Page 17 of Return to the Waratah Inn

As Mima listened, her mind wandered. The repercussions of the war had brought ruin to much of the world. The Soviet Union had expanded its borders, taking in countries like Poland as part of its spoils. As a result, communism had managed to destroy the lives of millions. The Korean War had been underway for almost three years and had cost the lives of more young men as the world panicked over the spread of communism. When would it stop?

The bus halted at Mater Hill on Annerley Road, and they both climbed out. The wind had picked up and threatened to tousle Mima’s carefully slicked hair out of its bun. Her skirts whipped around her legs as the two of them hustled up the street to the hospital. Their leather oxfords padded against the concrete footpath in a steady rhythm, their pantyhose-covered legs pumping hard. She kept one hand on her hat to prevent it from blowing away, even though she’d pinned it firmly in place.

They were late, and the sister would tell them off for it. Mima didn’t need another telling off. She’d had enough of them over the past year to last her until retirement, but the sister had it out for her. She was certain of it.

They hurried to their quarters and put away their swimming bags, then bustled into the corridor to stand in line, straight-backed and facing forward. The rest of the line stood silently waiting. A few women glanced at them with a frown. Mima and Tilda were breathing hard. Mima tried to get her puffing under control with slow, steady breaths.

The sister soon appeared at the end of the corridor, hands linked behind her back. She paced along the line of six midwives who all stared straight ahead, studying them with a quick flick of her eyes up and down their frames.

“There’s a stain on your uniform,” she hissed to one woman, who hurried back into her bedroom.

“Your shoes are dull,” she said to another. “Polished shoes, nurses! We need them to gleam. Fingernails should be short, neat and clean,” she snipped. “Try again!” Another nurse left the line.

The sister’s long black veil hung neatly down the centre of her back. Her white collar was stark against the black of her gown. Her hands protruded from full sleeves like puppets looking for an audience.

She stopped before Tilda. Tilda’s cheeks instantly grew red. “Why is your apron wrinkled?”

Tilda’s eyes widened and her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Hmm? Fix it, please.”

Tilda disappeared back into their shared room. Her bed was on the left side, while Mima’s was on the right, with a desk in the back alongside a wash basin and water jug. A wardrobe at the front of the room sat beside a chest of drawers on the. It was a simple room, but one Mima had come to think of as home. She didn’t need much to be content, and the hospital gave her a purpose, a direction. It provided her with meaning in a world where she sometimes felt completely out of place.

The sister looked her up and down with a flare of her nostrils and kept moving. Mima released a breath just as Tilda rejoined them, looking mortified.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mima assured her. “She always picks on someone. It was your turn.”

Tilda offered her a tight smile. The sister clapped to get everyone’s attention and then began giving out her instructions for the shift. They all filed along the hall towards the sister’s desk for the handover report. Mima pulled her notepad out of her apron, along with a stub of pencil, and took notes about the various patients and their needs as she listened.

There were three women in active labour in the delivery rooms, with another fifteen in the early stages in the adjacent multi-bed labour wards. Mima was to start in Delivery Ward A, alongside Tilda. They would relieve the two midwives on duty in that ward, but they would have to assess the situation before taking over. Women in labour often developed rapport with their midwives and didn’t like it when they changed over staff right before delivery.

“I have to pop to the loo,” Mima whispered to Tilda, who rolled her eyes in response.

She hurried out of the maternity wing and down the hall to the nearest bathroom. On the way back, she looked through the glass window at the top of a timber doorway to see if her friend Rachel was there. Rows of children lay on beds—some in iron lungs, others with heat packs resting on their limbs, still others with their limbs wrapped in bandages and splints. Rachel was treating one of the children in an iron lung. She wore a mask over her mouth and gloves on her hands. The child she was helping looked to be about ten years old. His head was the only part of him visible, protruding from the large iron cylinder that encased the rest of his body. Rachel held a glass with a straw to his mouth for him to drink. He sucked on the straw, then coughed, his face pained.

Mima watched with concern, her heart constricting. Rachel turned away to stare at the wall, probably to steady her emotions. Mima had done the same herself countless times. Then she faced the room again with a smile planted firmly on her countenance and spotted Mima through the glass. Mima pressed her wristwatch to the window, then pointed at it. Rachel would know what she meant—they had arranged to meet for lunch at noon when they were both on a break. Rachel raised a thumb in approval. Mima waved goodbye and kept going. She hated to see children suffering and in pain, which was why she’d chosen to work on the maternity ward. But Rachel had told her the last time they spoke that there were new treatments coming, possibly a vaccine, that would change the way they treated polio. She hoped that was true.

After she’d scrubbed in, she joined Tilda in one of the delivery rooms. The woman having the baby was young and didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. She was smiling at one of the other midwives when Mima sneaked through the doorway on tiptoe.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked.

Tilda shook her head. “No, it’s all under control. The others want to stay until the baby is delivered. They said it won’t be long now.”

Mima was relieved that she hadn’t been missed. “Fine with me.”

One of the midwives on duty strode over to greet them. Her name was Olga, and she spoke with a strong accent. “We’re close to delivering this baby.”

Mima nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

“Could you go and update the family in the waiting room, please? Patient’s name is Heidi Bolton.”

“Heidi? Okay, I’ll do that,” Mima said. Olga gave her a rundown on the patient’s progress, then Mima trooped out of the room and down the corridor to the cozy waiting room, where family members were scattered about. Smoke filled the room in clouds, emitted from various cigarettes and cigars, as men in suits sat about the room, legs crossed, or pacing back and forth down its length.

“Can I speak to Heidi Bolton’s family, please?” she said, in a loud voice.

Two men hurried towards her. One held a cigarette between shaking fingers. He reached over to press it, tip down, in an ashtray before stepping up to look at her, a question in his eyes. “I’m her husband.”

“Mr Bolton, Heidi is fine,” she said.