The Pull of the Stars(13)

Prendergast rubbed his eyes. I’m off home now.

While you’re gone, I asked, which obstetrician—

They’re bringing in a general practitioner to help out in the women’s wards.

A GP in private practice—so, not the specialist we needed. I asked uneasily: Is he at the hospital yet?

Prendergast shook his head. At the door he said, Dr. Lynn’s a lady, by the way.

I thought I heard a touch of disdain. There were a few female physicians these days, though I hadn’t yet served under one. What I needed to know was, till this substitute presented herself, who could I call on for my patients?

Delia Garrett jumped up. Nurse Julia, can you get me out of this filthy thing now?

Yes, the minute I’ve dosed Mrs. Noonan, but do stay off your feet, won’t you?

She subsided in the chair.

I made up a lidded cup of hot whiskey and water for Ita Noonan, sugared to be more palatable. After the first sip she sucked it down like mother’s milk. Then I went to fetch a clean nightdress from the press for Delia Garrett.

Uncovered, her belly was silvered with the snail trails of her previous two pregnancies as well as this one.

I hadn’t yet felt that broodiness older women had warned me I would. I’d specialised in midwifery because the drama of it drew me in, but I’d never imagined myself as the woman at the centre of the mystery, the full moon rounding, only as the watchful attendant.

Thirty tomorrow. That ring of being past one’s best.

But thirty wasn’t so very old, I told myself. By no means too late to marry and have children; only, on the balance of probabilities, unlikely. And even less likely, I supposed, now so many men had been lost in the war, either facedown in some foreign field or just not interested in finding their way back to this small island.

I got Delia Garrett’s nightdress on and tied the side tapes, then tucked her back into bed and wrapped her up well against the autumn air whistling in the high window.

I finished stripping Ita Noonan’s mattress. I was relieved that the mackintosh drawsheet had caught all the urine; the cotton sheet and underblanket beneath it were still dry.

What I couldn’t quite put my finger on was whether I wanted a husband. There’d been possibilities along the way, pleasant young men. I couldn’t reproach myself with having thrust opportunities away, but I certainly hadn’t seized them.

Would you be Nurse Power?

I whipped around to see a youngster in civvies in the doorway, brassy hair scraped back and oiled down but a frenzy of curls at the back. Who are you?

Bridie Sweeney.

No title, which told me she wasn’t even a probie. So many young women were being rushed through basic first-aid training these days.

Delia Garrett asked, And what might you be, Miss Sweeney, a volunteer nurse?

The stranger grinned. I’m not any kind of nurse.

Delia Garrett threw up her eyes and went back to her magazine.

Bridie Sweeney turned to me. Sister Luke’s after sending me to lend a hand.

So this was all the night nurse had managed to dig up for me—unqualified; uneducated, by the sounds of her accent; and with a clean, new-hatched look like nothing had ever happened to her. I could have slapped this Bridie Sweeney from sheer disappointment.

I said, The hospital has no funds left for casual staff. I hope Sister Luke told you there’s no pay?

I wasn’t expecting any.

She was the pale, freckle-dusted type of redhead, light blue eyes, brows almost invisible. Something childlike about her translucent ears; the one on the left angled a little forward, as if eager to catch every word. Thin coat, broken-down shoes; on an ordinary day, Matron would never have let her in the door.

Well, I said, I could do with a runner to fetch and carry, so I’m glad you’re here. This is Mrs. Garrett. Mrs. Noonan.

Good day, ladies, Bridie Sweeney said with a bob.

I took a folded apron down from the press.

The volunteer was a scrap and looked even thinner once she’d taken her coat off; she had to wrap the apron’s ties around her waist twice. With frank curiosity, she watched Ita Noonan rocking on the little chair by her cot, wheezing a song. She remarked, I’ve never been in a hospital.

By the way, Miss Sweeney, I assume you’re immune?

The young woman didn’t seem to know the word.

To the flu, the grippe. Since you’ve walked into a fever ward without a mask—

Oh, I’ve had the grippe.

But this year’s one, the bad one, I specified.

Got over it ages ago. Now, what do you want doing, Nurse Power?

It was a relief to be asked that. Let’s start by making up Mrs. Noonan’s bed.

I checked the base layers were all smooth, the wire-spring mattress in its canvas cover sitting just so on the boards, the hair mattress in its cotton one on top. A ruddy tan waterproof mackintosh base fitted tight, then an underblanket, then a sheet.

Aromatic with whiskey fumes, Ita Noonan tried to climb on.

Just another minute, I said as I blocked her gently with my arm.

I got a fresh drawsheet, under and upper sheets, and blankets from the bedding cupboard. I said, We pull every layer smooth and crisp, see, so there’ll be no wrinkles to hurt Mrs. Noonan’s skin.

Bridie Sweeney nodded.

As I helped Ita Noonan in, she heaved a breath and cried, Such malarkey!

The newcomer asked, What is?