1
WARSAW UNDER SEIGE
The newspaper posters screamed their terrifying headlines as Maisie cycled down Belfast’s Falls Road in the early morning.
THREE YEARS OF WAR shouted another. EVACUATION OF CHILDREN UNDERWAY– that one sent a different type of pang through her.
All those wee ones in England, being sent away from their families to live among strangers.
Still, Belfast looked exactly the same as it had before she’d left for her training, and it warmed Maisie’s heart to be home again. Along the Falls Road, the familiar sights and sounds were like a balm to her wounded soul – Dunville Park, the Grosvenor Road corner, the Royal Victoria . . .
‘Well, Frank, what about ye?’ One man hailed another as Maisie sped by, and she almost smiled at the joy of the accent – thick and rich and familiar. Almost. Smiling was hard these days – had been hard since the evening of baby Agatha’s birth. The evening when her heart had broken in two.
Turning left, she entered the hospital site, heading for the bike sheds.
Although she had only been working in the Royal Maternity Hospital for two weeks, she already knew her way about.
Freewheeling down the gentle hill, she veered left around the bend.
Unfortunately another cyclist had the same idea, and she only just managed to avoid crashing into him.
‘God, I’m sorry!’ he declared, as she brought her bike to a halt and dismounted. ‘I near knocked you flying!’
‘Ah, you’re grand,’ she returned, her tone light, deciding to walk her bike the final few yards rather than hop back on.
The man was handsome, and tall, and probably in his mid-twenties.
Just like – Danger! All her instincts immediately warned her to be wary.
Good-looking lads were not what she needed in her life right now – not when she could barely breathe when she thought of Gerald.
‘Nearly never bulled a cow, as they say!’ She began walking towards the bike sheds and he fell into step beside her, the two bicycles between them.
He chuckled. ‘I’ve always loved that sayin’. But I always thought it was a criticism, not forgiveness. Like, that you want the cow to be – er – bulled, but the bull – er . . .’
‘He failed to play his part?’ Perhaps it was the kind of conversation Maisie, as a young woman, should be mortified by.
But in reality, she was entirely calm about the whole thing.
Being a newly qualified midwife gave you permission to be more blunt about certain things.
And a heart and soul that had recently been torn to shreds gave you distance from everyone and everything. ‘Aye, I suppose.’
‘You’re a nurse?’ The young man continued the conversation, despite Maisie trying to send out go away signals. His eyes were alight with interest. In her.
Stifling a sigh, she pointed to her starched cap, perched on top of her copper curls – currently contained with about twenty hairpins. ‘It’s this, isn’t it? Bit of a clue.’ She wouldn’t normally be so cheeky or off-putting, but she really wasn’t interested in flirtation right now.
‘Kinda gives it away all right. Plus, you know, heading to the staff bike sheds.’
‘Aye, that’ll do it. But I’m not actually a nurse.’
His eyes widened. ‘Midwife?’
‘Aye.’ Pride rose within her. ‘Just qualified.’
‘Congratulations. You trained here?’
‘No.’ Her tone was curt. ‘England.’ Feckin’ England.
‘I’m only back from Edinburgh.’ She waited for him to expand. ‘Trained in Queen’s but did my obstetrics over there.’
‘Right.’ Suddenly she knew a lot about him.
Fairly posh Belfast accent. Doctor, likely newly qualified.
Protestant. Catholic medical students tended to do their obstetrics year in Dublin; Protestants went to Edinburgh.
Or at least, so she’d been told by her new friends here. ‘So you’re just qualified too?’
‘Aye. Started in Royal Maternity this week. After you.’
She preceded him into the bike shed, leaning her bike against two others on the left.
The bicycle was her own – not belonging to the hospital – and she had carefully painted her wicker basket in a nice bright yellow, so she never had any difficulty finding it among the others.
Her ma and da had bought it for her only a few weeks ago, the day after she arrived home off the boat from Liverpool.
She patted it, still thrilled to own something so fine.
He was busy finding a spot for his own bike, but they ended up stepping outside at the same time.
He stuck out a hand. ‘Alexander Lowe. I get Alex.’
She touched his fingers briefly, feeling a brief, unwelcome thrill. Definitely dangerous. ‘Maisie Canavan.’
‘Nice to meet you, Maisie.’
She couldn’t reciprocate; the lie would simply not form itself in her mouth. Instead she said, ‘I’m not sure I’ve seen you about.’
