5
Alex continued on down the corridor with Dr Wilson, only half-listening to the other man’s words. Something about the reception last Wednesday, and the announcement about a series of tea dances as fundraisers.
His mind was on much more earthy matters than fundraisers.
Maisie Canavan, Peggy Cassidy, and Priscilla Gildea – the three new midwives they’d exchanged greetings with.
While all three were attractive, he had eyes only for Maisie.
Peggy was pretty, but she was remote. Distant.
He had no connection with her whatsoever, no idea who she was.
Priscilla on the other hand wanted to eat him for lunch (well, him or Dan – she wasn’t particularly discerning, he reckoned). But Maisie?
He had been drawn to her from the first time he had laid eyes on her.
But there was more. Their easy banter, that day they had met – bulls and cows, and her pert comment about her nurse’s cap.
Her wit called to him, and even now his pulse was elevated at the memory.
Had he imagined the way her eyes had briefly lit up when he’d seen her outside the Assembly Rooms yesterday?
Maybe. Of course she had immediately hidden any true reaction under a mask of politeness, but it had made him wonder if she thought he was attractive.
It wasn’t that simple, though. It was easy to notice that a person was attractive, but that didn’t necessarily mean you fancied them. Sure, he himself had just dismissed both Peggy and Priscilla in his head, despite objectively noting they were both good-looking girls.
More importantly, Maisie seemed to be giving out clear signals that she was unavailable.
She barely seemed interested in engaging him in conversation.
If she genuinely wasn’t interested he would respect that, of course – the last thing he wanted was to behave like a pest – but he hoped he was wrong, and that she was only shy.
She might even have a boyfriend already, for all he knew.
Fecksake! He had finally found a good one – a girl who was making him feel something beyond superficial attraction – but she might be unavailable, for whatever reason.
Just my luck! As he followed Dr Wilson up the stone stairs it occurred to him that, among the medical students, midwives, and nurses with whom he’d spent the past few years, relationships didn’t always last. Many of them were away from home to study and therefore following different rules to their friends and siblings who’d stayed put.
Most of his own former classmates from the Belfast Royal Academy were already married and settled.
For him, though – he had been unable even to think about settling down while he was a student.
Now however, something was changing within him.
Finding himself attracted to a very different sort of girl was part of it.
In Edinburgh he had had fun times with girls who were not looking for anything serious, which had suited him just fine.
He had been popular, and had enjoyed that.
Being pursued in Edinburgh had had a certain novelty.
His accent, his looks . . . after a while he realised it hadn’t been real.
None of it. And maybe he was now ready for real.
And here and now, the woman filling his mind was Midwife Maisie Canavan.
She seemed like a serious person – smart enough to qualify as a midwife, compassionate with the women – he’d seen her determination to bring tea to some unknown woman in the clinic, completely de-prioritising the group of doctors passing through like tourists.
Yet she’d also bantered with him at the bike shed, showing her wit and quickness of mind.
Yes, she seemed . . . special. And at the very least, he would like to get to know her better.
To give himself hope, he brought to mind again the expression in her eyes when she had seen him in the street yesterday. Her eyes had widened in surprise, yes, but had also signalled delight. Or joy. Or something like it. Maybe. He stifled a sigh.
Passing through the entrance lobby on the middle floor, he and Dr Wilson continued up the stone steps to the top floor.
The doctors’ mess was up here, as was the Rosalind Nursery – named after the Duchess of Abercorn who had been a key supporter in the fundraising efforts required to build the hospital.
After Maisie and her sister had gone on Sunday, he had been quizzed by Mother about them. How did he know the girl? Who was she? Who was the younger one?
The interrogation had continued in the car on the way home, Alex in the back with Granda. Was Midwife Canavan married? No, he had said. Most midwives left once they married.
‘I reckon the younger sister is a milly,’ Father had declared, his tone dripping disdain. ‘Or will be. Did you see the cut of the shoes on her?’
‘Most likely,’ Mother agreed. ‘And yes, they both had cheap shoes. Cheap coat on the older one too. What do the Royal pay the midwives?’
