. The night watchman’s coke fire glowed on the quay. The wind caused the water to splash and the rigging to tremble, making hollow moaning sounds.

‘Swedish timber carrier on South Quay. Woman got a belly ache or somefink. Shouldn’t be there, I told the mate, but I reckons as ’ow he never understood.’

Reluctantly he hauled himself up, left his comfortable little hut and tipped some more coke onto the fire.

‘This way,’ he sighed mournfully. ‘Bloody women. Shouldn’t be ’ere, I says. I’ve go’ enough ’a do, wivout all vis.’

They made their way to the South Quay.

‘’ere we are. The Katrina. Yer rope ladder’s there and yer guiders.’

He grabbed a rope, pulled it and shouted. A faint sound was heard about forty feet up. The watchman was thinking of his fire, and his cosy hut, and the sausages and fried bread he was going to cook. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered, ‘no offence to you, nurse.’

A head appeared over the side of the boat.

‘Ya?’

‘The nurse.’

‘Bra. Valkommen. Tack.’

‘Yer’ll ’ave to climb ve rope-ladder. It’s leeward o’ the wind, an’ won’t rock too much. You can climb this, can’t yer?’

Most women would have taken one look at the bulk of the ship towering above, at the slender rope ladder swinging dizzily in the wind, and said ‘No’. But not Chummy.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘Jolly-ho. But I think they will have to haul my bag up separately. I’m not sure I could carry it, and climb the ladder one handed.’

The watchman groaned, but tied the handle of the bag to a rope and shouted to the men above to start hauling. Somehow they understood him, and Chummy watched it swinging upwards.

‘Now for it,’ she said, taking hold of the rope ladder.

‘Ever done this afore?’

‘We had a tree house when we were children, so I suppose you could say I’ve had some practice.’

‘The ’ardest part is when you jumps off, because you’re goin’ to ’it the side of ve boat. But just hold steady and yer’ll be all right. Ven you can start climbing.’

‘Good egg. Thanks for the tip.’

The wind was blowing Chummy’s gabardine raincoat in all directions. It was a heavy garment, and long, as required by nursing uniform standards.

‘This bally thing’s going to be a nuisance.’

She took it off. The nightwatchman looked at her. He was beginning to respect her, and his sausages and fried bread seemed less important.

‘Yer skirts too long. You might catch yer foot in ’em.’

‘Not to worry.’ Chummy pulled her skirt up above her waist, and tucked it into her knickers. ‘No need for false modesty,’ she said cheerily.

She took hold of the ladder again and put a foot on the first rung.

‘Go up a rung, so you pull ve ladder taut. Grab ’old of a rung above head height. Don’t try holdin’ the sides of ve ladder.’

‘Thanks. Any other tips?’

‘No. Just keep yer nerve, an’ keep climbing. Don’t look down or up. Keep a steady climb, and whatever yer do, don’t stop. Jes keep it steady, an’ you’ll be all right.’

Chummy put one foot on a rung. ‘Wizard show. Here we go,’ she said, cheerily, feeling upwards for the next rung. She hauled herself up.

‘Only another fifty to go,’ she called out to the man watching as she reached upwards for another rung.

‘I only ’ope to Christ them Swedes know ’ow to make a rope ladder,’ he muttered to himself, ‘a weak link could be ve death of ’er.’

‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear for the wind,’ she called.

‘Nuffink important. Jes’ keep going, one hand, one foot. Keep it steady, and don’t stop or look down.’

Chummy kept going. The wind was rocking the boat, and every now and then a sudden gust caught Chummy and blew her a few feet to one side. But she kept her nerve. She would have tougher things than this to face when she was a missionary. She remembered Miss Hawkins, a retired missionary and Matron of Queen Charlotte’s, where she had done her early training. Matron Hawkins had taught all her students as though they were going to be up a creek without a paddle. Just keep going, old girl, thought Chummy.

She reached upwards and there was nothing. She groped around with her fingers, but no, nothing. Then she felt the wood of a broken rung swinging loose against her arm. Panic hit her, and she froze, leaning her head against the side of the ship. To be paralysed with fear can mean death, because the muscles are unable to respond. Chummy listened to her heart pounding and knew her breathing to be shallow and irregular. Her whole body was stiff. She sensed her danger. She was a sensible and highly trained nurse and knew that, if she could control her breathing she would begin to regain control of her muscles. She knew the breathing that she had taught others in ante-natal classes would help. Gradually she felt she could move. She brought her foot up to the next rung, which gave her a longer reach, and was able to grab the one above her head with her outstretched hand.

‘That was a close shave,’ she muttered to herself.

The nightwatchman had seen what had happened, and his heart was in his mouth.

‘She’s got guts, vat girl,’ he thought. The men above were commenting in Swedish.

Chummy did not know it, but she had not far to go. She felt exhilarated now. Having successfully negotiated the danger of the missing rung, she felt she could tackle anything, and she even enjoyed the rest of the climb. Suddenly she heard voices close to her ear, and her hand touched the metal bars of the bulwarks. She climbed over the edge and stood flushed and breathless on the deck. For once in her life she was not confused or embarrassed to be surrounded by men, even though she was standing among them in her knickers.

‘Whoops, cover your legs, old girl,’ she said to herself as she let her skirt fall. They all laughed and clapped and cheered.

One of the men handed her the bag then another took her down to a cabin on the middle deck. He knocked and spoke in Swedish. The door opened, and a tall, bearded man appeared. He spoke rapidly to Chummy in Swedish, as though he expected her to understand him. A female voice from within the cabin called out in English, ‘Don’t try to explain, Dad, I can.’

Chummy entered the cabin, which was very small. A hurricane lamp swung from a hook and the atmosphere was suffocatingly hot. The woman, who was lying on a small bunk bed, was positively huge and not only filled the bunk but spilled out over the edge. She was sweating and dry around the mouth. Her eyes looked gratefully at Chummy. ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ she breathed, ‘these men will be the death of me.’

The woman lay back and closed her eyes. Heavy blonde hair fell over the grey pillow. Beads of sweat covered her fat features, her chin was indistinguishable from her neck, which in its turn blended into a vast and pendulous bosom.

