The Pull of the Stars

by Emma Donoghue

Those graceful, swollen knuckles of hers; I wondered how much her chilblains were bothering her. Don’t forget to put more of that lotion on, Bridie, every time you wash your hands.

  May I really?

  Help yourself.

  Bridie took down the jar now and rubbed a dab of balm into her reddened fingers. She put them to her face. I adore this stuff.

  That amused me. Eucalyptus? My tram reeks of it every morning. You know it’s a vapour given off by trees?

  Bridie scoffed: No trees I’ve ever smelled.

  Tall ones, with their bark peeling off, in the Blue Mountains of Australia. On warm days, I’ve heard, they give off a perfumed haze of the stuff, a blue sort of fog—that’s where the mountains get their name.

  She murmured: Imagine!

  Honor White had her head back and her eyes closed. Praying again? I wondered. Or just worn out by her clogged lungs?

  Mary O’Rahilly let out a whimper.

  I asked, Where do you feel the pang most?

  Her small hands clawed her back, her hips, her belly—everywhere.

  Is it getting stronger?

  She nodded, pressing her lips between her teeth.

  I wondered if she had that craving to push yet, but I didn’t ask in case I put the idea in her head; she was the meek kind who’d tell one whatever she thought one wanted to hear.

  Up, dear. Let’s see if we can ease that a bit.

  I got Mary O’Rahilly into a chair against the wall and pushed just under her knees, shoving her legs back in their sockets.

  Ah!

  Does that help?

  I…I think so.

  I told Bridie to crouch down and fit her hands on the same spot at the top of Mary O’Rahilly’s knees. Keep that pressure up. If you get tired, sit down on the floor and lean back on her.

  I won’t get tired, Bridie assured me.

  Honor White was whispering the Rosary, gripping each bead the way a drowning woman might a life preserver.

  I found myself saying, It just so happens it’s my birthday, ladies.

  Bridie said, Many happy returns!

  Well, now.

  That was a man’s voice. I turned around to see Groyne’s head in the door.

  He added, I suppose it’d be a shocking breach to ask which birthday?

  I didn’t smile. Can I help you, Groyne?

  The orderly pushed a metal crib into the ward on squealing wheels. Sister Luke said this might be wanted today for Mrs. O’Rahilly.

  Delia Garrett made a small sound of pain and turned her back.

  Was it the same crib that had stood ready for her baby yesterday? But there was no way to spare her such sights.

  Ignoring my question, then, Nurse Power? Groyne sniggered. That’s an answer in itself. I find girls are happy to give the figure till they hit twenty-five.

  I said, I’m thirty years old, and I don’t mind who knows it.

  Ooh, a grown woman!

  Groyne leaned one elbow on the door frame, settling in. I suppose you’ll be picking our next members of Parliament and all that. If you’re a female householder, that is, he added mockingly, or an occupier of a premises rated at five pounds?

  My name had been down as the householder ever since Tim had enlisted, but I’d no intention of discussing my domestic arrangements with this fellow.

  Bridie asked, Aren’t you in favour of votes for women, Mr. Groyne?

  He let out a scornful plume of air.

  I couldn’t make myself stay out of it. Haven’t we proved our worth to your satisfaction yet?

  The orderly grimaced. Well, you don’t serve, do you?

  I was taken aback. In the war? Many of us most certainly are serving, as nurses and drivers and—

  The orderly waved that away. Don’t pay the blood tax, though, do you? Not like we fellows do. Ought you really get a say in the affairs of the United Kingdom unless you’re prepared to lay down your lives for the king?

  I saw red. Look around you, Mr. Groyne. This is where every nation draws its first breath. Women have been paying the blood tax since time began.

  He snickered on his way out.

  Bridie was watching me with a one-sided grin.

  Mary O’Rahilly moaned quietly.

  Unprompted, Bridie pushed on the young woman’s shins to ease the pain.

  When that one was over, I said, Only five minutes between them now.

  Mary O’Rahilly asked faintly: Is that good?

  Very good.

  Over her shoulder, Delia Garrett was watching Mary O’Rahilly with resentful, drunken eyes.

