The Pull of the Stars

by Emma Donoghue

  Snagged in my head: And then I woke—

  Then I woke up—

  I woke, and found that life was duty. That was it.

  I winched my limbs out of bed in the dark. Sponged myself all over with cold water and brushed my teeth.

  Tim’s botch-legged magpie was hopping around on the kitchen table, its ratcheting screech like a policeman’s rattle. Its eye had an awful intelligence. Two for joy, I thought. Was this one lonely despite my brother’s silent company?

  Morning, Tim.

  He gave me both pieces of toast.

  What’s that on your cheek?

  Tim shrugged as if it were a smear of jam or smut.

  Come here so I can see.

  My brother’s hand shot out to keep me at bay.

  I told him, Let me do my job.

  I held his head steady, turned it to see better. It was a graze with a small blue bruise purpling behind it. Did you knock your face on something, Tim?

  He nodded slightly.

  Or was it another one of those yobbos who attacked you in the lane?

  He shrank back into himself.

  Strange times to be an invalided veteran in Dublin. An old fella might shake Tim’s hand to thank him for his service, and the same day a widow might sneer at him for a shirker because he still had all his limbs. A passer-by might shout that it was filthy Tommies who’d brought the plague home to these shores in the first place. But my guess was that yesterday, some young green-wearing, would-be rebel had called him a pawn of the empire and pelted him with rubbish, because that’s what had happened before.

  Tell me, Tim. Otherwise I’ll just have to imagine. Write it down if you’d rather.

  I shoved the notebook towards him, and the pencil rolled in a circle.

  He ignored it.

  Being a mother must be like this, a constant struggle to interpret a baby’s distress. But at least a child would be learning a little every day, whereas my brother…

  I risked putting my hand over his.

  Tim let it rest there briefly. Then with his other hand he pulled open the drawer of the kitchen table, and retrieved two packages tied with coils of old ribbon.

  I said, My birthday. It went right out of my mind.

  My brother loved me. A tear dropped onto my skirt now.

  Tim reached past me for the pencil and notebook. He wrote, Only thirty!

  I whooped with laughter and wiped my eyes. It’s not that, truly.

  Instead of trying to explain, I unwrapped the first box. Four Belgian truffles.

  Tim! Have you been hoarding these since the war broke out?

  He smirked.

  The second package was quite round; under its skins of tissue paper I found a fat shiny orange. All the way from Spain?

  Tim shook his head.

  I played the guessing game. Italy?

  A satisfied nod.

  I put the fruit to my nose and drew in the citrus tang. I thought of its arduous journey through the Mediterranean, past Gibraltar, and up the North Atlantic. Or overland through France—was that even possible anymore? I just hoped nobody had been killed shipping this precious freight.

  I tucked the orange and chocolates into my bag for a birthday lunch while Tim packed up his tools for the allotment. I stood in the lane; the slice of dark sky was streaked with pink. He got his motorcycle started on the third try. I’d bought it for him at a widow’s auction of an officer’s goods, though I’d never told him so in case the thought of riding a dead man’s machine bothered him.

  I waved as he rumbled slowly away, then went to fetch my coat and cape. I lined up my hooks and eyes. Standing beside my cycle, I drew up my skirts on their strings. It was mild, for the first morning of November.

  Bridie had probably never ridden a bike. Her having been in a home made sense of so many things: ringworm marks; melted arm from a kitchen accident; outsize gratitude for canteen grub, skin lotion, and hot water. No wonder she’d had no understanding of how a foetus lived and moved inside its mother—she’d grown up in a house of orphans and ended up boarding with nuns she couldn’t stand for want of anywhere else to go.

  I pedaled past the shackled gates of a school where a fresh-painted notice said CLOSED FOR FORESEEABLE FUTURE BY ORDER OF BOARD OF HEALTH. I thought of the young Noonans; if slum children weren’t going to school these days, they couldn’t be getting their free dinners there.

  Clouds hissed and billowed from the high windows of the shell factory, which meant the fumigators were steaming the workrooms; maybe they’d been toiling in their sulphurous fog all night. Outside, in a line that snaked from the door, munitions girls shifted from foot to foot as they chatted, stained hands pocketed against the dawn chill, impatient to get in and get at it.

