I added, You should be feeling stronger soon.
She let out a husky scream.
The O’Rahilly baby in his crib gave a start and mewed.
Honor White tried to sit up.
Dr. Lynn ordered: Stay still.
Honor White began thrashing about.
I pressed my right hand over the needle in my left arm to keep it there and clamped my left hand over hers so she wouldn’t yank out the tube. Mrs. White!
Was she going into convulsions, like poor Ita Noonan?
No, not that. Red-faced now, shuddering, she clutched her sides as if they might burst, then scratched at her face, her neck, panting, trying to say something. Pale hives rising.
Dr. Lynn muttered wrathfully, Transfusion reaction.
I was appalled. I’d only heard of this, never seen it.
Honor White was wheezing wildly as she clawed at herself, raising livid weals.
The doctor twisted the stopcock and tugged off Honor White’s bandage.
Bridie struggled to hold the woman still. What’s happening?
Something in Mrs. White’s blood doesn’t like mine, I admitted, even though I’m a universal donor.
Dr. Lynn muttered, There are always exceptions. We couldn’t have known.
She whipped the tube out of the needle in Honor White’s arm, and my blood jetted across the floor, unwanted now; noxious.
I pulled the needle and tube right out of my own arm and pressed hard on the puncture to stop the bleeding.
We could do nothing about the maddening itching—Honor White’s body’s way of trying to fight off my alien blood. She was gasping like a consumptive. I bent all my efforts on urging her to calm herself and breathe.
Dr. Lynn was scrubbing at the sink.
At a moment like this, why on earth did she need to wash her hands again?
Then I realised there was no hope but to get this baby into the air before the mother bled out.
I called, You’ll find a sterile pair of forceps on the—
I see them.
Bridie and I gripped Mrs. White and held her as Dr. Lynn went in with the first branch of the forceps.
Honor White let out a long howl.
Then the other branch.
Dr. Lynn muttered, Yes. Staring into space as she tightened her grip and curled her index finger into the ring at the hinge.
I told Honor White, A huge push this time.
Though she didn’t look as if she could even lift her head. Who was I to order this woman to go beyond her powers?
If you’d press on the uterine fundus, Nurse? asked the doctor.
I put my hand at the top of Honor White’s bump, waited for the wave to take her, then bore down.
Urghhhhhhhh!
Steady, steady…and here comes the face.
Without rushing, Dr. Lynn guided the head out in her tongs.
New eyes blinking through a wash of scarlet, turned to the heavens. Stargazer.
Was the infant going to drown in its mother’s blood? I flailed around to find a clean cloth and wiped the nose and mouth clear.
Dr. Lynn murmured, Wait for it. One more push.
I got behind Honor White and held her up to help her breathe. I swore, It’ll soon be over.
(Thinking, One way or another.)
She stirred a little, and her eyes widened. She coughed with a sound of something ripping. On the next pang, she shoved back so hard, the bed rail bit into my ribs.
The whole baby slithered out of her.
Well done!
Dr. Lynn said, Congratulations, Mrs. White. You have a son.
I held out a blanket to take him.
Unprompted, he let out a cry.
At first I thought the doctor’s forceps had cut his mouth. Then I recognised the kinked line—born harelipped.
But a healthy size for being a few weeks before full term, and a good hue.
Dr. Lynn was concentrating on stemming the bleeding. She massaged Honor White’s collapsed belly from the top, persuading her uterus to squeeze out the afterbirth.
Now the cord’s pulse slowed; this infant had had all he was going to get from it. I asked Bridie to bring me over the instrument tray. I tied the slippery blue rope in two places and scissored through.
Could you warm up a pint of saline, Nurse?
I bundled the White baby in a towel, set him in the crib, and told Bridie to watch him. Speak up if he seems to choke or changes colour.
I rushed to mix salt into hot water, then brought over the bottle. Dr. Lynn had already attached a fresh tube to Honor White’s inner arm. I set the bottle up on a stand so the saline would pour into her.
