Tyringham Park

by Rosemary McLoughlin

  Waiting for the next dance to be announced, he hovered near the pair. Matron, with her eyes riveted on Lochlann’s face, didn’t notice him over Lochlann’s shoulder, even though he was only a fraction outside her direct line of vision.

  The Viennese waltz came next. Digger excused himself and made his request but Lochlann, thinking it would be bad manners not to return the compliment of being picked for the Ladies’ Choice, had already asked her. He offered to stand aside. Digger wouldn’t hear of it, especially when he saw the look of alarm on Matron’s face. She promised him the next dance, which was the one before supper, and he was content with that. As the doctor and Matron moved off, many pairs of eyes looked beseechingly at Digger, hoping he would ask them, but he stayed where he was, staring at the dancing couple laughing as their twirls became wider and more exuberant. Other dancers on the floor were tripping over themselves trying to take in the sight they thought they would never see – a glamorous Matron dancing with the best-looking man in the hall, while the most eligible one waited on the sideline to claim her.

  Lochlann, satisfied that no more was expected of him, joined the men outside again and when supper was called after the Canadian Three Step, told them that he would give it a miss and head for home. They persuaded him to have a couple more for the road. Out of a sense of tact, no one asked after his wife. The fact that she never showed her face and was the mother of a dead baby restricted their enquiries as much as it would restrict his answers, so to be on the safe side they said nothing.

  They felt sorry that such a young sociable man was saddled with a wife who, from what they could see and what Mrs Parker didn’t say, was a complete dead loss.

  At ten o’clock Lochlann reluctantly took leave of the men and during the quarter mile walk hoped that Charlotte would be in bed asleep by the time he arrived home.

  “You’ve been drinking,” Charlotte said without lifting her head from the book she was reading at the kitchen table.

  Lochlann closed the door behind him with exaggerated care. “Of course I have. Couldn’t expect to feel as good as this sober. Only half cut though. Obviously not legless or I wouldn’t have made it up the hill.”

  Charlotte laughed despite herself.

  “It’s a pity you didn’t come. You would have enjoyed it.” He leaned on the table and tried to get her attention in a teasing fashion. “Couldn’t have left any earlier. Had to have a couple of duty dances.”

  He straightened up and moved around to stand beside her. She continued to stare at the pages of the book. He started to hum ‘Danny Boy’ just as he had in the old days when he arrived at this mid-point of intoxication. Bowing, he took her hand, turned the book face down on the table and said, “One more duty dance to finish the night. May I have the honour?”

  Charlotte, choosing to ignore the insult implied in the word “duty” and trying not to look too eager, allowed herself to be pulled from the chair. Lochlann gave only a small stumble as he took up the dancing position and held her close against his chest.

  “But come ye back . . .” he was singing the words, as if he was taking them to heart, “For you will bend and tell me that you love me . . .”

  He moved his head away from hers and sang to the ceiling.

  The smallness of the kitchen and the bulkiness of the furniture restricted their movements. After Charlotte banged her hip on the corner of the table, she moved closer, and when Lochlann backed into the dresser and rattled the crockery she put both her arms around his neck. They shortened their steps to avoid any more collisions and soon were barely moving their feet at all.

  The aftershocks of the dance became apparent during the following weeks.

  When Nell Hogan realised she was pregnant with her eighth child she didn’t visit the doctor then or during the subsequent months. The Hogans had no vehicle of their own and she didn’t like to ask the neighbours for favours when there was no emergency.

  Matron and Digger had a shotgun wedding at the two-month stage. “Don’t bother getting in a large incubator for me,” she laughed. “Everybody knows and I don’t care.” A perceptive person might say Digger had warmed his hands at the fire lit by another man, but whatever the beginnings of their union the two considered themselves fortunate.

  The third was a young woman from North Redmundo.

  Charlotte was the fourth casualty.