  In my head, I told Ita Noonan: Your work’s done.

  I pedaled faster. Thirty years old. Where would I be at thirty-five? If the war was over by then, what would have taken its place?

  Back to this moment—what would be asked of me this morning? Delia Garrett, weeping into her sheets. The gasping, husbandless one, Honor White: Let her lungs be winning the fight. Mary O’Rahilly: Please, her travails over and a baby in her arms.

  I locked my cycle in the alley.

  Passing the shrine to the fallen soldiers, I noticed that a rebel had daubed NOT OUR WAR across the paving stone at its base. I wondered if he could possibly be the same lout who’d attacked Tim.

  But wasn’t it the whole world’s war now? Hadn’t we caught it from each other, as helpless against it as against other infections? No way to keep one’s distance; no island to hide on. Like the poor, maybe, the war would always be with us. Across the world, one lasting state of noise and terror under the bone man’s reign.

  I joined a knot of people waiting at the stop; they were far enough apart to be out of coughing range of each other but not too far to reach the door of the tram when it drew up. A drunk sang, surprisingly tuneful, oblivious to the scowlers:

  I don’t want to join the bloody army,

  I don’t want to go to bloody war.

  I’d rather stay at home,

  Around the streets to roam,

  Living on the earnings of a—

  We all braced ourselves for the dirty rhyme.

  …lady typist, he warbled.

  The tram came and I managed to squeeze on.

  From the lower level, I counted three ambulances and five hearses. Church bells rang ceaselessly. On a newspaper inches from me, I tried not to see a headline about a torpedoed liner: Search Continues for Survivors. Below, the words Likelihood of Armistice snagged me. Twice already, the papers had declared the war over; I refused to pay any attention until I had proof it was true.

  It was a relief to get down outside the hospital in the dawn light and breathe a little before I went through the gates. Nailed up under a streetlamp, a new notice, longer than usual:

  THE PUBLIC IS URGED

  TO STAY OUT OF PUBLIC PLACES

  SUCH AS CAFÉS, THEATRES, CINEMAS,

  AND PUBLIC HOUSES.

  SEE ONLY THOSE PERSONS ONE NEEDS TO SEE.

  REFRAIN FROM SHAKING HANDS, LAUGHING, OR CHATTING CLOSELY TOGETHER.

  IF ONE MUST KISS,

  DO SO THROUGH A HANDKERCHIEF.

  SPRINKLE SULPHUR IN THE SHOES.

  IF IN DOUBT, DON’T STIR OUT.

  In I went, in my sulphurless shoes, through the gates that said Vita gloriosa vita.

  I wanted to go straight up to Maternity/Fever, but I made myself get some more breakfast first in case today was even half as hectic as yesterday.

  In the basement, I took my place in the queue. I had reservations about what they might be bulking out the sausages with these days, so I decided on porridge.

  I listened in on speculations about the kaiser being on the verge of surrender; the imminence of peace. It occurred to me that in the case of this flu there could be no signing a pact with it; what we waged in hospitals was a war of attrition, a battle over each and every body.<
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  A student doctor was telling a story about a man who’d presented himself at Admitting, convinced he had the grippe because his throat was closing up. The chap turned out to be sound as a bell—it was just fright.

  The others sniggered tiredly.

  But wasn’t panic as real as any symptom? I thought about the unseen force blocking my brother’s throat.

  Our queue shuffled forward past the latest sign, which said, in strident capitals, IF I FAIL, HE DIES.

  I ate my porridge standing up in the corner and couldn’t manage more than half the bowl.

  No russet head when I hurried into Maternity/Fever; no Bridie Sweeney.

  Indefatigable in pristine white, Sister Luke moved towards me, a broad ship. Good morning, Nurse.

  I found I couldn’t bear to ask about Bridie, as if she were the young woman’s keeper.

