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drops further down in the pelvis, and its movements slow down. The head is then “engaged”, and the birth starts with the breaking of the waters. The pains (that gradually rise to a powerful peak and then fall away) are mild at first, getting much stronger as you go into ‘second stage’. You then breathe deeply, and evenly, with controlled gasps, until you are compelled to a deep “bearing down”. Once the head has fully appeared all that is needed are a few hard pushes to expel the baby.’
    The other advice given was the mental preparation; something that was virtually unknown to post war Britain.
    â€˜Childbirth is a natural process that demands a calm, focussed state of mind to ensure that the mother can enjoy the experience.’
    A couple of days before the baby was due Peggy woke around midnight to find her sheets were soaked with the warm wetness of her broken waters. The instructions for any night time problems were that she alert the duty Sister, but as she walked downstairs the warmness turned to a cold clinging of her nightdress around her bare calves. Sister Grace offered no words of interest or concern. ‘Get dressed, change your bed, and wait in the lobby for a taxi. I trust you have the correct fare ready.’
    The good doctor Read, in his chapter about mental preparation, had quoted, ‘ the husband, as a participating member of the birth team, is essential ’ but as she stripped her bed, and struggled to replace the sheets in the bone-numbing cold, she could only ask God to join her humble team of one. Thus, holding a small packed case, and her folder of medical notes, she waited alone on the doorstep of St. Olave’s.
    Once at the maternity hospital an impatient Irish nurse booked her in, and knowing where she’d come from seemed to take more time than necessary to read her notes. Her cold eyes flickered up and down, staring at Peggy with a look of dumb censure. Was she finding the words, ‘ father an African negro ’ a fact even more shocking than being unmarried. At least at St Olave’s the residents were always grudgingly referred to as Mrs, and in her case she really was Mrs Davidson, but the hatchet-faced nurse took great delight in ignoring the fact. ‘Follow me, Miss Davidson,’ she bellowed.
    Carrying her case herself, and having to walk through the start of low back cramps, Peggy followed the fast steps of the nurse through many sets of heavy rubber doors into a labyrinth of dimly lit concrete corridors. ‘In here,’ the nurse barked, leading her into a ward that smelled strongly, as was usual, of surgical spirit, evoking the fear of needles and the unknown horrors of medical procedure. In dim light she was shown to a bed in a row of others, the incumbents all pitifully groaning behind closed curtains. ‘Get undressed, Miss Davidson,’
    After the enforced indignity of a rough shave and enema, and ordered to put on a flimsy cotton gown, she tried to rise above the cold indifference of the nurse, concentrating on the advice of Dr Read. ‘Labour is a natural occurrence, and should be approached with calm positive thought.’ But there was no hope of staying calm. She climbed up onto the high hard bed, pulling the thin sheets and counterpane over herself. Completely abandoned, so cold she shook, and no bell to ring if the baby started to come out.
    Labour really did mean hard work, but she was determined to be brave. With every pain that rose she endured it with a stoic silence, begging it to reach its peak, and breathing with gratitude as it fell away, oblivious to the moaning wails of the others. After what seemed like hours a young doctor in a white coat appeared, with no introduction or explanation; a humiliating and painful ordeal of being pulled and pummelled, and poked in silence. ‘Doctor, is everything alright,’ she asked timidly, but he just nodded his head and grunted. Being left again to