The Pull of the Stars(80)

He’s back now—up on Maternity.

Through my teeth I said, Very well.

Reluctantly, I set Barnabas on his back in the crib, looking muffled up enough for the Arctic. I grabbed his chart and headed out the door to find the priest.

The Maternity ward upstairs was long and cavernous. How were they managing for an obstetrician now that Dr. Lynn had been hauled off to Dublin Castle? I passed a score of women grunting, gasping, turning, sipping tea or whiskey, kneeling up, nursing their fragile cargo, weeping. Woe unto them that are with child. Also joy. Woe and joy so grown together, it was hard to tell them apart.

I found Father Xavier praying with a patient. He straightened up when he saw me and came over, wiping his dripping nose with a handkerchief.

I wanted to be clear, so it came out curt: I’m taking a baby home.

His grey tufted eyebrows went up.

I went through the cold facts of Barnabas White’s case.

The priest fretted, You’re young to be shouldering such a burden.

I’m thirty years old, Father.

What if you go on to marry, Nurse Power, and you’re blessed with some or many of your own?

I couldn’t simply say, I want this one. I tried to put it in terms the priest might respect. I told him, His mother died on my watch earlier today. I have a conviction that this task is laid on me.

Hmm. Then the old priest’s tone turned more practical. I know you nurses are all of good character, regular massgoers. My concern’s more on the other side.

I was suddenly too tired to follow.

He spelled it out: The mother was unfortunate, to say the least. What if it turns out, upon further inquiry, that the father was a brute, or degenerate—bad stock, don’t you know?

The little fellow can’t wait while we investigate his pedigree!

Father Xavier nodded. But do bear in mind, he’s certainly not of your class.

I don’t believe an infant has a class.

Well, now, that’s all very forward-thinking. But the fact remains, you wouldn’t know what you’d be getting.

I remembered the dark wells of the baby’s eyes. I said, Nor does he.

This time the priest didn’t say anything.

Good night now, Father.

I moved towards the door as if he’d given his agreement. I heard Father Xavier’s steps behind me. Wait.

I spun around.

What are you going to call him?

He’s already been baptised Barnabas.

No, I mean…maybe it’ll be best if you let the neighbours think he’s a cousin from the country?

I considered that for the first time, the stain of being what some called an adopted.

A fresh start, see?

The priest meant well.

So I told him, I’ll think about that.

I took a step back and Father Xavier’s hand went up as if to stop me. But no, he was sketching a blessing on the air.

My legs shook a little going down the stairs.

For a moment I thought I’d turned in the wrong door. No, it was Maternity/Fever, but a stranger was in Sister Luke’s place, giving Mary O’Rahilly a spoonful of something.

Where’s Sister Luke?

The nurse I didn’t know said, Running a message.

There was little Eunice in her crib, but the other one was empty. My pulse thumped.

Mary O’Rahilly hissed: Sister Luke took him, Nurse.

I whirled on my heel.

So the nun meant to hand him over to his keepers herself, just to spite me?

I dashed down the stairs. (Was there a hospital rule I hadn’t broken yet?)

I stepped aside to let two men carry a coffin in the doors—lightly, an empty one. Then I pushed out into the chill and galloped down the street.

The night was dark, quite moonless. I turned one corner.

Two.

A sudden misgiving. Had I misremembered the way to the mother-and-baby home listed on Honor White’s chart? Or confused it with another? I froze, scanning the dim line of buildings. Was that it, standing tall and stony at the corner?

I spotted the white bulk of Sister Luke gliding towards the gate with the Gladstone bag over one arm and a small swaddled shape tucked into the other.

I didn’t call out; I saved all my breath for chasing them.

As my steps slammed up the footpath behind her, the nun turned.

No mask now; Sister Luke’s lips were thin and her one eye bulged. Nurse Power, what in the name of God do you think you’re— What are you doing?

She nodded up at the grey facade. Clearly this is the place for the child till things are sorted out. Best for him—for you—for all concerned.

I stepped close so I was only inches away from her. I have Father Xavier’s say-so. Give me the baby.

The nun’s grip on the sleeping Barnabas tightened. To be perfectly frank, Nurse Power, you don’t seem in a fit state. That poor girl today, I know it must have been upsetting— Bridie Sweeney!

I roared the name so loudly that people hurrying by turned their heads.

I added, more quietly: One of twenty slaves kept at your convent.

The nun’s mouth opened and shut.

Underfed, I said. Neglected. Brutalised all her life. What was Bridie to you but a dirty orphan—free labour, and you took the wages she earned too. Tell me, when you sent her to serve in my ward, did you even think to check whether she’d had this flu?

Barnabas’s eyes popped open; he blinked around at the tarnished city.