A small wooden crate in the cabin obviously served as both stool and table. Chummy sat down and took out her note-book.

‘I’m glad you can speak English, because I need your case history.’

‘My mother was English, my father Swedish. My name is Kirsten Bjorgsen. They call me Kirsty. I am thirty-five.’

‘What is your address?’

‘The Katrina.’

‘No, I mean your permanent address.’

‘The Katrina is my permanent address.’

‘That is not possible. This is a trading vessel. It cannot be your permanent home. In any case, I’m told women are not allowed on the ships.’

Kirsty laughed.

‘Well, you know, what the eye doesn’t see ...’

She laughed again.

‘How long have you lived on the boat?’

‘Since I was fourteen, when my mother died. We had a home in Stockholm, and I went to school there. But when she died my father brought me onto the Katrina. He is the captain.’

‘I was informed that you were the captain’s wife.’

‘Wife? Who told you that? He’s my dad.’

Chummy said no more on the subject, but enquired about the woman’s condition.

‘Well, I have a pain in my belly. It comes and goes.’ Chummy was beginning to put two and two together. ‘When was your last period?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t really take much notice of that.’

‘Can’t you remember at all?’

‘Perhaps a few months. I’m not sure.’

‘I need to examine your stomach.’

Chummy palpated the mountainous abdomen, which was all flesh and fat. It was quite impossible for her to tell whether the woman was pregnant or not. She took up her Pinards foetal stethoscope, but it sank about six inches into the abdomen, the flesh virtually covering it, and all that Chummy could hear was the gurgle and swish of intestinal movements.

The woman groaned – ‘Ooh, you’re hurting me. It’s making the pain come back. Please stop.’

But the pain got worse. Chummy felt the lower abdomen and felt a hard round sphere beneath the flesh. When the pain had passed she said, ‘Kirsty you are in labour. Didn’t you know you were pregnant?’

Kirsty raised herself on her elbow. ‘What?’ she demanded, her eyes round and incredulous.

‘You are not only pregnant. You are in labour. That’s what your stomach pains are.’

‘I can’t be. You’re wrong. I’m always so careful.’

‘I’m not wrong.’

Kirsty lay back on the pillow. ‘Oh no! What’s Dad going to say?’ she murmured.

‘Which of the men on board is your husband?’

‘None of them. And all of them. They are all my boys, and I love them all – well nearly all, anyway.’

Chummy was shocked. Kirsty read her thoughts and laughed a great belly laugh, which set all her flesh rippling.

‘I’m what you call the “ship’s woman”. I keep the boys happy. My dad always says there’s no fighting on a ship when the boys have a nice woman to go to. That’s why he brought me here when mother died.’

Chummy was deeply shocked.

‘You mean to say your father brought you here when you were only fourteen to be ...’ she hesitated, ‘to be the ship’s woman?’

Kirsty nodded.

‘But that is shocking, disgraceful!’ exclaimed Chummy.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course it’s not. After my mother’s death I couldn’t stay in Stockholm by myself, and Dad was always at sea. So he took me with him. He explained what was expected of me. He couldn’t keep me for himself, because that would cause trouble with the crew – so it had to be fair all round.’

Chummy felt she was choking.

‘Your dad explained to you ...?’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Of course. He was always fair, and he still is. But he’s the captain, and he always goes first. The other boys have to wait their turn.’

‘Your dad goes first?’ said Chummy weakly.

‘Well, he is the captain. It’s only right.’

Chummy was thinking about the headmistress of Roedean, and what she would have said about the situation.

Kirsty continued, ‘And I never have two at once. Dad wouldn’t allow that. He has very high standards.’

‘High standards!’ Chummy gasped, and the standards enshrined on the coat of arms at Roedean School flashed through her mind – Honneur aux Dignes, ‘Honour to the Deserving’. But Kirsty was happily babbling on.

‘I love my father, I do. He’s a lovely man. He has, how do you say it, the best bugger’s grips you’ve ever seen.’

‘Bugger’s grips?!’ Chummy felt weak from shock. This was a different world.

‘You know, whiskers on his cheek bones. They’re called bugger’s grips. I like to brush them when he’s relaxed, after he’s done with me. Then he goes to sleep, often. It’s like having a baby in my arms.’

Another contraction came, and Chummy sat with her hand on the lower abdomen until it passed. She could scarcely believe what she had heard and needed a few seconds to adjust. Kirsty chatted on.

‘That’s better. I feel all right now. I thought it was stomach cramps. I was eating green apples yesterday.’

‘No, I assure you. You are in labour and you’re going to have a baby.’

‘But the boys always wear a rubber when they are doing it.’

‘A rubber?’ repeated Chummy enquiringly.

‘You know – French letters, they call them in England, or capotes anglaises, as they say in France. Anyway, the men always wear one. Dad insists, and they wouldn’t disobey the captain. And anyway, I make them put one on, or I put it on. Dad gets a great box of them. Five hundred at a time, when we come to a port. He’s most particular.’

Chummy felt light-headed.

‘Five hundred?’ she murmured and stared aghast at Kirsty.

‘And they are never reused – Dad insists on that – in case one splits, and I wouldn’t know. So you see, I can’t be pregnant. It must have been those green apples.’

Chummy couldn’t reply to that, but was murmuring, ‘Five hundred! How long does a box last you?’

‘Oh, a few weeks. Dad would never let me run out. If it’s a long voyage, he’ll buy in two or three boxes. We always need them.’

‘Always?’

‘Well, the boys need me, and I’m always here for them. I’m the most important member of the crew, Dad tells me, because I keep the men happy, and happy men work hard. And that’s what every captain needs – a hardworking crew.’

Chummy swallowed. She had entered a different world of morality and did not know how to respond. Kirsty must have read her thoughts because she patted her hand kindly.

‘There now. Don’t worry. You’re only a young girl, and I can see you come from a different class. But it’s all quite natural, and I’ve had a good life. I’ve travelled the world. Sometimes they can smuggle me ashore and I can have a look round the shops. I like that. I can buy a few pretty things, because Dad gives me money.

‘Don’t you do anything else – the cooking, or sewing, or something?’

