Bridie was crouched on the cot, holding the woman’s hand, whispering.
I took down a sterile bulb syringe. The rubbery bulge, with its limp tubes, always reminded me of a red spider that had lost all but two legs. I tested the temperature of the solution by dripping it on the inside of my wrist, then filled a large jar. Fresh gloves.
The bleeding seemed to have slowed. Now, Mrs. Garrett, this will wash you out nicely.
I dropped the syringe’s sinker into the jar and fed the glass nozzle inside her cervix. I squeezed the bulb to pump the liquid in while I massaged her rumpled belly with my other hand. Pinkish water flooded back out of her, across the sheets, soaking my apron and Bridie’s.
At last, the unmistakeable feel of the womb contracting under my palm. The bleeding was stopping. I wouldn’t need to dose her with ergot or plug her with a tin’s worth of gauze. This was over, and I hadn’t lost the mother.
Who’s in charge here?
I jerked around guiltily.
A stranger all in black. This had to be the infamous Dr. Lynn. Collar and tie, like a man’s, but a plain skirt and no apron. In her forties? Long hair (slightly greying) coiled up in plaits behind; this was the lady in furs I’d glimpsed from the window earlier.
She took in the sight of me and Bridie daubed with blood, standing over the shambles of Delia Garrett’s cot. The empty crib. She turned her head to find the draped basin.
II
Brown
AS I WOUND UP my report over the small sound of Delia Garrett weeping, I realised it was dim; the autumn sun had started slipping down without my noticing. I stepped over to the switch and turned on the harsh overhead light.
Thank you, Nurse.
Dr. Lynn had uttered no word of blame yet.
I was embarrassed by the gory state of my cuffs, browning already; I unbuttoned them, dropped them in the laundry bucket, washed my forearms, and found another pair of cuffs.
Bridie stood in the corner, looking dazed by the havoc of the past hour.
Dr. Lynn pushed her little glasses up on the bridge of her nose, scanned Delia Garrett’s chart, and wrote something on the bottom.
I knew I should be dealing with the mess of the birth, but I didn’t want to step between doctor and patient. The empty crib—at least I could get that away from Delia Garrett’s bed where it stood like a reproach. I wheeled it, one wheel squeaking, over to the ward sister’s desk. (My desk today. My responsibility, all of it.)
Dr. Lynn said, I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Garrett.
A whimper.
(Had I failed the woman? How I longed to get out of this airless room.)
From the look of your daughter, said Dr. Lynn, I suspect her heart stopped quite a few hours ago, most likely due to your influenza.
What the doctor meant was that the stillbirth wasn’t my doing. But my spirits sank none the less; to think that this morning, while Delia Garrett had been griping, flicking through her magazines, snoozing, eating a stolen sausage, her passenger had departed already.
Delia Garrett said, But the other doctor—Prendergast—told me I wasn’t a bad case.
Dr. Lynn nodded gravely. We’re finding that even a mild dose can endanger a child in utero or jolt it out before its time.
Fresh sobs.
In her quiet voice: I couldn’t have saved your daughter even if I’d been right here, Mrs. Garrett, but still, I’m terribly sorry I was delayed. Now, you have a little sleep while we tidy you up.
No answer from the weeping mother.
Dr. Lynn turned to me, but I was already going for the chloroform.
While the doctor disinfected her knobbly fingers, I tied the thick mask at the back of Delia Garrett’s matted head and dripped on the anesthetic. In seconds the woman was under.
The doctor murmured, Apologies to you too, Nurse—the wire from the office took hours to reach me this morning, as I was away from home at a free flu clinic I’ve set up.
So was the fur-wearing physician some sort of benevolent Lady Bountiful? She seemed serious and able, and if she had her own practice and ran a charity clinic on the side, she had to be coming into the hospital today out of civic duty rather than for a locum’s measly wages.
But I’d almost forgotten that she was a rebel combatant too—actually deported for taking part in a violent uprising, unlikely as that seemed. I couldn’t make her out, this Dr. Lynn.
