I thought of, and that was what I envisaged for myself.
When I suspected that I actually was pregnant, I could not have felt happier.
‘The GP will have to send a urine sample off for testing,’ I told Graham. ‘I’ll make an appointment today. Then it could take a week or so to get the result.’
‘A week or so? Couldn’t you find out sooner, through work?’
‘I’ll try,’ I replied. ‘Leave it with me.’
You couldn’t just buy pregnancy kits at the chemist in those days, and we midwives inevitably saw it as a perk of the job to be able to use our skills to help each other out. I was back on the labour ward with Judith Houghton at this time, and I waited until I had the chance to take her to one side.
‘I think I’m pregnant,’ I whispered excitedly. ‘Would you have a little listen for me?’
‘Of course! How wonderful, Linda,’ she replied. ‘We could nip off and do it now if you like. Let me get hold of a monitor.’
We entered an empty side room where Judith listened to my abdomen using a hand-held foetal heartbeat monitor called a Sonicaid. These were quite new to the hospital and were in fairly short supply, and the early models were a little temperamental to operate. This meant the old-fashioned Pinard’s stethoscope was still more commonly used, and we typically only used a Sonicaid on patients who had experienced a bleed or gone into premature labour. However, amongst ourselves it was viewed as quite an exciting perk of the job to use the Sonicaid on each other.
‘I think these things are wonderful,’ Judith commented as I lay on the bed and unbuttoned the front of my dress while she swiftly switched on the monitor. She slid the head of the plastic device over some jelly applied to my tummy, and moments later the Sonicaid’s ultrasound waves picked up a heartbeat. We both squealed excitedly.
‘I think your diagnosis may be correct,’ Judith said giving me a hug ‘Congratulations, Linda.’
I knew that the Sonicaid generally only picked up a heartbeat from ten weeks, or more likely twelve, which tied in with my dates. I would have to wait for a referral from my GP, of course, before I could book myself into the antenatal clinic and announce the good news publicly, but in that moment I had a very good idea that if my calculations were correct, by January 1974 I would be a mum, and I was thrilled to bits.
Looking around the labour ward later that same day, I had a sense of feeling slightly more connected to the women than I ever had before. I saw them as kindred spirits as well as patients now, and I looked forward to being able to confide in my patients, and tell them that I too had a new life inside me. I was having a baby, just like them.
‘I hope you’ll set a good example,’ Judith teased when we went on a tea break later. I’d told her I wanted to have my baby here at the maternity unit, as I knew I would be well looked after and would feel comfortable in such familiar surroundings. It never entered my head to go anywhere else, in fact. Why would it?
I also hoped very much that Judith might be able to deliver me, although I knew very well that you could never be certain who your midwife would be, not just because of shift patterns but because of the uncertainty of delivering on your due date.
‘I’ll be a model patient, I promise!’ I laughed. ‘Can you really imagine me hollering like some of the ladies we see on the ward?’
‘No!’ Judith retorted. ‘I don’t suppose I can, but you never know!’
Several weeks later, after my pregnancy had been officially confirmed by my GP, I attended my first antenatal appointment. Graham was even more excited than I was about the baby, if that were possible, and offered to take time off work to come with me. It was still very uncommon for men to come into the clinic, however. Also, my colleagues were very good to me and always slotted me in when I was on duty and could pop in during a break.
‘There’s really no need to come,’ I told Graham. ‘I’m perfectly fine on my own. You stay at work, you’ve got a lot on.’
‘Whatever you say, Linda,’ he replied. ‘You’re the expert here.’
Graham’s vending supplies business was doing well, and he and his brother had expanded it and moved into new premises. It was lovely that he wanted to support me every step of the way, but we both knew there was really no necessity, and the business needed him more than I did.
I’d grown up an awful lot in the time I had known Graham. Gone were the days when I relied on him to hold my hand and dry my tears after a tough day, as he did so many times when I was a teenager during my training at the MRI. I was a much more independent person now and, of course, when it came to having babies I was indeed the expert.
I asked if I could have Dr Bedford as my consultant as I had always admired his skills and his extremely pleasant bedside manner. My ‘booking in’ appointment was completely routine. I had no problems to report, and Valerie, the midwife in the clinic, listened to the baby’s heartbeat with the Sonicaid, which of course was so lovely to hear again. She also confirmed what I had already worked out myself, that my due date was 7 January 1974. It felt a little odd sitting on the other side of the desk, but it wasn’t unusual for midwives who worked at Ashton to have their babies in the maternity unit, and I felt at ease.
I returned to the labour ward feeling on top of the world, and looking forward to sharing my exciting news with all of my colleagues. However, I was dismayed to discover something of a staff meeting going on in a side room, where several midwives were assembled with Sister Margaret Penman, who was looking very serious.
‘Do come and join us, Sister Buckley,’ she called when she spotted me. ‘We’re just discussing the supplies being ordered on the night shift. You may have something to add.’
I walked in to hear Sister Penman, who was the senior sister on the labour ward, explaining very seriously that an unprecedented amount of flour, bicarbonate of soda and butter had been ordered for the labour ward kitchen.
‘As you all know, I’m a very reasonable sister,’ she said, which prompted nods of agreement from most of us gathered. ‘I’m certainly not one to nit-pick about an extra pint of milk for your teas and coffees and the like. But if I don’t get to the bottom of this I will have Miss Sefton asking questions, and we certainly don’t want that, do we?’
An emphatic ‘no’ came from every person’s lips.
‘So please can somebody explain to me what is going on?’
Sister Penman knew that most of us midwives worked night shifts as well as days, and would no doubt be able to solve this great bicarbonate of soda mystery without the need for further intervention from Miss Sefton.
As the rest of us gave each other sideways glances, deciding who was going to spill the beans, one of the new pupil midwives bravely stepped forward.
‘Sister Mallon makes pancakes for us on nights sometimes,’ little Annie said, blushing. ‘They’re delicious, and we give them to the patients, too, if they want them. It’s our fault, we’re always asking her to make them.’
Sister Penman rolled her eyes. ‘I honestly don’t know how you find the time to be fiddle-faddling about with such things,’ she chastised. ‘Please don’t encourage Sister Mallon any more. I have it on good authority that she’s an impressive cook, but I think we must let her practise her skills at home from now on. I will have a word with her.’
We were all dismissed forthwith, stifling laughter as we thought about how our eyes twinkled when the overnight order sheet arrived and we all looked down the list and said, ‘Oooh, let’s have some of that!’ or ‘What shall we make next?’
It wasn’t just kitchen supplies that we used a little lavishly. Since the move to the new unit and the shift to disposable equipment over the last few years, most of the staff had got into the habit of being really quite wasteful. It was such a revelation to us to have boxes of pre-sterilised needles and razors on hand, not to mention paper hats and plastic