It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! (17 page)

I told her about our own adventures. She seemed to think they were as exciting as the Ball and, as full of curiosity about Margaret as we'd been about Cynthia, wondered if she'd got home alright.

I said, ‘Yes. I was up early but not as early as her. She was in the dining room having breakfast and looking like the cat who's eaten the cream. She couldn't wait to tell me she's meeting Brian later on.' I jogged Seonaid's arm. ‘Believe it or not, she's got a date!'

‘Well, so have I,' said Seonaid, yawning, ‘and it's with my bed. I might not sleep worrying about her, so go and see if you can find Cynthia.'

‘Why do we get all the good jobs?' I asked, unsure if a missing Cynthia was cause for alarm. ‘She'll probably bite our heads off if we do run into her.'

‘I've to go to Mass first but that won't take long. If you like, you could even come with me. I'm sure you'd like it.' Marie's eyes shone. A conversion might just be within her grasp.

‘No thanks. You go to church and I'll go and see if I can run into her but she could be anywhere. Maybe I should try the graveyard. I sometimes go there for a think, myself.'

‘You never!' Marie was startled. ‘Holy Mother, but you're full of surprises. Are you not frightened of ghosts? There's bound to be loads there.'

‘I haven't met any as yet. It's usually nice and quiet, but if I do, I'll take one home to you even if you've got your own Holy One waiting for you. Come on, you'll miss Mass if you don't go now.' I ushered Marie out the door, then, pausing before following, asked, ‘Um – Seonaid – was Oliver there?'

She opened one eye, ‘No. Bridie, his ex-girlfriend was. Partnering one of the other students in their crowd.' She snuggled down before adding, ‘Raymond says she and Oliver have settled on being just good friends. Interested?'

‘No. Curious.' I said as firmly as I shut the door.

Pursuing the matter of Cynthia, I asked Miss MacCready if she'd seen her.

‘No – but I wasn't looking for her.' She gave a dismissive jangle of her bracelet. ‘Sure she's a big girl. Should be able to fend for herself, but what about you? Where in all the wide world are you off to?'

It sounded as if she might have been choked off by Cynthia, who must be returning to form. I gave up worrying about her.

‘It looks like a nice day. I think I'll go for a wee walk to get some fresh air.' I was aware that if I as much as mentioned a cemetery, the receptionist, in her kindly way, would engage delaying tactics until she contacted The Samaritans.

I liked the Falls Road graveyard. It had the same melancholy charm as the one off Aberdeen's Union Street where the sound of traffic was hushed by ancient walls, and benches on well-ordered paths offered resting places for the undead.

It was a perfect spot to cast aside the determinedly cheerful front prescribed for the caring profession. There were sad epitaphs on the graves which bore witness to those who hadn't survived any kind of medicine. If it wasn't for the sound of a gravedigger leisurely working to the sound of ‘Music While You Work' I reckoned I could get a good gloom going here.

I found a spot as far away from the tinny tranny's sound as possible and sat opposite a stone angel curiously resembling Queen Victoria. This one stretched forward, hand extended, as if thumbing a lift from her bus shelter-like arbour. There was ivy everywhere but it was particularly rampant over a nearby group of unmarked graves. They recorded the lot of paupers and children, fallen victims to the infectious diseases now eliminated by modern medicine.

I'd a lump in my throat as I considered a gravestone marking the death of eight children. There were many others who'd died and they hadn't even their burial places marked. As if in mourning, the bare trees heaved and groaned, their dead leaves collected into darklysodden heaps. The Black Mountain, chief of the surrounding hills, looked down, bleak and uncaring. Any moment now there was going to be a cloudburst. Cautiously, I looked around hoping the gravedigger wouldn't think consoling a girl in tears was part of his job.

This was a strange land where religious beliefs competed, bringing tension, judgement and, as far as I could see, unhappiness. My old training school was held in poor regard and here the Midwifery training was full of sweat, tears and a labour not confined to the patients to whom our responsibilities stretched unendingly. It only needed the addition of an unasked-for kiss in a sluice – a sluice! Then a dash of homesickness, and any minute now I'd get a good bawl going.