‘I have no idea,’ Alex had replied frankly, through gritted teeth, ‘but I have to say I’m interested in people’s character, not their salary.’
Father had laughed aloud at this. ‘Character counts for very little in life, Alexander. By all means, do your doctoring, but never forget that money is what counts. Money, and connections.’ He had turned to send Alex a piercing look.
‘The likes of her will never amount to anything. You stick with your own kind.’
Alex had tried to push back on this. ‘What is that supposed to mean? My own kind?’
‘You know exactly what I mean!’ his father had retorted. ‘Now, I’ll hear no more about this.’
Outraged, Alex had been tempted to keep the row going, then abruptly, all the anger had left him. There was no point in arguing with Father. Granda had silently patted his hand and rolled his eyes, and Alex had let it go.
Recalling it now, outrage flooded through him all over again.
How dare his parents judge Maisie so? Yes, and her wee sister too!
In their (admittedly brief) exchange, young Molly had struck him as being well-mannered and well-spoken.
He hadn’t even noticed the girl’s shoes.
And as for Maisie – well, suffice to say when he was speaking to her he had little thought for anything else, never mind what shoes she and her sister were wearing.
Stick with your own kind. Code for both class and religion.
Maisie and Molly were clearly Catholic, and the family was obviously not well off.
He and Dr Wilson had now reached the nursery, having been sent to assist Sister with any babies who needed assessment or treatment.
Afterwards they were to present themselves to A Ward.
It was exciting to finally be part of the clinical team, with the freedom to move through the hospital and go where they were needed.
This afternoon Alex was posted to delivery suite, which he was looking forward to.
For this morning, though, he and Dr Wilson were covering in-patient care – looking after the mothers and babies who needed to stay in the hospital at present.
On arrival they were immediately dispatched by Sister Young to assess two different babies.
After listening carefully to the summary, Alex gave his full attention to his tiny patient.
Baby Watson – a wee boy – was three days old, and had been sent to the nursery for observation.
His mother had unfortunately undergone a caesarean delivery, and Baby Watson’s breathing had been rattly on day one.
Mrs Watson’s milk was now coming in, and she was apparently anxious to know when she and her son would be reunited.
Carefully, Alex checked the baby over, handling his delicate wee body with care.
Good colour. Respirations even, well-paced, and clear sounding.
Pulse . . . he paused to check. Yes, fairly normal.
Finally he turned to the midwife who had been standing silently while he completed his observations. ‘Any temperature spikes?’
‘No, Doctor.’
Carefully, he weighed the decision as he straightened up the child’s soft cotton gown.
Some of his medical colleagues typically leaned towards caution – believing that any baby who required a stay in the nursery should remain there as long as possible.
Alex – influenced by an inspiring Professor at Edinburgh – wanted to balance that admirable approach with the knowledge that babies generally did better if they were with their mothers.
‘Let’s get him back to his mother,’ he decreed, ‘but she needs to tell us of any worries or if he becomes unwell.’
‘Understood, Doctor. I’ll bring him down once the girls are back from their meeting with Matron.’
‘Is that what was going on? I saw a crowd of midwives coming out of the baby clinic as I was coming up.’
‘Oh, so it must be over then.’
‘Aye. Right, I’ll go and let Mrs Watson know the craic. She’s in A Ward, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks.’ By the time he arrived in A Ward, Midwife Canavan and Midwife Gildea had returned from their meeting and both greeted him.
A Ward was directly below the nursery, but it might have been a hundred miles away as far as Mrs Watson was concerned, according to Peggy, who explained to Alex that the woman had been terribly distressed about her baby being taken away.
‘Ah,’ he replied. ‘Well, I have good news for her.’
Making his way further down the ward, he reflected on the figures that had been shared with them during their orientation: around eighty out of every thousand babies died – either through stillbirth or as newborns.
Infection was the biggest killer, which was why they were trying to be careful with any sign of infection in mothers or babies.
‘Mrs Watson?’ The woman in the bed looked tired and wan, and had clearly been weeping.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Dr Lowe. I’ve just been checking on your baby.’