by Jane Yeadon
Denise rolled her eyes, slid down the bed and bared her stomach. ‘I think it’s gross but help yourselves.’
We craned round like avid telly watchers whilst Miss Harvey got hearty. ‘What nonsense! Look, class, a perfect shape. And just think, Mrs Campbell, when you’re as old as me you can tell your grandchildren how you played a big part in the future careers of a group of students.’
‘It’ll be bad enough being a mother,’ said Denise, refusing to be cheered. ‘I don’t know how I’ll cope.’
Her eyes wandered the ceiling as if searching for an exit strategy and she spoke as if she had detached herself from her body, which seemed an incredible feat given so much going on inside it.
‘Lovely! And look! The baby’s lying in a perfect position too. I can feel its spine right here.’ Miss Harvey placed her hand on one side of the baby bump and pushed whilst her fingers played along the other in an exploratory way. ‘Perfect! Ah, splendid! Lying just how it should be! And right here above the supra pubic area you can feel Junior’s head.’ Miss Harvey’s pincer-like grasp seemed unduly firm and rather personal, and when she started wriggling her hand in a pendulum moving way, I expected Denise to protest but she merely gave a bored yawn.
The tutor took a metal instrument shaped like an old-fashioned bicycle horn from her pocket. ‘This is a foetal stethoscope and it’s for hearing the baby’s heart.’ She placed the trumpet-shaped bit on Denise’s belly and listened at the other end with the concentration of an eavesdropping telephonist.
‘Excellent.’ She gave an approving nod. ‘Doing nicely, thank you, and happy for the class to listen in. Come along, Nurse Macpherson, see what you can hear.’
I took the stethoscope, aimed for the spot recently vacated and tuned in. It was like a radio station with interference. Denise on the outside might be comatose but she’d plenty action inside. I listened harder, then over food-processing noises, came, like hurrying footsteps , the sound of quick regular beats. Either Denise had swallowed a time bomb or I was hearing a baby’s heart.
Seeing my surprised and pleased look, Miss Harvey said, ‘Right! Now see if you can find the baby’s head.’
Imitating Miss Harvey’s grasp and reminded of a lucky dip, I foraged and at last found a ball-like shape.
‘Amazing!’ was the best I could do but must have looked enthused enough for the class to move forward, anxious to have a go.
‘It might be harder to find the spine. See what you can do.’
I tried but only found small knobbly lumps.
‘Hey, Denise! You’ve certainly got a mixed bag in there.’ I bent down to level with her, trying to engage her interest. ‘Mind you, I’d a bit of a job understanding your baby’s Irish accent.’
But Denise refused to be patronised. ‘You try having one and see how jokey that makes you,’ she said and gave a cold stare to Marie who had been handed the stethoscope and was now approaching with a trembling hand and her eyes already swimming. A sob hovered.
She gazed into Denise’s face.
‘Well if I was in your place, I’d be sick too, but with nerves.’
‘Oh for goodness sake!’ Miss Harvey threw her eyes heavenward.
‘A birth’s supposed to be a cause for joy. Put your ear to that stethoscope
and see if you can hear something positive for a change.’
But further negativity came from outside with Sister’s voice carrying a cool, hostile message.
‘No, Father, I’m very much afraid you can’t visit Mrs Murphy. She’s very kindly agreed to help Miss Harvey with her tutorial and that’s about to start right now.’ She turned up the volume. ‘Right now! Isn’t that so, Miss Harvey?’
‘Ach, Sister, I just want a wee word with Mrs Murphy. She’s one of my flock and I’m here to wish her well.’ The tone was wheedling.
‘Well, we’ll pass on your best wishes,’ Miss Harvey broke in. Quickly she grabbed the stethoscope, returned Denise’s bump to its owner, swished back the curtains and looked at her watch. ‘Heavens! Is that the time? You’ll have to excuse us, Mrs Campbell. My! How the time does fly. Our next patient must be thinking we’ve forgotten her. Come along, class.’ She hustled us out past a priest who was facing up to an unexpectedly implacable Sister Uprichard.
His round figure, halo of wispy curls and rosebud mouth in its florid setting gave him the look of a dissolute cherub but he wore the certainty of a God-messenger on a mission.