I cleaned my own hands, took down an instrument tray from the shelf, fitted a long curved needle into a holder, and threaded it with a length of catgut.
Dr. Lynn had Delia Garrett’s knees open and was delicately fingering the damage. Oh dear—ripped up by that great head, and for nothing.
I couldn’t help wondering how much experience she had at what she was about to tackle. You’re in general practice, Doctor?
Shrewd eyes lifted to mine; that thin mouth had a hint of mirth. Are you asking how qualified I am to repair a lacerated vulva, Nurse Power?
I swallowed hard.
Obstetrics happens to be one of my areas of special interest, along with ophthalmology and insanity.
I blinked; that was quite a range of interests.
It may comfort you to know that I’ve a licentiate in midwifery and I’ve worked in several lying-in clinics.
Bridie, standing by the wall, seemed amused by my mortification.
I poured carbolic solution between the unconscious woman’s legs and dabbed her with some flax-tow swabs.
No cotton?
Shortages, I explained.
Dr. Lynn nodded. This tear goes all the way back to the anus, which is rare bad luck in a multigravida.
I did try to support the perineum, I told her.
Oh, no criticism implied, she muttered without glancing up. I never like to spell out to a patient that she’s had a close call, but frankly, she’d have been a goner if you hadn’t stopped that haemorrhage.
Now Bridie was grinning at me.
My cheeks scorched. God knew I hadn’t been fishing for a compliment.
Dr. Lynn took the needle-holder from me. No silk? I find it holds tighter.
I’m afraid we’ve been out of that for weeks too.
She put in the first suture. How long have you been on shift, Nurse?
Ah…since seven this morning.
No break?
I’m perfectly all right.
Dr. Lynn’s stitching was meticulous, but Delia Garrett had such a ragged laceration, I wondered if she would ever feel right in herself again.
Bridie, I asked, could you go back to the refrigerator—you remember, in the supply room—and get a frozen cotton pad?
She shot off.
Dr. Lynn snipped the last thread. There, now. At least catgut dissolves so Mrs. Garrett won’t have to come back to have her stitches out and be reminded of today.
I trickled more disinfectant and drew a sheet up to her waist for now.
After washing her hands, Dr. Lynn winched the top window all the way open. Don’t let it get stuffy in here. Fresh air!
Yes, Doctor.
I was dashing off a note asking the office to telephone Mr. Garrett right away; I finished it and tucked it into my bib.
Dr. Lynn took Mary O’Rahilly’s hand as if they were meeting at a party. Now, then, who have we here?
Mrs. O’Rahilly, seventeen, primigravida. Pangs for a day or two, but twenty minutes apart.
That doesn’t sound much fun.
The sympathy made a tear run out of Mary O’Rahilly’s left eye, and she started coughing.
I lifted down her chart from the wall and the loose nail spun across the floor. Sorry!
I handed the doctor the chart and scurried to pick up the nail. Which reminded me about my watch and the fresh mark I’d have to make for Delia Garrett’s little still.
While the doctor interviewed Mary O’Rahilly, I turned away and slid the heavy disk out of my apron. I found a space among its markings and gouged a small scratch on the silver back. Not a moon this ti
me, just a short line.
Bridie was standing there studying me. I dropped the watch in my bib pocket and fitted the nail back into the wall.
She held out a lumpy thing—not the frozen cotton I’d asked for. It’s wet moss in a muslin casing, she told me. A nurse said it’d do nicely.
Meaning it was all they had. I sighed and took it.
In case Delia Garrett’s sleep was lightening and she could hear me, I said, We’re going to put the binder on you now, Mrs. Garrett.
I set the chilled sausage shape between her legs and safety-pinned it to the under-loop of the foot-wide belt. I cinched the three straps tight.
What’s that for? asked Bridie.
To support her poor stretched middle. Oh, could you bring this note to the office on the third floor?
Bridie almost snatched it from me in her eagerness to help.
Delia Garrett moaned a little in her sleep.
