2 #2
As they paused at the entrance to the canteen, Russell highlighted, with the same excitement he’d used when describing it earlier, the extensive kitchens across the corridor where the food was freshly cooked – ‘None of your refrigeration around here!’ Alex was only half-listening, for it had occurred to him to notice that he was planning to befriend Dan even though the man was clearly a Catholic.
The surname Sheridan, the fact he’d gone to Dublin, not Edinburgh . . . it could all mean only one thing.
He suppressed a grimace. Father would not be happy if he knew, but Alex had no intention of being sectarian.
Yes, the Irish Free State had ceded from Britain, which was a shame, but Northern Ireland had remained firmly British, so there was no need to perpetuate these matters.
Edinburgh had taught him to treat people as he found them.
Nobody there had cared what religion anyone belonged to.
Maybe that was it – the insularity of this place.
Alex had never understood why Father had been so set against individual Catholics.
But then again, his father had never travelled, as far as Alex knew. He went between his home and church in Belfast and his work near Antrim, and had rarely gone anywhere else. Maybe that was what was clouding his view?
The baby clinic was next on Russell’s tour, the large waiting room designed to double as a space for events.
There were windows along both sides and consulting rooms at the back, as well as along the corridor.
This was where the fundraising reception had taken place a couple of days ago.
It looked very different today, laid out for a clinic.
It was odd to be a qualified doctor and expected to be part of receptions and the like. As a medical student he had been too lowly ever to be invited to such events. Odd, but in a good way.
They were on the move again. From the baby clinic they went straight across the main corridor to a similar entrance.
Antenatal Clinic, the sign proclaimed. Despite himself, Alex couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation.
In the next couple of minutes, he would see Maisie Canavan again, and maybe he’d feel the same attraction that had been there earlier.
* * *
As Dr Fenton uttered his terrible pronouncement on Mrs Lennon, Maisie felt the blood drain from her face.
While she had heard of such cases, she had hoped never to be faced with such a terrible situation.
Uterine rupture was one of the worst things that could happen during childbirth, and women often did die.
But not always. A good surgeon would try everything they could to stop the bleeding, and sometimes they would succeed.
‘My recommendation,’ Fenton continued, ‘is that we terminate the pregnancy.’
‘Terminate? You mean k-kill the baby?’ Mrs Lennon blessed herself. ‘No! I could never do such a thing!’
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Fenton, adopting a sympathetic expression. ‘It’s perfectly legal in cases like this where it has to be done to save the life of the mother.’
‘I don’t care about the legal thing,’ Mrs Lennon retorted, her dark eyes flashing. ‘It’s a moral thing!’
Fenton recoiled at her tone, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Nevertheless, that is my recommendation, and I won’t be changing it.’ His tone was harsh, his expression unyielding.
There was a moment of silence where Mrs Lennon seemed at a loss for what to say next. ‘I’ll have to talk to Father Wallis,’ she finally replied, in a small voice – clearly intimidated by Fenton’s manner.
‘You do that.’ Fenton turned to Maisie. ‘Book Mrs Lennon in for a surgical procedure next Thursday. Nine o’clock. And give her a leaflet about the D&C procedure.’ He glanced at his watch, then rose. ‘I must go. I’ll see you next Thursday, Mrs Lennon.’
And with that he swept out, leaving the two women behind him, Maisie just as stunned and at a loss for words as Mrs Lennon. An instant later her training kicked in, and her compassion. Instinctively, she moved to put an arm around Mrs Lennon.
‘I’m sure this is an awful shock,’ she said, in the most soothing tone she could muster, but Mrs Lennon simply eyed her blankly. Literal shock. ‘I’m going to make you some tea,’ Maisie continued. ‘Just you stay there for a minute. All right?’
She nodded, her face deathly pale and her shoulders trembling. The child, clearly bewildered, put a hand on his mammy’s knee, and she picked him up, clinging to him and rocking gently.
Carefully exhaling, Maisie left the consulting room and went to the back office to make the tea. Her mind was reeling. Were these truly the only options available – to terminate the pregnancy, or certain death? Surely that couldn’t be right?
As she emerged, a standard-issue blue cup and saucer in her hand, she was met with a group of men in the clinic, led by Mr Russell.
The new doctors! In the distress of Mrs Lennon’s situation, she had completely forgotten they would be making an appearance.
Fenton clearly had not, and was already approaching them, at his most affable, shaking hands with all the new men.
‘And this is Midwife Canavan,’ Mr Russell announced, and she gave a polite smile as they all murmured hellos. The group included Dr Lowe, who was just as handsome as she remembered from this morning. Nope. Not going there.
‘It’s lovely to meet you all. If you will excuse me, I need to bring this to a woman.’
‘Ah.’ Russell’s expression was sober – clearly assuming she was supporting a woman who was going through the loss of a child. Which she was . . . maybe. Best not to think too much, about any of it. Just bring Mrs Lennon her tea.