  On the stairs last night, I’d wasted time chattering about film stars, and Bridie had never actually said anything about coming back, had she? I’d jumped to conclusions simply because I wanted her help so much. It shook me to realise that I’d been irrationally counting on her being here today; she was what the poster called a person one needs to see.

  Over on the right, Delia Garrett seemed to be asleep.

  Mary O’Rahilly, in the middle, was a snail curved around her own bump. Dr. Lynn had pierced the sac and let the girl’s waters out, so it really wasn’t safe for delivery to be delayed too long; there was a higher risk of infection. I murmured, Any progress there?

  Sister Luke grimaced. Pangs every eight minutes. Stronger than before, but the doctors aren’t happy with the pace.

  I doubted Mary O’Rahilly was either. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her black hair limp with sweat; even her cough sounded weary.

  It occurred to me that Bridie might in fact be here this morning but on a different ward. The office would assign every volunteer to where she was most needed, of course.

  Honor White was telling her beads with bloodless hands, mouthing the words.

  That one makes a great show of piety, said the nun in my ear.

  My temper flared. I answered, very low: I thought you’d approve of prayer.

  Well, if it’s sincere. But a year of praying did nothing to reclaim Her Nibs.

  I turned to stare. Mrs. White? I whispered. How can you possibly know that?

  Sister Luke tapped her nose through the gauze mask. A sister at our convent serves at that mother-and-baby home, and I asked her all about Mrs. over there. It’s her second time there. Not six months after release, didn’t she show up in the exact same condition again?

  I gritted my teeth. And then a question occurred to me: She stayed on for a whole year after the first birth?

  Well, that’s their term, if the infant lives.

  I didn’t follow.

  Sister Luke spelled it out: How long a woman has to do housework and mind the little ones to work off the costs if she hasn’t been able to pay.

  I puzzled it through. So for the crime of falling pregnant, Honor White was lodging in a charitable institution where tending her baby and those of other women was the punishment; she owed the nuns a full year of her life to repay what they were spending on imprisoning her for that year. It had a bizarre, circular logic.

  I asked, Does the mother keep…can she take her child away when the year is up?

  Sister Luke’s one eye bulged. Take it away and do what with it? Sure most of these lassies want nothing more than to be freed from the shame and nuisance.

  Perhaps my question had been naive; I knew unwed motherhood couldn’t be an easy life. I wondered whether such a woman might pretend to be widowed.

  Sister Luke conceded, The occasional first offender, if she’s truly reformed and very fond of the child and if a married sister or her own mother is willing to call it theirs, she might be allowed to bring it home to her family. But a hardened sinner? (Narrowing her eyes at Honor White.) That one will have to stay two years this time. Some are kept on after that, even, if they’re incorrigible—if it’s the only way to prevent another lapse.

  That left me speechless.

  When I saw the red curls coming in the door, the relief staggered me. Morning, Bridie!

  She pivoted towards me with her mile-wide smile.

  But I shouldn’t have used her first name, not in front of Sister Luke. Bridie didn’t call me anything, I noticed—just bobbed her head.

  I asked, Have you breakfasted?

  She nodded appreciatively. Black pudding and lashings of sausages.

  The nun said, Sweeney, sprinkle this floor with disinfectant and rub it all over with a cloth tied around that broom.

  The day shift was mine, so why was the nun giving orders? I pointedly waited for Sister Luke to leave.

  She shed her apron and put on her cloak. Have you heard mass yet, Nurse Power?

  That confused me for a second, because it wasn’t Sunday. Oh, for All Souls, yes. (God forgive me the lie; I couldn’t bear a scolding from her.)

  All Saints, you mean.

  I could hear the pleasure Sister Luke took in correcting me.

  On the first of November, she reminded the whole room, we celebrate the church triumphant in heaven, watching over us poor sinners on earth. Whereas tomorrow, the Feast of All Souls, we honour the church penitent—the holy souls in purgatory.

  Could she really imagine I wanted a lecture on the finer points of the liturgical calendar? Bridie was cleaning the floor already. I got on with putting my coat and bag away and scrubbing my hands.

  Honor White let out a wet cough.

  Sister Luke said, You could try a poultice on Mrs. White.

