Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife (The Irish Midwives #3)

Prologue

Maisie Canavan, pupil midwife.

So the badge proclaimed, and Maisie tapped it with a fair degree of satisfaction after pinning it to her uniform.

Fixing her neat cap to her tied-up red hair, she donned her cloak and picked up her bag before making her way downstairs to the hospital bike sheds.

The morning was cold, dull, and foggy, but Maisie didn’t care.

She had had three full nights’ sleep in a row – the good women of Camberwell, Brixton, and Peckham deciding not to go into labour during the night this week.

Or at least, not calling for her until dawn was approaching.

But a call had come in a wee while ago, and the attendant on duty had rapped Maisie’s door to let her know.

Mrs Edie Forrest of Gateley Road in Brixton had need of a midwife, and Pupil Midwife Canavan was the next on call.

More importantly, this would be her last birth in London, the last baby she would see born as a student midwife, so she was going to savour every moment.

It took only ten minutes to get there by bicycle, down Coldharbour Lane and Millbrook Street, past the Astoria and into Stockwell Avenue – places that were now as familiar to Maisie as her beloved Belfast had been.

A pang went through her as she thought of home – not only the places, but of Mammy and Da and all the Canavans back in Ireland. Her sister Moya was getting married in a few weeks, and Maisie had to be home for the build-up to the wedding.

Brixton was a long, long way from Dunlewey Street, and everything was so different here.

But soon she would be home, away from unfamiliar places and faces and voices.

Away from Gerald. The thought sent a mix of feelings running through her – sadness, mostly, but also regret, and a hint of something else .

. . Relief? Surely not. Gerald had been her boyfriend for nearly ten months, and she was going to be lost without him.

The vague sense of relief was probably that the uncertainty and friction would be finally over.

Oh, but how she was dreading the conversation she would have to have later!

Her ticket was booked, and he well knew it.

But all the while Gerald kept on and on trying to persuade her to stay.

And she couldn’t stay. She really couldn’t.

She had been open with him from the start, right from the moment they’d first met, about the fact London could never be her permanent home, and that hadn’t changed.

Her place was in Belfast, with her family.

She couldn’t begin to imagine a life without seeing them all the time.

Besides, Granny had funded her training on the understanding that she would come home and boost the family income with a midwife’s salary. It was her duty to do so. More than that, it was the right thing to do. She had explained it all to Gerald, many times. Why doesn’t he ever listen to me?

There was no answer to her knock on arrival at Mrs Forrest’s, so tentatively Maisie opened the door. ‘Midwife calling! Mrs Forrest?’

A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Up here. I’m Edie’s sister, Agatha.’

Maisie smiled as she mounted the stairs, already looking for clues in Agatha’s demeanour. Edie’s sister looked tired but not concerned, which was reassuring, and Maisie introduced herself as they crossed the small landing, making for the front bedroom.

She had met Mrs Forrest already, having done the antenatal home visit a few weeks ago.

Mrs Forrest was originally from Jamaica, and had travelled all the way to London for work ten years ago, as a child of only fifteen.

In those ten years she had married, had two children, and was now on her third.

Maisie had found it reassuring to meet strong women like Edie Forrest, women who had been courageous and had made a new life for themselves far from home.

It had helped on those dark days of anguish, those long nights when she had cried herself to sleep.

Pain and loss had bookended her time here – homesickness when she first came, heartbreak now she was leaving.

God, how would she manage without seeing Gerald all the time?

‘I wasn’t sure when to send for you,’ Agatha confessed, ‘but Edie didn’t want to talk any more, so I thought it was better to call. I used the public telephone.’

‘Good for you!’ Agatha, Maisie knew, was just sixteen, and had followed her sister to England a few months ago. She had been out at work in a local factory when Maisie had visited before.

‘The other children are with their English grandmother a few streets over,’ she explained in a hushed tone. ‘Edie’s husband is there too.’

‘A good plan,’ said Maisie, entering the bedroom.

‘Hello, Edie,’ she said softly. Mrs Forrest was deep in the trance of labour, rocking quietly on the edge of the bed.

The room wasn’t particularly cold, it being July, but Maisie could see that a fire had been set in the tiny fireplace, ready for lighting, as she had requested.

The place was spotless – Maisie suspected both Edie and Agatha had spent the early hours of labour cleaning.

Edie opened her eyes. ‘Maisie,’ she muttered.

‘That’s right,’ Maisie said soothingly. ‘Looks like you’re doing great.’

‘What do you need, miss?’ asked Agatha, and Maisie asked for the usual – hot water, towels and facecloths, two buckets, and a cover on the bed.

Agatha confirmed that Edie had already arranged everything, and that she would go and boil some more water.

Taking an enamel bowl from the small table by the window, she left, and Maisie turned back to her patient.

‘You’re so well organised, Edie,’ Maisie declared in a soft voice, and Edie smiled before waving a hand at her, signalling the onset of another pain.

Maisie waited while she breathed and rocked her way through it – being a midwife meant being comfortable with lots of waiting.

Afterwards, Edie opened her eyes again. ‘That was a long one!’

‘That’s a good sign,’ said Maisie. ‘Do you mind if I feel your tummy and listen for baby’s heartbeat?’

Edie agreed, and Maisie helped her lie down.

The assessment only took a minute or so – which was lucky, because another contraction began as Maisie was helping the woman back into a sitting position.

The baby’s heartbeat was strong and fast, to Maisie’s relief.

Taking a moment to notice, she thought about the fact there was another wee person in the room with them, unseen and not yet born – a wee person who would celebrate this date as their birthday for their whole life.

And I am the one who gets to help them be born. The notion was just as thrilling as it had been at Maisie’s first birth as a pupil midwife, and she hoped she would never, ever tire of it.

Edie’s pains were now intense, with very little time between them.

Agatha returned with the water, and Maisie soaked a clean facecloth in it, letting it cool for a moment before wiping Edie’s face and neck with it, while Edie moaned in bliss.

Agatha commented on the frequency of the pains, looking anxious, so Maisie reassured the girl that this was a sign that things were progressing well.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Edie announced that she was going to be sick, and Maisie swiftly brought the bucket to her. Nausea and vomiting affected some women at this stage, and usually heralded the start of pushing.

‘Ohhh!’ Edie’s eyes flew open. ‘Ohhh!’ An instant later she was bearing down, her chin tucked into her chest and her entire body working to help the baby descend.

‘Excellent!’ Maisie said soothingly, noticing again what one of her tutors had pointed out – that the pushing stage heralded a change in energy. In only a few minutes Edie had gone from slow, tired endurance to vigorous, strong action; from sleepy and quiet to wide-awake and working.

After only three pains the head was visible, as was often the case with a third baby.

Maisie was concerned, though, that if the head emerged too quickly, Edie might end up with a tear.

Moving fluidly to her feet she immersed two fresh facecloths in the water before retrieving one, squeezing it out, and folding it carefully.

The temperature was just right – warm but not hot.

‘I have a warm cloth here, Edie. Is it all right if I press it to you?’

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.