Page 44 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Eh?’ Fenton turned back to his patient. ‘What’s that?’

‘They told me it’s like a miscarriage.’ Mrs Lennon’s voice was low, desperation clearly showing in her eyes. ‘Women have miscarriages all the time at home. I want to go home.’

‘Then home you shall go!’ Fenton declared, in the manner of a pantomime magician. ‘Dr Lowe can actually make himself useful ’ – his voice dripped with sarcasm – ‘and do the paperwork, and we’ll have you out of here within the hour. How does that sound?’

‘Oh, thank you, Doctor, thank you!’

‘Ah, that’s all right, Mrs . . . er . . .’

He’s forgotten her name! The absolute bastard!

‘Lowe here will sort it all out for you.’ Then Fenton was gone, without so much as another word to Alex.

What could he do? He had to make the best of it. ‘Is anyone due to visit you today, Mrs Lennon?’

‘I dunno. Mebbe our Carmel might come, if one of the neighbours keeps an eye on the childer.’

‘You’ll need someone to take you home. Whereabouts do you live? We’ll pay for a taxi for you.’ He would pay the fare himself rather than allow this poor woman to walk home, bleeding from a procedure that should never have happened.

‘Jaysus, no! For the town and country to see me?’ She shuddered.

‘You can tell the taxi where to let you out, and maybe walk the last wee bit.’

‘Aye, mebbe.’ She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Thank you. Harrogate Street. Number 5. It’s near here.’

‘Do you want me to send a message to Carmel? Is she your sister?’

‘Aye. She’s married to my Danny’s brother Johnny.’

‘Two sisters married two brothers?’

‘Aye.’

‘That’s unusual. Nice, though.’ At least she had family – as well as her husband and children. A sister. Brother-in-law.

‘Aye.’

This was the most normal conversation he’d had with Mrs Lennon. Maybe she would be all right. He looked at her again. Her eyes were wild, darting everywhere. Or maybe not. ‘I’ll go and get a notebook so I can write down your sister’s details, and start the forms for your discharge.’

‘Discharge?’

‘For you to go home.’

‘Aye. I’ll be better at home.’

I hope she’s right. Alex wasn’t convinced. Mrs Lennon’s mental wounds ran deep – deeper, perhaps, than even she herself suspected. Making his way towards the glass-walled office at the start of the bay, he was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not at first respond to his name being called.

‘Junior houseman Lowe!’ That was an absolute bellow, and it was coming from the far end of the ward. Vaguely, he wondered why Fenton hadn’t simply called him ‘Dr Lowe’, but he had no time to think about it. Three babies began to cry in response to the sudden loud noise, then a couple more joined in sympathy. Startled, Alex quickened his steps, hurrying to the bottom end of the ward. What the hell—? Was there an emergency with one of the mothers or babies?

Fenton was standing by Baby Watson’s cot, the child’s mother looking desperately worried.

‘What’s wrong?’ Alex asked. ‘What do you need?’ At first glance, the baby looked to be in reasonable condition. He was crying lustily, his face red. Breathing well, limb movements normal, lips and tongue reassuringly moist . . . Alex looked at Fenton in puzzlement.

‘I understand that you released this baby from the nursery, Lowe.’

‘Yes. Two days ago. Why?’

‘Palpate the anterior fontanelle, and make your diagnosis!’ Fenton’s tone held derision, his expression one of challenge. The man has it in for me!