33
Maisie returned to delivery suite, ignoring the sounds of bombs falling and detonating outside in various parts of the city.
Worrying thoughts were racing through her mind.
Were her family safe? Had they made it to a public shelter?
For an instant she pictured wee Molly, terrified, running through the streets as bombs dropped all around her, but she pushed the thought away.
Her first job was to help Sister Higgins clear away the broken glass littering the various rooms. Thankfully, some of the rooms – like the theatres – had no windows.
The problem there was the possibility of losing the electrical supply – though there was a generator which the caretaker team would use if needed.
And what if the hospital suffered a direct hit?
The Nazis had no compunction about bombing a hospital, she knew, for they had hit King’s, and a maternity hospital in England had also been bombed a few weeks ago – the Greenbank Maternity Hospital in Plymouth.
Only a handful of staff and patients had survived that night, with twenty babies among the dead. It didn’t bear thinking about.
And now women were beginning to arrive: women too terrified to labour at home, women whose homes had been hit, women who had no shelter to go to, women who had been injured. They were brought by relatives, by neighbours, by ambulance volunteers.
Thankfully, some midwives came too – district midwives unable to get about the damaged streets, and off-duty hospital midwives. Matron arrived then, and began directing operations – giving Maisie a sense of safety and clarity.
From being quiet – the Q word that should never be said – the ground floor and middle floor were now bustling.
Any woman not in labour was assessed by one of the doctors – Mr Russell, Dr McCrory, and Dr McMullen had all made it in.
And of course, Dr Lowe and Dr Marron, who were officially on duty.
Of Fenton, there was no sign. After assessment and any first aid treatment, each woman was allocated a place depending on her status.
Those not in labour or only starting were given chairs in C ward, with a midwife and a first-aider to look after them.
Women in advanced labour were prioritised for rooms in delivery suite, and before long there were more women than there were midwives to care for them.
‘You’re getting two each,’ Sister told them crisply. ‘You’ll just have to manage.’
Maisie was given labour rooms 5 and 6, and for the next few hours she went between them both, trying to calm down any fears and reassure the women they were safe.
Safe? None of them were safe. The bombing continued relentlessly, there was hardly an unbroken window in the building, and the dust and smoke had begun to penetrate the heavy blackout curtains – some of which were torn.
While supporting the women in her allocated rooms in an intermittent way – which was terrible, really – Maisie was also called upon to help in other ways.
Once a birth was imminent Sister tried to have two midwives present – even tonight.
Seeing to the baby in those first precious moments was a gift, and Maisie was trying desperately to hold on to the hope that each successful birth brought.
And despite everything going on around them, some of the women went ahead and birthed.
Maisie’s admiration for women had never been higher.
On the other hand, if a woman’s labour slowed or stalled completely, Sister was ruthless. ‘Bring her back to C ward,’ she would say. ‘We need that labour room.’
And so, twice, Maisie had to walk a woman back across to C ward, finding a new woman in labour waiting for her when she returned. She had seen Alex only occasionally – each time taking reassurance from the knowledge that at least one of the people she loved was definitely still alive.
There had been two emergency caesareans so far, with the post-surgical women being prioritised for beds in A Ward, in turn displacing other women to C Ward, and now to the antenatal clinic downstairs, which had been opened up as an additional overflow area.
The logistics of it all were complex, and Maisie was vaguely aware that Matron and Mr Russell were coordinating everything in an excellent way.
The phone lines had been down for hours, but while the electricity had flickered a few times, it had remained on.
Maisie was busting for a wee, and asked Sister for a toilet break around 4 a.m. Her iron-clad midwife’s bladder had enabled her to manage this far, but she was now really uncomfortable. Sister looked at her with compassion. ‘Take ten minutes, Maisie. No, really. Just take some time to breathe.’
‘Thanks, Sister.’
After completing her ablutions she went to the main corridor, standing for a minute and peeping outside through a torn curtain.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! She blessed herself at the sight.
The entire north of the city seemed to be in flames – including the area where her family were, and further north, Alex’s family.
She squeezed her eyes shut against tears that threatened to break her.
She had to be strong for a wee while longer.
Dawn would come soon, and the Luftwaffe couldn’t stay forever, could they?
In the meantime this living nightmare was continuing, and she had work to do. Squaring her shoulders, she returned to delivery suite.
* * *
Alex was struggling to think straight. Having spent the past few hours mixing obstetric duties with emergency medicine, he was now proceeding automatically.
Pregnant women continued to arrive, many covered in grey-green dust and with broken limbs and gashes – including head wounds.
Two women had died of internal injuries, their bodies placed respectfully under sheets in the side rooms on the baby clinic corridor.
‘Next!’
‘Over here, Doctor!’ He followed the nurse’s voice to the corner of the antenatal clinic where the latest batch of arrivals had been placed.
They had cleared some space in here by the simple but inspired notion of allowing the mothers of the nursery babies to go to the baby clinic to help care for their own children.