‘Oh no.’ Kirsty squawked with laughter and slapped Chummy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you think I have enough to do with a crew of twenty? Sometimes it’s one after another for hours on end. Do you think I could work after that? In any case, we have a ship’s cook. He is the one who gave me those green apples yesterday. Oh ...’

She doubled up with pain. Chummy felt the uterus; it was harder and more prominent. She had timed ten minutes since the last contraction. Labour was progressing.

Chummy had other things to worry about than Kirsty’s position on the boat. She was alone, in the middle of the night, on board a ship with no telephone and with a woman in labour. Furthermore the woman was a primigravida of thirty-five, who had had no antenatal care. She should go to hospital at once. But how? In the unlikely event of an ambulance arriving, the woman would be in no condition to climb down the rope ladder! If a doctor was called, would he climb up the rope ladder? Chummy remembered her climb, and the missing rung, and knew that she could not expect anyone else to do it. She was alone, and a cold hand gripped her heart. But in the same instant a voice whispered to her that she was going to be a missionary, and that this was just God’s way of testing her. She prayed.

The contraction passed, and a new, strengthened Chummy spoke.

‘You must stop all this nonsense about green apples. You are in labour, and your baby will be born within the next hour or two. I have to examine you vaginally, and I must have clean cotton sheets, cotton wool and something to act as absorbent pads, a cot to put the baby in, and hot water and soap. Now, where can I get all these things?’

Kirsty looked dumbfounded.

‘You must call my father,’ she said.

Chummy opened the door and called, ‘Hi there!’

The big, bearded man entered, and Kirsty explained. He let out an oath and looked savagely at Chummy, as though it were her fault. But Chummy was taller than him and looked down on him with new-found confidence. The captain turned to go, but Chummy stopped him with a light touch on the arm. She said to Kirsty, ‘Would you also tell your father that this cabin is quite unsuitable for the delivery of a baby, and that I will need somewhere better.’

Kirsty translated. The captain no longer looked savage. He looked at Chummy with respect. Then his whole expression changed, and his eyes filled with anguish. He kneeled down beside his daughter, took her huge body in his arms and rubbed his beard into the folds of her neck. He stood up with tears in his eyes and fled from the cabin.

Two more contractions came and went. They are getting stronger and more regular, thought Chummy. I hope the crew can get something sorted out quickly, because I need to move her, and she has to be able to walk.

The captain returned and said that the best cabin was ready. Kirsty sat up and heaved her great bulk off the bunk. With enormous difficulty she squeezed herself through the narrow doorway and along the gangways. Several men looked out of their cabins and patted her arms or shoulders. One man gave her a crucifix. They all looked anxious. The ship’s woman was not only well used, she was well thought of.

The captain led them to a much larger cabin that was more appropriate in every way. Kirsty gave a cry when she saw it and embraced her father. He kissed her and turned to leave, but first he saluted Chummy in military fashion and bowed to her.

When the door closed, Kirsty said, ‘This is the captain’s cabin. He’s so good to me, I tell you. What other captain would give up his cabin?’

‘Well, under the circumstances, and considering he might be the father of the baby, I think it’s the least he could do,’ retorted Chummy dryly.

The captain’s desk and all other naval paraphernalia had been pushed to one side. A large folding bed had been placed in the middle of the cabin, covered with clean blankets and linen. Kirsty looked at it and said, ‘I didn’t know they had these nice things on board.’ A bowl was standing on a small table with jugs of hot water beside it, and soap and clean towels.

Another contraction came, and Kirsty grabbed the edge of the desk and leaned over it. She was panting and sweating. When it passed, she grinned and said, ‘You must be right, nurse; this is more than green apples.’ She went over to the bed to lie down.

‘I still don’t know how it happened. I’m so careful. Do you think one of the boys didn’t put his rubber on, but told me he had?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t any experience in your line of business,’ said Chummy truthfully, and they both laughed. A bond of female friendship and understanding was developing between them.

Kirsty said, ‘You are nice. I’d like you to be my friend. I haven’t had any girl friends since I left school, and I miss them. It’s men, men, all the time. I never have the chance to talk to another woman. When I go ashore, which isn’t very often, I look at the other women in the streets and think, “I’d like to talk to you and see how you live.” But then it’s back to the ship and off to sea again.’

‘Do the lads ever talk to you?’ asked Chummy, who was beginning to sense loneliness.

‘Oh yes, some of them tell me all their troubles, they tell me about their wives and girl friends, and some tell me about their children. It’s nice to hear about their children – it makes me feel part of the family.’

Secretly Chummy wondered if the compliment would be returned, but Kirsty was still speaking. ‘But I must say most of them just want to be quick and have done with it. I don’t mind, if that’s what they want, but it’s tiring, especially if I get ten or twelve who’ve only got half an hour before the next shift.’ She puffed at the memory. ‘You need some strength in my job, I can tell you. These men will be the death of me. Oooh, no, not again!’ She threw her body back in pain and cursed in Swedish.

Chummy watched her carefully and made a note that contractions were now coming every seven minutes and lasting for approximately sixty seconds. She could feel the uterus firmly just above the pubic bone, but nothing higher, because abdominal fat occluded it. She longed to be able to hear the foetal heart and reassure herself that the baby was healthy, but it was impossible. She was going to make a vaginal examination. Perhaps that would reveal something. Suddenly she remembered the obligatory enema – that monstrous practice, sacred to midwifery – and abruptly forgot the idea. How absurd on a ship, and surrounded by men! She wrote in her notes: ‘Enema not given’.

The pain passed, Kirsty relaxed with a sigh, and Chummy gave her a drink of water.

‘I’ve got to examine you internally,’ she said. ‘That means I have to put my fingers into your vagina to assess where the baby is lying, and how close to birth it is. Will you allow me to do that?’

‘Well, I’m used to that sort of thing, aren’t I? But not for the same reasons!’

