To a choir of approving noises, Mrs Griffiths went on to complain that it was far easier for a man to have a vasectomy than for women to be sterilised. ‘It’s a tiny op for them by comparison, for goodness sake! If you ask me, we’ve done our bit by giving birth. Going under the knife is beyond the call of duty!’
The other women were in wholehearted agreement, including Mrs Rogers, who was already booked in for the operation. ‘You’re right, love,’ Mrs Rogers said wistfully. ‘But by the time I’d argued that one with my husband I’d probably be in the family way again. I’ll not be taking any more chances.’
With that the conversation shifted to the next headline. It was something about ‘How to turn a man on when he’s having problems in bed.’ This set off a predictable chorus of groans and remarks like: ‘No thanks – I’m done with all that for the time being, thank you very much!’ and ‘I’d rather learn how to turn him off!’
Mrs Prince remained very quiet, keeping herself to herself behind her drawn curtain while all of this banter was going on. I made a mental note to check her previous notes when I got the chance, in case that might enlighten me. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I’d seen her before, somewhere else in the hospital perhaps.
At visiting time I wondered if seeing her husband might trigger my memory, but when Mr Prince arrived with an extravagant bunch of carnations, I definitely had no recollection of ever having seen him before.
‘Congratulations, Mr Prince,’ I said, having a good look at him. He was wearing some expensive-looking velvet bell-bottom trousers and appeared extremely well to do.
‘Your son is doing well, I’m glad to see,’ I remarked, hoping to engage him in conversation.
‘Thank you very much indeed, Nurse,’ he said politely. He looked thoroughly smitten as he peered in Phillip’s cot as his wife sat silently in bed, watching a little nervously.
‘I don’t mind admitting that I really wanted a son and heir, and I’m so pleased! I’ve got two weeks off work to get to know him, too. I couldn’t be happier!’
‘Well, I’m very pleased for you …’
Mrs Prince interrupted our little chat, asking her husband to keep the curtain drawn and telling him she felt tired and wanted peace and quiet. She looked tense and very serious, and kept her eye gaze down.
‘Of course you need to rest, darling,’ he said, kissing her gently on the forehead. ‘Look at you – immaculate as ever despite having just given birth … can I go and fetch you anything from the shop?’
I was still none the wiser, and so I dug out Mrs Prince’s file as soon as visiting was over. Scanning her most recent notes, nothing gave me a clue, although of course in those days we only kept written copies that were certainly not as lengthy as the computerised patient records we have today.
I saw that the couple lived at a smart address in Broadbottom. Mrs Prince had no health problems and her pregnancy and delivery had been completely routine. Looking further back, my eyes bulged as they fell on a brief page of notes dated February 1971, which were fastened at the back of this thin brown file. Mrs Prince had delivered a healthy baby boy more than a year ago and, according to a very scant note, had given the child up for adoption at birth. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the words ‘Social Services’ leaped out, telling me the local authority had organised the adoption.
My brain whirled. That’s why I recognised Mrs Prince! Last year, I had seen her at the old hospital. She had attended an antenatal appointment alone, dressed smartly in a business suit and constantly looking at her watch, worrying about getting back to her desk before her lunch hour was over, or at least that’s what she told me. Her hair was longer then and her make-up was different, but this was definitely one and the same person. Racking my brain, I recalled how she had told me that her husband was away working, on the oil rigs.
It was all coming back to me now, though I could hardly believe it. When Mrs Prince went on to give the baby up for adoption I remembered how it came as a real surprise to all the midwives on duty, as this had not been discussed at all during her pregnancy. My mind was in overdrive as I fished for more memories to help piece this puzzle together. I was sure Mrs Prince had told a colleague that she intended to go back to work straightaway. Her husband was not ready to start a family, and she did not want a child to disrupt her career, that’s the story she told when she made her surprise announcement about the adoption.
At the time, her explanation didn’t seem to ring true and rumours abounded. I remembered the gossip in the office one day. Was there actually a husband working away on the oil rigs, and if there was, did he even know about this baby?
‘It’s my betting this is a secret love child,’ my colleague Maggie had said to me back then, eyes widening.
I wasn’t convinced. ‘Maybe it is her husband’s baby and she just doesn’t want to tell him, because she’s the one who’s not ready to start a family yet,’ I had replied.
Both scenarios were as difficult to believe as Mrs Prince’s own story about the adoption, and I remembered feeling resigned to never knowing the truth.
Now, I felt compelled to confide in Sister Kelly. I took a deep breath and walked into her office.
‘I-I need to talk to you,’ I stuttered. Sister Kelly put down her mug of Bovril and was all ears.
‘I recognise Mrs Prince, and Phillip is not her first baby,’ I blurted, feeling instantly relieved at having shared the burden of my discovery.
‘Well my dear, yer never fail to be surprised in this business,’ Sister Kelly shrugged, peering at the notes I thrust at her. Mrs Prince clearly hadn’t lied on paper, as all her previous records were intact and tallied with everything we knew of her. It was only here, on this postnatal ward, that she had tried to cover up the fact she’d had a previous baby.
I explained all this to a rather bemused looking Sister Kelly, and concluded that Mrs Prince must have succeeded in keeping her poor husband away from her recent antenatal appointments as well as Phillip’s delivery, which was not a difficult feat in 1972.
‘But it’s no wonder she is so tense here on the ward, trying to keep such an enormous secret!’ I said.
Really, it had not been rocket science to piece together her full history. Any of the midwives, even if they hadn’t recognised her as I had, could have stumbled across this information. I was astonished she had the nerve to try to pull this off at all, but Sister Kelly hardly turned a hair.
‘It’s really none of our business now, is it, Linda?’ she sighed. ‘I mean, if a woman turns up on the postnatal ward and tells you this is her first pregnancy, why would you doubt her? If it were me, mind, I think I’d have gone to a different hospital, but it takes all sorts.’
‘But … how could she?’ I asked. I was completely nonplussed. ‘Surely he should know, Mr Prince, whether the other child was his or not?’
‘Well, Linda, when you look at Mr Prince, happy as a sand boy as he clearly is, what would be gained from spilling the beans now? Tell me that.’
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ I replied resignedly.
‘That’s right,’ Sister Kelly said, shoving her hand down her dress and repositioning her bosom matter-of-factly, as if to show me everything was back to normal. ‘Nothing at all! Put it to the back of your mind, dear. Now, would you like a hot orange?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘I could probably do with something stronger, but a good cup of well-brewed tea will do fine!’
I’m sure I’d been refusing Sister Kelly’s offer of hot orange for two years now, but she never failed to offer it to me when she felt I needed looking after. I’ve no idea why. I completed my shift that day, going through the motions of carrying