Delia Garrett complained: That awful man who brought me in yesterday.
The orderly pushed through the door backwards. He reminded me of that macabre servant out of Frankenstein.
In lieu of a greeting, I commented, Always a song on your lips, Groyne.
He sketched a music-hall bow in my direction, then spun the wheelchair around to present the new patient. A young woman—a girl, I’d have said, except for her bump—with coal-black hair and a face full of fear.
Another lovely for your select sisterhood. Baby coming soon, but Maternity wouldn’t have her on account of her cough.
I glanced at the chart Groyne handed me. Just one line scribbled at the top: Mary O’Rahilly, age seventeen, primigravida.
Women who’d given birth before were known quantities even if one could never be quite certain what would happen on the day. A first-timer such as Mary O’Rahilly was a different story. The admitting physician hadn’t even estimated a due date; he must be hard-pressed today.
Mrs. O’Rahilly, let’s get you out of that wheelchair.
She stood for me with no apparent difficulty but trembled. Chills, I wondered, or nerves, or both? Short and slim, dwarfed by her great bulge. I patted the chair at the end of the middle cot and said, Sit here till we get you changed.
The orderly pushed the empty wheelchair towards the door.
Groyne, any word of when we can expect to see this new doctor?
Ah, the lady rebel!
Gossip was meat and drink to the man. I wasn’t in the habit of encouraging tittle-tattle, but this time I couldn’t stop my eyebrows from arching.
He asked, Haven’t you heard of her?
You’re implying she’s one of the Sinn Féiners?
(The Gaelic phrase meant us-aloners. They went around ranting that home rule wouldn’t be enough now; nothing would content them but a breakaway republic.)
Implying nothing, Groyne told me. Miss Lynn’s a vicar’s daughter from Mayo gone astray—a socialist, suffragette, anarchist firebrand!
This sounded improbably lurid, and the orderly did tend to bad-mouth any woman set over him. But the details were so specific.
A vicar’s daughter, I asked, really?
Most of those green-wearing Erin-lovers may be Catholics like ourselves, but there’s the odd Proddy eccentric in their ranks, he said disgustedly. (He didn’t notice the cold look Delia Garrett gave him.) This one was a she-captain, no less, back in the Rising. It was her stitched up the bullet wounds of those terrorist pups on the roof of City Hall.
He pointed up towards the office on the third floor and added, Top brass must be really scraping the barrel, all right.
Well, I said uncomfortably, I suppose it’s hardly a time to be picky.
The new patient’s eyes were bulging as she said, The hospital’s hired a criminal?
The orderly nodded. Miss Lynn was deported with the rest of the pack, locked up in Britain—but then weren’t they let out last year, for all the blood on their hands, and came slinking back?
I had to rein in this conversation before panic spread.
Politics aside, I said, I’m sure Dr. Lynn wouldn’t have been called in today if she were not a capable physician.
My emphasis on her title made Groyne smirk. Ah, I’ll say no more.
That was the orderly’s inevitable phrase when he had a great deal more to say. He was settling in now, leaning on the handles of the wheelchair as if on a bar. These days, a fellow can’t let slip a word against the gentler sex—so called! A female delivering my post, munitionettes, girls putting out fires, even. Where will it all end?
We mustn’t keep you, Groyne.
He took my hint. Best of luck, Mrs. O’Rahilly.
He waltzed off, warbling to the wheelchair: Are ye right there, Michael, are ye right?
Bridie remarked, He’s a gas, that fellow.
My lips twisted.
Don’t you care for him, Nurse Power?
Groyne’s humour is a little dark for my taste.
She said, Well, you have to laugh.
The two of us got Mary O’Rahilly’s shawl, dress, and drawers off, though we left her stockings on for warmth. She shivered and shuddered. We drew a nightdress over her smooth black hair. So you’ll be more comfortable, I always said, but changing their clothes was really a matter of hygiene; some patients came in crawling with lice. In a properly equipped ward, I’d have steamed Mary O’Rahilly’s own clothes, just in case, but as it was, all I could do was tell Bridie to wrap them up in paper and put them on the top shelf. I showed her how to draw the tapes of the nightdress closed at the patient’s sides. I