I got my hanky out in preparation, drew breath and was just about to let go, when a couple in black approached. Flowers in hand they looked full of grief and as if they were coming to tend the fresh grave opposite.

Plainly it wasn't the time for self-pity. I rose and, donning a suitably reverent expression, moved quickly away, eyes humbly to the ground. Minutes later I banged straight into a happier couple – Margaret and Brian.

A graveyard seemed an unlikely setting but they both seemed as cheerful as if they were on a relaxed day's outing. Even Margaret's lipstick was bang on target.

Brian, particularly informal in an open shirt, tweed jacket and flannels said, ‘We do meet in strange places. We're just visiting my mother's grave before Margaret and I have a cycle test drive. I'm hoping we'll have a wee tour.' His smile was easy as he put his arm round Margaret's waist. ‘She's a quick learner.'

Margaret blushed. ‘And what would you be doing here, Jane?'

I didn't think they would understand that the Scots psyche could be recharged by gloom so I vaguely hinted at an interest in local history. It could be useful for the background research we were bound to need at some point in our training.

Margaret stuck out her chin as she re-secured her headsquare so tightly it looked as if she wanted to shut out sound. ‘You're too conscientious,' she said, linking her arm firmly through Brian's. ‘It's a day off, for heaven's sake. Anyway, you sound as if you've a cold coming on. Why don't you head back to the Home and have a hot drink and an aspirin? You want to be well for working in the nursery and not snivelling all over the babies, don't you?'

She should have been more concerned about my bunion. A day later, my inheritance from winkle-picker days was throbbing in the compulsory overshoes needed for working in the Special Care Nursery. In a unit where humidity would be useful for preparing for life in the tropics, my throbbing foot was making its own thermal contribution. It was as well for me we did most of our work sitting down.

Although it was gratifying getting a small movement from a tiny limb in answer to a gentle stroke, other than feeding, fretting over and checking conversationally-limited babies, there wasn't much else to do. The resident staff were so experienced they appeared to work on automatic pilot so that tube and bottle feeding were carried out with the smooth efficiency of a bottling factory. What with the stifling atmosphere and my bunion shooting hot needles of pain, I even began to look forward to the weekly lecture slot.

‘Are you limping?' asked Seonaid, taking an arm as we headed into the lecture hall. ‘You're like an oulde woman there. You'd best sit at the front and save a bit of travel time.'

‘I don't want to do that. I'll be right under Prof. McQuaid's eye,' I complained, but Seonaid and her micro-second sympathy had gone.

Margaret had moved with her. The change of her circumstances had put paid to the glorious fields of study and endeavour she had so actively promoted when we'd first arrived. All she could talk about now was a policeman's lot, the joys of exercise and life in the saddle.

‘Ah! Jane!' Cynthia plumped down beside me. ‘I see Margaret's taking a back seat. Well, at least you'll make a change from her endless talk about that policeman chap she's taken up with. Honestly, she's becoming such a drag.'

‘Not as boring as the Prof., I bet. Look, here he comes with Miss Harvey. She looks a bit fussed. I suppose she's on edge after the spat with him about our class and the witnessing deliveries saga.'

Plainly Cynthia wanted to be reminded of this as little as of the Medic's Ball, after which she had reappeared somewhat crushed and a lot quieter. I hadn't the heart to ask her about it, especially as she was spinning a silly ‘walking into a door' yarn explaining Dr Welch's black eye.

Apparently, Dr O'Reilly, tiring of the house doctor's fixation with his partner, Lisa, had administered a rough justice. I thought it magnificent if unprofessional.

It was unimaginable that the Professor was ever in a similar situation or was even a dancer. Certainly not wearing that green Donegal tweed suit, today's sartorial outfit. He'd have melted on the spot.

He bounced into the lecture hall in the manner of someone accustomed to respectful attention and, throwing his raincoat over a chair, checked his sparse grey hair still lay dutifully across his shiny dome. He looked upon his audience with the disfavour of someone who'd stepped on something nasty.

‘Yes, yes, I know this class,' he said, interrupting Miss Harvey's surprisingly timid introduction. ‘Strangers to the truth. Well, let's see if they can cope with real facts. Where's the head and pelvis?'

