In Falling Snow

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  “The right choice is yourself. I want to offer you the place because, of all our staff, I think you will make the best doctor. That’s all that should matter.” Miss Ivens patted my leg and stood up, ending our conversation.

  After Miss Ivens left the office, I found myself feeling strangely light. Had she really meant what she’d said, that I would have a scholarship to go to Edinburgh and study medicine? She would be in Edinburgh too, I imagined, and we’d continue to work together as we did now, except that I would truly be her protégée. I would be training to become just like her.

  Suddenly I thought of Violet again. Had Violet already spoken to Miss Ivens? Was this what had prompted Miss Ivens to speak to me? I wondered too if it had been Violet who told Miss Ivens about Dugald. Violet didn’t mention it the next time I saw her and I didn’t either and there the matter settled itself, except that now Miss Ivens had planted a seed in me and it wanted to grow. I watched the doctors with new eyes. Berry, whom we all called Mammy—not to her face—because she was so kind, Courthald, who’d been a doctor forever, Dalyell, who’d studied in Sydney where Al had studied—surely he’d met her—and Henry, of course, the youngest, twenty-eight, with a blaze in her eyes such as I’ve never seen in a woman.

  In our world of Royaumont the doctors were gods, venerated above all the rest. They were courageous and nimble and had strode into the world of men without once looking back. And they would surely change medicine. Even our treatments—new techniques to avoid amputating limbs, fresh air and sunlight for wounds, even mending and laundering uniforms—were exactly the treatments you’d administer to weary soldiers if you were able to get under their skin and feel what they felt. We healed from within, I think, as only women could. Surely Royaumont would pave the way for women to take their place beside men as doctors. To be included among those women would be the greatest honour possible.

  I’d been working solidly all afternoon and had managed to clear most of the backlog on Miss Ivens’s desk when Quoyle came in and said I had a visitor. “I didn’t know you had a sister, Iris,” she said.

  “I don’t.”

  I went out to the reception area where there was a well-dressed woman in her forties, tall and slim, with long red hair. She held her hands to her cheeks. “Well, look at you,” she said. “You’ve grown just like your mother.” She shook her head slowly and then held her arms out and we embraced.

  “Aunt Veronica,” I said. “How lovely of you to come.” I hadn’t seen my aunt since she’d visited us in Risdon. I felt so glad. She was smaller than I remembered but perhaps that was because I was grown. But she still looked like a girl, so free-spirited. I could see why Quoyle might think we were sisters.

  She’d been in Paris for the week, she said, and Daddy had written her, imploring her to talk some sense into those two. “Do you need someone to talk sense into you, Iris?” She peered at me over spectacles, new since I’d last seen her. Her green eyes were still so clear.

  “Possibly,” I said. Daddy had continued to be uneasy about us remaining in France. He still wanted us to come home and his letters always asked when that might happen. “He’s worried about Tom more than me.”

  “I imagine,” she said.

  We left Veronica’s bag in the office and I took her for a tour of the hospital.

  She met Miss Ivens and some of the other doctors, Miss Ivens taking her aside briefly to speak privately, and then Veronica and I walked together in the forest. Late in the afternoon, I walked with her back to Viarmes.

  “Your father has asked me to convince you to go home, but I’ve no intention of doing that,” she said on the way. “Your Miss Ivens says you have a gift, Iris. She wants you to be a doctor.” Miss Ivens had made a point of saying to Veronica, in my hearing, that she had plans for me. That must have been what she spoke to Veronica about.

  I smiled. “Miss Ivens is very kind,” I said. “I’m glad to have been able to help her just a little.”

  “But you’ve grown into such a fine young woman,” Veronica said. “I’m so proud of you.” We’d reached the station and were ready to say good-bye. She looked at me, her features serious. “You know, Iris, your mother loved bugs. In the summer we spent hours together catching all manner of creatures for her collection. She killed them by pinning them to a wooden board, kept records as to date and place of capture. And then she became a scientist. She could have kept on with it. It’s not unheard of in our family. You could pursue a medical career. I’d help too, you know.”