Chummy placed her delivery bag on the captain’s desk and opened it. She scrubbed up and extracted a sterile gown, mask and surgical gloves and put them on. While she was doing so, it occurred to her that Kirsty had probably contracted syphilis during her career. Chummy had no practical experience of venereal disease, but from her classroom work she remembered that syphilis can usually be diagnosed by the hard, rubbery chancre on the vulva, whilst gonorrhoea is manifested by profuse greenish-yellow vaginal discharge. She recalled the midwifery tutor saying that a syphilitic woman very seldom carries to full term, because the foetus usually dies within the first sixteen weeks. She also remembered the next part of the lecture: that in the event of the baby going to full term, it was likely to be stillborn and was frequently macerated. Chummy felt queasy at such an idea. A macerated stillbirth could leave a midwife feeling sick and depressed for days, or even weeks – let alone the effect it had on a mother.

Chummy quickly put the thought from her. Another contraction was coming. She timed it to be seven minutes since the last one. Full dilation of the cervix was getting closer, and as she had been unable to assess the lie of the baby from external palpation, a vaginal assessment was imperative. When the contraction had passed, she said ‘Now I want you to draw your knees up, put your heels together and then let your legs fall apart.’

Kirsty did this with great agility. Her lower limbs were surprisingly flexible. Her massive thighs not only flew apart, but her knees touched the bed on either side, revealing a vast, moist purple-red vulva. Chummy was a bit taken aback at the speed and efficiency with which the exercise was undertaken, and Kirsty must have seen her expression because she laughed. ‘You seem to forget I do this all the time,’ she said.

Chummy examined the external vulva carefully. She could neither see nor feel syphilitic chancre, nor was there any evidence of a foul-smelling and profuse vaginal discharge. Against all the odds, it seemed that Kirsty did not have venereal disease. It must have been her father’s gifts of boxes of 500 rubbers at frequent intervals that had protected her. ‘Bully for the captain!’ thought Chummy.

Chummy did as every good midwife would do. She prepared to place two fingers gently in the vagina, but without the slightest effort her whole hand slid in. ‘Great Scott! You could get a vegetable marrow in here,’ she thought.

With easy access she could feel the cervix. It was three-quarters dilated, a head presenting, fairly well down, waters intact. She breathed a sigh of relief that the baby was lying in a good position for a normal delivery.

Then she felt something very strange. At first she thought it was part of the soft, undulating vaginal wall. She moved it with her fingers. It was not part of the vaginal wall. ‘What on earth is it?’ she wondered. It was attached above, and seemed to be hanging freely beside the baby’s head. She palpated it with her fingers, and it moved a little. Chummy was feeling this strange thing and moving it about with her fingers, when she realized with horror that it was pulsating. She froze, and blind panic overtook her for the second time that night. She looked at her watch and saw that the thing was pulsating at 120 beats per minute. The pulsation was the baby’s heartbeat. The cord had prolapsed.

Chummy said afterwards that in all her professional career she had never known a moment of such terror. She went shivery all over but could feel the sweat pouring out of her body. She withdrew her hand, and it was trembling. Then her whole body began to tremble. ‘What can I do? What should I do? Oh please, God, help me!’ She nearly sobbed aloud but controlled herself.

‘Everything all right?’ enquired Kirsty cheerfully.

‘Oh, yes, quite all right.’

Chummy’s voice sounded far away and faint. She was thinking back to her midwifery lectures: ‘In the event of prolapse of the cord, an emergency Caesarean section is necessary.’ She looked around the cabin, with the hurricane lamp swinging from the beam; at the portholes, black against the night sky; at the jugs of hot water and towels so thoughtfully provided; at her equipment laid out on the captain’s desk, adequate for a normal birth, but no more. The ship moved in the wind, and she remembered her isolation and the impossibility of getting help. She trembled at her own inexperience and thought, ‘This baby will die.’

Yet something else was stirring in her mind. The lecturer had not ended with ‘a Caesarean section is necessary’, but had continued. What else had the lecturer been saying? The pulsating cord, and the knowledge that a living baby depended on her for life, forced Chummy’s mind back to the classroom. ‘Raise the pelvis by instructing the mother to adopt the genu-pectoral position and sedate the mother. If the amniotic sac is unbroken it is sometimes possible to push the baby’s head back a little and move the cord out of the way.’

Good midwifery is a combination of art, science, experience and instinct. It used to be said that it took seven years of practice to make a good midwife. Chummy had everything but experience. She possessed intuition and instinct in abundance. The amniotic sac was not yet broken. There might still be time to attempt the replacement of the cord. She must have a go. She could not sit and do nothing, knowing that the cord would be crushed as labour progressed, and that the baby would die.

‘Raise the pelvis’, the lecturer had said. Chummy looked at the massive thighs and buttocks of Kirsty, who probably weighed about thirty-five stone. A crane would be needed to raise her pelvis. The genu-pectoral position would be possible in a smaller woman, but Kirsty could no more roll over onto her front than a beached whale could. But only raising the pelvis would take pressure off the cord, and Chummy was resourceful. She remembered that a folding bed had been provided. If she folded up the legs at the head of the bed, but left the foot end standing, perhaps her patient could lie with her head and shoulders on the floor and her buttocks resting on the higher end of the bed. It was worth a try.

She explained what she wanted to Kirsty. She did not say anything about the cord or the gravity of the situation, because there was no point in alarming her unnecessarily. She merely explained about the bed, as though it was the usual way to deliver a baby.

With great difficulty Kirsty got to her feet, and Chummy crawled under the bed to collapse the legs so that the head dropped to the floor. That was easy; the difficult part would be getting Kirsty back onto it in the required position. The problem was solved by Kirsty. She calmly went to the raised end of the bed, sat on it, leaned backwards, then rolled her back down the bed. ‘I do this all the time,’ she said, splaying her legs apart.

Pressure would now be off the cord, Chummy thought with satisfaction – gravity would pull the baby back into the uterus, allowing a little extra space for the cord. But the advantage would not last for long, because the inexorable process of uterine contractions would push the baby forward. Time was short, and running out. Contractions were already coming every six minutes.

Chummy weighed in her mind whether or not to give pethidine to sedate her patient. It would relax her and might help when it came to replacing the cord. But on the other hand it would also sedate the foetus, and delivery was imminent. She decided against sedation. Kirsty seemed relaxed enough and would just have to bear the pain. The life and health of the baby were Chummy’s main concern, and pethidine in its bloodstream would be an additional hazard.