It wasn't much of an audience warm-up and it wasn't going to get any better. As the Professor began his lecture, machine-gun rattling out the facts from a small trap of a mouth, he whisked the doll's head to and fro through the pelvis so fast it became a blur and my mind wandered off. I wondered if it was true he was an examiner for our First Part Midwifery exam. If he was, then, judging by the stultifying atmosphere of his lecture, I didn't much fancy our success rates.

Still he droned on. I was too frightened to yawn but Cynthia didn't have that problem. Apparently the Medical Ball experience hadn't left her entirely chastened as she folded her arms, sighed, fidgeted, examined her fingernails and stretched her legs as if to stop blood clots forming. Under her wearied gaze our lecturer was beginning to falter. I too had begun to squirm, but that was with pain. I'd really need to do something about this foot.

Suddenly the Professor narrowed his eyes, went an unbecoming pink then shouted, ‘Right!' He was looking straight at Cynthia. In an exasperated gesture he lobbed both doll's head and pelvis at her. ‘I don't think any of you have been listening to a word I've been saying. You, girl, repeat what I've just been saying.'

I ducked, relieved mightily when, with the careless ease of a tennis player, Cynthia reached out and caught both objects. In a leisurely way she stood up then, holding them like objets d'art, she moved to the front to face the class.

‘Perhaps it's best I sit, then you'll all see better and you, Professor, might like to take a seat with the rest of the class. Oh thank you, Miss Harvey, but don't you want your seat?'

‘No thanks. I'll go and sit at the back. I'll get a really good view there.' Miss Harvey sounded amused whilst the Professor, looking surprised, took Cynthia's place, frowning whilst she calmly laid the head and pelvis on her estuary of a lap.

‘Understanding the mechanism of labour is relatively easy,' she began. ‘It just takes a little application coupled with simplicity of expression.' She cleared her throat, then in a precise but lucid way she repeated the Professor's lecture, only this time she had everybody's attention.

We craned forward, hanging on her every word. Cynthia was making this a lot clearer – even fun. The doll's head looked as if it had more life in it than some of my Nursery tinies as, responding to its puppet master's hands, it cheerily popped through the positions the Professor had made so sleep-inducing. Even the pelvis with its bony structure seemed polished and keen to star.

‘And that of course as we all know is the very best position for the baby's head before delivery,' said Cynthia as she finished. ‘See? Left occipito anterior – or as we would probably say, L.O.A.' She swept the doll's head through the pelvis with a flourish and stood up. ‘And it's what we all want as caring professionals,' she said, looking straight at the Professor, ‘for our patients. Now has anybody any questions?'

Miss Harvey, looking pleased, came to the front putting her hands together as if in applause and at last awarding Cynthia her full title. ‘I must say, I think Nurse Brown-Smythe has done a good summingup job. Maybe she could become our next lecturer. That would certainly free your
valuable
time up wouldn't it, Professor?'

The Professor took off his spectacles, breathed on them, cleaned them, replaced them then, clearing his throat, stood up.

‘Well, she's certainly covered most points,' he said grudgingly. ‘I just hope everybody was listening.' He was obviously still nursing a vendetta and, deprived of a victim, he looked round, letting his gaze fall on me. ‘So maybe we should put it to the test again.' Behind the rimless specs, his eyes gleamed as if they too had been polished. ‘You'll have no excuse for getting the mechanism of labour wrong now, so why not give us another quick run-through?'

My heart sank. Nobody could repeat Cynthia's slick performance. Anyway, my brain had relocated to my foot where there was far more activity. Flustered, I stood up. Then did what only could be done under such a trial of strength – fainted.

When I came to, I was being wheeled along the corridor in a chair helmed by Miss Harvey and pushed by Seonaid. Unsure if my grogginess was due to the relief of a rapid exit or the pain from a very angry foot, I discovered we were heading for the staff sick bay. Recovery became an imperative.

Fully conscious now I said, ‘I'm fine – just a little light-headed. I skipped breakfast – honestly.'

‘Rubbish!' Miss Harvey fingered her pelican badge. The gleaming emblem under her collar was a hard-won symbol of excellence from an Edinburgh training school. The badge showed a bird feeding its young. Known to do so from their own blood, the badge illustrated an act representing charity and self-sacrifice.