Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Newcastle
“You’re on home visits today,” Sister Jones said in a bored tone as she paced down the length of the corridor.
Mima exchanged a surprised look with Tilda, then hurriedly returned her attention to the wall in front of her.
Home visits? That wasn’t something midwives were supposed to do.
The community health centres took care of the follow-up support after babies came into the world.
The midwife’s job was to manage pregnancy and labour.
They never knew what happened with their patients after they checked out of the hospital and went home.
There were many times when she’d wondered how a patient had fared after a particularly difficult birthing experience.
She stifled a yawn. She’d overslept. Yesterday’s shift had taken it out of her, then she and some of the other midwives had gone to the cinema to watch Singin’ in the Rain.
The popular talkie starring Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds had the most incredible dance scenes, plus it was so funny that the whole theatre was in stitches.
Mima couldn’t remember enjoying a movie as much as she did that one, but she got home late and hadn’t been able to sleep.
The memories of the beautiful music, the exquisite dancing, the romance…
It all played over and over in her head until she finally drifted off in the wee hours of the morning.
“Home visits aren’t something you’ll do regularly, but I spoke with the manager at the Baby Health Clinic recently, and she remarked that midwives from this hospital generally have no idea what life is like for newborn babies and their mothers after they leave.
So, we hatched a plan to let you take on some of their backlog today.
You’re helping them out with cases, and you’ll get a chance to expand your understanding of what these families are dealing with once they leave us.
My hope is that it’ll inform your support for them while they’re here.
Here is your appointment for today, after which I expect you back here for your regular shift. Godspeed.”
Mima took the notepaper handed to her and scanned the address listed in the sister’s almost illegible scrawl. “I’m headed towards the beach. How about you?”
“Inner city,” Tilda replied with a huff. “I still don’t understand why we have to do this. We’re midwives, not community nurses.”
“Oh, well. Let’s get it over with. Maybe it’ll be fun. Something different, anyway. There have been so many babies ever since the war ended, a real baby boom, I think the community health centres are probably overwhelmed and need some help.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I’ll see you back here after.” Tilda waved goodbye and headed down the corridor, her gait slightly pigeon-toed in her black Mary Janes.
Mima located her home-birthing satchel under the thin metal frame of the bed in her dormitory.
She squatted beside the bed, dusted off the bag, and sorted through it while Tilda did the same.
There was a stethoscope, thermometer, carbolic soap, a bowl, a portable steriliser, scissors, forceps and other useful items like cotton wool.
What would she need in a post-birth situation?
She should take something with her. She removed a few of the obviously unnecessary items and placed them on top of her bed.
Then she looped the satchel over her shoulder and strode down the hall, and out of the hospital in the direction of the bus stop.
On the bus, Mima pulled the scrap of paper out of her skirt pocket and read it over again. The name of the woman was familiar.
Heidi Bolton.
She remembered the woman. She’d been a patient the previous week.
Mima should’ve looked over the chart to remind herself of the particulars before she left the hospital, but it was too late now.
She’d witnessed the final stages of labour—the mother and child had been healthy and strong.
This follow-up visit should go smoothly, and then maybe she’d have time for a quick walk on the beach before she had to get back to the hospital.
Strolling along the sand in bare feet was one of her favourite things to do.
It always relaxed her, gave her a sense of perspective on her life and the world.
It made her think of Edie—she could stand on the seashore and imagine that Edie was doing the same thing a thousand kilometres north of her.
She could picture her friend throwing back her head with laughter as the wind bounced her curls around her shoulders.
The bus pulled to a stop, and she rose with an exhale. She wished they’d been able to pair up for the visits. It would’ve helped to have Tilda’s dour face beside her as they meandered through the neighbourhood looking for the right home.
She was thankful there was a map of the area on the back of a tourist brochure handed to her by a helpful young woman working at the bus station.