  “And then my mother had me,” I said, and smiled. “Which wasn’t all bad.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Veronica said. “But part of her was like one of those bugs pinned to a board.”

  When I woke up Grace had left and I was alone in my chair in the lounge, an unfinished cup of tea beside me. The photograph of the truck was on the table next to my glasses. I didn’t remember putting it there. The light was strange, late afternoon. I must have been asleep for hours. I went to stand up but thought better of it and sat back down. Was this death? I thought. Was I dying?

  Soissons 1918

  He came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel that looked too small on his frame, the front rising up like a little tent as he stood watching her. On another day, it would make her laugh, but not today. He telephoned down to the desk and ordered breakfast, the tent collapsing as he concentrated. She was still lying on the bed. The sun was coming through the window onto her belly. She felt like a cat, stretching, drinking it in. You make me unashamed, she said.

  You should be unashamed. He went over and sat on the bed, brushed her hair from her face, a habit. He took her hand in both of his, studied it. I love you, he said.

  The town was a ruin around them, the hotel one of the few untouched buildings. Their room looked out to a small garden and beyond that to the street. She got up from the bed and pulled on the robe from the closet, lit two cigarettes from the pack on the bedside table, handed him one and then walked to the window. Let’s not talk about love, she said. It doesn’t seem right here.

  A knock on the door, breakfast. She told him to go into the bathroom and she went to the door, gave the boy a handful of coins, brought the tray, put it on the little table by the window. Merci, Madame Zabé, the boy had said and she’d turned around and looked, forgetting this was her name. Then she smiled at the boy. Merci, she’d said. After the boy left, she stubbed her unfinished cigarette out in the ashtray, leaned against the windowsill, sipped coffee, bit into the croissant. You make me hungry, she said.

  He came over, sat beside her on the sill, took her hand again. We’re so happy together, he said. He sounded like a child. For some reason, it annoyed her.

  I need to tell you the truth, she said. You don’t love me.

  I do, he said. You can’t speak for me.

  Well, I can’t love you, she said.

  Why not?

  They took out my love bones.

  Who took out your love bones? he said, smiling now, confident.

  Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a thing to say. But I can’t love you, I know that. I have to tell you the truth. He kissed her then and it was the kiss that changed everything, always. She felt his rough cheek against hers, smelled something sharp like almonds on his skin.

  She thought of telling him then. A child, she would say, there’s a child, it changes everything.

  What is it? he said, looking at her face.

  Nothing, she said, nothing at all. Kiss me again.

  Grace

  The table in the hospital boardroom seated twenty-four at least, and the panel members were seated facing the door. On the other side, where Grace stood, there was a single chair, a glass of water on the table. The chairman of the panel, an obstetrician from the west, bearded, grey, ursine, gestured for Grace to sit. She hesitated, feeling safer on her feet, flight rather than fight, and then sat. There was a crucifix at the other end of
the room, and paintings of former board chairs lining both sides, all old men.

  It was a panel of three, the chairman, another outside obstetrician David said he knew, smaller and younger, piercing blue eyes, and a midwife, younger than both the obstetricians, a slight blonde woman whose eyes darted from Grace to the obstetricians, as if she was trying to figure the dynamic. She didn’t know the local scene but she’d have been expecting the obstetricians to take Grace’s side in any investigation. Grace was sure the midwife wouldn’t be friendly. They had papers in front of them, the complaint, perhaps a report, testimonials from staff. The midwife was looking down at her papers now, asking Grace why it had taken her so long to attend.

  “It was a busy day. I was in theatre. I told the registrar to examine the woman and come back. By the time I got out of theatre, he’d still been unable to do that.”

  “Why had the registrar been unable to examine the woman?” The midwife looked up at Grace sharply.

