The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives (14 page)

State of Health and amount of sick leave: ‘Apparently healthy. No such leave during above course.’


Temper and Disposition: ‘A very pleasing personality. Equable temperament.’


Reliability: ‘Always reliable and punctual.’


Manner and appearance: ‘An attractive girl. Always well “groomed”.’


Intelligence and Education: ‘An intelligent girl. Grammar School Education. Written work and record keeping well above average standard.’


General remarks: ‘This girl was a most satisfactory student whilst undergoing the above mentioned training. She was extremely interested in her work and her nurse–patient relationship was excellent.’

I remember asking my mum what the word ‘equable’ meant after I first heard Mrs Ingham use it when I went to St Mary’s to ask for her opinion on my career.

‘It means you are level-headed and not easily disturbed,’ Mum told me.

We were out shopping for my wedding dress, and were walking though to the plush bridal department at Marshall & Snelgrove in Manchester.

‘Look, Mum!’ I said excitedly. ‘Look at this one! It’s absolutely gorgeous!’

The dazzling white dress was displayed on a glamorous mannequin right in the middle of the floor, and I was thrilled
to see there was the most beautiful long, lace veil floating behind it.

‘Can I try it on?’

Mum turned over the price tag to reveal that the dress cost the extravagant sum of £50 – not far off two months of my wages.

‘Go on then,’ she smiled indulgently. ‘So much for being “equable”, though, Linda!’

The dress fitted perfectly and I was very touched that Mum was more than happy to pay for it. It wasn’t about the money; I was delighted that she was clearly supportive of my decision to marry Graham, and that she wanted to push the boat out for me.

The next few months passed in a whirl. In the September I received a certificate through the post telling me I had passed my exams and qualified as an SRN nurse. The certificate itself was disappointingly plain and delivered without a fanfare, but what it represented was incredibly important to me. As a qualified SRN I was now able to dispense with the three stripes of white bias binding on my sleeve that marked me out as a third-year student. Instead, I would now have the honour of wearing the MRI ‘strings’ on my hat, a green belt around my waist and the prized MRI bronze penny on my dress. This meant the world to me. All I needed to do now was complete my obligatory three months’ work at the MRI post-qualifying, which would enable me to receive my official MRI nursing certificate in December.

Along with about twenty-five others from our intake, Nessa, Anne, Jo and I were all invited to Miss Bell’s office one morning to receive our penny. While waiting outside to be called in individually, we hugged and giggled like little girls.

‘All this for a bronze penny!’ Anne joked. ‘I think we deserve more than a penny after what we’ve been through!’

We laughed, knowing that, like the rest of us, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on the shiny medal. It depicted the Good Samaritan and, in Latin, bore Jesus’ words
Vade et tu fac similiter
, meaning ‘Go, and do thou likewise.’ We’d seen it many times, pinned proudly to the uniforms of other nurses, and we could scarcely believe we were finally joining their ranks as fully-fledged staff nurses.

‘Congratulations, Nurse Lawton,’ Miss Bell said, shaking my hand when it was finally my turn to step up to her desk. I smiled broadly as she handed me my shining penny. ‘You have worked hard. Well done!’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you for …’

‘No need to thank me,’ she interrupted briskly. ‘
You
have done this. Good luck!’

The next stop was the sewing room where we all eagerly claimed a brand new green belt that fastened with Velcro around our waists, and finally got our hands on two white ‘strings’ each. A home sister showed us how to attach the strings to our hats using white kirby grips before securing them correctly in a neat bow under the chin.

‘I can’t move in this!’ Jo complained, pulling open her too-tight bow as we huddled in a corner to practise.

‘I know, this is such a nuisance,’ Anne niggled as her strings disappeared into a fold underneath her generous chin. ‘Wearing these makes you feel like a puppet!’

With that she jerked her head from side to side, as if an invisible puppeteer were manoeuvring her. ‘Thunderbirds are GO!’ she mocked. ‘Or should that be MRI nurses are GO?’

‘Yes m’Lady!’ Jo retorted jokily, though she was still struggling with her bow and pulling a disgruntled face.

Nessa and I exchanged knowing glances. For all their moaning, we both knew that Anne and Jo were tickled pink, just as we were. We’d made it, and at long last we were in the clique. As Sister Mary Francis might say, we weren’t just nurses; we were MRI nurses, no less!

‘Does anybody know how Cynthia is getting on?’ Anne asked as we strode out of the sewing room in our new attire, shoulders back and heads held high.

‘Do you know, you read my mind,’ I replied. ‘I was just thinking about Cynthia. I went to see her a few days ago. She was sitting up in bed, knitting a scarf and looking very pale, but her operation has been a great success. She told me she’s very pleased for us all for passing our exams, and not to worry about her. She’s going to catch up next year, so she’ll soon get her penny.’

‘Good for her,’ Jo said. ‘I’m not sure I’d have managed to carry on if I were in her shoes.’

We all nodded in agreement. ‘She’s remarkable,’ I said. I’d learned that the reason Cynthia stitched all her own clothes by hand was because she came from a very poor family and her mother couldn’t afford to buy a sewing machine, let alone new clothes. I’d admired Cynthia’s tenacity, even before she became ill.

I couldn’t help wondering how Janice was getting on, wherever she was, not to mention Linda, who had only written once since her departure, with very little news. Thinking about them both, as well as Cynthia, made me count my blessings. I touched my penny and said a silent little prayer, thanking God for the life I had.

Within weeks I learned that my application to become a pupil midwife at Ashton General had been processed and I was to attend an interview in early December. Should I secure the position, I would start on 1 January 1970 and I would earn £100 a month. This sounded like a fortune compared to my current salary, although of course I was used to having my accommodation fees deducted at source, so in reality it wasn’t as huge an increase as it seemed. In any case, I was far more interested in the position than the salary, and I was incredibly excited to be one step closer to achieving my ambition.