He shrugged. ‘This week has been all induction stuff. Lectures, paperwork, and a wee bit of clinical care. We even had to go to a reception on Wednesday.’
‘Ah, right.’ She had seen a load of fancy people heading into the baby clinic for the reception. Something to do with fundraising.
Silence fell – a silence that Maisie had no intention of breaking. No way was she going to make the same mistake twice. Handsome, confident, Protestant, sure of himself . . .
Just like Gerald. A pang went through her, and she pushed the thought of him away.
‘So, how are you finding it?’ He was eyeing her curiously, his expression open. ‘The Royal, I mean?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve only been here two weeks myself. So far me and the other new girls have had mostly orientation, as they call it.’ Orientation. Such a fancy word.
‘Do you know where you’ll be working?’
‘Aye. I’m in antenatal clinic – started there yesterday. They’ll be moving us about the place, I think, but I’m to be in the clinic for the next few weeks.’ And today, hopefully, she would receive her first pay packet, now that her paperwork was all completed.
‘Ah, right.’
They had reached the hospital entrance – the fancy one to the side that was mostly used by staff and visiting dignitaries.
Stepping inside, they mounted the five shallow steps together before parting ways in the main corridor by the bas-relief – Maisie to descend to the lower floor, and Dr Lowe to the labour ward office, where he had been told to report for duty.
‘See you later!’ he said cheerily, and she responded with a ‘Good luck!’ delivered in what she hoped was a tone of friendly-but-distant.
The antenatal clinic was directly below labour ward.
Both were new, fancy, and state-of-the-art.
While Maisie was proud to have trained in King’s in London, there was something special about being part of a fairly new team in a purpose-built hospital.
The Royal Maternity Hospital had only opened six short years ago, and everything looked bright, fresh, and airy.
‘Good morning, Midwife Canavan.’
‘Good morning, Sister.’
Sister Muriel Hanna was tall, highly accomplished, and formidable.
Most sisters were formidable, to be fair.
But Sister Hanna was said to be second-in-command to Matron – a frightening figure who had only spoken to Maisie twice; once at her interview and the other time on her first day.
She had seen people – including doctors – scattering to the sides when Matron strode through the corridors on her regular tours of the building.
Matron was a stickler for – well, everything; from correct uniforms to clean fingernails to dust. Woe betide anyone who was discovered with a loose strand of hair or fingernails deemed too long by Matron or the sisters.
‘Right,’ Sister Hanna said briskly. ‘Get your apron on, wash your hands, then go and help Midwife Brooks to set up for this morning’s clinic. I’m heading up to see Matron. The clinic doctors are already here.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Midwife Brooks was a gruff fifty-year-old, with short hair and a temper to match.
Already Maisie had felt the sharp end of her tongue, having forgotten to set out one of the many items on her list at the end of yesterday’s clinic.
Each consulting room had to have a stock of forms, gloves, and dressings, and the chairs in the central waiting area had to be stacked to the side to allow the evening cleaners the space to do their work.
Midwife Brooks was already busy, stacking files into neat piles and checking the names against the card index. A white card, Maisie had been informed, meant a private patient; the buff ones were for public patients referred by GPs.
‘You can start on the chairs,’ Midwife Brooks declared, pointedly glancing at the wall clock. The chairs had to be lined out every day in neat rows across the waiting area, a large space punctuated by three pillars.
‘Yes, Midwife Brooks,’ she said, although internally she screamed to herself, It’s only twenty-five past eight!
As she got stuck into the task, Maisie mulled over her start time.
Her contract said that she was to begin work at half past eight on clinic days, but that was clearly not the expectation in reality. Noted.
There were usually two doctors in the clinic – one senior, one junior.
Each would have a midwife to assist him, with the third midwife based in the waiting room, keeping the clinic running smoothly and handling the paperwork.
Yesterday Maisie had spent the afternoon assisting Mr Russell, the current Chair of Obstetrics – the most senior doctor in the hospital, and a man who managed somehow to be less terrifying than Matron, despite his lofty role.
He had actually thanked Maisie after the last woman had left yesterday.
She wasn’t sure an obstetrician had ever thanked her before.
Moving the last of the chairs she straightened, looking over her work with a critical eye, before heading back to her superior to be given her next task. ‘I’ve finished the chairs, Midwife Brooks.’