  “And before you say anything,” she said to Lochlann, even though he was making no sign that he intended to speak, “under no circumstances will I undertake to travel in this condition. I am sure being seasick for weeks on end on the way out had an adverse effect on Benedict. And I don’t care if you are a doctor and don’t agree with me. I’m not moving from here until the baby is born and that’s my final word on the matter.”

  “It didn’t cross my mind to ask you to,” said Lochlann gently. “I know everything will go well this time. It will be something for both of us to look forward to.”

  Dr Merton, aged eighty-two, had written to say he would like one more stab at trout-fishing in the town of his birth before he died and would like to fill the position until the end of the war if he lasted and it didn’t go on too long.

  Lochlann wrote back to thank him for his application but, regretfully, had to inform him that the position was filled, then wrote to the Medical Board to report his change of plans.

  66

  Charlotte suffered an anxious pregnancy. Early on she came up with the theory that there was something intrinsically wrong with her, owing to the fact her parents were cousins, and it was an inherited deficiency rather than the seasickness that had caused the death of Benedict. Lochlann’s reassurances didn’t help as he still didn’t know why Benedict had died, and he couldn’t categorically say that the same misfortune wouldn’t happen again, though he said it was highly unlikely. He didn’t tell her that it was medical practice to advise women who had had two stillbirths not to try again as the likelihood of having another one after that was too great.

  There was some consolation for Charlotte in the fact that Edwina and Waldron weren’t first cousins, but not enough to pacify her as she lay awake in the middle of the night imagining a second disastrous outcome.

  Hating to be left on her own, she would have no one but Lochlann or Mrs Parker to keep her company, ending up exhausting them both, as well as herself, by the time she went into labour. Lochlann drove her to the hospital and she begged him not to leave her until after he had delivered the baby.

  Matron had given birth to a son nine days earlier and had already returned home. The acting matron, Sister Townsend, had completed her general training but had not done the midwifery course, though she had assisted at many births and was considered experienced. With personnel shortages all over the country, it was not unusual to have under-qualified staff in charge. Hospitals, especially small ones like Redmundo, were grateful for whomever they could get.

  Lochlann had offered to take Charlotte to Pumbilang’s large hospital with better facilities forty miles away, but she became tearful and refused to go, saying she didn’t want to be among strangers or have anyone but him deliver the baby, and if the deficiency was in the blood better facilities would be of no benefit.

  At five o’clock in the morning Nell Hogan arrived unaccompanied. She had come into town before her due date to stay with the priest’s housekeeper at the presbytery. The younger children were distributed among the relatives and the older ones stayed at the farm to help Dan with the milking and poddy-feeding. She had walked down the frosty hill in the dark without a coat, carrying her bag. A lonely sight, Lochlann thought. He loosened Charlotte’s tight grip on his arm, promised to return within minutes, and went to the reception desk to greet Nell and check her in, and then hand her over to Sister Townsend.

  At eight o’clock Sister Townsend, who hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, saw with relief her replacement, Sister Fullbright, arriving for the day shift. She waved to her but didn’t stay to fill her in as she usually did – Dr Carmody could do
that seeing he was on the premises – and left, thinking only of her bed, hot-water bottle and a ten-hour sleep ahead of her.

  “Good God, Pam, what’s the matter with you?” Lochlann asked Sister Fullbright when he saw her.

  “I feel a bit crook at the moment, to tell you the truth, Doctor. Coming down with a cold, I reckon,” Sister Fullbright croaked. “But don’t worry. I’ll be fine as soon as I’ve had a nice hot cup of tea.”

  “I think it will take a lot more than that to cure you.” He went through her symptoms with her – headache, sore muscles, tiredness, sweating, shivering. “And fever,” he added, putting his hand on her forehead. “It’s off back home with you immediately and into bed and don’t get out of it until I see you. Full-blown influenza is what you have. No doubt about it.”

