The Pull of the Stars(20)

When in doubt, I’d been taught, watch and wait.

You know what might help is if you felt able to walk around, Mrs. O’Rahilly.

(That could help the cervix dilate, and it distracted the woman and gave her something to do.)

Startled, she asked: Walk where?

I wracked my brain. I couldn’t send infectious patients to roam the corridors, but there wasn’t room to swing a cat in here…Just up and down, around your bed. Here, we’ll get these chairs out of the way. Sip your lemonade as you go.

Bridie had the chairs stacked and tucked in under the desk before I could ask.

Mary O’Rahilly stepped cautiously around the bed and back again in a U.

All right? Are you warm enough?

Yes, thank you, miss.

Nurse Power, I corrected her gently.

Sorry.

No bother.

Mary O’Rahilly was clutching her bump through the nightdress, poking one finger into her navel.

I asked, Is that where it hurts?

She shook her head and caught a cough with the back of her hand. Just wondering how I’ll know when it’s about to open.

I stared. Your belly button?

Her voice trembled as she paced. Does it do it on its own or will the doctor have to…force it?

I was embarrassed for her. Mrs. O’Rahilly, you know that’s not where the baby comes out?

The girl blinked at me.

Think of where it got started. I waited, then whispered: Below.

The information shook her; she opened her mouth wide, then clamped it shut and coughed again, eyes shiny.

Bridie was standing on Mary O’Rahilly’s other side holding Jellett’s Midwifery, which she hadn’t asked if she could take down. Here, look, you can see the top of the baby’s head, and in the next…

She flipped the page.

…it’s sticking right out of her!

Mary O’Rahilly flinched at the graphic images but nodded, absorbing the lesson. Then walked away as if she couldn’t bear to see any more.

Thanks, Bridie.

I made a little gesture for her to put the book back before she noticed the more disturbing sections: malpresentations, anomalies, obstetrical surgeries.

Mary O’Rahilly was stumbling back and forth around the bed, blinded by fright.

Puritans who thought ignorance was the shield of purity—they made me angry. I said to her, Your mother should really have explained. Didn’t she bring you into the world this way? I’ve seen it happen dozens—no, hundreds of times—and it’s a beautiful sight.

(Trying not to think of all the ways it could go wrong. Of the young blonde I’d encountered in my first month here who’d laboured for three days before the doctor had pried out her eleven-pounder by caesarean section; she’d died of the infected wound.) Mary O’Rahilly’s voice was barely there: Mammy passed when I was eleven.

I regretted what I’d said about her mother. I’m so sorry. Was it…

Having my last brother, or trying to.

Her voice was very low, as if it were a secret, and a shameful one, rather than the most ordinary tragedy ever told. Even if this girl was ignorant of the mechanics of birth, she knew the fundamental fact about it: the risk.

I supposed that was why I found myself telling her, My mother went the same way.

They were all looking at me now, these three women.

Mary O’Rahilly seemed almost comforted. Did she?

I said, In our case, I was four, and the baby did live.

Bridie was watching me, her eyes crinkling in sympathy.

Mary O’Rahilly sketched a cross, touching her forehead, shoulders, and breastbone, before resuming her walk.

I felt as if I were adrift in a leaking boat with these strangers, waiting out a storm.

A grunt burst out of Delia Garrett. My bowels—I need to move them, Nurse, but I know it won’t come!

I looked at her hard. I’d been so focused on the newcomer, it had completely slipped my mind that constipation could be an early hint of labour. But Delia Garrett wasn’t due for almost eight weeks, I argued with myself. This being her third go, surely she’d recognise those pangs?

Except that she was so reluctant to stay in hospital, she’d be likely to deny any hint that she might be slipping into that state. And wasn’t this flu becoming infamous for expelling babies before their time?

She let out a volley of coughs.

Tell me, Mrs. Garrett, when you get the urge, does your whole middle tighten up?

Like a drum!

That was another sign.

I laid her down on her back with her knees drawn up a little and began palpating. The baby’s bum was up, head down; that was good. Bridie, the horn?

Delia Garrett tried to sit up, eyes wild. You’re not prodding me with that thing.

It won’t hurt.

I can’t bear anything pressing on me right now.

Very well, I can use my ear.

So I set my cheek against her bump and asked her to take a deep breath.

I tell you I’m desperate for the lavatory!

I really don’t think it’s that, Mrs. Garrett, but you can try a bedpan.

Bridie rushed to fetch one.

I put my ear back to the hot, stretched skin. I found a pulse…but I could tell without counting that it was too slow to be anything but Delia Garrett’s.

Her cough resounded in my head.

Let me try a different spot…