4 #2
‘What this means,’ said Matron, ‘is that we will have to be ready. Supplies may become difficult to maintain, and staffing may be a challenge, as some of our colleagues will undoubtedly choose to sign up.’
There was utter silence in the baby clinic as she paused, and Maisie felt a shiver go through her.
Since last week, when Chamberlain had announced that Britain was at war with Germany, it hadn’t seemed real, somehow.
It was something on the radio, in the newspapers.
Something far, far away, if worrying. But right now, on an ordinary Tuesday in September, hearing Matron spell out how it might begin to affect them – and soon – Maisie’s insides were churning. War.
Having been born during the Great War, Maisie had not lived through something like this before.
Even the War of Independence and the Civil War which followed here in Ireland had been done and dusted by the time she had turned five.
Ireland had been separated into two – the north tied to Britain, the south standing alone as a Free State.
The dream of Irish independence had been crushed yet again – at least for those in the north.
She had never lived through war. The only hardship she had ever known had been the hardship of poverty. But now . . . Fear pricked her palms. Would there be a gas attack, as many had predicted?
‘What I need from all of you,’ Matron continued, her gaze roving over the midwives assembled before her, ‘is the same thing I always need. Dedication. Commitment. An ability to focus on the woman and the baby you are caring for, no matter what else may be happening.’ Now new scenarios were flying into Maisie’s mind.
What if there was some sort of attack while they were caring for women in labour?
There were always women in labour, night and day.
Mostly in their own homes. And in the hospital there were the wards, the theatres and delivery suite, the nursery .
. . My God! The nursery! It was on the top floor.
If the Nazis came, and dropped a bomb on the hospital . . . Her heart lurched yet again.
‘Any questions?’ Hands began to go up, and Maisie watched and listened, wondering how the other midwives had the nerve to do such a thing as ask a question of Matron.
Oh, there had been times in her life when she had had the confidence to put her own hand up – at school long ago, and during training, more recently.
But here? No way. Matron was terrifying.
As Matron answered questions about air raid shelters and ambulances, Maisie exchanged glances with the midwives on either side of her.
Peggy and Priscilla. The three of them had had job interviews in Matron’s office on the same day, and had started their new jobs on the same day – more than two weeks ago now.
Only two weeks done as a qualified midwife, and now war was here. It seemed unfair, somehow.
‘Any final questions?’ Matron paused, then thanked them all for attending.
There were dozens of women in the room, as the night shift midwives and nurses had stayed on for the meeting, day girls like Maisie coming in early as requested.
Many of the district midwives were there too – though there would be many more with women in labour right now.
It was odd to realise there were so many midwives.
Yet, once you thought about it, there were hundreds and hundreds of women in Belfast who were expecting at any point in time.
While the Royal was now the leading maternity hospital, there were also midwives and doctors in the Union Infirmary – the old workhouse on the Lisburn Road.
And of course the handywomen – uncertified, lay midwives – were still active too.
Between them all, they cared for the women of Belfast. A sense of pride flowed through Maisie.
She was part of something important, right here in her own home town.
Matron had finished, and now nodded firmly. ‘You are dismissed.’
They filed out together, Maisie walking with Peggy and Priscilla.
Conversations were bubbling all around – a consequence of focusing on the unusual challenges that might lie ahead.
Exiting the baby clinic, they paused on the main corridor, outside the door to the antenatal clinic.
‘It’s so weird to think about war,’ Peggy was saying.
‘Like I know in here’ – she pointed to her temple – ‘that it’s happening, but it just doesn’t feel true, in here.
’ She pressed a closed fist to her heart.
‘I know what you mean,’ Maisie responded quietly. ‘I—’
‘Good morning, Doctor Lowe.’ Priscilla declared silkily, her attention completely taken up by two of the new doctors who were passing them on the corridor. ‘And Dr Wilson.’
‘Morning!’ the two men replied neutrally, not slowing their steps.
Dr Lowe’s gaze met Maisie’s, striking grey eyes in that handsome face, and she managed a polite nod before attempting to continue her conversation.
‘What were we saying?’ Somehow she had lost her train of thought.
‘Oh, aye, about the war not feeling real in a way.’
Priscilla was flirting with Dr Lowe! It was beginning to sink in – the other girl’s coquettish tone, the way she had tilted her head.
And it had all been aimed at Alex rather than Dr Wilson, who seemed perfectly nice but couldn’t match Dr Lowe in looks.
God, the girl was blatant! As Peggy talked about how unprepared they all were for what might lie ahead, Maisie struggled to concentrate.
Priscilla didn’t seem to be listening well either, so Maisie made herself focus on Peggy.
She liked the girl, and felt they could be friends. Priscilla, though . . .
‘Dr Lowe is class looking, isn’t he?’ Priscilla gushed finally, interrupting Peggy, and not even speaking quietly.
Maisie was cringing. Somebody might hear her!
‘So is Dr Sheridan – he’s an absolute dreamboat!
He’s in delivery suite the day – I’ll have to find an excuse to pop in.
’ She winked, confidence oozing from her, then started rabbiting on about how great it was that there were such good-looking doctors in the team.
Maisie was only half-listening. Something was going on with Peggy. She had opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. As if sensing Maisie’s interest, she glanced towards her – and what Maisie saw in her eyes made her pay attention. Excitement. Happiness. Joy.
Peggy looked down, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile, and Priscilla talked on – seemingly oblivious to the exchange.
Maisie’s mind was working furiously. Had Peggy got a secret?
Something to do with the doctors? Something about Priscilla’s prattling had triggered a wonderful memory in the other girl – or so it seemed.
Maisie too had briefly been overcome with emotion. Dr Lowe was indeed handsome; that was not in doubt. Dr Sheridan as well. But handsome boys had had a lifetime of getting their own way – attention, coddling, praise . . . Only when you crossed them would you see their true colours.
Pain stabbed through her, as two contrasting memories flashed into her brain uninvited. Gerald, kissing her tenderly. Gerald, sneering at her on that last night. How could two such different characters be housed within the one person? And which was the true Gerald? Don’t. Don’t think about him.
A pregnant woman passed them, heading into the clinic, and Maisie took her chance. ‘Sorry – I need to go. We have a busy clinic this morning, and I need to get set up.’ With a fair amount of relief she made her escape.