got a bed jacket on the girl and a hospital shawl wrapped around her neck.
Mary O’Rahilly’s face creased up and she stiffened.
I waited till it was over. How strong was that pang, dear?
(We were trained not to call them bad.)
Not too strong, I suppose.
Then again, I thought, a first-timer had no basis for comparison. I asked, Do you know when your baby’s due?
Faintly: My neighbour says November, maybe.
Your last menses?
Her face flickered with confusion.
Your monthly?
She went pink. I couldn’t tell you, sorry. Last winter sometime?
I wouldn’t bother trying to reckon from when she’d felt the first foetal movements, because a primigravida rarely registered the quickening till it was too late to be a useful marker.
And these pangs—whereabouts have you been feeling them mostly?
Mary O’Rahilly gestured vaguely to her belly.
I knew that was more typical of false labour; warning shots, rather than the full onslaught, which tended to hit in the back. This girl might be weeks from delivery still.
I pressed her: How much of a break do you get between them?
An unhappy shrug.
Does it vary?
I can’t remember.
Irregularity, stopping and starting—that all sounded like false labour. And tell me, Mrs. O’Rahilly, how long have you been having these pangs?
I don’t know.
Hours?
Days.
One day and night for the dilating of the cervix was common enough. But surely, if this was the real thing, Mary O’Rahilly would be farther along after days of it?
A catch in her voice: Does that mean it’s coming?
Ah, we’ll see soon enough.
But that man said—
I couldn’t restrain a small snort. Groyne was a military stretcher-bearer, I told her. He picked up a lot about wounds and fevers, no doubt, but not much about childbearing.
I thought that might make Mary O’Rahilly smile, but she was too rigid with worry. Like most of my patients—even the multigravidas—she’d probably never been admitted to hospital before.
As I carried on taking her history, I was looking out for hints of problems ahead. Rickets, above all, such a curse in the inner city—children’s teeth came in late, they didn’t walk until two, they had curvature of the ribs or legs or spine. But no, Mary O’Rahilly was only small, with a pelvis in proportion to the rest of her. No puffiness to suggest her kidneys were acting up. She’d had a perfectly healthy pregnancy until she’d caught this grippe.
She shivered, coughed into the back of her little hand. I’ve been so careful, Nurse. Gargling with cider vinegar and drinking it too.
I nodded neutrally. Some placed their trust in treacle to ward off this flu, others in rhubarb, as if there had to be one household substance that could save us all. I’d even met fools who credited their safety to the wearing of red.
I rested my hand with the watch in it on Mary O’Rahilly’s chest so I could count her breaths without her noticing. The rate of respiration was up somewhat, between her spluttering coughs. I tucked a thermometer under her tongue. Pulse regular but slightly weak, I added to her chart. By the way, these blue marks on your wrist, did you have a fall? Were you dizzy, was that it?
She shook her head. I just bruise easy, she mumbled.
When I checked the mercury after a minute, her temperature was only a little above normal. I told her, Yours isn’t a bad case at all.
Bridie and I helped her into the middle cot. (Eileen Devine’s deathbed.)
Stop, don’t think that way, would you jinx this poor girl?
Mary O’Rahilly said, in her breathy murmur, People are afraid to go near each other, it can pounce so fast! The other day, the peelers smashed down a door in the tenement behind ours and found a whole family expired on the one mattress.
I nodded, thinking it rather awful that the neighbours hadn’t gone near them before that point…but how could one judge in times of such general dread?
I needed her on her back so I could feel her abdomen. It might hurt if the bladder was full, so I asked if she wanted the lavatory first.
She shook her head.
Delia Garrett snappishly: I need to go, as it happens.
Bridie offered to bring her.
I dithered. All right, I suppose, if you keep a firm hold of Mrs. Garrett so she won’t fall.
Why on earth would I fall?
When they were gone, I checked on Ita Noonan, who was still in her vaporous daze.
Back to Mary O’Rahilly. I lifted up her nightdress but covered her privates and thighs with a sheet. Like many an adolescent mother, she had dramatic purple claw