by Jane Yeadon
Apart from Marie who looked shocked, the rest of us, determining to keep our witness slot, threw in our lot with Cynthia with a universal ‘No.’ Even Margaret joined the chorus.
Marie, a red spot on each cheek, bowed her head as Miss Harvey said, ‘Funny, I was sure I heard his voice. I wouldn’t like him to think we were stealing a march on his students. I know he’s chasing witness deliveries at the moment but that’s fine. We’ll not bother with the “delivery notice” bell. Our patient’s got a staff midwife and student in with her already but she says she doesn’t mind a few more.’
‘And she doesn’t mind an audience?’ Lorna asked.
Miss Harvey laughed. ‘Says I can sell the tickets and she’ll take the money. She shouldn’t be long but if you go ahead into the delivery room it’ll give you the chance to look round. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Good,’ said Cynthia, leading the way. ‘One feels that preparation’s everything.’
‘Does one indeed,’ I parodied, nevertheless falling into line and into a room where a huge wall clock, scales, cot, delivery table and enough sanitary ware to mop up Belfast Lough, made for dull props in the silent theatre that was the delivery room.
Half the wall at the far end was windowed in frosted glass. Sunlight filtered through it. As if it were a warm-up performance, it played on the chrome instruments that were laid on a trolley like cutlery, giving a brighter lighting effect than the spotlighting disc hanging from the ceiling and trained on the bottom of the delivery table.
‘Looks as if it’s waiting for the star attraction and what’s that blue machine at the top?’ I wondered.
‘Ah! Now that’s an easy one.’ Margaret stepped forward, relishing the role of mystery object advisor. Dropping shoulders, stretching her neck and jutting her formidable chin, she stood beside the machine with the air of a salesperson promoting a good product. ‘D’you see the cylinders? That’s Entonox, or gas and air if you’d prefer.’ She held up a mask and held it close to her face.
‘If you take that any nearer, you’ll have to clean it before anybody else uses it,’ Cynthia observed.
Margaret glared at her. ‘From the way you’re talking, you’d think I’d a notifiable disease. Of course I wasn’t going to use it. I just wanted to demonstrate that you can’t overdose on it. The patient holds it like so.’ Defying Cynthia with a closeness that made me think she was actually going to take a quick snort, Margaret put the mask in front of her again. ‘It helps take the edge off pain but also’ll leave her in control which might not seem too apparent at the moment.’ She cupped her ear. ‘Listen! Here she comes.’
Followed by Miss Harvey, our patient arrived threshing about in a bed wheeled in by a student and Staff Midwife.
Miss Harvey made the introductions. ‘This is Jinty Allan, and she’s a very brave girl.’
‘No I’m not. I need help. I’m in agony. Help! When’s all this going to stop? Oh Jasus!’
Jinty’s name was the most cheerful thing about our patient. The sinews of her neck stuck out like whipcord, sweat stuck her curly hair to her forehead in dark question marks whilst her knees seemed to have relocated to her chin. She ground her teeth and groaned. ‘It’s purgatory. I’ll never do this again. Never!’
‘That’s what they all say,’ said the midwife, ‘but it is hard work and you’ve been doing so well. Won’t be long now.’ She moved over to the table, patting it in an encouraging way. ‘Now! Between your pains could you move onto this?’
Had anybody suggested I climb the north face of a delivery table from an existing bed of pain I’d have refused, but our patient was apparently made of sterner stuff and heroically scaled the heights before making her crash landing. Another yell split the air.
‘Mother of God. Another bed of misery!’
‘Have this. It should help,’ said Margaret handing her the Entonox which Jinty grabbed, inhaling with the enthusiasm of a smoker on a forty-a-day habit.
‘I’m conducting this delivery,’ snapped the midwife, ‘and you’re supposed to be just watching. Go down and join the others please and mind out for the student midwife coming towards you. She’s scrubbed up, ready to do the delivery.’
‘You’ll see better from here. It’s better than a ringside seat,’ I whispered , making room for a crimson-faced Margaret.
‘I was only trying to help,’ she muttered and looked close to tears.
‘Well see if you can get Marie to open her eyes, otherwise she’ll miss this delivery. She trusts you for some reason.’