  That crib; I didn’t want to set it at the end of the girl’s cot in case it would make her feel hustled. But over by the sink, it would only get in our way. Besides, it might keep her spirits up by reminding her what all this pain was in aid of. So I trundled it to the end of the middle cot, close to Mary O’Rahilly’s feet. Just getting everything ready, dear.

  Her eyes closed and she let out a groan as her head tipped back.

  I went over to the supply cupboard to lay out the things that might be required for a delivery. Bridie was already boiling gloves and instruments in a bag. You never seem to need telling, Bridie.

  She liked hearing that.

  I asked, So when’s your birthday?

  Haven’t got one.

  I waved that off. Everyone has a birthday, Bridie.

  Well, I suppose it’s a secret.

  I said, a little huffily, Don’t tell me if you prefer not—

  Bridie spoke in a low voice. I mean that no one ever told me.

  Just then Honor White coughed so hard I went over to check the sputum cup to be sure she hadn’t brought up a piece of lung. I reapplied the camphor rub to her chest.

  Then Mary O’Rahilly asked if she might lie down for a while, so I got her into bed on her left side.

  When I next had a chance for a word with Bridie, we were by the sink. I murmured, Didn’t you ever know your people?

  Not that I remember.

  Are they still alive?

  She shrugged in her oddly playful way. They were when I was given over to the home, or taken. They weren’t able, that’s what the nuns said.

  What age were you then?

  Don’t know. From then till I was four, I was a nurse-child.

  My face must have shown I didn’t know the term.

  Bridie specified: Boarded out. With a foster mother, see? If I got to four years old with the use of all my limbs, she must have minded me well enough.

  Her calm tone made me feel sick for her—or, rather, for the small, bewildered girl she’d been.

  She went on: Maybe it was her called me Bridie, for Saint Bridget? I’d had another name before. They wouldn’t tell me what it was except that it wasn’t a saint’s.

  I was trying to follow this bleak narrative. By they, you mean the nuns?

  And the teachers and the minders at the home. It was called an industrial school, though it wasn’t really any kind of school, Bridie said with scorn. Two nuns were the managers but they went back to the convent every night and left a couple of lay staff in charge.

  I remembered my question about her birthday that had prompted all this. So none of these people ever told you what day you were born?

  Nor what year, even.

  It hurt my throat to swallow. I said diffidently, Share my birthday if you like. Say yours is today too—it might very well be.

  Bridie grinned. All right. Why not?

  We worked on in silence at the counter.

  She said out of nowhere, You’re lucky your dadda kept you after your mammy died.

  I was taken aback. Why wouldn’t he have?

  Well, these three sisters I knew—they were sent to the home because the parish priest wouldn’t let their widowed father have them living with him in the house. Said it wasn’t proper, given their age, she added satirically.

  I didn’t get it. What, were they awfully young for a man to raise?

  No, the two older ones were thirteen a
nd fourteen, and the youngest eleven.

  I flushed as I understood. For a priest to make such a comment—somehow both prudish and filthy-minded…Do you think they’d have been better off staying at home, Bridie?

  Her nod came fast and unequivocal. No matter what happened.

  Surely she couldn’t mean even if their father had ended up interfering with them? Bridie!

  They’d have had each other, at least. At the home, they weren’t allowed to talk.

  I was confused again; some kind of vow of silence? I said, The three girls?

  Bridie explained: To each other, I mean. They were told they weren’t sisters anymore.

  The arbitrary cruelty of that shocked me.

  She changed the subject. So you and your brother…

  I was only four, so I don’t know if anyone objected to Dadda rearing us on the farm, I told her. When I was seven and Tim was three, our father married again, a woman with older children. But I was still Tim’s little mammy.

  Then something occurred to me.

  Though I suppose the shoe’s on the other foot now, since I’m out at work like a mister and Tim’s at home planning the dinner!

  Bridie let out a laugh. Nice for you.

  I thought of this morning’s poster: refrain from laughing or chatting closely together. I said, Oh, believe me, I’m grateful.

  Nice for the both of you, I mean. Having and minding each other.

