Our Country Nurse: Can East End Nurse Sarah find a new life caring for babies in the country?

‘Would you let me make it? Take the weight off your feet for five minutes,’ I gently suggested.

‘Are you sure?’ I nodded and she flopped onto the sofa and closed her eyes for a few minutes with the baby lying happily across her chest while I put the kettle on. I brought over the tea with a large glass of water and a plate of biscuits I’d seen on the side.

‘Would you let me have a hold of baby Craig?’ I asked as I set down the tea things on a small side table.

‘Be my guest,’ replied Mrs Rudcliff, handing over her whopper of a baby. The tea, water and biscuits had all vanished within minutes and it gave me the chance to give the baby a quick once-over. ‘I’m always hungry at the moment,’ she told me, flicking crumbs off her shirt.

‘It’s the breastfeeding,’ I acknowledged. ‘You need plenty of good food and lots to drink to sustain both you and the baby.’

She sighed. ‘I only get the chance to grab a quick piece of toast these days and a cold cup of tea if I’m lucky. As soon as I put the dinner on the table the baby cries and by the time I come back it’s either stone cold or Joe’s given it to the dog.’

‘I bet you have a job just making the dinner,’ I said, pouring her another cup of tea and refilling the biscuits.

‘I do, I do. I can barely get myself washed and dressed by lunchtime. And the men expect a hot meal at breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

‘It’s you who needs a good dinner three times a day and snacks in between.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Absolutely. Also try and have a glass of water next to you while you’re feeding and have a glass to sip throughout the day and night.’

‘I’ll try. It’s so hard to get everything together when he’s crying for a feed.’

‘I know it seems like a lot but you need all those little drinks and snacks to make the milk. It’ll do him no harm to wait two minutes while you get a cuppa and a snack and pop to the loo. You’ll be able to feed better for it.’

‘I can’t tell you how many times I’m been bursting to go to the loo during a feed. I’ve near wet myself at least twice this morning. I thought it would make me a bad mum if I didn’t run to him straight away. When he cries my heart pounds like crazy.’

‘That’s perfectly normal. You have some basic needs too; it’s not asking much that you get the chance to eat, drink and wash, is it?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Try and stick to two or three cups of tea or coffee a day, as the caffeine can make the baby restless. If you have a nice milky malted drink before bedtime it might help him doze off a little easier.’

‘Right. I hadn’t thought of that. I was drinking all that tea and coffee to help me stay awake – I didn’t realise it would have the same effect on him.’

‘Not to worry. I can’t think straight in the morning until I’ve had a cup of tea and I don’t have a newborn baby keeping me up.’

‘Or a husband snoring in your ear when the baby goes down and you get a chance for forty winks?’ she said, giggling.

‘No,’ I agreed, with a chuckle. ‘Fortunately not. Do you think Mr Rudcliff could help with the housework and cooking a bit?’ I suggested.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘No, Nurse. He’s a male chauvinist pig farmer,’ and we both burst out laughing for at least a minute.

‘Do you have any family nearby who could help?’ I asked.

‘My mum’s in Cheltenham. I don’t like to bother her.’

‘Has she offered to help?’

‘Lots of times but I don’t want her to think I can’t cope. I want her to be proud of me; she always had everything immaculate when I was little and look at this place!’ she said, casting her eyes round the farmhouse kitchen in dismay.

‘Housework always needs doing. I don’t see the harm in letting things slide for a little while.’

‘Oh! My mother-in-law said you’d be coming to see I kept the place clean and tidy or you’d report me.’

‘Not at all,’ I told her. ‘Are your husband’s family able to lend a hand?’

‘His parents live in the bungalow. Did you see it on your way in?’

‘Yes, up on the mound?’

‘Ghastly, isn’t it? I wouldn’t ask his mother to help me in a month of Sundays. She’d love nothing better than to get back into the farmhouse kitchen and shove me out. I won’t have it,’ she told me, getting quite worked up. Baby Craig started crying again.

‘I’ve only just fed him. Really I have,’ she said, her voice fading and her eyes glazing over.

‘Long babies can be difficult to feed,’ I explained.

‘Can they?’

‘Yes, and he was 10 pounds and six ounces when he was born and I can see from his discharge papers he’s nearly made his birth weight up already. That means you’re doing a fantastic job,’ I soothed.

‘I’m finding him a bit heavy. He’s only two weeks old and he’s already a handful – how am I going to cope?’ she asked as tears started to trickle down her freckled cheeks and her narrow shoulders shook as she took short intakes of breath. ‘I feel so lost sometimes. One minute I’m looking at him and my heart is fit to burst, I love him so much. But there are times in the middle of the night when I feel utterly alone. Joe’s snoring, none the wiser, the baby won’t go down in his crib and I’m so tired I can barely see straight. I swear I’ve seen the sunrise every morning since Craig was born.’ I sat by her side and listened, nodding and acknowledging her feelings. ‘Why did no one tell me it would be this hard? I don’t recognise myself at the moment and Joe’s life carries on exactly the same.’

‘Let’s look at one thing at a time. You’re doing really well, Mrs Rudcliff, you really are. What do you think could be better?’

‘The feeding. He’s so heavy, and he pounds on me with his fist and thrashes about and leaves me aching. I dread it, I really do, and it’s not getting any easier. I’m not fit to be his mother.’

‘You are a splendid mother. Do you think an unfit mother would care this much?’

She gave me a little shy smile. ‘I suppose that’s right. You’d know, Nurse.’

An hour later Craig was sleeping peacefully, we’d discussed feeding, sleeping and nappies, and Mrs Rudcliff was calmer but I was still worried about her health. She needed a bit of looking after. The kitchen door swung open and Joe Rudcliff appeared. A burly man and at over six feet his head practically scraped the ceiling as he came in. Silently he pulled off his muddy boots and went to wash his hands and face in the kitchen sink. He didn’t say a word or even show the slightest awareness there was a stranger, me, in his house.

‘What’s for lunch?’ he asked his wife, his back to us as he gazed out of the kitchen window onto his empire.

‘I’ve made mackerel pâté and freshly baked bread.’

‘Again?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll be half-starved in a month if you carry on this way,’ he informed her, taking a huge hunk of bread from the kitchen table and spreading it liberally with the delicious looking pâté. He stomped off, followed a minute later by the sound of the radio blaring from the sitting room.

‘I’m going to go now if there isn’t anything else?’ I asked. But Mrs Rudcliff didn’t reply. ‘While the baby’s asleep eat up some of that scrumptious pâté and then get your head down for a bit if you can.’

‘Would you like some?’

‘No, thank you. You eat it all up while you can.’