‘Well, if it’s not Miss Harvey, me oulde friend.’ He couldn’t have sounded less delighted. ‘Look,’ he ran a finger round a grimy dog collar, ‘I’ll only take a minute. She’s one of our most dearly beloved flock.’ He clasped his hands and gazed at the floor as if already praying. ‘And the baby being so near and all, I have a special wee word for her.’
‘I’m sure God, like us, is busy enough right now and as we don’t know how long we’re going to be, I suggest that a better use of your time would be to visit the Murphy family in their home. Offer help. There must be at least nine hungry mouths to feed there, Father.’ Miss Harvey spoke pleasantly whilst making it clear the subject was closed. Going to Mrs Murphy’s bed she started to screen her off. ‘Come along, class, we’ve work to do.’
Released from the doubtful pleasures of abdominal palpation, Denise wondered where Dr Welch was. Cynthia, who had returned looking smug, bustled off again, saying she knew where to find him. Her apron had been rinsed clean but also of starch. Now it drooped like a sad flag. It made her look more human if less efficient.
Meanwhile the priest hovered, reluctant to leave. Miss Harvey, hands on the curtains, waited until Sister Uprichard took his arm and, propelling him towards the door, spoke with the hearty manner of a hostess seeing off her last and least welcome guest. ‘Now, Father, I’ll see you out and maybe when this Baby Murphy’s born you can run along and give Mum a hand, hang out the nappies. There’ll be plenty of them already. I imagine the last little Murphy’s still in them.’
She opened the door and he trudged off whilst we gathered round Mrs Murphy who, unlike Denise, on whose small finger a large gem had sparkled, wore a wedding ring strung by a shoelace round her neck. Her swollen fingers busied themselves knitting whilst she kept a watchful eye on her new visitors.
We didn’t need to be experts to figure out that this patient with the care-worn look of an all-day shopper, only able to afford shoddy goods for needy kids, was no first-time mother. Still, there was something about her direct gaze and carefully darned cardigan which commanded respect and suggested she was no pushover.
She sighed as she laid her knitting with its Bestway pattern to the side. ‘I hope yez won’t be too long – I’m wanting to get this vest finished today and I’m vexed ye sent Father O’Patrick away. He’s a lovely man,’ her tone was as protective as the arms she was placing over her stomach, ‘and I’d have liked to have seen him. He always cheers me up and prays for me to be a good Mammy, but,’ she looked down on a belly, its elasticity lost to pregnancy, and sighed, ‘I don’t suppose he’d have liked to see this.’
Miss Harvey was brisk. ‘Nonsense! It’d have done him good. But what’s really far more important is you allowing us to see you. It’s vital these girls see lots of different tummies. We can’t really thank you enough for helping. I’m sure Father would bless you for that alone.’
‘And do you think that with all this education you could do something with these?’ Mrs Murphy pulled on greying hair and stuck out a well-travelled leg. ‘With the varicose veins an’ all?’
‘We could suggest ways to stop you getting more.’
‘Every babby’s a blessing,’ Mrs Murphy bridled. ‘And sure my husband wouldn’t approve.’
Miss Harvey was thoughtful. ‘You could always take matters in your own hands.’ She dropped her voice and said as discreetly as you could in front of a class of suddenly attentive students, ‘What would you think about a Dutch cap?’
If anybody had missed the conversation they were quickly brought up to speed
as Mrs Murphy’s scandalised words rang out through the ward. ‘Cap? Cap!’ She drew breath, then exploded, ‘Sure the only cap me man would wear is on his head.’
A heavy silence fell, broken by Lorna who, picking up the pattern, said it was a bargain at three pence but probably not as good as the more comprehensive ninepenny Patons and Baldwin. For a glorious moment I thought she was going to suggest it might even have a pattern for contraception and maybe Lorna, with her kindly way, might knit one up for her.
‘Thank you, Nurse.’ Miss Harvey had the unfazed manner of a bombproof head mistress. ‘I can see you’ll be good at mother craft lessons but maybe we should have a chat with our patient about family planning later.’ She put her hands together in a poor imitation of Father O’Patrick’s prayerful way. ‘But we’re actually here because of her unstable lie. You girls need to see one to recognise it.’