She was less flushed, and she’d stopped scratching at her weals, but she was weak as a rag. What other damage had my unlucky blood done her?
Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners, she was whispering, now and at the hour of our death, amen.
There’s the placenta now, excellent.
The meaty thing surged out, with a huge clot behind it.
Dr. Lynn lifted up the organ to check it was whole, then dropped it into the waiting basin.
I felt Honor White’s pulse; still too high and too weak, an awful feathery dance.
Suture, please, Nurse?
I washed my shaking hands before I threaded the needle.
Dr. Lynn steadily sewed up the small incision she’d made in Honor White’s perineum.
Bridie said, Your arm, Julia!
Inside my left elbow was trickling red where the needle had been. It’s nothing.
But she went to get me a bandage.
It doesn’t matter, Bridie. Leave it.
Let me just—
She tied it on me clumsily, too loose.
Over the next quarter of an hour, as we watched, Honor White’s bleeding did taper off. Oh, the slow, painful relief of it. Little by little, her pulse steadied and dropped to under a hundred, and the speed of her breaths diminished too. She was able to nod, to speak. I didn’t know if it was the saline, or divine mercy, or pure fluke.
I gave the White baby his bath with Bridie’s help. How it drew the eye, this fellow’s tiny gap—though only on one side, and the dip didn’t reach the nostril. I’d heard the ancient Romans were so horrified by these babies, they used to drown them. This one was in the pink; no sign of flu, and my blood didn’t seem to have done him any harm either, which suggested that his was a different type than his mother’s. Funny to think the two of them had been one a quarter of an hour ago and now were severed forever.
Bridie whispered to me, Is he not quite finished, then?
His mouth, you mean?
Maybe because the doctor took him out before he was cooked?
Dr. Lynn said over her shoulder, No, it just happens, Bridie. Runs in families.
(Especially poor ones, though she wouldn’t say that in front of Honor White. It was as if what the mothers lacked was blazoned on their children’s faces.)
Honor White spoke up in a gravelly voice. What’s wrong with him?
You have a healthy boy, Mrs. White, I told her, it’s only that his lip is cleft.
I held out the wrapped pupa.
Her reddened eyes struggled to focus on his triangular mouth. Hand fumbling, she crossed herself.
Will I sit you up so you can hold him?
But her face closed like the lid of a desk.
Dr. Lynn murmured, She’d better stay flat to boost her circulation.
Right; sorry. (I should have remembered that.)
I’d have offered to lay him on his mother’s chest, but maybe even his small weight would impede her wet breathing. So I held him right beside her instead, almost as near as if she were cradling him, his downy head not far from hers; I was ready to pull him away if she coughed.
She didn’t move to kiss him. A tear ran out the side of her eye and down the gap between them.
Bearna ghiorria, murmured Dr. Lynn.
I knew a little Gaelic but not that phrase. What’s that, Doctor?
She explained, It means a hare’s gap. Bring him back in a month and I’ll fix it for him, Mrs. White.
Which was kind but suggested she hadn’t grasped Honor White’s situation from the chart; both woman and child would be in the care and custody of the nuns.
Unless the doctor saw it as a matter of courtesy to speak to her as she would to any other new mother?
I hadn’t had a chance to ask Honor White if she was meaning to nurse her baby, but anyway, he wouldn’t be able to latch on with that split mouth. He’ll need spoon-feeding, won’t he, Doctor?
She weighed the question. Well, the palate’s closed, at least, that’s a mercy…he might manage a bottle if you put on a wide teat with a cross cut into it, Nurse, so long as you hold him well upright and keep the flow slow. I’ll have Maternity send down their mixture.
Thanks.
Cleft lip could cause glue ear and speech defects, I remembered. But that was nothing to the way people would stare or avert their eyes or sneer at him as damaged goods. I thought of this scrap of humanity being sent back to the home with his mother in a week. It struck me that all the babies with unmarked faces would be chosen for adoption before him. Would he end up being nursed out for shillings with a stranger, as Bridie had been? Would that foster nurse know or bother to bring him in for surgery, or would he grow up an easy target for any bully?