Having made sure her class was still in the upright position, if a little green, Miss Harvey murmured that she was going back to the classroom. ‘And, class, I’ll see you there after. And the best of luck, Mrs Allan, you’re going to be fine.’
‘If anybody else says that I’ll scream,’ gritted our patient and did.
‘Oh, good. Transition stage and I think we can just see the head.’ The midwife sounded positively breezy. ‘Now mind how you control it, Nurse. We don’t want it shooting out.’
It was one thing having an audience for your labour but there was the student midwife’s performance too to consider. I wondered if she felt nervous about us watching or did she know our attention was as solely glued to her baby-catching hand as it was to the emerging head.
‘Pant!’ yelled the midwife.
‘Not you,’ I nudged Marie.
‘She’s hyperventilating,’ excused Margaret, ‘but for goodness sake, Marie, let go of my hand.’
‘We’ve lied, we’ve lied,’ whimpered Marie, ‘and now this!’
Under cover of Mrs Allan’s impression of a dog expiring in the sun, the midwife picked up scythe-sized scissors and said, ‘She’s going to need an episiotomy – otherwise she’ll tear.’
I had to take that deep breath forbidden to Jinty and wondered if I really wanted to be a midwife. Blood sports had nothing on this. Maybe life behind a nice tidy desk in a smart office was the way forward where the nearest thing to drama was the phone ringing. Still, I forced myself to watch, holding my breath as the scissors made a quick cut. The sound of metal on flesh was toe-curling.
I supposed that a surgical cut to make an easier passage for the baby would make a clean wound. It would be easier to heal. Even then, it might be a while before Jinty could sit without discomfort.
Somewhere, outside, was a simple world where people happily went about their business. They’d have no anxieties like those delivering new lives, here, in this clinical space. Never mind midwifery, I vowed, I’ll make damn sure I’ll skip motherhood.
Then, almost as an anticlimax, the baby’s head was eased out.
‘Another wee push now.’
Shoulders emerged and then the rest of the baby. The cord was cut, airways briskly cleared and cleaned, and the baby wrapped in a cloth. Then, releasing the tension, a tiny cry made a loud statement.
‘It’s a girl! You’ve got a wee girl!’ The student, sounding more excited than the mother, handed her over.
Jinty, weary and cradling the baby awkwardly, touched her cheek. ‘A daughter!’
She sighed as she checked to see if the student was right. Then, with her vocal cords apparently affecting her as much as motherhood, she said in a voice like broken glass, ‘Ah ye poor wee thing. You’re crying now but you don’t know what lies ahead of ye.’
7
‘ WHERE THERE IS WHISPERING THERE IS LYING .’
‘That left nothing to the imagination,’ said Seonaid, allowing the labour ward suite door to swing shut behind us. ‘And to think Mrs Murphy’s gone through it nine times already. The woman needs a medal for endurance!’ She shook her head. ‘Or a new brain.’
Passing the theatre door on our way out, we’d seen a red light above it. It was a sign that an operation was in progress. It must be for Mrs Murphy.
As impressed at so recently having being present at a birth as depressed by the perils of having so many, I said, ‘Well something needs sorted. She must have had to hav
e that Caesarean. I hope she’s all right and maybe she’ll get her tubes tied as well. Save a next time.’
‘They’d need to get her husband’s permission for that.’ Margaret, probably rankling after getting that gas and air row, spoke with the authority of somebody bulked of it. ‘It might be alright in Aberdeen but they do things differently here.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ I was more aggravated than certain. Sterilisation wasn’t a subject I remembered anything about but surely it couldn’t be the case back home. If I’d thought the matter of stopping pregnancies by a simple enough operation was such a contentious subject I’d have paid more attention to the snoozeinducing lectures by droning old gynaecologists.
‘Ah, girls, stop your arguing. Why don’t you start praying for her like me?’ Marie’s colour was as retrieved as her faith.
Remembering some publicity about a burly, ugly-faced Ulster preacher coming to Aberdeen, I was exasperated. ‘For the love of Mike, give that God of yours a break. When I was in Aberdeen we never bothered ours except maybe on a Sunday and then for just an hour.’ I warmed to my theme. ‘Then someone from Ireland came to preach in a well-loved church to,’ I air-punctuated the words, ‘“show us the way”. Apparently all he did was upset congregations and keep them awake by thundering a Hell, Fire and Damnation sermon. Then some large men put round pails to be filled with money, preferably notes, as a mark of gratitude.’