  Sister Fullbright was loath to leave him with only a nurses’ aide and a cook, especially when she heard that both Mrs Carmody and Mrs Hogan had come in. Lochlann said she would be more of a danger than a help spreading the highly infectious strain of influenza around the hospital – the last thing he wanted. She suggested calling Sister Townsend and asking her to return – it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done a double shift – but Lochlann said she hadn’t slept a wink between the last two. She would be of more use that night seeing he was holding the fort during the day, and the patients wouldn’t mind a bit of neglect if they could have her fresh and well rested for the night shift.

  Sister Fullbright was glad the doctor had made the decision for her – she hadn’t looked forward to dragging herself around all day. It would be a pity, though, to miss the birth of Charlotte Carmody’s baby – it was as if the whole town and district was holding its collective breath hoping for a happy outcome for the poor depressed recluse and her long-suffering husband. And Mrs Hogan’s eighth. She would be sorry to miss that as well as it should be an easy delivery. But she was feeling so rotten it was a relief to be told to go home.

  Lochlann settled Nell Hogan in the labour ward when her time came nearer. She lay quietly suffering, trying not to be any trouble and apologising for taking up Lochlann’s time. All she asked for was chloroform in the final stages – she’d had it for all previous births and without the promise of it might lose her courage altogether. The nurses’ aide dropped in to see her whenever she wasn’t dealing with the needs of the other patients in the general wards.

  Nell gave birth to identical twin girls at four fifteen and four twenty-four. Lochlann weighed them – five pounds two ounces and five pounds twelve ounces – before swaddling them in cotton hospital blankets and placing them in cribs in the nursery next door to the labour ward. He gave Nell a little extra chloroform while he waited for the placenta to come away.

  Charlotte Carmody delivered a dead baby girl at six thirty in the room next door to Nell’s. Lochlann baptised it, cleaned it up, swaddled it, and put it in a crib beside that of the twin girls. He gave Charlotte a second whiff of chloroform to extend her not knowing and his not having to tell her.

  He was on his own all this time.

  When it was all over, he sought out the nurses’ aide and asked her to see to the needs of the mothers while he concentrated on the babies, as one of them was slow to breathe and needed oxygen.

  Sister Townsend, reporting back for work at eight that evening, refreshed after nine hours’ sleep, noticed how dreadful Lochlann looked and immediately thought there was bad news about Charlotte. He wearily told her what had happened in her absence. He had taken his wife home straight after delivery to be looked after by Mrs Parker, he said, to lighten the workload on the nursing staff, with Sister Fullbright out sick.

  He took her into his office and asked her to fill in the death certificate, which he would sign later. The doctor appeared drained and sombre to the nurse, who had been on duty the day the doctor’s son Benedict had died and had hoped never again to be in the vicinity of such a painful event.

  She blamed herself – an acting matron should be prepared for days like today. It wasn’t her fault, Lochlann said, finding it difficult to enunciate the words. How was she to know Sister Fullbright was ill, especially when she’d seen her arrive for work? It was just one of those things, he said sadly.

  The first thing Sister Townsend did was ring her fiancé, the young policeman on duty, and ask him to drive out to Taltarni to ask Shirley Dudgeon, who had no car and no phone, if she could come in and help out in the morning.

  “Don’t take no for an answer,” she said, filling him in on what had happened that day. She didn’t want to be unfavourably compared to Matron ‘Wowser’ Grainger who had ruled here so efficiently for ten years. “Arrest her if you have to – or charm her – that would be more down your alley – but don’t come back without her. Tell her she can stay with me. Thanks, love. You too.”

  Charlotte was sitting up in the bed, her head bent, adoring the dark-haired baby at her breast.

  “I think I must be the happiest woman in the world,” she said, beaming up at Mrs Parker.

  “You probably are at this moment,” agreed Mrs Parker.

  “I thought I might never be lucky enough have a live, healthy baby. It’s the only thing I ever really wanted. I can’t believe it’s happened at last. What did I do to deserve such good fortune?” She stroked the little hand fluttering in the air. “I suppose everyone says that.”

