I was the only midwife for miles around our village during the Second World War, and any midwife worth her salt was bound to find herself embroiled in new lines of business. Chilbury, nestling in the Kent hills just south of London, was filling up with new residents: evacuees, house guests fleeing the Blitz, land girls, and the air force crew from the nearby barracks.

The church was packed on a Sunday and the village square and shop were rife with gossip. Sex, sex, sex was all that was on people’s minds. With husbands off to fight, food and clothes rationed, and so many people away from home, it was considered only reasonable that people should be able to slacken their morals, enjoy themselves in any way they could, before it may be too late. There had to be some escape from all this bad news and having to make do. 

And there were plenty of consequences of this slackening of morals, which is where I came into the picture. Babies, wanted or unwanted, legitimate or illegitimate, secret or scandalous, all passed through my hands. Special favors began coming my way, as well as gifts: sugar, bacon, a length of silk, a joint of lamb, and my favorite melt
in-the-mouth chocolates.

Dr. Hammond was called to help out in London in the Blitz of 1940, and I became the only person with medical knowledge in the neighborhood. I soon came to realize that the war held much more for me than just babies. I was finally being appreciated for my services and hard work. I opened a makeshift surgery in my back parlor so that I could act like a doctor, helping people with small problems. Some mornings there was a line waiting in my kitchen, with all sorts of spots and coughs and infections.

There was also a lot of another type of disease; funny how quickly a dose of gonorrhea can get around a small village in war time. When Mrs. Weybridge came into my parlor I knew what she’d been doing, and who with.

I cautiously mentioned: “Do you see a lot of Captain Evans then?” 

She blushed and said that she didn’t know my meaning. I smiled and asked her if 
she had any spare clothing coupons for the month, and she hurriedly passed them over to me.  

“Your secret’s safe with me.” I smiled, thinking about the lovely dark green coat I’d seen in town. 

Some nights as I lay in bed I felt pleased about what I was doing. “I am making the immoral people pay for their sins,” I would think. “They deserve to give me something. If they didn’t have anything to hide, I would never ask for such favors. They are giving me the opportunity. I am only doing what is right.”

I went to church every Sunday to pray for their sins, adorning myself with a new coat and a hat with a feather, more suited to my new standing. I am a stout, short woman and always felt I needed extra style to make people notice me, to make them see me as an important person and not just the little woman who helps at births. I had my hair done too, like Lady Derwent has hers. 

At first I was reluctant to deal with fostering babies, but soon it became a great source of extra provisions and side income. The first unwanted pregnancy was with Doreen Tomkins from one of the farms. She was only 16 and her parents had worked hard at hiding her away for the last few months. I dragged the boy from her clutching arms and hurried away, praying she would realize the error of her ways and stop howling as if the world were coming to an end. I got a side of the pig the Tompkins had 
been secretly fattening for Christmas. 

The vicarage took the first few babies, but then I had to start looking further afield for new homes. I knew how to read the women who would take them. They usually had some older children themselves and a kindly look, perhaps a little brow 
beaten. They always said no, but if I were to take round a little nipper in a shawl they simply couldn’t help themselves. Tears dripping down their faces, they’d nod their heads while trying to work out how to feed an extra mouth.

Boys were easier to get rid of than girls as they were potential workers, farm hands, and heirs, important things to have if your only son is being shot at in the Mediterranean. 

And that’s how it all happened at Chilbury Hall. Poor Lady Derwent was pregnant in the autumn of her life with her third child and no one at home. Lord Derwent was in North Africa with the troops, doing his duty. Lizzie, the unruly daughter, was training to be a nurse in Portsmouth. And Charles, the beloved eldest son and heir, was Missing Presumed Dead after Dunkirk. Lady Derwent had been so devastated by the news of dear Charles that she had almost lost the baby. But with my help and under the constant care of her lady’s maid, Margaret, she continued through, determined to have a boy. 