A contraction was coming, and Kirsty groaned with pain. She threw her head around and tried to move her legs up to her body. ‘Whatever happens, don’t roll out of that position, Kirsty. It’s perfect,’ said Chummy.

‘I must try to replace the cord before the next contraction,’ she thought. The time between each would soon be only five minutes. The contraction passed, and Chummy said a quiet prayer for what she was about to do. She had never seen it done before and had received only one lecture on the subject, but it had to be enough, and with God’s help it would be.

‘I’m going to push you around a bit, Kirsty. Hook your knees over the edge of the bed, and hold on, so that you don’t slip backwards with the pressure.’

Chummy slipped her gloved hand into the vagina. There was no perineal resistance, something she knew she could be thankful for. She felt the partly dilated cervix again, the forewaters protruding and the pulsation of the cord within. With her forefingers she felt around the baby’s head – there must be no pressure on the fontanelle, she thought, because that could kill the baby at once. Her fingers were placed ready to push when the ship moved, causing them to slip. She had to find the correct position a second time. When she thought her fingers were rightly placed she pushed hard, but the head did not move. She felt the sweat running down her face and neck. ‘It’s got to,’ she thought, ‘it’s got to go back.’ So she pushed again. This time the head retreated slightly but not enough for the cord to be replaced behind it.

After the second unsuccessful attempt Chummy paused, trembling.

‘Pressure, that is the only thing I’ve got to help me, massive pressure, and God be with me that I do no harm.’

Shaking all over, she leaned her head on the soft cushion of Kirsty’s enormous thigh, trying to think clearly. The wind groaned outside, and the ship moved in sympathy. Her fingers slipped, and she withdrew her hand. If the amniotic sac broke, that would be the end: nothing could save the baby. Only the fact that the cord was still floating freely in the amniotic fluid made replacement a possibility.

Another contraction came. ‘Five or six minutes can’t have passed,’ she thought. ‘I can’t have spent all that time achieving nothing.’ She looked at her watch – it had been five minutes. Contractions were getting closer, and time was rapidly running out.

She saw the uterus heave with the muscular pressure of the contraction, and a plan formed in her mind. Looking at the uterus, her instinct told her that, if she applied reverse pressure externally, and internal pressure on the baby’s head, she might be able to move it sufficiently to replace the cord. It was not a procedure that had been taught in the classroom, but something told her that it might work. With only five minutes, perhaps four, before the next contraction, she had to be successful, or the baby would surely die. The ship lurched as a great gust of wind hit the side, and Chummy prayed for calm during the next few minutes.

When the contraction passed Chummy said, ‘Kirsty, I want you to listen carefully. Grip your knees over the edge of the bed again, and hold on. Just concentrate on holding your body still, because I am going to push hard, and you must not allow me to push you downwards.’

‘I’ll do my best, nurse. I have to be strong in my job. I don’t suppose you can push any harder than a fifteen-stone first mate. I’ll be all right.’

Chummy took her at her word. She inverted her left hand over the upturned uterus, just above the pubic bone. Being able to insert her whole hand into the vagina was a huge advantage. She cupped the palm of her right hand over the baby’s head, stood up and took a deep breath.

‘Hold on, Kirsty, don’t let yourself slip. I’m going to push – now.’

Chummy was tall and strong. She exerted massive downward pressure internally and externally. The baby shifted two or three inches from her internal hand, but still she kept up the external pressure on the uterus. When she felt it was enough, she relaxed.

‘That was hard! I don’t know if I’ve had it harder than that. But I didn’t move, did I?’ said Kirsty.

Chummy did not reply. Her job was not done. She still had to replace the cord into the uterus. She felt for the cord, but it was not there. She stretched her finger inside the os and ran it around the rim, but could feel only the smooth, round surface of the baby’s head. The cord had disappeared. Internal fluid suction, caused by shifting the baby, must have withdrawn the slippery cord without any further action being required from the midwife.

Chummy felt giddy with relief and leaned her head on Kirsty’s capacious thigh. She giggled weakly.

‘It’s done, it’s done, thanks be to God! And thanks to you, Kirsty. You didn’t move. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘All in a day’s work,’ observed Kirsty casually.

The whole operation had taken only about thirty seconds. But Chummy sat trembling with relief for another two or three minutes, until her more practical side took over. Now that the baby was safe, how was it to be delivered? All sorts of questions tumbled into her mind. Kirsty looked quite comfortable, but could a baby be delivered in an upside-down position? She wondered what the midwifery tutors would say about that! On the other hand, moving this massive female might be a problem. Kirsty had rolled down the slope of the bed, but would she be able to roll up? The third stage of labour, the delivery of the placenta, was vitally important, and Chummy was not confident about the mother expelling a placenta upside-down. Kirsty would have to be moved. Then the cord came into her mind. Reverse pressure had made it withdraw into the uterus, but if Kirsty stood up, as she would have to, would the downward pressure displace the cord and make it slip forward again? Chummy could not be sure, but it might. The risk was too great. Kirsty would have to remain in her present position.

Chummy sat beside the labouring woman, listening to the wind and feeling the ship move beneath her. She was not really surprised by the extraordinary situation in which she found herself; after all she was going to be a missionary and she would have to be prepared for anything. She was a thoughtful, prayerful girl, and she thanked God she was being tested in this way.

She pondered the ugly situation in which Kirsty had been placed. First abused, probably raped, when she was fourteen by her father, and then confined to a ship for the pleasure of all the men, including her father. Yet, Chummy reflected, she seemed happy and content. Perhaps, as she had known no other life, it all seemed quite natural to her. The men were obviously fond of her – their concern as she struggled down the gangway was evident – and she was not ill-treated. Common prostitutes, pushed onto the streets by pimps and beaten up if they protested, had a much worse life, she thought.

Another contraction came, and the waters broke. Thank God I was able to replace the cord, she thought; it was only just in time. Labour was progressing fast, and Kirsty was wonderful. She had had no sedation but had barely murmured at the pain. Chummy could feel the head well down on the pelvic floor. ‘It won’t be long now,’ she said aloud.

Kirsty groaned and pushed. When the contraction had passed she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about this baby. I’m so glad now. I never thought I’d have one, because Dad always gave me the boxes of rubbers and said the boys must always wear them. So they did. But now I’m having a baby. And I’m glad.’