Bridie announced, He has the same birthday as Nurse Power. Oh, and me! (Her eyes merrily meeting mine.) The first of November, a great date altogether.
Honor White said, very low: The Feast of All Saints.
I wondered whether it gratified her pious heart that he shared a feast day with the church triumphant in heaven.
Dr. Lynn straightened up and said, Well, everything seems to be in order. Good night, all.
She turned back at the door. I forgot to ask—how are you feeling yourself now, Nurse Power?
Fine. I hardly gave a cupful.
Still, you look done in. Sleep here to save the journey home and back.
Oh, but—
Did you know, Nurse, bacteriologists have determined that exhaustion lowers one’s resistance to infection?
I smiled, giving in. Very well, Doctor.
We didn’t have a telephone at home, but Tim wouldn’t worry; he knew I sometimes needed to stay the night.
Honor White’s eyelids were fluttering.
Before she dropped off, I cleaned her up and got her into the two binders, the abdominal one over her belly and the chest bandage because she wouldn’t be nursing—but that one I wound much more loosely than Delia Garrett’s so as not to restrict her breathing.
I spoke softly: I wonder would there be anyone you’d like us to send the good news?
A parent, a sister, a friend, even; I was hoping she could give me one name.
Honor White shook her head. Her lashes fell; she was sinking into sleep.
I was dizzy all of a sudden; I sat down by the desk. My arm hurt as if it had been caught on barbed wire, and a bruise was spreading.
If only the donation had done her some good, or no harm, even; primum non nocere. Instead, I’d watched my blood turn to poison and nearly kill her.
Bridie was holding out a cup of tea. You saved them both, you know.
Thanks, Bridie.
I gulped it down; it was sweet, at least. Really, it was Dr. Lynn who saved them with her forceps.
Not a bit. I was right there, and I say it was the pair of you.
I would have liked to hug her then.
Between the three of us, yes, I supposed we’d kept the Whites alive, but I couldn’t seem to take much comfort from that fact.
I said, The other day—yesterday, I corrected myself (was it only yesterday I’d met this young woman?)—you mentioned babies going into the pipe. What exactly did you mean?
Bridie shrugged. Mother-and-baby homes, Magdalene laundries, orphanages, she listed under her breath. Industrial schools, reformatories, prisons…aren’t they all sections of the same pipe?
Rats in a flooded tunnel; the image turned my stomach.
I’m from the pipe, see, Julia, she said softly, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever get out.
Masked and draped, Sister Luke was standing in the door watching us drink our tea.
I jumped up, and my voice came out rusty: Evening, Sister.
And with that, another shift was over.
I brought her up to date on the day’s two births, Mary O’Rahilly’s and Honor White’s. I advised her on how to feed the White baby: Sit him upright, and trickle it in or you’ll choke him.
Where had Bridie disappeared to? It seemed out of character for her to shoot off without a word.
Then I caught myself—I’d known her only two days.
Sister Luke put one fingertip to the baby’s scribble-shaped lip and sighed. Unlikely to thrive, of course, she murmured. I’ll get Father Xavier in to baptise him.
I resented her defeatism. You won’t have been trained in the care of newborns, I suppose, Sister?
Her lips tightened. I’m familiar with the basics.
Plenty of babies do very well being bottle-fed nowadays, and so, I expect, will Mrs. White’s.
She conceded, Ah, I don’t mean the disfigurement’s going to choke him in itself.
Her voice dropped to a gossipy murmur. But our sisters who work with unfortunates tell me his kind generally have more than one hereditary weakness.
By his kind, she didn’t mean the harelipped, I realised, but the illegitimate.
Often don’t last long, poor things, as if they know they’re not wanted…
I would have sorely liked to tell the night nurse she was wrong, except hadn’t Dr. Lynn quoted a similar statistic about the mortality of children born out of wedlock?
I turned away. I took down my coat and said, I’ll be staying in the nurses’ dormitory tonight, Sister.
