The Pull of the Stars(76)

But…I’m not having a baby.

The fact was I couldn’t bear to send her off downstairs to Admitting, where she might have to hang around for hours. Delay could be dangerous if this was a bad case, which odds were it wasn’t, but just to be on the safe side…making do, desperate times, the higher duty of care. (Who was I arguing with?) I told her, It doesn’t matter. Here, put this on— I found her a starched nightdress on the shelf. Can you manage?

A loud sneeze drowned out Bridie’s answer. Sorry!

Punished for sneezing at mass, I remembered.

She turned her back modestly and started unbuttoning.

I found her a clean handkerchief, slid a thermometer under her tongue, and began a chart as if she were any new patient. Bridie Sweeney. Age twenty-two (approx.). So many details I didn’t know. It galled me to give her address as the motherhouse of Sister Luke’s order. Admitting physician—blank. I tried to remember when I’d put the thermometer in her mouth—could one minute have passed yet? Time was moving so peculiarly. I bent and touched Bridie’s jaw. Open up?

Her dry lips parted, releasing the thermometer; her lip clung to the glass as I lifted it out, and a bit of skin tore, releasing a bubble of blood.

I dabbed the glass and read it: 102.6. High, but actually not particularly high for this flu, all things considered, I told myself.

I hurried out the door. I pushed past nurses and doctors and shuffling patients in the passage. I leaned into Women’s Fever, and because I couldn’t for the life of me remember the ward sister’s name, I called, Nurse? Nurse?

The small nun didn’t like that form of address. What is it, Nurse Power?

My runner’s not well, I said in a high, falsely casual voice. Could you spare someone to fetch a doctor right away?

I didn’t say for what patient; I couldn’t admit that I’d put a volunteer helper into a bed when she hadn’t even been admitted.

The nun sighed and said, Very well.

I bit back the word Now.

When I got back to my ward, Bridie was under the covers already, her clothes folded on the chair.

(I realised she’d grown up knowing she’d be beaten if she dawdled.)

I was in no state to be in charge of this ward, given that I was so frightened I could hardly breathe, but it wasn’t as if there was anyone else. Needs must. I propped Bridie up on two pillows. I fetched four sulphur-reeking blankets from the press. I made up a hot whiskey, very strong. Bridie’s respirations were just a little fast, and her pulse was only slightly high. I wrote down all the figures, trying to think scientifically. No cough, at least.

Bridie shifted between the sheets. She asked, But what if a real patient needs the bed?

Shush, now, you’re as real as any. High time you had a rest after all the racing around for me you’ve been doing. Enjoy a little kip.

My tone was incongruously playful.

I added, You must be sleepy after sitting up all night on the roof.

Bridie’s chapped smile was radiant.

I twisted around suddenly. Mrs. O’Rahilly, I wonder, would you mind if I moved you to the far bed to make a little more room here?

Mary O’Rahilly blinked. Certainly.

(Whenever I leaned over Bridie, I thought I was doing a good job of keeping the panic from showing on my face—the panic but not the love. I couldn’t bear anyone to see the way I was looking at her.) So I helped Mary O’Rahilly out of her sheets and into the cot by the wall. I did spare a thought for the two babies. I pushed Eunice’s crib between her mother’s cot and the emptied middle one, to move her away from Bridie’s sneezes. Then I shoved Barnabas’s crib alongside it, but too hard, so both babies were slightly shaken, and Eunice sent up a whimper.

I was busy trying to remember, if I’d ever been told, whether a faster onset of the flu necessarily meant a worse case. Might Bridie blaze through the thing and be back on her feet and laughing in a few days?

To keep off the chill, I draped a cashmere shawl around her head and neck.

Her teeth were chattering. Lovely!

I laid the blankets over her and tucked them around her narrow, shaking frame.

She joked, I might get too hot now.

It’s good to sweat it out, I told her. More water?

I hurried to pour a glass.

Bridie sneezed five times in a row into her handkerchief. Sorry—

I cut her off. You don’t have to be sorry for anything.

I flung her handkerchief in the laundry basket and gave her another. Was I imagining it or was the colour spreading towards her porcelain ears? And rather more like mahogany now? Red to brown to— Drink your whiskey, Bridie.

She gulped her drink. Spluttered.

I scolded fondly, Little sips!

She gasped. I thought it would taste nicer than it does.

I could hear the effort in her voice, the precariousness of breath. I said, You know, I don’t think you’re getting quite enough air, so your heart’s beating faster to try and make up for that. Let me just pop this behind you…

I grabbed a wedge-shaped bedrest and pushed it between her and the wall, then put a pillow in front of that. Lie back now.

Against the pillowcase, her hair stood out like the setting sun. She let out a ragged breath.

I took hold of her fingers. I whispered, Really, whatever possessed you to lie about having had this already?

Creakily: I could tell you needed another pair of hands.