  Delia Garrett asked sharply, If you chums aren’t too busy, could I ever trouble you for another hot whiskey?

  Of course, Mrs. Garrett.

  Mary O’Rahilly was weeping silently, I noticed. Was it the pain or the waiting?

  I fetched a cold cloth and wiped her face. Will we try you upright in the chair again, with more pressing on your hips?

  But in swept Dr. Lynn, in the same collar and tie and skirt as yesterday. She said in greeting, Well, another day of battle, bless us all.

  I hurried to collect the three patients’ charts, placing Mary O’Rahilly’s on top.

  Delia Garrett cut in before I could say anything, her voice thunderous: I want to go home.

  The doctor said, Of course you do, you poor creature. But the hard fact is, the week after delivery is actually more perilous to the health than the week before.

  (I thought of my mother holding Tim for the first time. Thought of all the mothers on these wards I’d seen smiling over their newborns before they got the shivers on the second day and died on the sixth.)

  Delia Garrett pressed the heels of her hands to her puffy eyes. I didn’t even have a bloody baby.

  Dr. Lynn nodded. Your daughter’s in God’s arms now, and we must make sure Mr. Garrett and your little girls don’t lose you too.

  Delia Garrett sniffed and subsided.

  Next, the doctor listened to Honor White’s chest and ordered heroin syrup.

  Breathlessly: I don’t take intoxicants.

  My dear woman, it’s medicinal. We use it to calm a cough in bad bronchial cases.

  Still.

  I murmured, Mrs. White’s a Pioneer.

  Dr. Lynn said, So’s my uncle, but he takes what he’s prescribed.

  Honor White wheezed, No intoxicants.

  A sharp sigh. Aspirin again, then, Nurse Power, but no more than fifteen grains, and hot lemonade, I suppose.

  Finally the doctor scrubbed and gloved up and went to the middle cot to examine Mary O’Rahilly. I got the girl into position, on her side with her bottom hanging over the edge.

  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere!

  Dr. Lynn stripped off her gloves.

  I helped Mary O’Rahilly onto her back. She stared down at the thrusting prow of her belly.

  The doctor told me, She’s reached the pushing stage, so she may have chloroform now that there’s no risk of it slowing things down.

  Mary O’Rahilly shut her eyes and made a low hum of protest as the pain came back.

  On her way out, Dr. Lynn added, But do hold off near the end, won’t you?

  I nodded; I knew the drug could get into the infant and impair its breathing.

  I took the chloroform down from the shelf, dripped a spoonful onto an inhaler’s little pad, and handed it to Mary O’Rahilly. Breathe in some of this whenever you feel the need.

  She drew hard on the inhaler.

  I told her, You’re open wide inside, at last.

  I am?

  On your left is the best position, now, with your feet at the top of the bed so you can jam them against this pillow here.

  I was moving bedding, tugging it out of the way.

  Awkwardly, Mary O’Rahilly reversed herself on the mattress.

  I’m going to tie this long towel just by your head so you can pull on it, I told her. Wait for the next pang, and be ready to push.

  I had such long acquaintance with other women’s pain, I could almost smell it coming. I said, Look down at your chest, Mrs. O’Rahilly. You’re going to hold your breath and haul on the towel with all your might, like you’re ringing a church bell. Here we go. Push!

  She did, the weary girl; she set her teeth and gave it a good go, considering that she’d never done it before in her life.

  Afterwards, I said, That’s a start. Now rest for a minute.

  She suddenly wailed, Mr. O’Rahilly won’t like me staying away all this time.

  My eyes met Bridie’s across the bed and a bubble of laughter rose up in the back of my mouth.

  Don’t worry about him, Mrs. O’Rahilly. Sure how can you get his baby out any faster than it comes?

  I know, but…

  Bridie set her hands around the labouring woman’s on the looped towel.

  I said, Put all that out of your mind. You’ve nothing else to do today but this.

  Sweat broke out on Mary O’Rahilly’s forehead and she lashed about in the sheets. I can’t.

  Sure you can. Here it comes. Push!