I needed to get the still out of her sight before she woke up. Over at the narrow counter, I took down an empty shoebox from the stack. I spread out wax paper, uncovered the basin, and lifted out the blanket-wrapped body. I set it down on the wax paper and made as neat a package of it as I could. My hands shook a little as I put the lid on. I parcelled it up in brown paper and tied it with string, like an unexpected gift.
No need for a certificate of birth or death; legally speaking, nothing had happened here. Garrett, I wrote on the shoebox, October 31.
I hoped Delia Garrett’s husband would come to collect the box tomorrow. Though in these cases some fathers preferred not to, so Matron would wait until we had several shoeboxes, then send them to the cemetery.
Dr. Lynn was palpating Mary O’Rahilly’s bump and listening to it with her stethoscope. Patience is what I recommend at this stage, Mrs. O’Rahilly. I’m going to have Nurse Power give you a sleeping draught to help pass the time and restore your forces.
She came over to the desk and told me, Chloral. It can incline the cervix to open too. But no chloroform, as we don’t want to suppress these early contractions.
I nodded as I noted that down.
The doctor added under her breath, I’m somewhat concerned that it’s taking so long. The mother’s not fully grown yet, and poorly nourished. If I were in charge of the world, there’d be no whelping before twenty.
I liked Dr. Lynn for that bold comment.
Mary O’Rahilly took her medicine without a word.
Here was Bridie, back already.
I set the shoebox in her hands. Now take this down to the mortuary in the basement, would you?
The what?
I whispered: Where the dead go.
Bridie looked down, realising what she held.
I asked, All right?
Perhaps I was demanding too much of one so untried. About twenty-two. Had she some reason to be vague or was it possible in this day and age that she really didn’t know how old she was?
All right, said Bridie.
She shoved back a nimbus of bronze fuzz and was gone.
Dr. Lynn remarked, An energetic runner you’ve got there.
Isn’t she?
A probie?
No, just a volunteer for the day.
Mary O’Rahilly seemed to be dropping off already. But Ita Noonan was stirring, and there was a distinct creak to her breathing. Dr. Lynn took up her wrist and I hurried over with a thermometer.
How are you feeling, Mrs. Noonan?
Her coughs were a hail of bullets but she smiled. Lovely and shiny! Never mind the wax.
Six days of fever, Dr. Lynn muttered. Did she already have white leg when she came in?
I nodded. She said it’s stayed that size, and cold and hard, since her last delivery.
Ita Noonan’s temperature was down almost a degree, but Dr. Lynn reported that her pulse and respirations were higher. She put her stethoscope to the concave chest. Hm. Under ordinary circumstances, she said, I’d send her for a roentgenograph, but there are patients queuing halfway along the corridor up there.
I tried to remember when things had last been ordinary—late summer?
The doctor added, At any rate, X-rays would only draw us a picture of exactly how congested her lungs are, not tell us how to clear them.
Ita Noonan addressed her in a gracious gasp: Will you be staying for the hooley?
I will, of course, thank you, Mrs. Noonan.
Dr. Lynn murmured to me, I see her left arm is slightly palsied. That can happen with this flu. Has she seemed dizzy at all?
Yes, I thought perhaps she was when I was bringing her to the lavatory earlier.
Dr. Lynn wrote that on the chart. Tantalising not to be able to get precise answers out of the delirious, isn’t it? Every symptom is a word in the language of disease, but sometimes we can’t hear them properly.
And even if we do, we can’t always make out the full sentence.
She nodded. So we just shush them, one word at a time.
I asked, More hot whiskey for Mrs. Noonan, then? Dr. Prendergast said—
She answered a little wearily: Mm, it’s looking as if alcohol’s the safest for grippe patients, all things considered.
There was a junior I didn’t know at the door. Dr. Lynn? You’re wanted in Women’s Surgical.
The doctor adjusted her glasses and said, On my way. Over her shoulder she told me, I’ll send up a chaplain for a word with Mrs. Garrett.
And may she have whiskey too, for her afterpains and cough?