The street name for the home visit was familiar to her, but she couldn’t exactly recall where it was—another thing she should’ve confirmed before she left the hospital.
She often wondered how on earth she made it through the day, given how much of a flibbertigibbet she could be at times.
The walk from the bus station was a long one, and by the time she’d located the street, she was hot and had to take off her cardigan and tie it around her waist. Overhead, a magpie eyed her from the branches of a wattle tree.
The tree bent and swayed with the breeze, the bird holding on tight, flapping its wings to stay steady.
Then it rose into the air and sailed overhead, still watching her intently.
She squinted into the sky. It would be just her luck that a bird would dive-bomb her in autumn when it had no nest to protect.
It was the last thing she needed right now—she was possibly lost, hot and tired, on her way to a home visit with no idea of how to do it, alone and nervous, with a full day of work waiting for her when she returned to the hospital.
And now a magpie might try to take out her eye with its beak.
Anger and frustration burned in her cheeks.
“Shoo!” she said, waving her fist overhead.
The bird continued to follow at a distance, soaring on the wind with barely a flap of wings.
She frowned. Where was the house? She looked for number thirty-nine.
There were numbers on brick walls, fences and mailboxes.
She scanned for the nearest one—thirty-seven.
She was close now. With a glance, she confirmed that the next building was an apartment complex, a small one with around a dozen dwellings.
The entire thing looked old and run-down.
The driveway was overgrown, and weeds grew in clumps throughout the neglected garden beds that surrounded the bottom floor.
The red brick walls were chipped and speckled with mould in places.
And the windows were dirty and bare, with only a few drab curtains visible from the road.
She tented a hand over her eyes to stare at the building for a few moments before trudging up the footpath that led to the entrance.
Her nerves churned. Why hadn’t she insisted on going with Tilda?
She still couldn’t believe the sister had signed them up for this task.
And there was no use questioning Sister Jones.
The woman seemed to gain pleasure from making them all suffer.
Best to get it over with.
The entrance led to a staircase. Mima glanced at the paper in her hand.
She needed to find apartment number seven.
A sign showed that number seven was upstairs.
She climbed the concrete staircase slowly, peering up through the metal handrails as she went.
The building was eerily quiet, apart from the sound of children crying in one of the units.
Then someone shouted, and the bang of a slammed door reverberated down the cold stairwell.
She looked back to the road, suddenly missing the magpie and the sunshine on her face.
At the top of the stairs, she turned left and found number seven.
It hung upside down on a white timber door that had a huge gash in it.
She looked to the left, then the right, before raising her fist to rap her knuckles on the door.
Her heart thudded against her ribcage, so loud she wondered if others would hear it.
The door was flung open, and a man stood there. She recognised him from the hospital, although now he wore only a pair of shorts. His chest was bare and streaked with what looked like motor oil. His hands were black as well, and his hair spiked in messy clumps all over his head.
“Whadda ya want?” he barked.
She stepped back. “Um… I’m the midwife, Mr Bolton. I met you at the hospital. Nurse Everest, remember?”
He squinted at her and frowned. “Yeah. So?”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “I’ve come to see your wife. We’re visiting new mothers to check on how she and the baby are progressing, making sure they’re healthy and happy.” She did her best to use a light, chipper tone.
Everything inside her screamed to back away, to leave, to return to the hospital as quickly as she could manage.
But instead, she stepped through the doorway.
He didn’t move, so she had to push past him to get inside.
As she did, she smelled the alcohol on his breath.
It seeped from his pores, and she fought the desire to gag as the scent mixed with his cloying body odour.
“How is everything going?” she asked, glancing around the kitchen. There were dirty plates stacked up in the sink, and food scraps littered the benches. A cockroach skittered across the linoleum. Dark brown curtains pulled across the living room windows, and the dim lighting made everything eerie.
“We’re fine.”
In another room, a baby began to squall.
He arched an eyebrow. “Can you get it to stop doin’ that?”