  But she’d lost control of that pang; the wave crashed over her head. She writhed and sobbed and coughed. I really don’t know how, Nurse, I’m awful stupid.

  My eyes slid to Bridie. Not a bit, Mrs. O’Rahilly. Nature knows how.

  (Knows how to serve her own ends, I didn’t say. I’d seen nature crack a woman like a walnut shell.)

  I’ll be right here to help, I’m not going anywhere, I swore.

  Mary O’Rahilly gasped out, And Bridie.

  Bridie said, Too right.

  I gave the girl the chloroform inhaler to suck on.

  Oh, oh—

  The next pain seized her.

  Push!

  She held her breath till she was purple in the face, humming through gritted teeth.

  I crooned into her ear, Save your strength. Go limp as much as you can in between the pangs.

  But there was only a couple of minutes’ grace.

  Bridie and I moved Mary O’Rahilly’s legs in their sockets while she coughed and panted. I rotated her pelvis and did hip squeezes, but none of it seemed to be easing the pain.

  She gasped, The breathy thing?

  I gave her back the inhaler with more chloroform sprinkled on. I checked her pulse, temperature, respiratory rate.

  The waves kept coming, bigger every time. I tried all my tricks. I massaged Mary O’Rahilly’s locked jaw. When her right calf went into spasm, I set Bridie to kneading it.

  Forty minutes had passed like this, I saw by the clock.

  Bridie whispered in my ear, How many pushes does it take?

  I admitted, There’s no rule.

  Mary O’Rahilly’s voice was almost inaudible: I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.

  Bridie ran for a basin.

  Over the next quarter of an hour, I began to let myself worry. The foetus didn’t seem to be budging. Mary O’Rahilly’s drawn face told me that this prolonged labour was wringing her out—and of course she had the flu to fight off too.

  I took Bridie aside. Go find Dr. Lynn, would you? Say Mrs. O’Rahilly’s been pushing an hour. Or, no, hang on—


  A first birth often took two hours of pushing. How to put my finger on what was bothering me? I wondered if it might be a case of uterine inertia—did the tired girl’s contractions just not have enough power to move the foetus down the passage? Or was something blocking the way? The ticker tape of dangers ran through my head: swelling, rupture, haemorrhage, infection.

  I added in Bridie’s ear, Tell the doctor I’m concerned she may be obstructed. Will you remember the word?

  She repeated, Obstructed.

  And dashed off.

  I was in a blue funk now, but I couldn’t let my patients see it. Not that the other women were paying more attention to me than they could help; Honor White was praying with her eyes tight shut, and Delia Garrett lay in a spiritous doze, her bound chest as barrel-shaped as a man’s.

  I put my knee against Mary O’Rahilly’s back and braced her as her feet shoved against the pillows.

  When Bridie came back there were two men on her heels, each tightly buttoned in a navy jacket and wearing a tall egglike helmet marked with a star.

  I stared, then stood and whipped a sheet up and over Mary O’Rahilly. How dare you barge in here? Out, out! This is a women’s ward.

  The Dublin Metropolitan Police retreated only as far as the door. The smaller constable said, We’re looking for—

  The taller butted in. It’s the woman doctor we want. Lynn. We’ve a warrant. (Patting his breast pocket.) War crimes.

  The first fellow asked uncertainly, This is the lying-in ward?

  I was on the point of telling him that the main one was upstairs. But if they were stupid enough to believe that a hospital this size might have only three women in its maternity ward, why should I correct them? I flung out my hand at the waiting baby crib. What do you think?

  The taller one frowned and adjusted his chin strap. Then where would we find this Mrs. Lynn?

  How should I know?

  The fact was, I couldn’t do without the doctor, not right now, when there wasn’t an obstetrician in the building. If they arrested her—locked her up or deported her to England again—what would happen to Mary O’Rahilly? My patients’ welfare came first, and politics would just have to wait.

  I demanded, What’s this warrant?

  The constable fished out his piece of paper. Defence of the Realm Regulation Fourteen (b), he read a little stumblingly, being suspected of acting or having acted or being about to act in a manner prejudicial to the public safety.