They needed an heir, a replacement for Charles and a man to keep on the family name. 

She sent letters to Lord Derwent, and they settled on the name James William, and aimed to have him christened when Lord Derwent came home in September. 

As the birth approached, I became a little apprehensive about it all. I hoped that Lord and Lady Derwent would not blame me if the child was not a boy. From my experience it seemed that older parents tend to have girls.

Then one morning the devoted Margaret came to see me. She made what seemed an extraordinary suggestion. She asked if there were any other women in the village about to give birth. She wondered if they would be having a boy or a girl. She wondered if it would be possible to pop out for a few minutes after the birth, to meet her outside the building. She 
wondered if I would enjoy a large amount of money. What she was proposing of course was to swap babies should Lady Derwent’s baby turn out to be a girl, and that I would 
be paid very handsome for my trouble. 

There were two other mothers-to-be in the village at the time: the wife of a blacksmith who already had a large brood, and the doctor’s wife who was pregnant for the first time. They both had potential, and were due to give birth around the same time. I hoped it was the blacksmith’s wife as we had been through many births together and I knew that sneaking the baby outside wouldn’t be hard.

But as I watched over Mrs. Hammond, the doctor’s wife, struggling through the beginning of her first labor, a messenger came to tell me that Lady Derwent was also in labor, and I knew how it had to be. I left the doctor’s wife to it as she still had a long time to go and hurried off to Chilbury Hall.  

I arrived just in time to see Margaret helping out a little head, then body, but alas no boy parts.  

“It’s a boy!” I cried. “But wait, he is struggling with his breath. I have to take him quick as I can to my surgery.” I think the words came out very awkwardly, but Lady Derwent only murmured, “A boy. I so wanted a boy.” 

The devoted Margaret had to wait an hour outside the doctor’s house with the baby girl – soon to be called Julia – until Mrs. Hammond finally pushed out James and the babies were quickly swapped on the back doorstep. The doctor’s wife had always 
wanted a girl, which made things nice and easy. In fact, I congratulated myself on a good day’s work. I had made four women happy: the two mothers, the devoted Margaret, and myself.

A few days later a large quantity of money was handed over to 
me in a sewing basket by Margaret. I never knew if the money came from Lady Derwent or whether Margaret somehow scraped it together without her knowing about the swap. That woman so adores her Ladyship, always worrying and fussing behind her, that I really wouldn’t have been surprised at anything. But regardless, at the end of the day, the babies were doing well, no one suspected a thing, and life went on as usual for everyone.  

Except that now I was rich. I thought about giving up work, taking the sewing basket and disappearing one dark night. I thought of going to Cornwall. I have relatives there and I’d heard it’s very picturesque. I could have given up work perhaps. I 
sometimes wonder why I became a midwife. I liked it well enough for the first few years, but since Gordon broke off our engagement I’ve grown to thoroughly loath it. 

But I decided to stay put in Chilbury. The war had brought with it the extra benefits, and I was enjoying my new prestige. It wasn’t only the money and the food. It was the power. People in high up places came to say hello. Lady Derwent invited me to 
tea. Ladies smiled when they saw me coming into the shop. Everyone realized that I might be needed for a medical emergency at some point. And the others knew that I had their secrets to keep. 

“Gossip breaks a community’s backbone,” I’d always say whenever people tried to get information out of me, or when I heard people talking behind their hands. I wasn’t willing to share my secrets; they were far too valuable. 

My reputation grew as a moral guardian of the village, a loyal protector of people’s privacy, and a source of medical knowledge and wisdom. I was asked onto the village wartime committee and began a campaign to bring a proper surgery into the 
area (a popular cause which I had no intention of completing).

Old Colonel Hodges proposed to me, which was rather unnecessary but flattering nonetheless. And the corner shop started to keep chocolate especially for me. They were foolish, selfish people looking after their own interests. It was a comfortable life. 

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