I chuckled. ‘He must’ve forgotten he was dealing with Aberdonians. The good folk had never seen or heard the like before and found his buckets and bigotry a complete turn off.’
Marie gave a horrified squeak. ‘I’m sure that man wouldn’t have been one of ours. I couldn’t imagine any of them carrying a pail, but Jane,’ her eyes were filled with anxiety, ‘have you no worries about your soul?’
‘Not really, but if it’s worrying you and you’re on the line to your God you can put in a word for me. Personally I think he’s a bit overstaffed .’ I nodded at Father O’Patrick heading our way. ‘Look, just what I’m saying. Here’s one of his busiest helpers.’
The priest blocked our path. ‘Bless you, bless you! Just a minute of your time, if you don’t mind. I know how busy you are but what I’m wondering is if you could ever tell me about Mrs Murphy. I happened to notice her being taken in there.’ He pointed at the labour rooms whilst darting his eyes at the antenatal room doors with an anxiety which suggested a vision of Sister Uprichard wouldn’t constitute a miracle.
‘You mean the labour ward?’ I asked, feeling bold at introducing a word that suggested hard work.
The priest nodded and scratched his curls, prompting an early fall of dandruff to snowstorm the black coat swaddled about him. It had a torn pocket from which a Racing Times hung out lending cheer to the cold weather front of his person. ‘I’m betting her husband will want to know she’s there but as he hasn’t a phone, I could tell him where she is and I could easily go now.’
‘My good man, we couldn’t possibly tell you anything about any patient,’ said Cynthia, her chest advancing, ‘that would be a terrible breach of confidentiality.’
Despite a position of vulnerability, trapped as he was under the shelf of Cynthia’s bosom, Father O’Patrick fought back. Patting his Racing Times as if to reassure himself that better things lay ahead he said, ‘But my dear girl, you won’t know the family circumstances like I do, and believe me, Mr Murphy may well need my support right now.’
Cynthia’s bosom continued inexorably as she said, ‘We’re not at liberty to disclose anything.’
Margaret, keen to put in her tuppence worth, hardened her jaw as she said, ‘Professionalism comes in many shapes.’
I hadn’t thought either Cynthia’s chest or Margaret’s chin fitted that category but they were doing their bit when Dr O’Reilly, looking harassed, barged through the labour ward doors.
‘Ah! Father – that’s a bit of luck. I was just nipping over to see Sister Uprichard to see how to contact Mr Murphy and she said you were probably still around. Mrs Murphy’s just had her baby and I need to contact him right away but we’re having a problem getting a hold of him. Would you know if he has a telephone now?’
The priest gave us a smug ‘told you so’ look before thanking God for deliverance and the presence of a diligent messenger at such a crucial time.
‘I know he doesn’t have one but what is it and what will I tell him?’
The doctor looked solemn. ‘I can’t actually say but just let him know that the sooner I see him the better it’ll be for everybody. Now, do you think you could go, and quickly too?’
‘Well if you’re sure I can’t pass on any other message,’ the priest said, looking cheated then frustrated. Then clutching at a straw, ‘I’ve actually a few things to do here first so if you could tell me more …’
Horns could have locked had Seonaid not stepped forward and asked if the family lived nearby. Dr O’Reilly had to look down to locate the voice whilst the priest seemed relieved to find somebody with long sooty eyelashes and small enough to hardly pose any threat. ‘Number Seventy-Six. It’s just a wee way down the Falls Road, but it’ll be no trouble for me to go, especially if it’s an emergency.’ Curiosity sharpened his tone. ‘Look, I can do me other chores here later.’
‘Ah! But I could easily run down just now, and as you say you’ve work to do here. See, Father, I’m really fast.’ Seonaid wiggled a shoe as if it had spikes. ‘It’ll be our lunch hour soon and I’m sure Miss Harvey won’t mind. She knows Mrs Murphy.’
Dr O’Reilly brightened. ‘That’d be even better. As you say, Father, you’re a busy man and you’ve just said you’ve other things to do so maybe this nurse should go and she can check everything’s alright in the household as well.’ His eyes drifted over the priest’s gravy stains whilst he added gently, ‘And maybe you might not be the best judge of that.’