  I reminded myself that the night nurse wasn’t in authority over me. Actually, Sister, in my experience poulticing isn’t much help in these chest cases.

  Her visible eyebrow—the one not covered by the patch—disappeared into her coif. In my much longer experience, it will help if you do it correctly.

  I could tell by Bridie’s shoulder blades that she was attentive to every word of this.

  So tempting to point out that much of Sister Luke’s experience and all of her training was from the last century. Instead I said mildly, Well, as we’re so short-staffed, I believe I’ll use my good judgement.

  A faint sniff.

  I told her, Sleep well.

  The nun buttoned up her cloak as if she had no intention of doing anything so feeble.

  Sweeney, she said, don’t get under anyone’s feet today.

  The minute Sister Luke had swept out, Bridie leaned on her mop and let out a snort. You told the old crow, all right. You told her something fierce.

  But it would do this young woman no good if I stirred up trouble between her and the nun, given that they lived under the same roof. And besides, patients shouldn’t be made uneasy by dissent in the ranks. So I shook my head at Bridie. But I added, I’m glad you came back today.

  A grin. Sure why wouldn’t I?

  I said, poker-faced, Oh, I don’t know. Hard work, nasty pongs, and horrors?

  The work’s even harder for us at the motherhouse, and there’s all the praying on top.

  Us meaning you and the nuns?

  Bridie corrected me. Us boarders, about twenty girls. Anyway, of course I came back. A change is as good as a rest. And it’s all go here—something new every minute!

  Her cheer was infectious. I remembered the cut she’d got from the broken thermometer yesterday. How’s your finger?

  She held it up and said, Not a mark. That pencil of yours is magic.

  Actually, it’s science.

  Delia Garrett was half awake, struggling to sit up in her cot. I checked that her stitches were healing nicely.

  She was limp, monosyllabic.

  Tell me, is your chest tender today?

  Tears spilled.

  A chest binder should help, Mrs. Garrett.

  Somehow, flattening the breasts told them to give up making unwanted milk. I fetched a roll of clean bandage. Working bli
nd under her nightdress, I wound the stuff four times around her. Tell me if that’s too tight or if it constricts your breathing at all.

  Delia Garrett nodded as if she barely cared. A hot whiskey?

  All right.

  She probably didn’t need it for her flu, but if I were her, I’d want to sleep these days away.

  Honor White was propped up in the right position for a pneumoniac, but her breathing was loud and her pallor was greenish. I checked her chart to make sure Sister Luke had remembered her strengthening pill. She had, and she’d written Sore stomach beside it; iron often had that effect. Pulse, respirations, temperature—no worse, but no better.

  When I asked, Honor White was still obdurate on the subject of strong drink, so I gave her a low dose of aspirin to bring down her fever and a spoonful of ipecac for her cough. I undid the neck of her nightdress and applied a camphorated rub to her chest.

  Incorrigible; the word stung me on her behalf. All Honor White had endured, and now she was facing a further two-year incarceration. Could the law really allow the nuns to hold her against her will?

  I rebuked myself—for all I knew, Honor White might be choosing to stay at the mother-and-baby home, might have no other shelter. What could I say for sure about this silent woman, about what she’d been through, what she wanted?

  Mary O’Rahilly was shifting around in the middle cot, so I turned to her and checked my notes. Seven minutes between contractions now.

  I waited till I could tell by her face that it was over, then asked, How are you doing, Mrs. O’Rahilly? Did you catch a few winks last night?

  I suppose so.

  Do you need the lavatory?

  Sister Luke’s only after taking me. Will it be much longer, do you think?

  Her voice was so softly desperate, I could barely catch the words.

  All I could say was Hopefully not.

  (Trying to remember how long after the waters broke before the risk of infection skyrocketed; was it twenty-four hours? If a doctor didn’t come by soon, I’d send for one.)

  Let’s get you a hot whiskey. And one for Mrs. Garrett. And a hot lemonade for Mrs. White.

  Bridie started mixing up the drinks at the spirit lamp before I could get there. She brought the cups over and set them into each patient’s grasp.