When she’d stopped retching, I wiped her mouth. That’s common after chloroform, Mrs. Garrett. You’re just cleaning yourself out.
I could see the memory hit her like a fist. Eyes roaming. Where’s she—what have you done with her?
Was she wishing she’d looked at her daughter’s face? I felt bad that I hadn’t urged it. But what if she’d been even more upset by the sight of those blackening lips?
I told her, She’s gone to the Angels’ Plot.
Hoarsely: What?
That’s what they call the special place in the cemetery.
(How to describe a mass grave?)
I improvised: It’s lovely. Grass and flowers.
Delia Garrett’s round cheeks were carved with salty lines. What am I going to tell Bill?
Someone will have phoned your husband and explained.
(As if such a thing admitted of explanation.)
I used the cloth to wipe up the spatters of sick. Let’s get you sitting up. Come on, now, Mrs. Garrett, it’s better for you.
I didn’t want to spell out that sitting up was necessary for her uterus to drain. I had to almost drag her up against the pillows.
Her heart rate and pulse force were down to normal; her blood was moving as it should now that her body had shed its small burden. I checked her pad; the bleeding was very light. All Delia Garrett had wrong with her was a cough and privates torn by her baby’s head. And no baby. Empty-handed.
I feared whiskey might be too hard on her stomach, so I made her a cup of tea, stronger than usual and with three sugars for the shock, and put two biscuits in the saucer.
Delia Garrett sipped the tea, tears running into the corners of her mouth.
I prompted her to eat.
Unseeing, she fumbled for a biscuit.
The ward was quite calm, like a subdued tea party where the conversation had died away.
In the left-hand cot, Ita Noonan kicked out her legs, making me jump. She sat up staring and smacked her lips, wrinkled her nose as if there were a foul smell. Delirium could do that—cause hallucinations of odour as well as of sound and sight.
Thirsty, Mrs. Noonan?
I held out her lidded cup but she didn’t seem to know what it was. When I put it to her lips, she turned her crimson face away. I tried wet cloths on her neck to cool her down; she threw them on the floor and dived down into the bedding. I reached for her wrist to check her pulse, but she withdrew her arm and hid it under her.
A clatter behind as Bridie walked through the door backwards with a loaded tray.
I rushed to clear her a space on the desk.
Two dishes of muddy stew with pale lumps like capsized boats. A mound of defeated cabbage and a mash that smelled like turnip. Marge spread on war bread. Two slices of pie I suspected was rabbit, and a bowl of prunes.
Bridie said, See, there’s even sliced chicken.
It looked jellylike to me, tinned.
Fried fish too!
Then Bridie’s face fell. Though one of the cooks was saying that’s how this flu might have got started.
Through…fish?
She nodded. Ones that ate dead soldiers.
That’s nonsense, Bridie.
Is it, for sure?
I’m one hundred per cent certain, I told her.
The young woman chuckled at that.
What?
You can’t be one hundred per cent certain. Because nobody actually knows where the sickness comes from, do they?
I said in exasperation, Ninety-five per cent, then.
There was a printed sheet underneath the plates, still smeary.
STAY CLEAN, WARM, AND WELL NOURISHED,
BUT FORBEAR TO
USE MORE THAN A FAIR SHARE
OF FUEL AND FOOD.
EARLY TO SLEEP AND KEEP WINDOWS WIDE,
WHILE TAKING CARE TO AVOID DRAUGHTS.
VENTILATION AND SANITATION
WILL BE OUR NATION’S SALVATION.
That paradoxical prescription made my mouth purse; it seemed intended to discomfit either way, whether one turned the gas a little up for health or a little down for economy. Already I felt ashamed every time I caught myself resenting small privations when others had it so much worse. Guilt was the sooty air we breathed these days.
But look at Bridie, on her feet, eating rabbit pie as appreciatively as if she were dining at the Ritz.
I made myself pick up a dish of stew. One spoonful. Another. The Ministry of Food claimed that levels of nutrition had actually improved since the war began because we were eating more vegetables, less sugar. But then I supposed they would say that.