  “There was disagreement between the midwife and the registrar. He wanted to move to a caesarean. She wanted to continue to try for a vaginal delivery.”

  “Why didn’t you go yourself?” This was the younger obstetrician. “Was it fair to leave it to a registrar?”

  This was a question Grace would have asked. “At the time, all I knew was that a woman was failing to progress in labour. I had no other information and no way of getting more information until someone had examined Mrs. Wilson. The registrar was experienced and highly competent. I was very comfortable asking him to go ahead without me until I could get out of theatre.”

  “Now?”

  “Now I wish I’d gone earlier. What was needed wasn’t a different diagnosis. He was right about the transfer to theatre. But sometimes midwives don’t listen to registrars.” The chairman smiled. The midwife did not. “I could make a decision the midwife might not have liked but she’d have had to go along with.”

  “But you stopped to make a phone call,” the midwife said.

  “I did.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I had asked the librarian to find something out for me. I returned her call.”

  “And then, Dr. Hogan?” The chairman leaned forward to study Grace more closely.

  “I took control of the situation, moved the woman to theatre, and delivered the baby.” The chairman asked her to comment on the care provided by Chantelle. “Some midwives have a different view of pregnancy,” Grace said. “It leaves them exposed when things do go wrong. But I think to hold a particular midwife responsible would be unfair.

  “I probably would have been more critical of the midwife for not seeing signs of pre-eclampsia were it not for the fact that I’d examined this woman the day before. At that stage, she’d had marginally high blood pressure but no other symptoms. In hindsight, I wish I’d admitted her there and then.”

  “Why didn’t you?” This was the midwife again.

  “The high blood pressure was isolated. She went into labour that night and presented with normal BP on admission.”

  “Surely you would go in with more urgency given that you knew this woman had already presented with high blood pressure,” the midwife said.

  “I didn’t realise it was the same woman until I came into the room. As soon as I knew, I acted immediately.”

  “Dr. Hogan, do you think there’s a risk your views about the midwives—which are well known—meant the team wasn’t functioning effectively that day?” Grace had no idea what her “well known” views were, but she’d never understood the anger among these midwives. Powerlessness, Janis had said. It has a way of making women angry.

  “There was no team to speak of. I can make no comment on the care provided by Chantelle other than to say my experience of her is that she’s a competent if passionate care provider.” Grace looked at the obstetrician who was chairing the panel. “I won’t try to make her the scapegoat if that’s what you’re asking me to do.”

  It took more than an hour. They went over and over what had happened. At the end they thanked Grace for her time and said their report would be completed when they finished their interviews. Grace felt exhausted.

  David phoned when he finished in theatre to ask her how it had gone.

  “I don’t know,” Grace said. “I was honest. I think they want to do over the midwife, Chantelle Dupont.”

  “You could see where they might go in that direction. What did you do?”

  “I told them the truth. I might not agree with her. I don’t even like her. But she was doing the best she could.”

  “Mark Laurie’s a good guy. He’ll put this in the right context.” Mark Laurie was the young obstetrician David knew.

  “And what’s that?” Grace said, defensive suddenly.

  “A mistake, a reasonable mistake.”

  “A baby died, David.”

  “Babies do die.”

  Ian Gibson was a perfect paediatrician, serious and thoughtful with adults but most at home with children. Grace watched him carefully as he examined Henry. “Show me what those legs can do now. Goodness me, is that all you can manage? Here comes another bang. That’s more like it. What about those arms, Mr. Muscles? Oh dear, I think you’ve broken my machine. You’re too strong.” It went on like this as Ian tested Henry’s reflexes, range of movement, control, motor skills. Grace couldn’t guess what he was thinking, another skill of a good paediatrician.

  After they finished, Henry said, “That was fun.”

  “Well, you can come back and do it again but next time don’t break my machine, okay?” Ian Gibson said. “This kid’s amazing,” he said to Grace. “Doesn’t know his own strength.”

  Henry laughed and pulled open his shirt, revealing the S on his chest. “No, I’ll break the machine again.”

