The Pull of the Stars(17)

Ita Noonan wheezed, Come here till I tell you.

I leaned in towards the dark odour of her breath while I took her pulse. But the woman said nothing more. Her heart rate was rather faster than it was earlier, but the pulse force felt a little weaker.

I spread the cooked linseed onto lint, laid a gauze dressing over that, and placed a layer of sterilised linen over the gauze. I flipped the whole thing between her limp breasts and covered it with a flannelette bandage. The tails needed tying behind her back and around her slumped shoulders, but between us, Bridie Sweeney and I made short work of it. I wouldn’t have begrudged the time spent on all this fiddly faff if I’d believed that poulticing was any real use.

Ita Noonan’s breath heaved and creaked. I gave her a spoon of ipecac syrup as an expectorant to loosen her congestion, hoping it wouldn’t make her throw up. She screwed up her face at the taste but didn’t fight me.

A minute later she coughed up some seaweed-coloured sputum. I caught it in her handkerchief, which I gave to Bridie to throw down the incinerator.

Bridie took a while to come back, so when she did, I asked, Got lost? Fell down a chute?

Bridie Sweeney admitted, Sorry, I lingered in the water closet. The little bolt on the door so you can be private, and lashings of gorgeous hot water, and such nice squares of paper. I’m liking hospital.

That made me laugh.

Especially the smells.

I thought, Eucalyptus, linseed, carbolic? Whiskey, at the moment? For me they couldn’t cover up the faecal, bloody tang of birth and death.

I told her, It’s usually much more orderly here. You’ve caught us on the hop, rather. More than twice as many patients as usual and a quarter of the staff.

Her face lit up, I supposed because I was including her in the word staff, as a helper.

It struck me that she was a beauty in a white-faced, bony way; a precious bead winking in a dustbin. I wondered where Sister Luke had found her. Do you live near by, Miss Sweeney?

Only around the corner.

Tone a little evasive. Still with her parents, I assumed from how young she seemed. How old are you, do you mind my asking?

She shrugged. About twenty-two.

A coy way of putting it, about twenty-two. Well, I didn’t want to poke my nose in.

She surprised me by asking, Would you call me Bridie, maybe?

Certainly, if you prefer.

I didn’t quite know what to say after that, so I checked my watch. It’s getting on towards noon, so you should have your lunch now.

I didn’t bring one, but I’m all right.

No, no, meals are laid on for us in a canteen beside the kitchen.

She still hesitated. What about you?

Oh, I’m not hungry yet.

There was nothing to be done about her frock or shoes, but…You might just roll down your sleeves and tidy your hair before you go down.

Flushing, Bridie felt for the fuzz of bright curls that had escaped and pulled them back out of her face.

I regretted mentioning it; she was here only for the day, after all, so how much could her grooming matter?

She wrestled with the rubber band.

I asked, Don’t you have a comb with you?

She shook her head.

I went to my bag and found her a hard rubber one.

Bridie made her head smooth, then held out the comb. Thanks for the lend.

Keep it, I said.

No!

Really, I much prefer my other one. It looks like tortoiseshell but it’s made of celluloid.

Stop wittering, Julia, I told myself.

A baritone crooned in the passage—Groyne.

Are ye right there, Michael, are ye right?

Do you think that we’ll be there before the night?



Delia Garrett complained: That awful man who brought me in yesterday.

The orderly pushed through the door backwards. He reminded me of that macabre servant out of Frankenstein.

In lieu of a greeting, I commented, Always a song on your lips, Groyne.

He sketched a music-hall bow in my direction, then spun the wheelchair around to present the new patient. A young woman—a girl, I’d have said, except for her bump—with coal-black hair and a face full of fear.

Another lovely for your select sisterhood. Baby coming soon, but Maternity wouldn’t have her on account of her cough.

I glanced at the chart Groyne handed me. Just one line scribbled at the top: Mary O’Rahilly, age seventeen, primigravida.

Women who’d given birth before were known quantities even if one could never be quite certain what would happen on the day. A first-timer such as Mary O’Rahilly was a different story. The admitting physician hadn’t even estimated a due date; he must be hard-pressed today.

Mrs. O’Rahilly, let’s get you out of that wheelchair.

She stood for me with no apparent difficulty but trembled. Chills, I wondered, or nerves, or both? Short and slim, dwarfed by her great bulge. I patted the chair at the end of the middle cot and said, Sit here till we get you changed.

The orderly pushed the empty wheelchair towards the door.

Groyne, any word of when we can expect to see this new doctor?

Ah, the lady rebel!

Gossip was meat and drink to the man. I wasn’t in the habit of encouraging tittle-tattle, but this time I couldn’t stop my eyebrows from arching.

He asked, Haven’t you heard of her?

You’re implying she’s one of the Sinn Féiners?