Everything was happening so fast. My heart was packed with emotions, and I took out my diary and unloaded some of my feelings onto its pages.

‘Life is changing,’ I wrote, under the date 28 September 1969.

Graham and I married on 22 November 1969 at St Michael and All Angels Church in Ashton. Being so close to finally finishing at the MRI really put an extra shine on my day. Seeing Graham standing at the altar waiting for me, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. In that moment, I had it all. Not only was I marrying my handsome soulmate, but I had a wonderful career at my fingertips. Any doubts that I might not be accepted as a pupil midwife left me that day and I was
filled with optimism about my future, or our future, as it now was.

My old school friend Sue, by now a qualified teacher, was my bridesmaid, along with Graham’s teenage sister, Barbara. It was a very cold day and they shivered in their deep turquoise dresses as they attended to my gown at the back of the church, making sure my long veil and train were sitting just so. I felt the high lace collar snug around my neck as I swallowed deeply, savouring the moment when Dad took my arm and began to walk me slowly towards my husband to be.

I could almost feel myself growing up just that little bit more as I took each step towards Graham. My head was held high and my heartbeat was steady and strong, secure in the knowledge I was making my parents proud, and making my way successfully in the world.

I remember feeling giddy with happiness when the Church of England minister declared us man and wife, and I also recall being delighted it didn’t rain as we made our way to the local Masonic Hall for our wedding reception.

My mum had made most of the arrangements, and the majority of the fifty invited guests were long-standing family friends and relatives. I didn’t ask any of my nursing friends, as this part of my life seemed so separate from my working life. Besides, in those days it wasn’t really the done thing to have a big knees-up with your peers.

We ate minestrone soup with a warm roll and a curl of butter, followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with thick gravy, and rounded off with lemon meringue pie. Afterwards Mrs Cox, one of my parents’ friends who frequently came to our house to play cards, played the piano and sang loudly, which encouraged several couples to shuffle
around the dance floor to tunes like ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ by Frankie Valli and ‘Green, Green Grass of Home’ by Tom Jones.

‘Congratulations on becoming Mrs Linda Buckley,’ an elderly colleague of my father’s said jovially as he chinked my glass of champagne and admired my gleaming wedding band. ‘Tell me, are you going to give up work now you’re a newly married lady?’

I burst out laughing. ‘Certainly not,’ I replied. ‘I’m planning to train as a midwife!’

‘Good heavens!’ he remarked in mock surprise. ‘In my day women had babies themselves when they got married, they didn’t set about delivering other people’s!’

‘It’s very nearly 1970 and, luckily for me, times have changed!’ I responded with amusement.

It was one of those moments when the words that come out of your mouth strike an unexpected chord. This one resonated throughout my whole body. There I was, dressed in my beautiful wedding gown with my new husband looking resplendent across the room in his dark grey morning suit, chatting contentedly to our guests. Our new home was ready for us to move in to and there, sitting tantalisingly in a mahogany letter rack on our new hall table, lay the key to my future: the all-important letter detailing my imminent interview at Ashton General Hospital. I felt very fortunate indeed.

Graham and I would have children one day, I hoped. We’d discussed it before we married, of course, and had agreed we’d like to start a family in a few years. I was twenty-one and he was twenty, so we had time on our side. I imagined we’d be in our mid-twenties when we became parents; that sounded about right. For the time being Graham was ploughing all his
money into his business, Buckley Vending Supplies, and we still had plenty of work to do on our new home. We were in no rush to become parents, and we would take precautions for the time being.

When Graham carried me over the threshold and took me to bed for the first time, I pictured all my doubts and fears falling away, scattering and disappearing into the confetti-sprinkled carpet. We had a short honeymoon in York, chosen as I could only get a week off work and it wasn’t too far to travel, or too expensive. One of the highlights for me was visiting York Minster, which brought back fond memories of being at my convent school. When you have been educated by nuns I don’t think their influence ever leaves you. I recall sitting quietly in a pew at the back beside Graham and feeling deeply peaceful and very happy. If God was guiding me, I was pleased with where He had brought me so far in my life. I was where I wanted to be, and I felt thankful. To this day, though I am not a regular churchgoer, I still believe in God and am comforted by the thought He may be up there somewhere, watching over me and my patients.

Back at the MRI the week after our honeymoon I was once again called to Miss Bell’s office, where I was handed my MRI certificate. This was the final certificate, and the one I had been waiting for. It officially recognised that, as well as being an SRN, I was an MRI nurse too. I had looked forward to this day, and I studied the certificate with immense pride in my heart.

Emblazoned with the words ‘United Manchester Hospitals School of Nursing’ the certificate proclaimed in elaborate script:

It was signed by both the Chairman of the Board of Governors and the Chairman of the Medical Executive Committee, as well as Constance Biddulph, the Principal of United Manchester Hospitals School of Nursing. The date on the bottom was 5 December 1969. My three years and three months of training and work at the MRI slipped into the past, right there. What mattered now was using this piece of paper to set me on the road to carving out a future for myself as a midwife.

I couldn’t wait to get home, see Graham and show him my longed-for certificate. My journey back seemed to take forever, as since moving into our new home together I’d taken to travelling in and out of Manchester by bus. It was far from ideal, and each day involved a lot of messing about. I had to leave the house more than an hour before my shift started in the morning, and on the return journey I often had to change buses and wait around in the cold, shivering under my NHS gabardine. I never thought I’d say it, but living in the nurses’ home had been a godsend in many ways. As a student I would never have coped with a daily commute on top of everything else, and the thought of applying to St Mary’s should I fail to secure a place at Ashton now seemed completely untenable.