  “Okay, Superman. You can break the machine next time.” He lifted Henry down off the bed. He looked at Grace. “I want to run a couple of tests.”

  “What are you thinking?” Grace asked, in her clinician voice, she realised, as if they were discussing a patient.

  “I’m not thinking anything,” Ian said. “I’m ruling out things.”

  “Like what?” Grace knew she sounded tense.

  “I’m wanting to run a couple of tests first, blood, urine.” He looked at Henry. “Muscleman like this, we want to find out where it comes from, don’t we, champ?” He looked at Grace again. “I’ll call you later today.” He was nodding to let her know he didn’t want to talk in front of Henry, which only made her more nervous.

  “Do you want me to take the bloods request?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I’ll get Janet to phone it through to the lab when I’ve worked out what I need. We got your history, didn’t we?”

  “Will it hurt?” Henry said when they got to the car.

  “Will what hurt?”

  “The blood. He said they’d take my blood.”

  “No,” Grace said. “They only need a bit.”

  After she dropped Henry with the babysitter, she called David. “He thinks something.” David was silent. “You think something too.”

  “No I don’t. I know what you know. He falls over a lot. He has pain in his legs. There’s a whole stack of things that could be caused by. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  Later in the day, when she got a call from Ian Gibson’s office to say they’d phoned the request through to the lab, Grace took Henry for the blood test, told him again it wouldn’t hurt and then when it did, took him for an ice cream. She watched as he went to stand, pushing himself up with his hands. “Why do you do that?” she said.

  “What?”

  “You use your arms to push yourself up, not your legs.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Will they have to take more blood?”

  “No,” she said. “I just wondered why you do that.”

 
“Is it wrong?”

  She took him in her arms. “No way, Superman. It’s completely right. Let’s go get your sisters.”

  Iris

  I soon returned to Villers to help Mrs. Berry. The guns seemed louder now although I put it down to having been back at Royaumont, farther from the front. At Villers, the big guns would pound all night, shaking the buildings so much that the tables in the theatre which held the instruments would hop about the floor. Sometimes I was sure we were going to be hit. Often now we had to operate in blackout mode, but the doctors never mentioned the bombs—I wondered if they even noticed. They just went on working by candlelight, their only concern the patient under their hands. I focused on keeping my own hands steady to hold the candle or assist. Poor Dr. Courthald administered her anaesthetic in the dark. I don’t know how she did it. More than once, we even had to extinguish the single candle flame that guided the surgeon’s hand and wait until the danger had passed.

  Soon after I returned to Villers, Miss Ivens arrived with staff from Royaumont and told us we must expect a great rush of casualties. “I had a call from Dugald McTaggart,” she said. “I don’t know why we weren’t advised officially. We must be ready.” Within hours of her arrival, the wounded started to pour in. Miss Ivens remained with us and the extra pair of hands was much needed. That night, medical staff from an American hospital even closer to the front arrived on foot. They’d been evacuated, they said, and so they took up working with us too. Injured soldiers came on foot as well. We were frightfully busy all through that night—the receiving ward constantly full, the theatre never empty—and I was thankful we were so busy, for the sound of the shells and the shaking of the little wooden huts would otherwise have sent us mad, I was sure. Miss Ivens worked tirelessly. She was never afraid and perhaps because of that, we were all able to keep our fear in check.

  The wounded continued streaming in through the next day and night. We each took an hour’s break when we could. I don’t think I slept. The commandant who’d helped us set up Villers arrived on the morning of the third day. “You must evacuate,” he told us. “We cannot guarantee your safety. The Germans have taken Soissons again.” After the commandant left, Miss Ivens gave the order to pack up. The commandant had said we were to wait for advice about evacuation of our patients but he returned later in the day to say there was nowhere to take the wounded yet. “All the other hospitals are closed or destroyed,” he said. “And the wounded are still coming. Can you stay until we have somewhere for them?”