The Pull of the Stars(9)

Any headache this morning?

A bit of pounding, Delia Garrett admitted with a surly look.

Where?

She swept her hands from her bosom up to her ears as if brushing away flies.

Problems with your vision at all?

Delia Garrett blew out air. What’s there to look at in here?

I nodded at her magazine.

I can’t settle to reading; I just like the photographs.

She sounded so young then.

Is the baby giving you a lot of bother—kicking and such?

She shook her head and covered a splutter. It’s just the cough and the aching all over.

Perhaps you’ll get another note from Mr. Garrett today.

Her lovely features darkened. Where’s the sense in forbidding our families to visit when the whole city’s riddled with this grippe anyway?

I shrugged. Hospital rules.

(Though I suspected it wasn’t so much about quarantining our patients as sparing our skeleton crew the extra trouble.)

But if you’re the acting sister today, you must have authority to give me a cough mixture and let me out of here, especially since the baby’s not coming till Christmas!

Unlike our poorer patients, Delia Garrett knew exactly when she was due; her family physician had confirmed the pregnancy back in April.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Garrett, but only a doctor can discharge you.

Her mouth twisted into a knot.

Should I spell out the risks? Which would be worse for her thumping blood, the frustration of feeling confined for no good reason or the anxiety of knowing that there were grave reasons?

Listen, you’re doing yourself harm by getting worked up. It’s bad for you and the baby. Your pulse force—

How to explain hypertension to a woman with no more than a ladylike education?

—the force with which the blood rushes through the vessels, it’s considerably higher than we like it to be.

Her lower lip stuck out. Isn’t force a good thing?

Well. Think of turning a tap up too high.

(The Garretts would probably have hot water laid on day and night, whereas most of my patients had to lug babies down three or four flights to the cold trickle of the courtyard tap.) She sobered. Oh.

So the best thing you can do to get home as soon as possible is keep as quiet and cheerful as you can.

Delia Garrett flopped back on the pillows.

All right?

When will I get some breakfast? I’ve been awake for hours and I’m weak.

Appetite is a splendid sign. They’re understaffed in the kitchens, but I’m sure the trolley will be up before long. For now, do you need the lavatory?

She shook her head. Sister Luke brought me already.

I scanned the chart for bowel movements. None yet; the flu often caused the pipes to seize up. I fetched the castor oil from the cupboard and poured a spoonful. To keep you regular, I told her.

Delia Garrett screwed up her face at the taste but swallowed it.

I turned to the other cot. Mrs. Noonan?

The befogged woman didn’t look up, even.

Would you care for the lavatory now?

Ita Noonan didn’t resist as I lifted the humid blanket and got her out of bed. Clutching my arm, she staggered to the door into the passage. Dizzy? I wondered. Along with the red face, that could mean dehydration. I reminded myself to check how much of her beef tea she’d managed to drink.

I felt a twinge in my side as Ita Noonan leaned harder. Any nurse who denied having a bit of a bad back after a few years on the job was a liar, though any nurse who griped about it had a poor chance of staying the course.

Once I had her sitting down on the lavatory, I left the stall and waited for the tinkle. Surely even when her mind was wandering, her body would remember what to do?

What a peculiar job nursing was. Strangers to our patients but—by necessity—on the most intimate terms for a while. Then unlikely ever to see them again.

I heard a rip of newsprint and the soft friction as Ita Noonan wiped herself.

I went back in. There now.

I pulled down her rucked nightdress to cover the winding rivers of veins on her one bloated leg in its elastic stocking and her skinny one in ordinary black.

Ita Noonan’s eyes in the mirror were vague as I washed her hands. Come here till I tell you, she murmured hoarsely.

Mm?

Acting the maggot something fierce.

I wondered who she could be thinking of.

Back in the ward, I got Ita Noonan into bed with the blankets pulled up to her chest. I wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, but she scraped it off. The lidded cup still felt half full as I set it to her lips. Drink up, Mrs. Noonan, it’ll do you good.

She slurped it.

Two breakfast trays sat side by side on the ward sister’s tiny desk, protruding over its edges. (My desk today.) I checked the kitchen’s paper slips and gave Delia Garrett her plate.

A wail went up when she lifted the tin lid. Not rice pudding and stewed apple again!

No caviar today, then?

That won half a smile.

And here’s yours, Mrs. Noonan…

If I could persuade her to take something, it might bolster her strength a little. I straightened her legs, the huge, swollen one (very carefully) and the ordinary one. I set the tray down in her lap. And some lovely hot tea, if you prefer that to the beef?

Though I could tell the tea was lukewarm already, and far from lovely; given the price of tea leaves these days, the cooks had to brew it as transparent as dishwater.