Indeed. With any of these patients, use your good judgement.
That startled me. You mean—I should give medicine without a specific order?
That would be scorning protocol. If I’d misunderstood her, I could lose my job for overstepping.
Dr. Lynn nodded impatiently. They have me running between half a dozen wards today, Nurse Power, and you seem awfully capable, so I authorise you to dose any of your patients with alcohol or, for bad pain, chloroform or morphine.
I was filled with gratitude; she’d untied my hands.
Coming in, Bridie almost crashed into the doctor in the doorway. She was panting a little, with a sheen on her speckled cheekbones; had she taken the stairs three at a time?
Dr. Lynn said, Catch your breath, dear.
I’m grand, said Bridie. What do you need next, Nurse Power?
I sent her off to the incinerator chute with the bundled mess of Delia Garrett’s delivery and then to the laundry one with the ball of bloodied sheets.
I scanned my narrow domain, and my eye fell on the pot the thermometer had cracked in. I poured the cooled water down the drain, leaving the small glitter of glass and the mercury droplets rolling around in the bottom. I formed a packet out of newspaper and tipped it all in.
Bridie came back in and saw. I’m such an eejit to have broke that.
Not your fault. I should have warned you that boiling water would make the mercury expand too much and crack the bulb.
She shook her head. I should have guessed.
If a lesson’s not learnt, I said, blame the student. But if it’s not taught right—or not taught at all—blame the teacher.
She grinned. So I’m a student now? There’s posh.
I wrapped up the packet of newspaper and murmured, I’m afraid I’m not much of a teacher at the moment.
Ah, well, sure everything’s arsewise right at the minute.
Bridie said that under her breath, as if worried her language might offend me.
I smiled to myself to hear her come out with Tim’s phrase.
In her stupor, Delia Garrett shifted around on the pillows.
Bridie nodded at her. Your one would have bled to death if you hadn’t dug that lump out of her, isn’t that what the doctor meant?
I grimaced. Who knows?
Her eyes were starry blue. Never seen the like!
The girl’s worship weighed on me. If I’d been even a little clumsy this afternoon, I might have ripped Delia Garrett apart, left her barren or dead. I didn’t know any nurs
e without a few big mistakes on her conscience.
Bridie went on as if to herself: I suppose she’s as well off.
Wealthy, did she mean? I wasn’t sure what good that would do the Garretts now. I asked quietly, Well off in what sense?
As well off without it.
It took me a second to get it. I whispered: Without—the baby?
Bridie blew out her breath. Only more pain in the end, aren’t they?
I was speechless. How could such a young woman have formed so warped a view of the main business of humankind?
Didn’t Mrs. Garrett tell us herself that she didn’t want a third?
I said shortly, That won’t stop her heart breaking.
I looked at the package of mercury and glass, forcing my mind back to practical matters. I wondered whether incinerating it might send up dangerous fumes.
I asked Bridie to take the packet outside the hospital and throw it in the nearest bin. And then get yourself a bite of lunch—or more like dinner now, I suppose.
I was rarely aware of hunger on a busy shift; my own body’s needs were suspended. I’d sent away the maid with the birthmark, I remembered. Those lunch trays, Bridie, are they still outside?
She shook her head. Someone must have took them.
I couldn’t send a special request when the kitchen staff were so hard-pressed. Tell you what, could you go to the canteen and load a tray up for us all?
She set down the packet of glass and her hands went to her hair—frayed wire now. She whipped out the comb I’d given her and did her best to slick it back.
Go on, you’ll do.
She sped off.
An odd creature, this Bridie Sweeney, but such a natural at ward work.
Silence spread.
My apron was stained and spattered with blood; I changed it for a new one. I smoothed it down over my flat belly, which let out a gurgle. The shift went on, and so did I.
Delia Garrett blinked, coming back to consciousness. She heaved onto her side—
I grabbed a basin and a cloth from the shelf and ran over in time to catch most of what dribbled out.
The Pull of the Stars Page 9