What it's like to go to an abortion clinic during anti-abortion protests

Walking down a residential street in Ealing towards Marie Stopes, the abortion clinic where pro-life protesters will be banned from gathering outside as of Monday, I’m struck by an eerie silence.

Far from the vociferous protesters I’d expected, who have allegedly accosted visitors with foetal photographs and blocked them from entering clinics across the capital, the mood outside 87 Maddock Lane is strangely sombre and sepulchral.

A small elderly crowd is gathered a few metres away from the entrance; none of whom so much as look up at me when I walk past, seeming too engrossed in prayer books and a sober, chant-like rendition of the Lord’s Prayer.

Situated on the grass in the glaring sunshine, clad in typical British summertime gear, complete with dark sunglasses and foldaway garden furniture, at a first glance, you’d be forgiven for mistaking these Catholic pro-life campaigners for guests at a regional literary festival.

However, stationary placards make their their intentions clear, with one reading “Love them both” alongside a photograph of a mother and child while another urges pregnant women to seek “help” via an 0800 phone number.

Paired with a series of graphic images that chart a pregnancy from conception to birth, the campaigners may not be physically intimidating, but their presence is still difficult to ignore.

As I make my way towards the clinic’s entrance, a fifty-something blonde woman with a fistful of rosary beads stops me. Thinking I am a prospective patient, she says: “Hi, can I offer you some support?” and hands me two leaflets with drawings of foetuses on the front.

I explain that I am a journalist, and ask what kind of support she’s offering. She says she works for a non-profit called The Good Counsel Network, which provides financial and emotional support to pregnant women, encouraging them to have their children “in any circumstances”.

“Even in circumstances of rape and incest?” I ask.

“Yes, we’ll help anyone. We’re offering women the choice of getting the help and support they need,” she says, explaining that she meets a lot of women who are under pressure from partners and family members to go ahead with abortions, “so we present them with the alternative.”

I ask if she believes her actions are rooted in Catholic ideology.

“Oh yes, of course” she says. When I ask her to elaborate, she tells me she “can’t chat for too long” and that she needs to concentrate on approaching women visiting the clinic.

I ask about accusations of harassment and intimidation that have been aimed at her organisation. Her response is quick, labelling these “false allegations” and “rumours” spread by a counter-protest group, Sister Supporters, who are not here today in light of the impending ban imposed by Ealing Council.

“I’ve been here for nine years and I haven’t witnessed any of the alleged harassment they’re talking about,” she says.

“It’s always very peaceful. There’s no aggression here today.”

I ask her if she thinks the ban will deter her organisation from gathering outside clinics: “We need to have a meeting about that,” she says, adding she is “hopeful” they will find a way to continue.

I head inside, and in the waiting room I flick through the two leaflets handed to me, one pink and one blue. The scene outside might seem “peaceful”, but the pro-life rhetoric inside the leaflets is anything but.

A letter addressed to “Mum” reads: “please don’t do anything now that will HURT YOUR CHILD because you will regret it,” and, “please choose life for your baby!”

Oddly, the name of the Good Counsel Network is not printed anywhere in either leaflet.

“I saw them too,” a young man sat next to me says, pointing to the leaflets.

He’s waiting for his girlfriend, who he tells me was “harassed” by a group outside Marie Stopes’s Bloomsbury clinic two weeks ago.

“I dropped her off outside and went to park the car, so she was standing by herself. A campaigner approached her and wouldn’t let her go inside.

“She wanted to take her to the ‘Woman’s Clinic’ to see a counsellor and kept saying it was only a 27-minute bus journey away.

“She kept talking about Jesus and saying all of these farfetched things that made my girlfriend incredibly stressed about what was already a very difficult time for both of us.

“It’s her body, her life, she decides what she wants to do. This is wrong,” he adds, gesturing towards the campaigners outside.

As I leave, I walk past them once more – they are midway through another rendition of the Lord’s Prayer – and approach one of the elderly women who is singing so quietly that her voice is almost entirely inaudible.

Before I’ve even opened my mouth to introduce myself, she takes my hand, clasps it in both of hers, looks at me with pained eyes and whispers: “we’re here to pray.”

As I leave, a car goes past and a young man heckles out the window: “Enjoy your buffer zone you bastards!” It’s a reference to the measures coming in on Monday, which will see protests banned within that distance of the clinic entrance.

Nobody in the group so much as flinches – it may be that I’m the only person who heard him.