There was another silence even louder than the last as the patient looked at her in amazement. Then she sat bolt upright, her lined face flushed whilst she jabbed with a finger. ‘First you stop me seeing my priest, then you’ve some yarn about hats and now you’re saying I’ve an unstable eye. Well, that’s it! I’ll thank you for taking that back. I don’t know when I was so insulted. Mother of God!’ She blinked hard. ‘See? Straight! And I’ll have you know there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight either. I’m here because the babby isn’t in a good position,’ she flung back the bed clothes, ‘but I’m not staying here to have you speak to me like this. Where’s me clothes?’ Those hardworking fingers scrabbled with the buttons of her cardigan.
Miss Harvey sucked her lips as if regretting her words and quickly laid a smoothing hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve really upset you and I’m the one forever telling the students not to frighten their patients with medical jargon. Forgive me. I got it wrong.’ She closed her eyes and tapped her head twice. ‘Look! Maybe these rookies will do a better job.’ She glanced down at Seonaid practising small skips at the bottom of the bed. ‘So what could I have said to our patient without giving her a heart attack?’
Mrs Murphy’s bump was getting in the way so Seonaid had to tiptoe to let Mrs Murphy see her.
‘I’d say, m’dear, you’ve a rock’n’roll chick in there takin’ up all the floor an’ dancin’ everywhere – groovin’ about an’ sometimes even falling asleep over the door. That’s some wee mover you’ve got in there, so you have. All over the place now.’ Seonaid clicked her fingers and swivelled her hips as if getting into the beat herself.
‘No, I wouldn’t have thought of saying that,’ Miss Harvey mused whilst a young girl sneaked out from behind Mrs Murphy’s worry lines.
Lying back on her pillow she said, ‘But sure, that’s clear enough and rock’n’roll’s gas but,’ she sighed, putting a hand wearily over her brow, ‘this mammy won’t be doing it for a while.’
Miss Harvey resumed her tutorial.
‘And certainly not until Junior’s born. Wouldn’t be too good for your blood pressure but if you do go into labour, at least here there’s medical help right at hand. And why do you think she might need that, class?’
Margaret’s theatre experience of dealing with unconscious patients had plainly affected her communication skills as she said, ‘The wrong bit might come out first, leaving the rest to get stuck.’
‘Oh!’
I thought it was a Marie response but it was Mrs Murphy who, in an affronted way, had lifted the bedclothes, peered down then bulked herself into a different position.
‘Me bags have burst!’ she said.
6
AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL
Even if the placid pace of the antenatal ward quickened, Miss Harvey was calm. ‘Well, what a good thing you’re in here. It’s so easy to get you into labour ward.’ Signalling for us to do likewise, she kicked off the nearest brakes on the bed and started to shove it. ‘We’ll just pop you over the road.’
‘Mrs Murphy’s membranes have ruptured,’ she said as we passed Sister Uprichard guarding the door, presumably to keep good priests out and her fun-loving girls back in. ‘We’ll take her, and it’s a chance to show the class the labour suite as well. Come on, folks, let’s help this lady on her way!’ She gave a little chuckle. ‘My! But this is turning out to be a grand tour.’
We arrived in a tumble in the labour ward with Cynthia and Margaret making the bed swerve from side to side as they fought for front rider supremacy, the rest of us hanging on like flanking troops.
‘I see you’ve brought Mrs Murphy over and by the look of you, taking in more than one unstable lie,’ said a doctor applying midwifery terms to our driving skills. He led our zig-zag procession to a small cell-like room. He was tall with the easy way good-looking doctors seem to have of establishing trust and co-operation from everybody but those with sight impairment. His sleeves, rolled up in a workmanlike fashion, showed forearms so brown he must either take holidays abroad or be an axe man. He swept back a lock of fair hair as if to see the better for checking any damage. ‘I just hope you haven’t chipped the door of our Labour Suite.’
Suite! What a misnomer for a cold clinical collection of rooms with walls the colour of puce and the floor a cheerless swabbed-down grey. Each labour room was bare, the soundproof door completing its celllike image. I thought it a particularly dismal place to be born and a doctor, no matter how handsome, should care less for the paintwork and more for his patient, even if she didn’t seem bothered.