  “No, not everyone. I have to say you look like an experienced hand, Mrs Carmody. A real natural.”

  “Do I really?” Charlotte looked pleased. “That’s reassuring. I was worried that I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “You could have fooled me. You really look like an old hand. Have you settled on a name yet?”

  “Finally. The doctor said that he didn’t want any of those la-di-da long names, and I said I didn’t want one of those Irish names that most people can’t spell or pronounce, so I think we’ll settle for something plain and simple, like Mary Anne, after various forbears, if he agrees to it.” She had wanted to call her Victoria but was afraid Edwina would be hostile to the idea.

  “Very nice,” said Mrs Parker. “The sort of names that never go out of fashion.” She didn’t know if Lochlann had told her about Mrs Hogan’s stillborn twin. “I wonder how Mrs Hogan is getting on,” she said to put out feelers, and when Charlotte’s smiling expression didn’t change, presumed she didn’t know.

  Maybe that was one of the reasons why the doctor had brought Charlotte home immediately – to take her away from a situation that could only evoke bad memories. Meanwhile, she would take his lead and not say anything, and let him be the one to tell her.

  Mrs Hogan determined not to break down when Sister Townsend pulled up a chair beside the bed.

  “Dr Carmody baptised her and called her Dolores,” she said after many false starts at trying to speak.

  “That’s good. So you have a little angel in heaven,” said the nurse, using an expression she’d often heard.

  Mrs Hogan didn’t ask if there was any reason for the baby’s death – she accepted it as one of life’s mysteries. She had seen plenty of that kind of thing on the farm and never got used to it. Not that you could compare humans and animals, though to hear a cow bellowing for her separated calf, it was hard to believe they didn’t feel the same as humans. Sometimes she wondered should she be a farmer’s wife at all when she was so soft-hearted and squeamish.

  “I’ll just go and fetch your little girl,” the nurse said. “What have you decided to call her?”

  “Alison, after my favourite aunt.”

  “That’s nice. Your aunt will be pleased.”

  “I hope so. She’s on her last legs, poor thing. I don’t think there’s a Saint Alison so I’ll give her Rose as a second name just in case.”

  “That’s nice. What does that make it?”

  “Five boys and four girls.” Nell started to cry. “Three girls.”

  Sister Townsend was annoyed with herself for asking such a tactless question.

  In the privacy of his office,
Lochlann wrote to the old doctor, eighty-three by now, to say the offer was open again and, if he was still available, he could take possession of the house and the practice within the month. He then applied for a position on a troop ship – he still had the original forms. As he walked in the darkness to the Post Office to post the two letters, he wondered if he’d ever have a peaceful night again. From this day on he expected never again to sleep the sleep of the just.

  Lochlann later assured an anxious Father Daly he had baptised the child correctly with due procedure, relieving the Hogans of the worry their little girl’s soul would be consigned to Limbo. He thought it better not to mention that the child had been lifeless when he poured the water on her forehead and said the words.

  Was there ever such a blackguard as I am? Lochlann asked himself, amazed at how easily the lies rolled off his tongue.

  Nell stayed in hospital for the usual two weeks. Lochlann visited her on his daily rounds and, if he was hoping for redemption by her admitting it might have been just as well the twin had died as she didn’t think she could manage two on top of the number she already had, he was disappointed. She mourned little Dolores as if she were her first. Worse, she told him before she was discharged that her sister-in-law in Sydney had asked could she adopt Alison as, after six miscarriages, she had given up hope of having a child of her own and thought that the Hogans, with their eight healthy children, would be pleased to give one of them a huge financial advantage and a secure future.

  “What did you say to that?”

  “Didn’t consider it. Not for a minute. Dan and I both agreed we couldn’t part with our own flesh and blood, and that if God has willed us to have all these children, He will provide. Poor Cat will have to settle for being godmother. Not that that will be much consolation to her, poor unhappy woman, but it’s the best we can do. God’s will can be very unfair at times, Doctor.”