The Pull of the Stars(15)

Well, I said. Now I’ll show you how to wash your hands.

Amusedly: I think I know that much.

I asked a little sharply, You’ve heard of childbed fever?

Of course.

It can come on a woman anytime from the third day after birth, and it used to kill them at a terrible rate. Our only modern defence is asepsis—that means keeping germs from getting into patients. So now do you see how cleaning one’s hands thoroughly could save a life?

Bridie Sweeney nodded, abashed.

I told her, Roll your sleeves all the way up so you don’t wet them.

She seemed hesitant. When she bared her right forearm, it had a melted look. She saw me notice and she muttered, A pot of soup.

That must have hurt.

Bridie Sweeney shrugged, a monkeyish little movement.

I hoped she wasn’t the clumsy sort. She didn’t seem so. Her hands were reddish, which told me she was used to hard work.

First we pour out boiling water from this kettle, Miss Sweeney, and add cold from the jug.

She immersed her hands in the basin. Lovely and warm!

Take this boiled nailbrush and scrub your hands well, especially the nails and the skin around them.

I waited for her to do that.

Then rinse them in fresh water to get all the soap off. Finally, soak them in a third basin of water…with a full capful of this carbolic here.

I poured it out for her and added, Antiseptics such as carbolic can actually be dangerous—

—if you swallow them or splash them in your eyes, I know, she said eagerly.

I corrected her: If one relies on them lazily instead of taking care to scrub really well.

Bridie Sweeney nodded, hands dripping.

I gestured to a stack of clean cloths so she wouldn’t try to dry them on her apron.

No one had been back to collect the breakfast trays yet. I said, I wonder could you take these to the kitchen?

She asked, Where’s the—

In the basement, two floors down.

When she was gone I checked temperatures, pulses, respirations. No change. That was reassuring in Delia Garrett’s case, worrying in Ita Noonan’s. The whiskey might be providing some comfort, but that was all.

Thanks, I said when Bridie Sweeney came back in. It’s a real help, having another pair of hands.

She looked down at her knuckles and scratched their reddened, swollen backs.

Chilblains?

She nodded, sheepish. Driving me wild.

Thin girls were susceptible, for some reason. I said, Here, this should soothe the itching.

I got the medicated balm down off the shelf but she made no move to take it, so I scooped a fingerful from the jar, reached for her hands, and rubbed it well into the scarlet patches. On the back of the left one, there was a raised, red circle—ringworm, the brand of poverty I saw on so many patients. But it was fading, so no longer contagious.

Bridie Sweeney breathed in a giggling way, as if what I was doing tickled. The scent of eucalyptus filled the room. Apart from her fingers, the rest of her was so white, almost blue.

I told her, Don’t let your hands get cold or wet in the winter. Always wear warm gloves when you’re out.

I’m not often out.

Delia Garrett coughed pointedly. Whenever you two are finished titivating, I’m gasping for a cup of tea.

I directed Bridie Sweeney to the kettle and took down the caddy and pot from the shelf. Patients can have as much tea as they like.

She said, Very good. With sugar, Mrs. Garrett?

Two spoons. And milk. Or, no, actually—that condensed stuff is so horrid, black will do.

I told Bridie Sweeney, Offer arrowroot biscuits with tea if the patient has any appetite.

Unlike plump-armed Delia Garrett, our poorer mothers came in here with too little flesh on their bones, and in Maternity our policy was to feed them up as much as possible before their time of trial.

Bridie Sweeney was a skinnymalinks herself, but the tough, wiry kind that food went through like water, I supposed. And you can make us each a cup while you’re at it, Miss Sweeney.

I seized my chance to nip out. But at the door, I turned and said, I hope you know enough to know that you know nothing?

Bridie Sweeney stared—then nodded, head bobbing, a flower on its stem.

I told her, I was taught that being a good nurse means knowing when to call a doctor. So being a good runner means knowing when to call a nurse. If these ladies need a cup of water or another blanket or a clean handkerchief, give it to them, but if they’re in any distress at all, run out to the lavatory and fetch me.

She made a small, comical salute.

I won’t be two ticks, I said and dashed off.

What would Sister Finnigan say about my leaving the ward in the hands of this greenhorn? Well, I was doing my best. So were we all.

After the lavatory, I found myself thirsty for a glimpse of the outside world, so I went to the window and stared down at the sparse passers-by. The rain had cleared up but the day had a damp cling to it. A lady in full-length furs—an odd getup when it wasn’t even November yet—stepped down from a cab and glided in the gates with a large leather bag in one hand and a cumbersome wooden case in the other. She shook back her lavish hood, baring two old-fashioned coils of hair. Well, I supposed the porter would explain the visitor ban to her.

Back in the ward, Bridie Sweeney was draining her tea, crumbs in the corner of her mouth. Delicious!

I didn’t think she was being sarcastic. I raised my own cup to my lips and tasted ashy sweepings off some faraway floor.