Page 2 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Edie nodded, so Maisie carefully and gently held the warm compress to the woman’s perineum – the skin between her birth canal and back passage. This was the place where the skin needed to stretch to accommodate the crowning, and the place most vulnerable to tearing.

Edie sighed in relief – as women often did when they received the warm compress, but Maisie knew that it wasn’t simply for the woman’s comfort; it would genuinely help reduce the chances of a tear.

When the contraction ended she put the facecloth back in the water, retrieving the other one and making a warm pad of it. She alternated the two cloths for the next few contractions as the head emerged, and was delighted to see that there was only the tiniest tear. Setting the compress to one side she knelt to receive the baby, placing towels on the floor between Edie’s feet just in case.

And there it was! Shoulders and body emerged in a single slither, and Maisie caught the child, sweeping it up to its mother’s arms in a single fluid movement. ‘A girl!’ she declared, having learned to stop saying ‘A wee girl’ or ‘wee boy’ since ‘wee’ meant something entirely different in London.

At the same time, she was patting the baby with a soft towel, and assessing the situation. There was no gush of blood on the towels on the floor – just clear waters with a small trace of red. The baby was moving appropriately, but had not yet cried. And was her skin a bit dusky? It was harder to tell in dark-skinned babies, but it seemed to Maisie there was a greyish tinge to the baby girl’s skin. Perhaps the cord had been a little compressed in the past few minutes. It was, however, pulsating merrily at present, doing its work of pumping oxygenated blood into the baby. Within less than a minute, thankfully, the baby’s skin colour had a healthy tone and she was crying lustily.

Agatha was crying happy tears, Maisie saw, and as she hugged her sister and they both exclaimed over the baby, Maisie got to work, cleaning the floor by the bed using the towels, and then wrapping the used facecloths in them. The bed was clean and dry, and so she made a thick pad of clean, dry towels, placing it under Edie, and getting her settled in a lying position. The baby latched on soon afterwards, and Agatha left to take away the used towels and set more water on the stove to boil. When she returned, Maisie slipped quietly downstairs to the kitchen, where she submerged her stork-shaped scissors in the boiling water. Looking out the window at the small yard and red-brick wall, she was conscious of a feeling of contentment. Not joy – joy was too fleeting, too intense. This was better – a calm feeling of peaceful satisfaction. Her mind flicked to her boyfriend, and the difficult conversation that was looming later, but she shied away from the thought, returning to the calm.

When she was sure the scissors were well sterilised, Maisie extricated them carefully and wrapped them in a clean cloth. Emptying the used water, she set more on to boil – this time, for tea. When she got back upstairs the baby had finished feeding and the cord had completed its work. It was now white, flaccid, and empty, and ready to be cut.

Following tea, toast, and conversation, Maisie weighed the baby using the Salter spring scale, carefully placing the baby girl in the cloth hammock and lifting the device off the bed an inch or two, allowing the spring to move the needle on the scales. ‘Eight pounds two ounces!’ she declared, smiling, before taking a clean nappy from the pile Edie had prepared and deftly putting it on the baby. She followed up with a tiny vest and a soft cotton gown, then returned the child to her mother. ‘Have you a name for her?’

‘I do,’ said Edie. ‘She will be called Agatha.’

At this, there were more tears from her sister, and the whole thing meant Maisie was grinning like an eejit as she cycled back to the nurses’ home at around noon. After returning the hospital bike to its shed she went straight to the maternity office to fill in the register, writing baby Agatha’s details in her neatest handwriting. In the column marked ‘Midwife’ she wrote her name, a feeling of pride running through her. Today, finally, she would officially qualify, and never would she forget baby Agatha. Her final baby as a pupil midwife.

That done, she went to her room to change out of the King’s Hospital uniform – again for the last time – then slept for a while before tea in the hospital canteen. Afterwards, she made her way out to the coffee house where she and Gerald had arranged to meet this evening. He was there already, supping his drink.

‘I didn’t know when you’d be coming, so I haven’t ordered you anything.’ His eyes were dull and his mouth turned down. Our last ever evening.

She felt sad too, but kept her voice cheery as she removed her coat. ‘That’s all right! I’ll order my own!’ She went to the counter, returning with a cup of tea.

‘How was your day?’ She took a sip of her drink, enjoying the sensation as it slid down her throat.

‘Ah, you know. War preparations and all that. Extra drills, and vehicle training, you know? Being in the service corps means we look after logistics.’ He loved that word, logistics. Maisie now knew it meant they handled food, fuel, ammunition, and clothing for the army, wherever the army happened to be. He continued talking, running through his day with a fair degree of detail, until they had both finished their drinks. ‘Shall we go?’ He was already rising, standing as Maisie shrugged into her coat.

They set off on the long route back to the nurses’ home, her hand in his as usual. This was when they would usually talk, though this time, there were strained silences. Hardly surprising, since everything was changing. Their time together was ending. Maisie’s heart felt sore.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she offered tentatively, and he swung his head to look at her.

‘So you’re going through with it then?’ There was bitterness in his tone. He’s hurting too!

‘I’m so sorry, Gerald. I have to.’

‘Why? Why do you have to?’

She stifled a sigh. She had explained it already, dozens of times. Tonight, though, she had to make allowances for his pain. ‘Belfast is my home. I’m only here because my family paid for my training. It’s my duty to go back now I’m qualified. My wages as a midwife will really help.’ There was no point dwelling on the fact she missed her family and could never stay away from them forever. He was not close to his, and seemed to have no concept of such things. Surely he would understand duty, though?

His lip curled. ‘Midwives only earn a few shillings a week!’

‘That might seem like nothing to you, but in my family it’s a lot,’ she returned firmly. The man had no idea of the true value of a shilling. Of course it wasn’t his fault that he had grown up in a wealthy family.

‘Why did you not train in Ireland then, if money is so tight?’

‘Remember I told you about my mother’s cousin who trained here as a nurse? Well it was her that told Mammy about the special scheme at King’s where midwifery tuition was almost for nothing; you only had to pay for your room and board. It ended up being even cheaper than training in Belfast, and we could just about afford it out of the money my granny was giving me.’ The option of training in Belfast and living at home but failing to bring in wages might have tipped her family’s finances from just about managing into something much worse – especially since the Royal Maternity Hospital in Belfast charged quite a bit for tuition. At least here, Maisie wasn’t burdening her family with her food costs.

Oh, but she missed them so much! The eleven months she’d been here had felt like decades. She had gone home only once – for Christmas – and it had been so lovely to be among them all, even for a short time.

‘Would you . . .’ Be brave, she told herself. Ask him. ‘Would you ever think about moving to Belfast?’

His head whipped round, his expression incredulous. ‘To Ireland ?’ His evident horror suggested she had asked him to move to some horrific place peopled by wild savages.

He was now raging. She was all too familiar with the clenched jaw, furrowed brow, and general glower he adopted when angry about something. Sometimes, she could placate him, avoid the explosion. This being their last ever evening together he knew he would never see her again, so was likely to want to say his piece. Maisie kept quiet, knowing from experience that trying to justify herself any further wouldn’t yield a positive response.

It was too dark to go into Ruskin Park, so they kept to the streets, taking the longer route up Coldharbour Lane towards Denmark Hill then on to Camberwell Grove. It was a brisk walk of around forty-five minutes, but tonight, it seemed, Gerald had little to say. It was only when the hospital was in sight, and they paused at the secluded corner where they usually kissed goodnight, that he spoke again.