The Pull of the Stars(59)

My head was spinning. I said, faltering: I really have no time for politics.

Oh, but everything’s politics, don’t you know?

I swallowed. I’d better get back to the ward.

Dr. Lynn nodded. Tell me, though, your brother, the soldier—has he come home yet?

The question caught me off guard. Yes, Tim lives with me. Though he’s…not what he was.

Dr. Lynn waited.

Mute, if you must know. For now. The psychologist said he should recover in time.

(Not quite a lie, just an overstatement.)

Dr. Lynn’s mouth twisted.

I asked accusingly, What? You don’t think he will?

I’ve never met your brother, Nurse Power. But if he’s been to hell and back, how could he not be left altered?

Her words were gentle but they crushed me. I was the one who knew him, and I couldn’t deny the truth of what she was saying. I should face it—the old Tim was not likely to come back.

I turned to go.

The doctor wound up the gramophone’s crank.

The song hadn’t a tune, exactly. One woman singing, very melancholy at first, with strings behind her. Then her voice blazed up, slow fireworks.

I didn’t ask, but Dr. Lynn said, It’s called Liebestod. That means love death.

The love of death?

She shook her head. Love and death at the same moment. She’s singing over her beloved’s body.

I’d never heard the like. The sound got huger and huger and then the voice descended gently; the instruments went on for a while before they stopped too.

On the stairs on the way down I found my knees were jerking under me. I supposed it had been a while since that half bowl of porridge. A few minutes more away from the ward was unlikely to make much difference, so I hurried all the way down to the canteen in the basement and loaded up a tray to carry back up to Maternity/Fever.

When I came in, Bridie cried, Look at that!

As if I’d laid out some banquet.

Everything all right while I was gone?

She said, No bother at all.

Good work, I told her, just as Dr. Lynn had told me.

None of the patients were hungry except Delia Garrett, who took some bread and ham. Bridie had a plate of stew, and I managed some bacon and cabbage.

Don’t eat that bread, Bridie, it has a spot of mould.

I’ve a cast-iron stomach, she assured me as she put it in her mouth.

I’m terribly sorry.

That was Honor White in a stiff voice, followed by a volley of coughs.

I stood up, wiping my mouth. What is it, Mrs. White?

I think I may have wet the bed.

Don’t worry, it could happen to a bishop. Come on, Bridie, we’ll change the sheets.

But the circle on Honor White’s bottom sheet didn’t have that sharp tang of urine. Mild, almost milky.

I checked her chart and confirmed that she wasn’t due till the end of November. Damn and blast it; another premature labour. What I found myself thinking, selfishly and childishly, was Could we not be let to sit still for five minutes?

I think your waters have broken, Mrs. White.

She clamped her eyes shut and wrung her rosary beads.

Not another! Delia Garrett heaved onto her side and pulled the pillow over her head.

I wished we had anywhere else to put the grieving mother but this room.

I told Honor White, You’re a few weeks earlier than expected, but don’t worry.

I felt her abdomen. The foetus’s bottom was at the top, as it should be. But instead of finding the hard arc of the spine, my fingers sank into a hollow before they reached the head. The foetus was faceup. This was common enough in late pregnancy, and the awkward positioning might explain why Honor White’s amniotic sac had broken already. Hopefully it would revolve to facedown before it was time to push. Otherwise it could mean a long, painful back labour, a bad rip, maybe even (if worse came to worst) forceps…

I got out the ear trumpet and moved it around till I found the faint but lively beat low down on her right flank.

I told her, You’re progressing nicely now the waters have broken. I’m just going to wash my hands and see what the story is before we change your bed.

I put Honor White on a bedpan first to make sure her bowels and bladder were empty. Then I got her to lie back in her soaked sheets. She opened her legs without a murmur.

I was feeling to make sure the cord hadn’t prolapsed, because sometimes a loop came out first and could get pinched by the skull. But to my astonishment Honor White was wide open already; my gloved fingers could detect only a thin lip of cervix. I felt awful for not having checked her before.

Have you been having pangs, Mrs. White?

She nodded and coughed.

Where, in your back?

Another nod.

For how long?

A while.

You should have said.

Her face was stone.

So! You’re well on the road now.

Nearly ready to push, I would have added if her foetus had been facing her spine.

Usually in this situation, the doctor would give the mother a draught of morphia and we’d cross our fingers that her contractions would turn the foetus while she was asleep, but Honor White would refuse the drug, and in any case, there just wasn’t time.

For a breech birth (wrong way up), I might have tried to persuade the tiny passenger to flip over by pressing the abdomen, but for this presentation, it was best to use gravity. I got Honor White out of bed and sat her on a chair. Lean forward, please, Mrs. White. Hands on your knees.