(I neglected to mention that the doctor had advised it because I might feel the aftereffects of having given blood; I didn’t want her to question my capacities.)
Do have a midwife called down from Maternity if you’ve any cause for concern about Mrs. White, I added, or if Mrs. O’Rahilly needs help with her little girl.
Sister Luke nodded equably.
I hated the fact that I had to leave my patients in this woman’s care.
Good night, Mrs. White. Mrs. O’Rahilly. Mrs. Garrett.
I paused for one more look at the White baby, whose mouth had the pursed curve of a sweet pea. Then I went on my way.
IV
Black
OUTSIDE THE WARD, I spotted Bridie’s bright head. Was she waiting for me?
Thin coat folded over her arm, she was studying the latest poster.
THE GOVERNMENT HAS THE SITUATION
WELL IN HAND
AND THE EPIDEMIC IS ACTUALLY IN DECLINE.
THERE IS NO REAL RISK
EXCEPT TO THE RECKLESS
WHO TRY TO FIGHT THE FLU ON THEIR FEET.
IF YOU FEEL YOURSELF SUCCUMBING,
REPORT YOURSELF
AND LIE DOWN FOR A FORTNIGHT.
WOULD THEY BE DEAD
IF THEY’D STAYED IN BED?
Julia, she murmured without even turning her head. Is that true at all?
I asked, caustic, Which bit—are the dead to blame for dying?
The line I found most laughable was the one about lying down for a fortnight; who could afford or manage that without a houseful of servants?
She shook her head. Where they say it’s in decline.
Propaganda, Bridie. Government lies.
She didn’t seem surprised. It’s like the song.
What song?
Bridie put her head back and gave the verse, full-throated, despite the fact that we were on a busy landing with people pushing past. So stand to your glasses, steady, she sang,
This world is a web of lies.
Then here’s to the dead already,
And hurrah for the next one who dies.
It mad
e some heads turn.
I chuckled. Well, that’s a jolly one.
The tune is, anyway.
You’ve a lovely voice, Bridie.
She puffed out her breath in scorn.
I don’t flatter. Now, tell me, why did you scarper when Sister Luke came in?
Bridie looked back towards the door. So the old crow couldn’t tell me to go straight to the motherhouse, no dillydallying or shilly-shallying.
I grinned at the imitation. Where are you going, then?
I’m not leaving if you’re not. You need keeping an eye on, the doctor said.
I only lost half a teacup of blood.
Still.
I glanced down the stairs with yearning. I’d been looking forward to the walk to the tram to settle my nerves after the day. I suppose I must be tired, I said, but I don’t feel as if I could sleep yet.
Bridie said, Me neither.
Well, the dormitory’s upstairs if you mean to stay too.
She followed, asking, Will they let me in even though I’m only a helper?
I don’t suppose anyone will make a fuss at a time like this.
Second floor, past Maternity. My ears made out the weeping of a mother in labour and the uncertain cry of another woman’s newborn.
Bridie admitted on the third staircase, I am a tiny bit tired, actually.
I laughed, out of breath.
But not sleepy yet.
We got to the fourth floor, but the door I led her to had a notice tacked up: Men’s Fever (Overflow). A rumble of voices behind it.
Well, I said, that settles that.
Bridie’s voice was disappointed: There’s no dormitory anymore?
I suppose we’ll have to head home after all.
I winced at my own word. Bridie didn’t have a home, only a bed in a convent. Her life was ruled by the same order who’d run the so-called home she’d grown up in. A hidden, upside-down world where children had no birthdays and sisters were no longer sisters; just one part of the pipe.
Unless we go up on the roof for a bit of air?
I said it lightly.
Bridie looked taken aback.
I suppose I was feeling festive because it was my birthday. Our birthday. Also, it had been a good day. For all the slow misery of Mary O’Rahilly’s obstructed labour, and the horror of Honor White’s bad reaction to my blood, nobody had died. Not in our ward, at least; not in our small square of the sickened, war-weary world.
The Pull of the Stars Page 20