to hide their tremor.
Groyne looked at the cot on the left. Ah, so the scarlet woman’s gone west.
I ignored that slur on Honor White and wondered who’d told the orderlies she wasn’t married.
In the shades now, he said to O’Shea with a melancholic relish. Riding the pale horse…
I asked, Is it all a pure joke to you, Groyne? Are we just meat?
Everyone stared at me.
After the event in question, you mean, Nurse? He slashed his throat with one finger, smiling. In my view, we are. Napoo, finito, kaput.
He tapped his sternum and added, Your humble friend included.
I couldn’t think of a riposte.
Groyne made me a stiff little bow and laid the stretcher on the floor.
O’Shea helped him set Honor White’s draped body down on it, and they carried her out.
Her baby, in the crib, showed no sign of knowing what he was losing.
I busied myself stripping her cot.
Bridie asked softly, Why are you so hard on Groyne?
I bristled. Don’t you find him grotesque? The constant ditties, the morbid vulgarity of the man. Went off to war but never got within whiffing distance of a battle, and now he swans around here, the greasy bachelor, trying out his music-hall numbers on women in pain.
Mary O’Rahilly looked disconcerted.
I knew I shouldn’t be speaking this way in front of a patient.
Bridie said, He’s not a bachelor, actually. What’s the word? Not just a widower, but someone who used to be a father.
My heart was hammering. When was this?
Years and years ago, before the war. Groyne lost his whole family to the typhus.
I cleared my throat and managed to say, Sorry, I wasn’t aware. I suppose the word is still father, even if…how many children?
He didn’t tell me.
How did you learn all this, Bridie?
I asked had he a family.
I was so ashamed. I’d assumed Groyne had made it to this point in his life unscathed because he’d come home from the war with a steady grip, an unmelted face, his conversational powers unimpaired. I’d never managed to look past the jokes and songs to the broken man. Hale and hearty and in torment; trapped here without those he loved, serving out his time. Groyne could have drunk away his military pension, but no, he was here every day by seven a.m. to carry the quick and the dead.
Mary O’Rahilly said, I don’t mean to bother you, Nurse Power…
After some hemming and hawing she admitted that her nipples were very painful, so I took down a jar of lanolin to rub into them.
I checked Honor White’s baby but his nappy was still dry. So weak and small he looked to me all of a sudden; was Sister Luke right not to rate his chances?
I said to Bridie, We need to baptise young Mr. White.
Now? she asked in a startled voice. Us?
Well, there’s no priest at the hospital today, and any Catholic’s allowed to do it if it’s urgent.
Mary O’Rahilly asked with an uneasy thrill, Have you christened babies before, Nurse?
Not yet, but I’ve seen it done on a few.
(Dying ones, I didn’t say.)
I can remember the words, I assured her.
Bridie objected: But we don’t know what she wanted to call him.
True, and that troubled me. Honor White had been so veiled and bleak, and I’d thought there’d be time…
Bridie said grimly, Still, I suppose it’s better we pick a name than the staff wherever he ends up.
I asked her, Will you be godmother?
A half laugh.
No, but will you, Bridie? It’s a solemn thing.
As if she were at a circus, Mary O’Rahilly cried, Go on!
So Bridie scooped up the White boy and stood like a soldier.
I wondered if we should play it safe with one of the more common saints. I said aloud, Patrick? Paul?
John? That was from Mary O’Rahilly. Michael?
Dull, dull, Bridie complained.
I stared into his small face. Maybe a nod to the final tweak the potter had given the clay? Harelipped; what was that Gaelic phrase Dr. Lynn had used for it, bearna something? I said, Let’s call him Barnabas.
Bridie considered the baby clasped in her left arm. I like that.
Mary O’Rahilly said, Rather distinguished.
Bridie turned her head sharply and let out a huge sneeze, her sleeve flying up to cover it. Sorry!
Then she sneezed again, even louder.
Mary O’Rahilly asked, Are you all right?
I’ve just picked up a bit of a cold. Must have sat in a draught last night. (Bridie winked at me.)
I remembered the roof. Was I blushing?
I began in a ceremonial tone, Bridie Sweeney, what name do you give this child?
She