‘I’m sure you are. A woman may not want a baby, but she’s always happy when it comes,’ said Chummy.

‘I hope it’s a little girl. I’d like a little girl. I have enough men. But I don’t want her to have my life. It wouldn’t be right for a young girl. I think Dad will understand if I talk to him. What’s your name, nurse?’

‘Camilla,’ said Chummy.

‘Oh, what a beautiful name. I want to give her your name, nurse, may I?’

‘Of course. I should be honoured.’

‘Baby Camilla. That’s a lovely name.’

Another contraction came, only two minutes after the last, fiercer and longer. Kirsty had no vaginal or perineal resistance, so the head was able to descend quickly and easily. She gripped her hands until the knuckles showed white and pushed hard, forcing the weight of her buttocks against the end of the bed. In protest, the bed trembled and collapsed with a crash onto the floor.

The problem of an upside-down delivery had been solved! Mother and midwife were now on the floor, Kirsty floundering and pushing, Chummy desperately trying to control the situation.

Poor Kirsty was bewildered. ‘What happened?’ she kept asking. Chummy, who had narrowly missed having her hands crushed, tried to calm her.

‘The bed broke, but the baby is all right, and if you are not hurt, no harm has been done. In fact it’s a good thing, because delivery of your baby will be easier.’

Chummy’s concern now was that the baby’s head might be born too quickly. The slow and steady delivery of the head is what every midwife hopes for, but with no perineal resistance, this baby could well shoot out with the next contraction.

Another contraction came, and Kirsty raised her knees and braced herself to push, but Chummy stopped her. ‘Don’t push, Kirsty, don’t push. I know you want to and feel you must, but don’t. Your baby’s head will be born with this contraction, but I want it to come slowly. The slower the better. Concentrate on not pushing. Take little breaths, in-out, in-out, think about breathing, think about relaxing, but don’t push.’ All the time she was saying these words Chummy was holding the head, trying to prevent it from bursting out of the mother at speed. The contraction was waning, Chummy eased the slack perineum around the presenting crown, and the head was born.

Chummy breathed a sigh of relief. She had been concentrating so hard that she had not noticed the cramp in her legs as she squatted on the deck of the cabin; had not noticed the poor light cast by the hurricane lamp as it swung from a beam; had not noticed the movement of the ship, nor the occasional lurch as the wind hit it. All that she knew was that the miracle of a baby’s birth would shortly take place, that the safe delivery was in her hands, and that the head had been born. Chummy kept her hand under the baby’s face in order to lift it away from the hard floor and waited. Another contraction was coming. Chummy felt the face she was holding move.

‘It’s coming, Kirsty. You can push now. Hard.’

Kirsty drew her legs upwards and pushed. Chummy eased the shoulder out and downwards. The other shoulder and arm quickly followed, and the whole body slid out effortlessly.

‘You have a little girl, Kirsty.’

Emotion flooded over Kirsty with such intensity that she could not speak. Tears took the place of words. ‘Let me have her. Can I see her?’ she spluttered, still floundering with her head on the deck, unable to lift her shoulders. Chummy said ‘I am going to lay her on your tummy while I cut the cord, then you can hold her in your arms.’

The baby sank into the soft cushion of her mother’s stomach. She was slightly blue around the mouth and extremities, but otherwise she seemed to have suffered no harm from the drama of labour. Chummy severed the cord and then held the baby upside down by the heels. Kirsty gasped and held up her hands protectively.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop her,’ said the midwife, ‘this is done in order to drain the mucus out of the throat, and to help breathing.’

Then she gave a short, sharp pat to the back of the baby, who at once gave a shrill yell. ‘That’s what I like to hear, let’s have another one.’ The baby obliged, crying lustily, and from outside the door a chorus of men’s voices were heard cheering, shouting, whooping and whistling. They started to sing, in a united and raucous male voice. Kirsty called out to them in Swedish, but they were making so much noise they could not hear her. The captain’s daughter was obviously very popular, and the men responded in their own way. ‘I expect they will all get drunk now,’ she said dryly.

Chummy wrapped the baby in a towel and placed her in the arms of her mother, who was weeping with joy. ‘Are you all right on the floor like that?’ Chummy enquired with concern.

‘I’ve never been better in my life,’ answered Kirsty. ‘I would like to stay here for ever, cuddling my baby.’ She gave a sigh of contentment.

Chummy now had to deal with the third stage of labour. In retrospect she would say that it was not the most comfortable third stage she had conducted, sprawled as she was across the floor, but at least it was uneventful.

Chummy washed Kirsty and cleared up the mess as best she could under the circumstances. The problem of how to get Kirsty up off the floor was her next concern. The mother obviously couldn’t care less. She was cuddling, and cooing, and whispering sweet nothings to her baby. Calling the captain was Chummy’s only option, but Kirsty was stark naked. Chummy’s modesty shrank from the thought of exposing her patient, naked, to a crowd of men, until she remembered Kirsty’s profession. She explained to Kirsty that help was needed and opened the door.

A dozen or more bearded faces appeared at the door, all peering in. At once they started cheering and clapping again. Chummy beckoned to the captain, who strode in, shutting the door behind him. She indicated what was necessary, and he nodded. She took the baby from her mother and retired to a stool in the corner.

The captain was a big man, and strong, but for sheer body weight his daughter could easily have doubled him. He took both of her hands and pulled – the bulk shifted a few inches. He stood astride her body and pulled again; no result. He went to the door, shouted, ‘Olaf, Bjorg!’ and two massive men entered. He explained, and they nodded. He took her hands again, and one man stood behind each shoulder. As the captain pulled each man heaved until Kirsty was sitting upright. They gave a cheer. This is obscene, Chummy thought, I can’t bear to look at that poor woman sitting there with her huge breasts swinging on the floor, and these men cheering. They were obviously debating how to get Kirsty onto a chair. The debate was long and contentious; each man had his own ideas. A chair was solemnly brought forward and placed behind the woman. The three men grabbed her torso and heaved once more. ‘That’s not the way to do it,’ thought Chummy, who had been taught how to lift a heavy patient, ‘you’ll never get her up like that.’ They didn’t. After another debate, they tried again, the two men locking their arms under Kirsty’s armpits, and the captain ready with the chair. ‘That’s more like it,’ thought Chummy.