In turn, that had freed up a nurse to help with the assessment process here.
That meant their assessment team now consisted of two nurses, a midwife, and a single doctor; himself.
The woman in front of him was clearly in labour. She was rocking rhythmically on the chair, and her eyes were closed, her face screwed up. A quick glance didn’t reveal any obvious injuries. She looked familiar, though. Had he seen her at an antenatal clinic, perhaps?
‘This is Mrs O’Keeffe,’ the nurse reported. ‘Age twenty-four. First pregnancy. Labouring on and off for two days, but it’s advanced in the last couple of hours.’
He nodded. ‘Hello, Mrs O’Keeffe. I’m Dr Lowe. Do you have any injuries?’
She opened her eyes – eyes that were entirely familiar to him. ‘Moya!’ he declared, feeling decidedly stupid that he hadn’t recognised Maisie’s sister immediately. He knew Moya well by now – knew all the Canavans well. God, his head was away tonight.
‘Alex! Thank God you’re here!’ She gripped his hands.
‘My John-Joe!’ His heart sank at the shock and grief in her eyes.
‘He’s dead, Alex!’ She was so distraught it was hard to even understand what she was saying.
But her emotions made it clear regardless.
‘A big piece of stone c-crushed him!’ She burst into tears, and he put his arms around her, his heart sore for her.
‘God, no! I’m so sorry, Moya.’ Grief pierced him. While he hadn’t known John-Joe for very long – less than a year – he had liked him. And now John-Joe would never meet his child. Bloody feckin’ Nazis!
Too soon, he pulled back from poor Moya, directing the nurse to bring her to A Ward – now the holding area for women in established labour. ‘When she gets to second stage,’ he added, ‘try and get Maisie Canavan allocated to look after her.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Having heard the conversation, the nurse’s eyes were full of compassion. ‘Let’s get you upstairs, Mrs O’Keeffe.’
Three more women were just arriving, accompanied by friends or relatives, and Alex was forced to turn his attention away from Moya and onto them instead.
There was no time for him even to go and tell Maisie about John-Joe.
He washed his hands at the sink, noting that the water was little better than a trickle now.
He didn’t even want to think about the fact this water probably came from the reservoir near his home.
He swallowed, then said loudly, ‘Next, please!’
* * *
‘I think it’s easing.’ Maisie had said goodbye to yet another mother and baby – the woman proud and relieved as well as fearful – and Sister had beckoned her to the desk.
Maisie listened for a second. While there were still the sounds of explosions, they were much more intermittent.
‘Thank God for that!’ she said fervently. ‘Right! Have I anybody new in Room 6?’
‘You have.’ Sister looked strange. ‘First time mother, finally progressing well. Her husband died tonight.’
‘Ah, no. Poor woman!’ Sister still looked odd, and now a sick feeling had appeared in Maisie’s stomach. ‘Who is it?’
‘Mrs Moya O’Keeffe.’ Sister’s eyes were sad. ‘I’m so sorry, Maisie.’
Grief and shock rippled through her and she gasped, finding that she had brought a hand to her chest. John-Joe, dead? God, how can this be happening? Somehow, she managed to contain her emotions, straightening and saying, ‘Our poor Moya. Is she injured?’
‘No. But she needs you. Can you do this?’
‘Of course.’ She had to. This was why she had trained. This was why she was a midwife. Supporting the women, no matter what.
Lifting her chin, she knocked on the door. ‘Moya, can I come in?’
‘Maisie!’ Even from outside the door she heard the anguish in her sister’s voice. Going inside, she rushed towards her, and the two of them clung to one another in a tight hug, Maisie kneeling in front of the padded hospital armchair Moya was sitting in.
Moya’s body then decided to take over. Her arms still around her, Maisie felt her sister’s womb tighten, heard her make the low, guttural sounds of pushing. Moya dropped her arms to grip the chair, and Maisie found the usual soothing words coming out of her mouth.
‘That’s great, Moya. It’s totally normal. You’re pushing your baby out.’ Once the contraction had ended, she added, ‘The baby will be here soon. Can I check?’
Moya nodded, and Maisie bent. After helping her sister remove her underwear, Maisie saw the head was already showing a little. ‘Ah brilliant, Moya. The head’s right there.’
The time that followed stayed with Maisie, became a sacred memory.
Two sisters, together. A room filled with love, and work, and pain.
The grief and trauma, bombs and noise and fear – all of it melted away as they both focused on bringing Moya’s baby safely into the world.
As silence finally fell outside, the baby took his first breath and cried, his mother’s arms around him, protecting him.
His mother cried too, and his aunt – tears of joy, relief, and sorrow all mingling together.
Maisie could almost sense the link between them, a link that joined them to generations of women, their ancestors.
How many of them had birthed amid strife – war and oppression, famine and disease?
Yet, somehow, they had prevailed, and all of them had brought Moya to this moment, Maisie by her side.