The Pull of the Stars(14)

I shook my head.

Her face froze. Sorry—am I not allowed to talk to them?

I smiled. I only meant, don’t worry if Mrs. Noonan makes odd remarks. I tapped my scalp and said, A high temperature can rattle the pot.

I wound one shawl around the sick woman’s shoulders and draped another over the back of her head to keep draughts off.

Ita Noonan swatted at the air with her sipping cup. Awful yahoos, left my delph in smithereens!

Did they now? Bridie Sweeney fixed the pillows.

The young woman had a nice bedside manner, I decided; that couldn’t be taught.

I pushed the ball of soiled bedding down into the laundry bucket and jerked my thumb towards the passage. This goes down the chute—the one marked Laundry, not Incinerator.

Bridie Sweeney hurried out with the bucket.

Delia Garrett asked, Did that girl just walk in here off the street?

Well, if Sister Luke recommended her…

A snort.

We’re so short-staffed that I’ll gladly accept any help, Mrs. Garrett.

She muttered into her magazine, I never said you shouldn’t.

When Bridie Sweeney came back in, I took her through the distinctions between various gauze dressings (squares, balls, six-foot strips in tins), flax-tow swabs, single-use cloths, ligatures, and catgut.

The actual guts of cats?

Sheep, actually. I don’t know why it’s called that, I admitted.

She beamed around her. So these ladies are here for you to cure their grippe?

I let out a breath. I only wish I knew how to do that, but there’s no cure as such. The thing has to run its course.

For how long?

Days or weeks. (I was trying not to think of those it killed with little warning, in the street or on their own floorboards.) Or it can linger for months, I admitted. To be perfectly frank, it’s a toss-up. All we can do is keep them warm and rested, fed and watered, so they can put what force they have into beating this flu.

My young helper seemed fascinated. She said under her breath, Why’s Mrs. Noonan that colour?

Ah, here was something simple I could teach. I told her, They go dark in the face if they’re not getting quite enough oxygen into their blood. It’s called cyanosis, after cyan—the shade of blue.

She’s not blue, though, said Bridie Sweeney. More like scarlet.

Well, I said, it starts with a light red you might mistake for a healthy flush. If the patient gets worse, her cheeks go rather mahogany. (I thought of the turning of the leaves in autumn.) In a more severe case, the brown might be followed by lavender in the lips. Cheeks and ears and even fingertips can become quite blue as the patient’s starved of air.

Horrible!

I remembered to turn to the other patient and say, Don’t worry, Mrs. Garrett, you’re not in the least cyanotic.

She gave a little shudder at the idea.

Bridie Sweeney asked, Is blue as far as it goes?

I shook my head. I’ve seen it darken to violet, purple, until they’re quite black in the face.

(Nurse Cavanagh’s fallen Anonymous this morning, as dark as cinders by the time she ran up to him in the street.)

It’s like a secret code, Bridie Sweeney said with pleasure. Red to brown to blue to black.

Actually, in our training, we made…

I wondered if she’d know the word mnemonic. Or alliterative.

…little reminders to commit medical facts to memory, I told her.

Like what?

Well…the four Ts that can cause postpartum haemorrhage—bleeding after birth—are tissue, tone, trauma, thrombocytopenia.

You know an awful lot, Nurse Power.

I gave the young woman a tour of the other shelves and cupboards. If I hand you a metal instrument that’s been used, you can take for granted that I want it sterilised, Miss Sweeney. Lower it into this pot of boiling water with these tongs here and leave it for ten minutes by your watch.

Sorry, I haven’t—

There’s a clock on the wall over there. Then lay out a fresh cloth from this brown-paper packet and use the tongs to set the instrument on the cloth. Anything you haven’t time to boil can be disinfected in this basin of strong carbolic solution instead.

Right.

But was she grasping the importance of what I was saying?

When each item has air-dried, I went on, you move it with the tongs to a sterile tray up on this shelf, where everything’s sterile—thoroughly clean, ready for a doctor. Never touch any of them unless I tell you to, understood?

Bridie Sweeney nodded.

Delia Garrett let out a series of coughs that turned into whoops.

I went over to check her pulse. How’s your stomach now, Mrs. Garrett?

A little steadier, I suppose, she conceded. I blame what happened on that nasty castor oil.

I very much doubted the dose I’d given her could have liquefied her at both ends.

It’s ludicrous keeping me shut up here for a touch of flu! My babies pop out the week they’re due and not before, and I spend no more than half a day in bed, no fuss. Why’s this chit gawping at me?

Bridie Sweeney’s hand shot up to cover her grin. Sorry, I didn’t know you were…

Delia Garrett glared, hands on her belly. You thought this was pure fat?

I pointed out, It says Maternity/Fever on the door, Miss Sweeney.

She muttered, I didn’t know what that meant.

I was taken aback by her ignorance.