Dot May Dunn - Bread, Jam and a Borrowed Pram: A Nurses Story from the Streets

To the indomitable spirit of Birmingham people

Contents

Prologue

It is 1958 and Dot, a young nurse recently qualified as a midwife, has a new adventure ahead. With few Community Midwife posts available, Dot has trained as a Health Visitor and been posted to an inner-city clinic. Now Dot is preparing to set out on the streets, visiting the children and parents who need her most. With just her case-notes and her black bag in hand, Dots work will take her into family homes of all kinds and into a fascinating world, all recorded by her diaries.

Monday, 8th September 1958

9.00 a.m.

With a roar, and a belch of diesel fumes, the bus pulls away from the pavements edge and my friends are gone. I know they will climb to the top deck; Janet will have to have a quick puff and Joyce, moaning about smokers, will be behind her. I search the bus windows for them but already they seem to have vanished inside. I peer down the road but the bus has gone and with it my student days.

I had trained as a midwife and, during my training, had been attracted to Community Midwifery but it was already on the wane and no posts were being filled. Midwifery on the ward at the Burlington General Hospital had not been for me and, keen to get out and about, I had applied to Burlington Council for a place on their Health Visitors Course, and had been accepted.

Janet and Joyce had been my constant companions on the course; through all trials, tribulations and the impossibly hard subject matter, they had been there. But the year has ended; we three have passed the examinations, and have celebrated to the fullest extent.

Now we are trained to work in preventive medicine and this morning, one by one, we stood before the Director of Health Visitors and signed contracts to work as Health Visitors. I will be working in Maternity and Child Health, based in one of the citys Child Health Clinics. As well as running clinics for both children and antenatal women, I will be expected to visit, on a regular basis, all homes where a woman is pregnant or where there are children under the age of five years old. I have been told that my patch will be in the centre of the city; Lancaster Street Clinic to be exact. Janet and Joyce are to work in the suburbs. I cant quite believe our time together is over, but at the same time I am eager to start my new job.

A small, oval, pewter-coloured badge now resides on the lapel of my jacket and announces, to anyone who would wish to enquire, that I work for the city of Burlington. I think of the lessons drilled into me. We have been informed many times that we visit not just the child but the whole family, that we take with us nothing but our black bag and our professional knowledge, and that we offer a non-judgemental ear and advice to suit every need. We have no right of entry to any persons property; we must, by our professional behaviour, seek, and if possible obtain, such permission. Should entry be denied and we deem it essential, we may seek the support of the Medical Officer.

As I run my thumb across my badge to reassure myself that its there, I think with relief how glad I am that I have been reimbursed for the money spent on suitable clothing to be worn at work. During the last couple of weeks of the course, the Senior Tutor had said with a stern face, It is your professional knowledge and behaviour which is up for judgement and not your dress. But remember, you are a professional and must appear so these arent parties youll be attending. A yearly allowance will be given, from which a navy-blue suit, three blouses, white, cream or light blue, two pairs of black or navy shoes, a navy rain coat, a navy top coat and a navy hat, must be purchased. Do not spend great amounts of money on your first suit; in time you will need a warm winter coat, believe me.

This morning receipts have been presented, and the suitability of our purchases examined. I am pleased to say that my new clothes have been deemed acceptable and I have been reimbursed.

Janet and Joyce are gone, and the whirl of the city encompasses me. I have walked away from the bus stop and, as I turn, my reflection in a shop window looks at me. The neat dark suit with its fitted jacket and calf-length skirt, and the low-heeled shoes, makes my slim, five-foot figure look almost frail, and the light auburn hair, which refuses not to curl, almost hides the navy cap, which sits on the crown of my head. Brushing the hair back under the cap I turn and, with a racing heart and a proud stretch of the mouth, a habit inherited from my four feet ten inches of fiercely determined mother, I head for my own stop, from which I know the bus to Lancaster Street Child Health Clinic leaves and my new life beckons.

10.00 a.m.

This is your box.

The hand, with its age marks and manicured nails, lies on the top of a brown wooden box. Eighteen inches wide and extending the width of the desk, the brown varnished box looks unimpressive. The voice continues: As far as I know, the caseload is about a thousand; no one has worked it for the last six months, except for new deliveries, of course.

I look across at her face; grey hair closely surrounds an equally grey face, and small eyes, behind their rimmed glasses, hold little sparkle. Her mouth, whose lipstick has almost disappeared, attempts to widen into a smile and the hand, which she places on my shoulder, I take as an attempt at comradeship.

Ill leave you to get acquainted with your caseload; you might start with a quick look at your patch. So saying she taps the varnished nail of her forefinger on a piece of cardboard, which resides on the desk against which we both stand. If you want any help, you know where my office is.

Before I can say that I have no idea where she hides, she has turned and on silent feet has left the room. The door remains open, and although the day outside is sunny and bright, this room is dull and stuffy. The large hall, through which we had just passed, had been equally dull, but because it was large and had no ceiling, only rafters, it felt airy that is, if you can call that distinct smell of a medical establishment airy.

10.15 a.m.

I take off my suit jacket, anxious not to crease it on its first outing, and hang it on the back of the upright chair which stands by the desk. I need to still my anxiety by doing something, so taking a deep breath I look around the room. Another desk stands under a high window whose leaded lights let in little illumination. Dominating the ledge of the window, and acting as a screen against sunshine entering to lighten our darkness, the face of the Virgin Mary looks down on a neat and tidy desk. I tell myself, No doubt about her point of view.

Having been brought up during the Second World War, under the influence of the Presbyterian Church but by a Jewish mother, I have long doubted the authenticity of any one brand of religious doctoring. I have also learned not to waste my time in argument with the confirmed so I hold my own council, unless asked for an opinion.

A third desk faces the far wall. Piled high with clinic notes and various pieces of paper, it gives little information about its owner other than that he or she is disorganised.

The ring of a phone fills the room and I almost jump out of my skin. A table stands by the door and a blotting pad with a curled and torn edge, covered many times over with numbers, names and doodles, supports a black Bakelite phone. The ringing continues and no one comes to answer it.

I remind myself that I am now a qualified Health Visitor and that it is my responsibility to deal with cases, so taking a deep breath I answer the phone.

Lancaster Street Clinic, Miss Compton speaking, may I help you?