Page 31 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘Mr Lennon, I suggest you wait in our canteen. They do a lovely cup of tea. It’s usually only for staff but I can give you a note.’

‘Aye.’ He pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you soon, love.’

Swallowing hard against a huge lump in her throat, Maisie led Mrs Lennon up to the operating theatres beside labour ward. With every step she took, the sense of wrongness was increasing. Before they had left the clinic, Mr Lennon had asked his question, his one moment of quiet power in the face of his wife’s distress, but Dr Fenton had batted it away with arrogance, fake sympathy, and a noticeable lack of information.

He perfectly understood, he said, how difficult this was for them both, but this was his professional opinion, derived from many years of expert practice. Mr Lennon, a working-class man, had no defence against this, and nor had his wife. Fenton had swept out of the room then, airily declaring he would see Mrs Lennon again shortly, after he had a wee cuppa tea.

Theatres had its own sister – a jolly nurse called Sister Marshall – and she swept Mrs Lennon up in a flurry of processes – washing and then donning a special cotton gown.

‘Doctor will be along in a moment,’ she said cheerily, as though today’s events were nothing. Nothing.

Mrs Lennon was like an automaton – there was no liveliness in her eyes, no expression on her face. She numbly complied. God knows what’s going on inside her head! Maisie helped as best she could – a gentle towel, tying the strings on her gown, giving the poor woman warmth and caring. It was all she could do.

* * *

‘Fenton! There you are!’ Russell, at his most jovial, led the way into the senior doctors’ sitting room, off the entrance corridor. The time, Alex noticed, was twenty-seven minutes past eight, and Fenton was casually drinking tea.

‘Morning!’ Fenton was all bluff and bluster. How could he sit there looking so relaxed when he was about to change a woman’s life forever? Alex hoped he would never become that hard, no matter how long he practised as a doctor.

‘You have some theatre cases booked this morning?’ Russell’s tone was casual, but Alex saw in Fenton’s eyes a flash of alarm, quickly disguised.

‘Yes. The first one is a very sad case.’ Fenton adopted a melancholy air. ‘Termination. Dangerous pregnancy with an unstable classical scar.’

‘Ah. Sad indeed. And the lady and her husband have consented?’ Russell’s tone was light, but this was the crux of the matter.

‘They have. I just spoke to them actually – in the clinic.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Why?’

‘I understand they’re Catholics, so this will be particularly difficult for them.’

Fenton glanced at Alex. ‘They are.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And we all have to manage their unscientific superstitious beliefs from time to time, do we not?’ He included Alex in his knowing look. Three Protestant doctors, belittling Catholic beliefs.

‘We provide a professional surgical service,’ Russell countered, ‘with due respect for the factors that are important to our patients.’

‘Of course, of course!’ Fenton snorted. ‘Unless it’s a situation where we clearly know better. Don’t pretend you haven’t done it, my friend.’ He rose, clapping Russell on the shoulder – the picture of affability. ‘Right!’ His tone turned brisk. ‘I must go!’ As he turned, he sent Alex a look filled with such venom that it was hard not to flinch. Have I made an enemy today?

Left with Russell, Alex stood there in silence for a second as they both considered the conversation. Then Russell sighed. ‘Like I said,’ he offered ruefully, ‘the man is an independent professional, and his plan is perfectly appropriate for the clinical situation as he described it.’

‘And that’s it?’

Russell shrugged. ‘It’s within the range of decisions a reasonable obstetrician would make in such circumstances.’

Alex’s shoulders slumped. Beaten. ‘I don’t think he’s too impressed with me telling you about it.’

‘No. Mr Fenton can be . . . challenging at times. But he’s a fully qualified obstetrician, and we need all the men we can get these days – especially now there’s war.’ He sent Alex a keen glance. ‘Are you planning to sign up to the medical corps?’

‘No, sir. Obstetrics is my chosen specialty, and I mean to stick with it.’ He grinned. ‘Not too many pregnant soldiers in the forces!’

They both laughed at the absurdity of it, then Alex said quietly, ‘Thank you for trying, sir.’

‘Thank you for caring enough to bring it to my attention, Lowe.’

* * *

‘Is she ready, Nurse?’

Fenton had arrived, and bounced into the room with all the sensitivity of a labrador chasing a stick. Mrs Lennon, who was lying on a medical couch, her lower half covered with a soft blanket, immediately stiffened, and Maisie offered a hand, which the woman gripped as though it was a lifeline.