The Pull of the Stars(21)

But the young woman kept thrashing about and protesting that I was pressing too hard, and I couldn’t make out the pattering beat I was seeking, the foetal rhythm that should be almost twice as a fast as its mother’s.

Please, Mrs. Garrett, don’t move for a minute.

It hurts to stay flat on my back!

I spoke lullingly, as if to a spooked horse: I understand.

Delia Garrett’s voice went shrill: How could you, a spinster?

Bridie’s eyes widened and met mine.

I smiled and shook my head to show I hadn’t taken it personally. Labouring women often turned cranky as things came to the crunch; in fact, it was a useful sign.

Delia Garrett’s face screwed up again and she began to moan.

I noted the time.

Waiting for her pang to finish, I checked on Ita Noonan, who was still scarlet-faced and dozing.

Between their two cots, Mary O’Rahilly paced like a ghost, three steps towards the window, three steps back, trying to keep out of the way.

Mrs. O’Rahilly, how are you doing?

All right. Could I sit a bit, maybe?

Certainly, whatever you like.

I went around her to Ita Noonan and gently pulled up the woman’s lip to insert a thermometer under her tongue; she didn’t stir.

Back to kneel on Delia Garrett’s bed, because I knew there was one more bit of proof I needed: Was the head fixed in the pelvis yet or still floating?

Hold steady on your back for just a minute more, please, Mrs. Garrett.

Facing her glossy bump, I moved my right hand into Pawlic’s grip, taking hold just above the pubic bone, sinking my fingers in as if around a huge apple, and gently trying to shift the small skull from side to— Argh!

Delia Garrett kneed me away violently.

I rubbed my bruised rib, calculating. The head hadn’t budged at all under my fingers, so, yes, this woman was in labour, two months early.

Bridie pointed.

Mrs. Noonan had let the thermometer drop out of her mouth, and it had fallen onto her blanket.

Pick it up for me, would you, Bridie? Quick, before it cools.

She scuttled between the two cots.

Show me?

Bridie put the thermometer up to my face, vertically.

Flat! So I can read the figures.

She turned it.

I read the number: 105.8. Climbing again.

Check she still has some whiskey in her cup, would you?

Bridie reported: Plenty.

You could try ice-cold cloths on the back of her neck, then.

She hurried to do that.

I tugged lightly on Delia Garrett’s drawers and said, These have to come off.

She huffed but lifted her hips so I could slide them down.

Let your knees fall apart, would you, just for a minute?

I didn’t even need to touch her. The pubic curls were crusted with red, what we called bloody show, the surest sign.

Behind me, Bridie let out a gasp of shock, but it was covered up by Delia Garrett’s groan.

I closed her legs and pulled out my watch; barely five minutes since the last pang. This was all going much too fast. Born at thirty-two weeks would mean severely premature. All we could do with those babies was keep them in the warm box upstairs for the week, send them home wrapped in cotton wool with an eyedropper for feeding, and cross our fingers—especially if they were boys, notoriously weaker—that they’d somehow live through the first year.

My most urgent task was to look after the mother, I reminded myself. To keep Delia Garrett’s blood pressure from going through the roof.

I took her wrist now. Under the pads of my fingertips, her pulse leapt, a river in spate. I plumped her pillows. Sit up and lie back on these, dear.

Blinking, she did.

Bridie was still standing there with the thermometer, openmouthed.

I asked her to disinfect it just to get her over to the sink. I followed her and murmured in her ear, You know what part of a nurse is the most important?

Bridie looked blank. Her hands? Her feet?

I pointed to my face and made it serene. If a nurse looks worried, patients will worry. So guard your face.

She nodded, absorbing that.

I went back to Delia Garrett. I believe you’re on your way, dear.

Fear in her voice, for the first time. I can’t be! She’s supposed to be a Christmas baby.

As lightly as I could, I said, Well, she seems to believe she’s a Halloween one.

Ah, no!

I turned to see Bridie with an appalled face, one hand trickling scarlet. I demanded, What have you done?

She cringed. Sorry, I set the thing, I put it down in the hot pot, but it must have hit something—so I took it out again—

I’d meant her to dip the thermometer in the basin of carbolic. What kind of eejit didn’t know that boiling water would crack a delicate glass bulb?

But I bit my tongue. I could hardly expect this young woman to pick up the basics of nursing in a couple of hours.

Excuse me a minute, Mrs. Garrett.

She buried her face in the pillow and moaned.

I crossed the room, took Bridie’s hand, and shook it a little over the bubbling water till she released the shards. I dried the bleeding finger on a sterile cloth and gave the cut a dab with a styptic pencil from my apron to seal it up so she wouldn’t go off dripping scarlet like a murderess in a play.

There you go. Now, could you run upstairs to the maternity ward and find Sister Finnigan? Tell her I have a precipitate premature labour— Damn it, Bridie would never hold on to those unfamiliar words.