I have said that Chummy had cleared up the mess as best she could under the circumstances. But resources were minimal, and the deck of the cabin was still slippery in patches.

The two men lifting Kirsty nodded to each other, took a deep breath and heaved. Her bottom lifted about six inches from the deck. Olaf, on her left, moved his foot and trod on a slippery patch. He hurtled forward across Kirsty’s body and Bjorg was thrown backwards. In his fall he flung his arm upwards and hit the hurricane lamp with such force that it shattered, plunging the cabin into darkness.

In the meantime Kirsty had acted. A desperate mother can do anything in defence of her child. As the lamp shattered she screamed, ‘My baby,’ pushed Olaf, who was lying sprawled over her, to one side, scrambled to her feet, and ran over to the corner where Chummy was sitting. She took the baby, enfolding her protectively to her bosom. When another hurricane lamp was brought in she could be seen by all the men sitting quietly on a chair, rocking her baby, with a sheet modestly draped around her.

When the cabin was cleared of men, Chummy set about making it into a suitable lying-in room for mother and baby. The bed was not broken, the legs had merely folded in on themselves so she fixed it up again for Kirsty. But there was no clean linen left after delivery, and her patient had no nightie. There was no cot for the baby, no means of bathing her, and no clothes for her. She explained her needs to Kirsty, who was not really listening, so she went to the door, opened it, and shouted, ‘Olaf!’ The biggest of the bruisers entered and stood to attention, looking ill at ease.

‘Tell him I need more clean linen, two more pillows, some nightdresses and a dressing gown for you. Also I need some more hot water and more clean towels for me to bath the baby; a box or basket which I can make into a cot, and some soft linen or cloth that I can tear up and make into cot blankets.’ She considered there was no point in asking for baby clothes.

Kirsty translated, and Olaf looked mesmerised. She repeated the instructions two or three times, and Chummy could see him desperately trying to activate his brain and memorise the list, which he was counting off on his fingers. He left the cabin, and Chummy set about clearing things up a little more and packing her delivery bag. She was beginning to feel tired. The drama of the night had kept the adrenalin pumping through her body, but now that all danger for mother and baby had passed, her limbs felt heavy and slow.

Olaf reappeared with an armful of stuff, and a second man brought in a jug of hot water. Chummy was able to bath the baby, with Kirsty eagerly watching and commenting at every stage. A basket, which smelled of fish, had been provided, and this Chummy transformed into a crib. She made up the bed with clean linen – but still there was no nightie. Chummy could not allow her patient to remain naked, so summoned Olaf again.

Kirsty explained what was wanted, and the man turned bright red. How very extraordinary, thought Chummy, that this man, who has regularly been having intercourse with this woman, should be embarrassed to have to fetch her a nightie!

He went away and came back with a bag full of women’s clothing which he handed to Chummy without looking at her.

Breastfeeding was the next thing for Chummy to think about. One really wants to establish breastfeeding immediately after delivery and ensure that the colostrum is flowing and that the mother has, at least, a vague idea of what she should do. Kirsty’s breasts were so huge that they rested on the bed on either side of her. The baby could easily be suffocated by these mammoth mammaries, Chummy thought, as she expressed some colostrum. She tried the baby at the breast, and the child, surprisingly, opened her mouth, latched on and sucked vigorously a few times. Kirsty was in an ecstasy of delight. Flushed, with sparkling eyes and radiant features, she looked quite different. She must have been a pretty young girl, thought Chummy, before she became the inert, sexually active queen bee in this hive of males.

By now, Chummy was so tired that she could scarcely stand. She sat down on a chair beside Kirsty, who was examining the baby’s fingers and toes.

‘Look. She has little fingernails. Aren’t they sweet? Like little shells. And I think she’s going to have dark hair – her eyelashes are dark, have you noticed?’ Kirsty looked up. ‘Are you all right, nurse? You don’t look too good.’

Chummy muttered, ‘I’ll be all right. Do you think someone might bring us a cup of tea? You could do with a cup also.’

Kirsty called out, and Olaf entered. She gave her instructions, and five minutes later he reappeared carrying a tray laden with good food and fresh coffee. He placed it on the captain’s desk and then, rather sheepishly, took a quick look at the baby and sidled out.

‘Did you see that?’ said Kirsty incredulously. ‘They’re treating me like a lady.’

Chummy poured the coffee. The caffeine perked her up a bit, and she began to feel stronger. She knew that she would need to, because one more task faced her. She had to get down the rope ladder. She had another cup of coffee and a sweet pastry, which gave her some energy. She left, telling Kirsty that she would return later in the morning.

Up on deck the dawn was breaking. The wind had dropped, and thin shafts of red-gold sunlight filtered through the grey clouds. Seagulls were swooping and squawking. The docks looked beautiful in the half light, and the fresh, cold air stung her cheeks. One of the men was carrying her bag, and they all clustered around, cheering and clapping. Chummy walked to the side and looked over the edge. It looked a long, long way down, and the rope ladder looked flimsy. If I can do it once, I can do it again, she said to herself, putting her foot on the rail. Then she remembered her skirt, and the danger it presented. So without any inhibition – she who was chronically inhibited in the presence of men – she pulled it up, tucked it into her knickers and climbed over the side. Her main anxiety was the missing rung, but she knew roughly where it was, and was prepared for the gap. When it came it was not as hard to negotiate as she had expected, and with a sigh of relief she continued to the quayside. One of the men tied her bag to a rope and let it down for her. She untied it, released her skirt, waved to the men above, and set out for the dock gates, her body tired, but her whole being exhilarated with the joy of having successfully delivered a healthy baby to an eager and loving mother.

The nightwatchman was preparing to go home for the day. He collected his supper box, put away his frying pan, doused his fire and was sorting out the key to lock his hut, when two policemen approached the dock gates.

‘Morning, nightwatch. Fair morning after the storm.’

The watchman turned. His fingers were stiff, and he was fumbling with the key, unable to find the keyhole.