I mentioned to Bridie that before this crisis, we nurses used to get an hour to ourselves in our own dining room.
She marvelled, The full hour?
We’d read the news aloud, knit, sing, even dance to the gramophone.
A hooley!
I said, Well, that’s overstating the case. No drink, and no cigarettes ever, even off shift.
Still, it sounds jolly.
Call me Julia, if you like.
I surprised myself by saying that, very low.
I added, Only not in front of the patients.
Bridie nodded. Julia, she repeated softly.
Sorry if I’m snappish sometimes.
You aren’t.
I admitted, under my breath, My temper’s not the best since the flu. I’ve felt a little bit deadened.
You can’t be a little bit dead. If you’re not in the ground yet, you’re one hundred per cent alive.
I grinned back at her.
Bridie glanced to make sure Mary O’Rahilly was asleep and Ita Noonan and Delia Garrett weren’t listening before she whispered: Down in the canteen I heard talk about one fellow deranged with the flu who up and slaughtered his wife and kids.
I told her, That sounds like a story. (Hoping so.) But there’ve certainly been a few sufferers who’ve done away with themselves.
She sketched the sign of the cross on her chest.
One man went to buy medicine for himself and his family, I said. Cut through a park, went by a pond…and the constables found him facedown among the swans.
Bridie gasped. Drowned?
Though he mightn’t have been thinking straight. Maybe he was burning up and the water looked so deliciously cool? Or he stumbled in by mistake?
She eyed Ita Noonan. We should keep an eye on your one with the bad fever, so.
Oh, I never leave any sharp instruments near a delirious patient, or bandages.
Bridie’s smooth forehead creased. Where’s the harm in bandages?
I mimed winding one around my neck.
Oh.
I didn’t tell Bridie about a girl who’d managed to half throttle herself in the lavatory with a bandage before Sister Finnigan had found her. No fever, in her case, but a reason for despair: twelve years old and seven months gone. From hints she let slip, we suspected her father.
Standing by the cot on the left, Bridie gazed down at Ita Noonan. Bluish, she remarked.
What’s that?
Her fingernails. Is that from the thing you were telling me—red, brown, blue, black?
I hurried over. Ita Noonan’s nailbeds had indeed darkened, which could be advancing cyanosis, but her face was still red and clammy. What alarmed me more was her wheeze, like air trapped in bagpipes, the leather stretching. I counted her pantings by my watch—thirty-six respirations a minute, heart and lungs working full tilt. She was a rower frantically oaring towards the bank. She was also shivering, so I swaddled her up in her shawl and another blanket. Her pulse was up to 104 beats per minute, but the force seemed much weaker to me.
Are you dizzy at all, Mrs. Noonan?
She muttered something I didn’t catch.
For low blood pressure, I should elevate her feet on a square bedrest, but that would be the very worst position for her congested lungs. My mind went around and around in a panicky, defeated loop. So I did nothing; I watched and waited.
&n
bsp; A tap at the door: Father Xavier.
The priest had the kind of lined, sweet face that made it impossible to guess his age; he could have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred years old. Nurse Power, he said in his wintry voice, do we have a Mrs. Garrett?
Dr. Lynn had sent the wrong chaplain. I pointed to her bed. But she’s a Protestant, Father. Church of Ireland.
Ghost-faced, Delia Garrett had slid halfway down the pillows, her tea cooling on the little cabinet beside her, a biscuit dissolving in the saucer.
The priest nodded. I’m afraid the reverend’s been struck down. There’s only me today, for right- and left-footers alike. Well, as they say, all cats are grey in the dark.
I explained to Bridie, Father Xavier used to be the Roman Catholic chaplain here till he retired and Father Dominic stepped in.
Only Father Dominic too went down with the flu last week, he said, so I’ve been summoned back.
I tucked a stool for him beside Delia Garrett’s bed. Sorry there’s so little room, Father.
No matter. I stiffen up when I sit for too long.
He positioned himself against the wall.