The priest looked thwarted then blue as a fit of coughing worthy of medical attention took over, giving Dr O’Reilly a perfect opportunity to hurry back to the real work of the labour ward.
As the priest recovered, his chin settled back into its pillow of Brillo-coloured jowl and he sighed. ‘Ah, but these doctors all think they know best and, forgive me for saying so, but Miss Harvey may have her job to do whilst mine is a calling.’ He made the comparison sound as if he was a hot-blooded saviour. ‘You know the family is very special to me so I’ll just hurry with my other tasks and follow you on then, Nurse.’ But Seonaid was already out of negotiating range.
‘Does that not remind you of a Christmas pudding on the run?’ said Laura, nodding as the priest bobbed off in the opposite direction . ‘But I suppose we should head back to the lecture room – Miss Harvey’ll be waiting for us.’
As we passed the nursery Marie said, ‘They must have allowed in Mammy Fleming. See? I’d know her by her hair. Ah, the wee love, she’ll feel better being there and so much closer.’ She pointed to a gowned figure under whose cap a ratty tail escaped and who was now gazing into Mary-Jo’s incubator.
As unaware of us as her daughter was of her, the figure sat motionless , looking in with the same intensity as Marie whilst I hurried to catch up with Seonaid.
‘I think the doctor wants Mrs Murphy to be sterilised, tubes tied and all that.’
‘And I think her husband will too,’ Seonaid cranked up her pace, ‘once I’ve had a word with him, but I’ll have to shift. Father O’Patrick’s going to be right on my tail and I don’t want him trailing in clouds of conscience and talk of God’s will before I get my oar in.’ As she sprinted past the lecture room she called back, ‘Could you just tell Miss Harvey where I’ve gone?’
I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, especially as Miss Harvey nodded us in with a grin so fierce you might have thought she was my aunt welcoming an unexpected busload of hungry relations. Suddenly, I wished I’d gone with Seonaid.
‘I want you all in and in your seats now!’
She slammed the door shut and leant against
it as if we might escape, which I now very much wanted to do. There was a brief silence whilst she contemplated her shoes which were Edinburgh sensible, highly-polished and apparently a brighter sight than her class. Silence prevailed, then in a very cold voice she said, ‘I’ve just had a visit from Professor McQuaid who’d come to fix up a time for a lecture I’d asked him to give. He was surprised nobody was here and when I told him where you actually were he said he’d been to the labour ward and was told there was nothing happening.’
Her sigh was as gusty as that of a chief mourner fighting against sleet. ‘And I can tell you right now, he’s just furious and for that matter so am I. He’s a busy man and accustomed to respect. I believe he almost had a door shut in his face and then …’ In an ‘Outraged of Morningside’ voice, she registered a far more serious crime. ‘You lied to me as well. I want you all to know you’ve put me in a very embarrassing position. Against all my principles, I’ve had to defend you and say it was just you were so mustard keen to see an actual delivery you forgot yourselves.’
Even if she didn’t appear to have noticed Seonaid’s absence, perhaps this was not the time to explain it. The St Andrew’s flags on Margaret and Cynthia’s backs flapped disconsolately whilst Miss Harvey stomped over to a shelf. ‘And covering up for liars is not what I joined this profession to do.’
Having successfully laid a mantle of gloom and continuing the spirit of despondency, Miss Harvey picked up a decayed looking pelvis and the head of a doll so battered it merited social work intervention or an autopsy. With the care of an antique dealer happening on a rare find, she held up both artefacts. ‘These are the Professor’s and he uses them for his lecture on the Mechanism of Labour – his special subject.’
Mechanics and labour weren’t words I could imagine putting together until Miss Harvey held the pelvis in one hand. With the other she put the doll’s head through, turning it as if screwing a jar top.
‘He uses this to demonstrate the different positions and action of a baby going head first during labour. Even though that’s the best way, it can still deliver in lots of different ways. It’s not always easy to grasp but it’s fundamental to understanding those differences. Nobody explains it better than the Professor. We’re privileged he’s always done it for the student midwives. Now I’m not so sure …’