‘Dratted key,’ he muttered. ‘Fair morning? Fair enough. Don’t like the wind.’

‘Quiet night for you?’

‘Quiet enough. Would ’ave been quiet, ’cept for bloody women gettin’ in the way.’

‘Women?’

‘Yes, women. Shouldn’t be ’ere, I say.’

The policemen looked at each other. They knew that the Port of London Authority was very strict on women entering the docks, especially since the previous year when a prostitute had slipped in the dark from a gangplank and drowned.

‘Which vessel?’ The policeman took out his notebook and pencil.

‘The Katrina. Swedish timber merchant.’

‘Did you see the women?’

‘Saw one of ’em. A nurse. Her bicycle’s over there. Don’t know what to do wiv it. An’ ’er coat an’ all. Don’t know what to do wiv it, neither.’

‘A nurse?’

‘Yes. Woman ill on the Katrina, so I calls ve Sisters, and a nurse comes.’

‘You had better tell us what happened.’

‘About eleven thirty. A deck hand, ’e comes to me, saying, “Woman, woman,” rollin’ his eyes an’ rubbin’ ’is stomach, an’ groanin’. So I calls a doctor, but ’e’s out, so I calls ve Sisters, an’ a big lanky nurse comes, an’ I takes her to the Katrina, South Quay. Right plucky girl, she was. Climbs up ve rope ladder an’ all.’

‘What! A nurse climbed the ship’s ladder in that wind?’

‘I’m tellin’ yer. Big plucky girl. Climbed up, she did. And a rung was missing near the top, an’ all. I saw it wiv me own eyes, I did.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I’m bleedin’ sure. Think I’m bloody daft?’ The nightwatchman was offended.

‘No, of course not. What happened next?’

‘Search me. She climbed on board, an’ she’s still there, for all I knows. Leastways she hasn’t collected ’er bike, nor ’er coat, neiver.’

The two policemen conferred. This was a matter for the Port of London Police. The Metropolitan had no authority inside the ports. But was it true? Nightwatchmen, due perhaps to their solitary calling in the darkest hours, were known to fantasise.

The man was fumbling with his key again. He turned and glanced down the quay. ‘There she is. That’s ’er. Told yer, didn’t I? Big lanky girl.’

The two policemen saw a female figure wandering towards them. Her footsteps were uncertain, and she staggered rather than walked. The ordeal of climbing down the rope ladder had taken the last reserve of Chummy’s strength. One of the policemen stepped forward to meet her and took her arm. She leaned on him heavily, murmuring, ‘Thank you.’ He said, ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’ She looked at him vaguely.

‘I’m not sure. Have we?’

He smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

She walked towards her bike. He said, ‘I don’t wish to be rude, nurse, but are you fit to ride a bike?’

She looked round and slowly gathered her thoughts.

‘I’ll be all right. I must admit I feel a bit queer, but I’ll be all right.’

The bike was a big, heavy Raleigh, iron framed and ancient.

She took hold of the handlebars, but it felt so heavy she could barely move it. The policeman said ‘Nurse, I really do not think you should ride that cycle, especially down the East India Dock Road just as the ports are opening and the lorries are coming in. In fact, in the name of the Law, I am telling you not to ride it. I am going to call a taxi.’

‘What about my bike?’ she protested. ‘It can’t stay here.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I will ride it back for you. You are going to Nonnatus House, I think. I know where it is.’

In the snug comfort of a London taxi Chummy fell sound asleep. She was confused and barely articulate on waking, so the driver had to help her out and then rang the bell for her. The Sisters were just leaving the chapel when it sounded. Novice Ruth opened the door to see a cab driver supporting Chummy and holding her bag. Her first reaction was to think that the nurse was drunk. ‘Sit down here,’ she said to Chummy. ‘I’ll fetch Sister Julienne.’

Sister Julienne came quickly, paid the cab driver and turned her attention to Chummy, who seemed unable to move.

‘What is the matter, my dear?’ She did not smell of drink. ‘What has happened to you?’ Perhaps she had been beaten up.

Chummy mumbled, ‘I’m all right. Just feel a bit funny, that’s all. Don’t worry about me.’

‘But what happened?’

‘A baby.’

‘But we deliver babies all the time. What else happened?’

‘On a ship.’

‘A ship! Where?’

‘In the docks.’

‘But we never go into the docks.’

‘I did. I had to.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The baby was born there.’

‘You mean that a baby was born on a merchant vessel?’

‘Yes.’

‘How extraordinary,’ exclaimed Sister Julienne. ‘This requires further investigation. Do you know the name of the ship?’

‘Yes. The Katrina.’

‘I think you had better go to bed, nurse. You don’t look yourself. Someone else can clean and sterilise your equipment. I must take your record of the delivery and look into this.’

Chummy was helped upstairs to her room, and Sister Julienne took the midwife’s record to her office to study. She could scarcely believe what she read. She rang the doctor, and they agreed that they must examine the mother and baby on board the ship, and have them transferred to a maternity hospital for proper post-natal care.

They met at ten a.m. at the gates of the West India Docks. Sister looked very small and out of place. She explained to the porter that they must go aboard the Katrina, where a baby had been born during the night. He looked at her as though she were mad, but said that he would inform the Harbour Master.

A short time elapsed, and the Harbour Master arrived with the docking book in his hand. A berth had been reserved for the Katrina for three more days, but she had pulled anchor and sailed at eight a.m.

Sister was horrified. ‘But they can’t do that. There is a mother and baby on board, just delivered. They will need medical attention. It’s the height of irresponsibility. That poor woman.’

The Harbour Master gave her a very dubious look, and simply said, ‘Women are not permitted in the docks. Now, excuse me, but I must ask you to leave.’

Sister would probably have said more, but the doctor led her away.

‘There is nothing you can do, Sister. They have gone, and if the captain has done a runner, frankly, I am not surprised. A ship’s woman, as they are called, contravenes all international shipping laws. If a mother and baby were found on board the captain would be arrested. He would certainly be dismissed from service, he would be heavily fined and might have to face a prison sentence. It is no surprise that he left port three days ahead of schedule. By now the Katrina will be well out in the English Channel.’