Mrs. Garrett, I’m standing in for my Church of Ireland colleague, as he’s under the weather, if you’ve no objection?
Her closed eyelids didn’t even flicker. Asleep, I wondered, or ignoring him?
He leaned over her. I’m very sorry for your trouble.
No response.
Father Xavier sighed. I believe Christians of all persuasions can agree on grounds to hope, at least, that in His infinite mercy, the Lord will provide some mechanism of salvation for those who pass away in the womb, unbaptised through no fault of their own.
A sob wracked Delia Garrett, then turned into a cough. I knew the fellow meant well, but I wished he’d leave her alone.
Didn’t Jesus say to let the children come to Him? So you must entrust your little one to His loving care now, and to the guardian angels.
She must have heard that, because she turned her face away sharply.
The old man straightened up painfully and said, I’ll let you rest.
Coming over to the desk, he asked, Have you a new junior, Nurse Power?
Just a skivvy, said Bridie before I could answer. A replacement, like yourself.
The priest looked back at me and jerked his head at her. I see she’s a quick one.
I said: Don’t I know it, Father.
He sneezed and wiped his great reddened nose. Excuse me, ladies.
I asked, Have you a cold brewing?
I’m just getting over a little dose of this flu.
If I may, Father—
I put the back of my hand to his forehead, which was warmish. Shouldn’t you be in bed, then, to be on the safe side?
Ah, I’d rather walk it off, said Father Xavier. I might as well be useful on the fever wards.
But the strain—considering your…
He raised his tufted eyebrows. Considering my age, young lady, how much would it matter in the greater scheme of things if I were taken this very night?
Bridie let out a snort.
Father Xavier winked at her. I’ll be grand. I hear the old are getting through this better than the young.
I qualified that: Well, as a general rule.
The priest said briskly, His ways are mysterious.
Delia Garrett’s eyes were open now, her gaze following the old man out the door. She looked hollowed out.
I couldn’t bear to see her this way. Hot whiskey, Mrs. Garrett?
As soon as I handed her the cup, she drained it. Then lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes.
Quiet again. A chance to catch one’s breath after going like a juggler from minute to hectic minute.
I stared at the slumped figure of Ita Noonan. Head up, to ease her breathing, or feet up, for better pulse force? Or keep her flat—would that be the best compromise or no good for either problem? Every symptom was a word, yes, but I couldn’t understand them, couldn’t follow.
Bridie was mopping the floor, unasked. Such generous stamina this young woman had. I thanked her.
You’re welcome, Julia.
She said my first name a little shyly, as if trying it on for size.
Outside the window, it was black; all the light had slipped away now.
Bridie remarked, I hate the old evenings.
Do you?
When the night draws in and you have to go to bed, but you can’t get to sleep no matter how you try. Cursing yourself because you’ll be sorry in the morning when you can’t drag yourself up at the bell.
That sounded like a bleak life. I wondered whether the Sweeneys were in very straitened circumstances. Were Bridie’s parents harsh with her?
A thump.
I looked at the cot on the left but it was empty, the sheets a risen wave. For half a stupid moment, I couldn’t tell where Ita Noonan had gone.
I ran around Mary O’Rahilly’s bed, barking my shin on the metal.
Against the skirting board, Ita Noonan thrashed like a fish, eyes rolled back. Her legs were trapped in the blankets, her arms lashing out. She banged her head on the corner of the little cabinet.
Bridie cried out, Jesus wept!
I couldn’t tell if Ita Noonan was breathing. A stink went up from her bowels. I knelt over her, crammed a pillow behind her head. One hand whacked me on the breast.
Should we stick a spoon in her mouth? asked Bridie.
No, it’d smash her teeth. More pillows!
The thud of her feet, the slam as she ransacked the cupboard.
I stayed helplessly on my knees, trying to keep Ita Noonan from breaking any bones as she convulsed under me. Rose-streaked foam leaked out the side of her mouth. I needed to get her lying on her side so she wouldn’t choke, but it was impossible, wedged as she was in this gap. Her feet were still up on the cot, knotted in the blankets.
