The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives by Linda Fairley Page B

eachtime,’ Lesley soothed. ‘I was exactly the same as you this time last year – worse, probably!’
    I admired Lesley. She somehow managed to keep the atmosphere light yet respectful as she demonstrated first how to bandage around the jaw to keep the mouth closed, and then how to insert cotton wool into the nose and ears to stop any bodily fluids leaking out.
    As we gently turned Mrs Pearlman over to wash her back, the old lady let out a slow sigh as her lungs expelled her last breath. Even though I’d been told about this in school, it still took me by surprise, and my hands shot to my mouth.
    ‘Eerie, isn’t it?’ Lesley said as she continued her work.
    All that remained was to wrap Mrs Pearlman’s body in a paper shroud and sheets and place a large white label around her legs, which Lesley also wrote her name on. We had just finished the job and were about to call the mortuary porters when a sister stuck her head around the curtain and groaned.
    ‘The Rabbi is on his way!’ she said crossly. ‘Honestly, Lesley, you ought to know better.’
    Lesley’s face fell, and she immediately set about unwinding the sheets from Mrs Pearlman’s body. I looked at her in confusion.
    ‘It’s because she’s Jewish,’ Lesley hissed, shaking her head and furrowing her brow. ‘And Sister is right. I really ought to know better. The Rabbi always visits and says prayers before the body is wrapped up and taken to the morgue. Step outside, Linda. Please detain the Rabbi a moment if he turns up before I’m done unwrapping her.’
    Later, after two porters wheeled Mrs Pearlman’s body away in what looked like a metal coffin upon a trolley, I felt a sob inmy throat. Tears sprang to my eyes, which I couldn’t stop from dripping down my cheeks.
    ‘Have a good cry,’ Lesley said. ‘You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. I used to cry every time.’
    ‘H-h-how did you stop?’ I asked, accepting a hankie and blowing my nose quietly into it.
    ‘There’s no special trick, but thinking about how terrible you look with puffy eyes helps – especially if you think of the handsome house doctors I’ve spotted recently! Come on, let’s sneak ourselves a cup of tea before we go back on the ward.’
    A few days later I relayed the story of my first ‘laying out’ to Graham in intricate detail, complete with fresh tears, which flooded rather than dripped this time.
    ‘People are dying,’ I bawled. ‘This is harder than I thought.’ Sharing the experience diluted the awfulness a little, and as always Graham was a willing shoulder to cry on.
    ‘It’s all good experience for you,’ he said kindly. ‘Your friend is right, I’m sure. It can only get easier.’
    He had taken me to one of our favourite little snack bars on Oxford Road. As I sipped a Coca-Cola and ate a Wagon Wheel, I dried my tears and looked at Graham lovingly. I couldn’t imagine life without him. I didn’t want to go back to the nurses’ home on my own, and I laid my head on his shoulder and sobbed.
    The following evening, after my shift, I telephoned Graham from the payphone along the corridor of the nurses’ home. Feeding four penny coins into the slot, pressing ‘A’ when I got the connection and hearing his voice saying ‘Ashton 4319’ had become something of a ritual.
    ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ I said. I was so tired I had fallen asleep on his shoulder in the snack bar. He had gently rousedme and driven me back to the nurses’ home in time for the 11 p.m. curfew. I couldn’t thank him enough. Getting a telling off from the home sister on top of everything else would have been too much to bear.
    Alone in my room, I studied myself in the mirror properly for the first time in weeks and was shocked by what I saw. There were thick black rings under my eyes and my uniform was sagging around my bust and hips. I’d been a size eight when I started at the MRI and I could see I’d lost weight. Even my hair looked thinner as it hung limply