In fact, Mrs Murphy was wreathed in smiles. ‘I’ve had all my babbies here and had the best of treatment so I know I’m in good hands, and of course Dr O’Reilly here always looks after me great. My first time, d’you remember, you were just a student-doctor and look at you now.’ She clapped her hands and widened her smile. ‘An obstetrician, no less. So I couldn’t have put you off or been too bad a patient.’ She sank her head back on the pillow and looked at him in a dreamy way.
‘You’ve never been that and of course we’re old friends and we’ll not let you down this time either,’ promised the doctor. He might have looked like a film star but he wasn’t above meeting his public and he seemed cheerful and especially pleased to see this most regular of patients. ‘But maybe having them doesn’t get any easier.’
With the authority of a judge summoning his clerk, he beckoned on a nearby pretty blonde nurse. ‘Staff here’ll make sure everything’s in order. I presume you’ve signed the anaesthetic form?’
‘Now why would I need to do that?’
The door closed on us and the answer. It plainly disappointed Margaret who, breathless with excitement, was eyeing up the theatre like a circus horse smelling sawdust.
‘Miss Harvey, do you think Mrs Murphy’ll need a Caesarean?’
‘If the baby can’t be turned, yes, but Dr O’Reilly’s very experienced and should manage to get that baby on course. It’s no surprise, and with all that muscle stretch, she’s bound to have a quick labour so he’ll need to be snappy. Right now that baby’s in a transverse lie.’
‘It’d be good to get a normal delivery for a start,’ I said, not wanting to see Mrs Murphy under the knife and thinking that the combination of Cynthia and Margaret in theatre presented more hazards than any scalpel.
‘Well, we’ll ask Sister Flynn if there’s any likely. She’s in charge, and’ll know.’ Miss Harvey nodded at a sister in theatre-green charging towards us.
Unlike Sister Uprichard, she was whippet thin, with a beaky nose and the harried expression of someone with more important things to do than stop.
‘She looks desperate strict. I bet she gives terrible rows,’ whispered Marie, tucking in behind Margaret and plucking my arm, ‘and, Jane, if we do see a delivery should we not have our record books?’
‘We’ve a primigravida in room five.’ Sister Flynn, skidding to a halt, nodded her head backwards. ‘Shouldn’t be long, but we’ll need to ask if she minds an audience. It’s her first time, after all. Anyway, I don’t want too many in at one time and the Prof.’s kicking
up because his students are leaving soon and still haven’t witnessed all their births never mind getting their deliveries.’ She grimaced as if she was part of an inefficient postal service.
Miss Harvey was in the nice mode we were coming to associate with the opposite. ‘Well, we’re here and there’s not that many of us, so why not just let us in and Prof. can have the next one? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Anyway, we saw him leading his students away from here. Maybe he was going to give them a lecture.’
Sister Flynn rubbed her brow and scrubbed her paper cap, putting it at an angle that could have made her look jolly were it not for the beady eyes. ‘I’m sure he will mind, but you are here I suppose and these nurses will need their witnessing too even if they have a whole year compared to the students’ three months.’
‘Yes but my nurses’ll be midwives at the end of it.’ Miss Harvey sounded edgy. ‘And of course unless a medic chooses midwifery as a specialism, they’re unlikely to be practising it when they’ve qualified.’
‘Well, of course I know that.’ Sister Flynn, practically running on the spot, was making the point about being a very busy person without time to argue. ‘OK then, but you’ll need to go along and ask her. I’m far too busy. I need to check that everything’s ready in theatre just in case we need it for that new patient you’ve brought in.’ She sounded faintly accusing.
‘Right, I’ll go and, class, mind you don’t get in anybody’s way,’ said Miss Harvey and disappeared in the direction of Sister Flynn’s nod.
She’d no sooner gone than the professor stuck his head round the entrance doors.
‘Any deliveries likely?’ Even though he’d a mouth like a trap door, he sounded civil, unlike Cynthia who, as self-appointed spokesperson, spat a ‘No’ before pointedly turning her back on him and studying the ceiling with fierce determination.
The door banged shut. Miss Harvey was back, giving us no time to think guilt by association.
‘I didn’t hear Prof. McQuaid did I?’