The childhood prayer threaded through my head: Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour—
Bridie dropped three pillows into my arms.
But Ita Noonan was limp now. No writhing; no rise and fall of her chest.
I wiped her mouth with my apron, bent, and put my cheek to her lips.
What are you doing?
Shh!
I waited. No breath against my face, nothing at all. Help me turn her over, facedown.
Here on the floor? But even as she asked this, Bridie was wrenching the bed linen loose so Ita Noonan’s lower legs came unstuck and slid and dropped down, the huge white one and then the skinny one.
We got her prone, one cheek to the floorboards. I should have been sitting at her head but there wasn’t room. I pressed on her back as hard as I could, trying to pump the lungs. I straddled her and folded her arms with her yellowed fingers under her face, hauled her elbows back towards me to open the chest, as I’d been trained. I pushed on the back of her ribs, pulled up her elbows. Push, pull, push, pull. Kneading a vast lump of dough that was so dry, it would never make bread.
When at last I stopped, the room hung very still. I checked my watch: 5:31.
Is she…
I couldn’t answer Bridie. This day was too much for me. I closed my eyes.
My hand was seized. I tried to jerk away.
But Bridie wouldn’t let go; she only squeezed tighter.
So I gripped her hand. I held on to her fingers, hard enough to hurt.
Then I took my hand back so I could wipe my face. Just sweat; I couldn’t afford to cry.
I was busy counting in my head. Sister Finnigan had measured the height of the uterus above the pubic bone and estimated that Ita Noonan was twenty-nine weeks on. In which case, all I should do right now was have a doctor certify her death. Theoretically, a foetus was viable from twenty-eight weeks on, but in practice, babies delivered before thirty weeks’ gestation rarely survived, so if they were unresponsive, hospital policy was not to revive them.
Then again, because the uterus dropped in the final days o
f pregnancy, nine months could look more like eight, perhaps even seven. So there was a slim but awful chance that Sister Finnigan’s estimate was wrong and that Ita Noonan—her belly sagging particularly low under its twelfth load—was actually at full term.
Bridie, fetch the doctor at once.
Will I not help you get her into bed first?
I roared: Go!
I couldn’t put words to the terrible calculations I was making.
Right away, she said. Dr. Lynn?
I flapped my hand. Any surgeon.
For a posthumous caesarean section, an obstetrician wasn’t absolutely necessary, since there was no mother to save, only her dead flesh to slice, a living baby to seize. The window of opportunity was twenty minutes, but the faster the better—less risk of damage to the brain.
Bridie’s feet thudded off down the corridor.
I found I was as weak as water.
Delia Garrett sat bolt upright and stared at me accusingly as if this room were an antechamber of hell and I the attendant. Mrs. Noonan—is she gone now?
I nodded. I’m so sorry you—
Then why are you shouting, Nurse—what’s so bloody urgent?
I couldn’t tell her that sometimes a surgeon would harvest a woman’s fruit while she was still warm.
I got my arms under Ita Noonan and heaved her onto the bed. My back spasmed. I laid her out flat. I closed her startled eyes and clasped her hands together. One of them slipped down and off the cot, so I retrieved it and tucked it back into the blanket. For lack of a priest, I murmured, Eternal rest grant unto her, and let perpetual light shine upon her.
I resisted the temptation to check my watch; the minutes were ticking by and I could do nothing to slow them. Maybe it would take Bridie more than twenty minutes to find a doctor, in which case we’d all be spared this awful decision.
I rolled up my apron and threw it in the laundry basket, tied on another to be ready for whatever came next. What more could I do than keep putting one foot in front of the other?
Dr. Lynn glided in, Bridie on her heels. She checked for a pulse in Ita Noonan’s neck while she listened to my rapid-fire report.
In the back of my mind, I was thinking, What have I done? Why did I have to send Bridie so bloody fast? If my qualms persuaded the doctor to haul out a stunted, suffering infant at twenty-nine weeks, or twenty-eight, or even twenty-seven, for all we knew…
The Pull of the Stars Page 10