Page 6 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

A few minutes later, Mrs Morrison departed, firmly clutching the wee card where Maisie had written the date of her next appointment in a fortnight’s time. That card, with the words Friday, 22 September 1939, written in Maisie’s best handwriting, represented so much more than an appointment, Maisie knew. It represented hope.

Emotion rose within her, made of loss, and anger, and hopelessness. Everyone was battling something inside, it seemed.

Including her.

2

Alex was still nervous about being an actual doctor, but not overly so. He had, after all, recently passed his examinations in Edinburgh, and was now a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. Hospitals in Belfast and Edinburgh were not dissimilar, and during his time in Queen’s University he had been a medical student in this very building. All will be well.

He and all the other newly qualified doctors had spent the past couple of hours with Mr Russell in a large meeting room on the ground floor. It was described as the boardroom by Mr Russell, who was both the Obstetric Chair and the senior tutor for the medical students. The man who was now Alex’s boss was known as Mister Russell, not ‘doctor’, even though he was more qualified than Alex – or indeed, any other doctor in the hospital. Any Fellow who had attained enough seniority in the profession could revert to the title ‘Mister’ – now seen as a badge of honour for those specialising in purely surgical practice. And since most of the work of obstetricians and gynaecologists involved at least the consideration of surgery, this made sense to Alex.

Mr Russell had interviewed all the new doctors himself, in this very room. Alex recalled the large, polished table and ornate chairs from his (very informal) interview. It had been more a meeting than an interview, really. Once Mr Russell had seen Alex’s certificates, the conversation that day had shifted from a consideration about whether he would work there, to an assumption that of course he would.

And now he was back home again and in his new role, having said his goodbyes in Edinburgh a couple of weeks ago. After the freedom of Scotland, he was squirming at being back under his father’s roof – though Mother was, of course, a darling.

As he sat through the meeting alongside four other newly qualified doctors now training to be obstetricians, his thoughts drifted back to the midwife he’d met earlier. Lord, but she was good-looking! Clear skin with a splash of pretty freckles, glorious copper curls – but had her eyes been hazel, or green? He could not recall.

But no. After the excellent adventures of Edinburgh, he shouldn’t even be thinking about pursuing a new girl for a while. He needed to focus on his job as a doctor.

Besides, the rules were different here. It would be all holding hands and wedding rings – the complete opposite to the daring liaisons he’d enjoyed at university in Scotland. Scary stuff. Yes, he’d be better focusing on his new job for a while, and nothing else.

‘Right!’ Russell was rising, and his brisk tone brought Alex back to the reality of now. ‘Today you complete your induction programme, which means you will be assigned to full clinical work from Monday. I shall therefore lead another tour of the hospital, and you can ask questions as we go. I want you to think particularly about the connections between each ward and department, now that you’ve been here a week. We’ll start here on the lower floor, then later Dr Fenton will take over and accompany you to the upper floors, including the nursery. I’ll show you the clinics – as you know we have a dedicated baby clinic as well as an antenatal clinic – and the canteen – just in case you haven’t yet found it! I heartily recommend Haddock Friday! They come from far and wide for it, you know!’

On this jovial note he led them out, and despite himself Alex couldn’t prevent the thought: Maisie Canavan is in the antenatal clinic.

* * *

As woman after woman came through to Dr Fenton’s consulting room, Maisie managed to achieve a degree of calm once again. This is what she had been trained for. Here, she was in her element. Once more she was struck with the oddness of familiarity. The things she’d learned in the London hospital these past two years were entirely known, familiar, and almost comforting – the rhythm of an antenatal clinic, the sorts of issues the women would bring. What was different – beautifully different – was that the women here all had that beloved, raw Belfast accent that matched her own.

Already she was getting the measure of Dr Fenton. Despite his manner with Mrs Morrison earlier, he was indeed rather arrogant, as she had suspected, and his demeanour with the women – even with some white-card women – bordered on disrespectful at times. The paying women were generally healthy and well, while the women who had been referred to the maternity hospital by their general practitioner were genuinely in need of medical care. GPs were at the heart of healthcare, and Maisie had occasionally had to call on their assistance at a home birth in Camberwell or Brixton. While not themselves surgeons, they could deftly stitch a torn perineum or prescribe medication for a postnatal woman. They were also well able to spot potentially risky pregnancies and refer those women for maternity care at the hospital. Being referred meant you didn’t have to pay a ha’penny for the hospital team, and that made all the difference to ordinary women.

‘Just one more, Midwife Canavan,’ Fenton pronounced now, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘I’m only on until break, remember. I’m taking over on the new juniors’ orientation soon.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’ A pang went through her. Fenton’s watch – black, with gold numbering – looked remarkably similar to the one Gerald had worn.

‘This is a Breitling 741, you know,’ Gerald had informed her proudly, before demonstrating the chronograph function. ‘Very expensive.’ She still recalled the awe she had felt that day, the wonder that someone who was wealthy enough to own an expensive wristwatch had chosen her as his girl. It had made no sense back then. Now of course she knew differently. Had his terrible words that last night been lies uttered in anger, or had he really only gone with her because . . .? Don’t think about him.

Maisie consulted her list, then stepped outside to call the next woman. ‘Mrs Lennon, please.’

Mrs Lennon was a handsome woman in her early twenties, with a neat demeanour and an air of tension in the shoulders and the facial expression. She was not visibly pregnant, and a small boy was beside her, clinging to her and looking all around with wide eyes. Maisie got the woman seated then took up her usual place standing by the wall.

‘Mrs Teresa Lennon, yes?’ Fenton looked up from the file.

‘That is correct.’ Her voice was low.

‘Age twenty-four, millworker, three living children?’

‘Yes. A girl and two boys. This is my youngest.’

Fenton glanced towards the child but didn’t speak to him. ‘According to your notes, he was delivered via caesarean section, which is why your general practitioner has sent you to me.’

She nodded. ‘He got stuck. Apparently he was lying across the ways.’

‘I see.’ He looked grim. ‘And now you’re expecting again?’

‘I am. I’m only three months along.’

‘Right. I’ll need to examine your scar. Hop up on the couch there. The midwife will assist you.’