Page 48 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘It is that. It’s too . . . I dunno.’

‘Too what?’ Could Maisie help Mrs Duffy to go with her labour a bit better by changing the room?

‘It smells funny, and it’s very bright.’ Weak September sunshine was streaming in through the window. ‘And I feel like people’s luckin’ at me, you know?’

‘Aye. Well that part’s easily fixed.’ Walking across to the large window, Maisie pulled the curtains. Apparently all the hospital windows were going to be fitted with special heavy drapes in the next week or two, as the blackout regulations were now in force. The new rules were aimed at stopping Nazi planes seeing the lights of the city at night. All streetlights were now off, and all houses, shops, and other buildings had to install blackout blinds or curtains. Scary stuff.

Instantly the room felt cosier, more private. ‘Ah, that’s better, Nurse.’ Mrs Duffy exhaled, visibly relaxing. Maisie couldn’t do anything about the smell of carbolic, but at least she could dim the light.

‘Call me Maisie.’ Now we’re getting somewhere.

* * *

It was around eleven thirty when Alex and Dan finally went for their tea break. The canteen was fairly busy with lots of staff from the main Royal, but they found a small table at the back.

‘Right. So what’s the craic with Fenton?’ Dan was bursting with curiosity.

So Alex told him of the morning’s events. Dan looked increasingly angry as he did so, finally declaring, ‘What’s the point of six feckin’ years of medical school, having ethics and the Hippocratic Oath drummed into us, if they let eejits like yer man run amok causing harm? I heard another tale about him recently – one which ended up with somebody dying – indirectly, because of something he did.’

Alex was all ears, and Dan told him a story about how their very own Peggy’s aunt had been a handywoman, and had been reported to the police by Fenton himself, since it was now unlawful to attend births unless you were a doctor or certified midwife. ‘The poor woman was held by the RUC for hours, and took a stroke later that night.’

‘Held in a police station? That’s outrageous! Why would the police do such a thing? I thought the handywomen were only supposed to get a fine.’

‘They are.’ Dan sent him a cynical look, then said, ‘Do you honestly think they’d have done that if the handywoman had been from East Belfast with a surname like Montgomery or Cavendish?’

For a moment Alex could only look at him blankly, then his meaning sank in. ‘You think it was because she was . . .’ His voice tailed off; he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

‘Catholic?’ Dan’s eyes held his. ‘Aye. I do. She was called Bridget Devine and she was from the Rock Streets in West Belfast.’

Obviously Catholic. This bloody place! ‘I’m so sorry, Dan.’ Sectarianism was a society-wide form of bullying. He had always known it was there but, as with the bullies in school, he had stood by. Well, what else could I do? He now recalled Fenton’s sneering condemnation of Catholic traditions and beliefs as ‘superstition’ – the same word his own father had used. The man was not only arrogant, then. He was bigoted.

‘Dunno why you’re apologising,’ Dan said now, shrugging. ‘It wasn’t your doing.’

Alex shook his head. While of course it wasn’t directly his doing, he was Protestant. Dan was Catholic, and Peggy’s family had been harmed by sectarianism. An apology was the least he could do. There was a brief pause, and Alex decided to lighten the mood. ‘How’s things with you and Peggy?’

Dan grinned. ‘Couldn’t be better!’

Alex saw his chance. ‘You should take her to the dance at the Orpheus next week. We’re all being encouraged to go, you know.’

‘I forgot about that.’ Dan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d love to dance with her again, but I’m not much good at all them quicksteps and waltzes. Give me a céilí any day!’

This was yet another barrier that hadn’t occurred to Alex. Catholics had different dances. For feck’s sake. His silent expletive was decidedly Catholic in tone. ‘It might be good craic,’ he offered weakly.

Dan nodded. ‘It might indeed. I’ll ask her.’ He drained his teacup, glancing at the clock. ‘Right. Labour ward?’

* * *

‘How old are your wee ones now?’ Maisie was still getting to know Mrs Duffy, sidling up to asking her about the miscarriages and stillbirth. The woman gave Maisie the details, finishing with, ‘and our Mary is three now.’ She smiled. ‘Wee dote, she is, and will make a great big sister.’ She frowned. ‘Though she has no idea I’m expecting.’

‘You haven’t told her?’

Mrs Duffy raised her eyebrows. ‘Course I haven’t! Sure didn’t I lose the last four!’ The words rang out in the room, then Mrs Duffy’s face crumpled. ‘Four of them, one after the other. Miscarriage. Miscarriage. Stillbirth. Miscarriage. That’s why I’m here, Maisie. That’s why I’m entitled to come to the Royal.’ She dashed away a tear. ‘Though I can’t see why, meself. I’d have laboured better at home, no harm to ya!’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ agreed Maisie. ‘Women are always more settled in their own house, it’s a totally normal thing to feel. And I’m so sorry that you lost all them babies.’

‘In my head,’ said Mrs Duffy fiercely, ‘they’re not lost.’ She sent Maisie a sideways look. ‘This might sound a bit mad, but I keep thinking it’s the same baby trying to be born. God keeps sending it to me and I keep messing it up.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘First time I’ve said that out loud and it sounds really stupid.’

‘It really doesn’t,’ Maisie said quietly. ‘What stage were you for the stillbirth?’