Through my many years in the little maternity ward at the remote northern village of Ashwick, I have held the tiny hands of about twelve thousand newborns. Yet a handful of cases have clung to my memory like barnacles on a ships hull, and among them the only set of triplets I ever tended still haunts my thoughts. Let me tell that tale.
It began with a young couple who had just learned they were to be parents for the first time. The husband, Thomas Whitaker, had been posted to our village by the Ministry of Transport; he was an aircraft mechanic at the modest airstrip that served the farming community. They lived in a cramped cubicle in the workers hostel. The bride, Evelyn Clarke, was a lively, fieryredhaired girl from London, whose beauty was the sort of thing youd expect to see described in a pennyblowballad.
Thomas was the son of a family from the Midlands, broadshouldered and easygoing, with a lazy smile that made the younger nurses think he might be a bit of a lout. In those bright, hopeful days of postwar Britain, such a mixture of backgrounds was as common as rain in November. Early in the pregnancy they were told they would be expecting twins.
The news prompted Evelyn to book a place with her mother in the capital, but the labour started earlyat just thirtytwo weeks. It was on my night shift that Vicky arrived at the ward, her contractions already in full swing. The main block of the hospital was closed for a deep cleaning, so we were operating out of the makeshift rooms of the gynaecology wing.
The attending midwife, Diana Hartley, was a seasoned and competent woman. From the first glance at Evelyns abdomen, Diana suspected that the babies were not lying as they should. That meant a natural delivery could end in disaster, so a decision was taken to perform a Caesarean section. An Xray was ordered to confirm the positions.
The image showed exactly two children, but not in the way one would expect. One was headfirst, the other was breech. With this knowledge, we wheeled Evelyn into the operating theatre.
The first child emergeda boy, weighing a mere 1.7kg. While the surgeons tended to him, the nurses prepared for the second. The second boy followed, a shade lighter at 1.6kg. As we were finishing up, a voice crackled from the other side of the theatre:
Prepare for the third!
I had no humour left for jokesboth boys were tiny as sparrows! I may have muttered a few sharp words at the frantic assistants, but a sudden, loud cry made me spin on my heel. There, in the womb, a third child lay hiddena little girl, just 1.4kg, snug beneath the two boys like a secret treasure.
It seemed the two little gentlemen had taken up positions side by side along the length of the uterus, while their sister lay across them, shielded from sight. Their tiny bodies had formed a protective wall around her, keeping her out of the Xrays view.
Had Diana not pressed for the operation, those three might never have seen the light of day. We lifted the newborn girl and, together with the nurse, cared for all three. The ward was not built for such a sudden influx; there was only one incubator, a small cradle meant for premature infants. We placed the trio together in that solitary crib, and, by some miracle, they all fit.
I never left their side that night, my heart throbbing with worry. By dawn, their conditions had steadied, and the wards bell rang out. I stood by the door as a handsome young officer in an RAF uniform strode in.
Whos my children? he asked, eyes bright with anticipation.
Congratulations, I began slowly, you have two sons and a daughter.
It took him a moment to let the words settle. He muttered to himself, halflaughing, Two sons and a daughter Ive got three now?
Yes, I replied, as firmly as I could.
He settled onto a chair, and we offered him a glass of water. The man had only just been transferred here, his pay modest, his accommodation cramped. Yet now he was a father of triplets, a fact that seemed to lift his whole world.
The babies stayed in the ward for weeks, gaining weight and strength. I loved to drop in, marvel at the miracle of three tiny lives snuggled together. Their mother, Evelyn, was everwatchful, her face alight with a perpetual smile that could have warmed the coldest winter night. It was the first set of triplets the village had ever seen, and they were blessed beyond measure.
The local council promptly allocated a threebed house in the new council estate, stocked it with everything they might need, and even appointed a district nurse to visit them regularly for the first few months. But the true hero was Evelynher striking beauty, fierce determination, and boundless love raised those children as if they were her own kingdom.
Ten years later I found myself in the waiting room of the same hospital, now a sleek modern facility. Vicky walked in, arminarm with her children, come to visit their father, who had retired from the airfield and now tended the village shop.
The two darkhaired boys, unmistakably his, followed closely. At their heels burst forth a brightredhaired, sprightly girl, the spitting image of Evelyn, her grin as wide as a summer field. Watching that family, my heart swelled with a joy that seemed to echo the tiny beats I had heard long ago in that cramped incubator.
Even now, I can feel the warmth of those little bodies and hear the soft thrum of their hearts, a reminder that some memories never fade.
