1 #2
‘Let me see.’ Walking down the lines, Midwife Brooks made a tiny adjustment to one of the chairs – not because it was out of line, but, Maisie reckoned, because she wanted to find something to criticise in her handiwork.
Clearly struggling to find anything else to argue with, she moved on. ‘Now,’ she said briskly, ‘Sister will be in with Dr Marron today. He’s a houseman – one year qualified. She likes to keep an eye on the junior doctors.’
Maisie nodded, knowing better than to offer an opinion on this.
‘Dr Fenton is our senior until break today. You can assist him and I will run the clinic.’
‘Yes, Midwife Brooks.’ She’d now met quite a few of the doctors, but Dr Fenton was new to her.
‘Here are the files of the women we know are coming to see him.’ She pointed to a pile of folders on the counter next to her.
‘As I explained yesterday, there’ll also be walk-ins from GPs.
’ Her exasperation was clear. Walk-ins – no matter how much in need of medical care – clearly disturbed the carefully planned lists she and Sister created. ‘Well, off you go, then.’
Maisie picked up the substantial stack of folders and carried them to the senior consulting room.
Nervously she knocked, balancing the files on her arm and, on hearing the command to enter, she made her way inside.
Dr Fenton, a plump, middle-aged man with red cheeks, eyed her up and down before emitting a low whistle.
‘Ah, one of the new midwives! Quite the looker, aren’t you, miss? ’
Her heart sank. He’s one of those. In King’s there had been one doctor that all the midwives and students had avoided.
Despite being old enough to be the grandfather of the youngest pupil midwives, he was renowned for his habit of leaning too close and even trying to touch girls at times.
Gerald had been outraged when she’d told him, Maisie recalled.
With eyes like fire he had threatened to ‘go after the old goat’.
But that had been in the early days, when he had cared, showering her in compliments and attention.
He had, of course, never confronted the lewd old doctor in reality.
‘Well, hurry up, girl!’ Dr Fenton sounded irritated. As well he might, for Maisie had been standing frozen in the doorway, her heart racing and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach – whether from Fenton’s tone or the memories of Gerald, she couldn’t tell. ‘I need those files!’
‘Yes, of course.’ Placing them carefully on the desk, she looked up to find him eyeing her again.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Er – Canavan.’ No way was she giving him her first name.
She knew the risks of letting someone use her first name – whether they were an old goat or a young stallion.
A pity she had given her full name to Dr Lowe earlier.
It was harder to avoid with a younger person, though. It would have seemed rude.
As Dr Fenton began going through the files, Maisie allowed her mind to wander – to that first encounter with Gerald, when he too had demanded to know her name.
Him all snazzy in his army uniform, sliding into the King’s Hospital social night with his comrades and assessing all the girls.
For some strange reason his eye had lit on her, but when he’d asked for her name, she’d brazened it out.
‘Rosalind Russell!’ she had declared, using the name of a famous actress.
‘A plucky one, aren’t you?’ he had murmured, a glint in his eye. ‘I like that.’ Stepping closer, he had eyed her critically. ‘Plucky and pretty,’ he declared, before bowing. Actually bowing. ‘Captain Gerald Somerville, at your service, Miss Rosalind Russell.’
His tone had indicated he knew fine well she was lying to him. But her ruse hadn’t lasted long. ‘Maisie!’ one of the other pupil midwives had called. ‘You dropped your scarf, look!’
‘Maisie, eh?’ When she straightened from picking up her scarf, his eyes had held hers and she had felt trapped, like a bird in a snare.
‘You told a fib,’ his voice had been low, ‘and the only way you can put it right is to go out with me.’ Then the smile had been deployed. ‘Ah, say you will, my fair Rosalind.’
And so she had. Knowing it was stupid. Knowing it was doomed.
Knowing there was something about it that was .
. . uncomfortable. She had become his girl, allowed him to speak of love, had convinced herself she was in love with him too.
Yet she had always held back a bit too knowing, from the very start, there was no future for them: as she told him repeatedly, she would always be going home to Belfast, and nothing could change her mind about that.
He had insisted on using the fake name for her at first, although his use of ‘Rosalind’ had dwindled as the months went on. I love you, my fair Rosalind, had been replaced with Hurry up, Maisie, or Lord you can be so stupid, Maisie!
Now, ignoring the stabbing sensation within, Maisie made a point of checking the baskets of supplies, reassuring herself that everything that Dr Fenton might need was there, while also distracting herself from the memories forming in her mind.
Her hands were shaking slightly, but that was an improvement from the paralysing sense of loss and grief and betrayal she had felt only a few short weeks ago.
You’re getting better, she told herself on repeat.
You’re getting better. She had to believe that she would, one day, recover.
For now, she just needed to keep breathing, walking, doing.
‘Right. Bring the first one in, Midwife Canavan.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Picking up the list from his desk, Maisie went out to the waiting area – which now had quite a few women waiting – some accompanied by additional young children. She called the first name clearly – ‘Mrs Morrison, please’ – and a woman immediately rose from the line closest to her.
Mrs Morrison was a well-to-do woman with an air of confidence about her. Maisie had taken it all in at a glance – the expensive coat and shoes, the handbag, the gold necklace . . . Dr Fenton clearly did too, for he was almost obsequious in his tone as he pulled out a chair for Mrs Morrison.
‘A pleasure to meet you, and congratulations!’ he declared. ‘I know your husband, I think?’
‘Yes, he’s a general surgeon across the way,’ she said primly, angling her head in the general direction of the Royal Victoria Hospital, which was further along on the same site, past the tennis courts. ‘He wants me to have the best of care.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Fenton warmly, looking at his notes. White card. Mrs Morrison – or, more accurately, her husband, would be paying handsomely for the service she would receive. ‘Now, let me confirm a few details. First pregnancy?’
‘No. I’ve had two miscarriages,’ she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, and Maisie’s heart went out to her. No matter how rich you were, you couldn’t control nature.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Morrison. How far along did you get with those pregnancies?’
‘Not as far as this. That’s why I agreed to come.’ Her hand moved to her abdomen in a protective gesture. ‘My husband reckons this one might stick.’
‘Getting further along is a good sign, that’s for certain,’ Fenton replied.
He’s actually being very nice to her. Maisie was shocked.
There was no hint of lewdness or arrogance in his demeanour, which Maisie found reassuring.
Some doctors were like that – good with the patients, but treating midwives as servants.
A few minutes later, they were done. Dr Fenton had examined Mrs Morrison, feeling her tummy and offering words of reassurance.
Mrs Morrison was not as calm as she seemed, for when Maisie had slipped a hand towards hers as the woman lay on the couch, she had gripped it tightly, sending Maisie a grateful look.
This is why I love this job, Maisie thought as Mrs Morrison rose, adjusting her clothing.
It was a privilege to be with women at such a time in their lives.
To give comfort even to those who seemed self-assured.
To know that women were feeling all manner of emotions, despite the mask of politeness.
To understand that what you saw on the outside was not the same as what was happening within.
A few minutes later, Mrs Morrison departed, firmly clutching the wee card where Maisie had written the date of her next appointment in a fortnight’s time.
That card, with the words Friday, 22 September 1939, written in Maisie’s best handwriting, represented so much more than an appointment, Maisie knew. It represented hope.
Emotion rose within her, made of loss, and anger, and hopelessness. Everyone was battling something inside, it seemed.
Including her.