It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife!

• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgment
  
• 1 A NEW ARRIVAL
  
• 2 MEET AND GREET
  
• 3 A MATRON CALLS
  
• 4 A SITE VISIT
  
• 5 AN ANTENATAL VISIT
  
• 6 AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL
  
• 7 ‘ WHERE THERE IS WHISPERING
  THERE IS LYING .'
  
• 8 A NIGHT ON THE TOWN
  
• 9 HARD LABOUR
  
• 10 HANDS-ON CARE
  
• 11 AND IT ' S A FIRST !
  
• 12 RING A RING
  
• 13 A BAG PACK
  
• 14 IT 'S ONLY A GAME
  
• 15 MISSION VAN
  
• 16 A LOSING GAME
  
• 17 NO JOKE
  
• 18 DRIVING LESSONS
  
• 19 DRIVING WITH CARE
  
• 20 A LECTURE FROM CYNTHIA
  
• 21 CARE ON THE HOME FRONT
  
• 22 POST-NATAL BLUES
  
• 23 HEADING FOR
  THE BRIGHT LIGHTS
  
• 24 A HOMER!
  
• 25 LOOKING TO THE FUTURE
  
• 26 MARCHING ORDERS
  
• 27 A PROFESSOR CALLS
  
• 28 ON THE ROAD !
  
• 29 A BIT OF A NIGHTMARE
  
• 30 GOING SOLO
  
• 31 WHAT NEXT ?
  

To Gemma, Eileen and Deirdre, my Irish sisters.

Thanks to the Black & White Publishing team for their faith, and the Belfast babies for their mothers.

The hand came from nowhere. It slapped over my mouth. A second later, I was yanked from prime site to the back of the huge crowds lining Belfast's Falls Road.

‘Are ye mad? Mother of God, what d'you think you're doing?' My friend Seonaid sounded frightened. Normally she'd be using the kerbside to practise tap dancing or crowd control. It must be serious. She'd just jettisoned her advisory role on all things cheerful, personal and matters of state to gag, grab and drag a spectator from the frontline.

The street was a-wheeze with the sound of pipes, flutes and accordions . Underneath, like a heartbeat, a drum thumped, so big, its carrier risked a hernia. Meanwhile the wind section, faces purple with blowing endeavour, looked in danger of self-combustion. Still, it was stirring stuff and we were off-duty student midwives (not First Aiders) enjoying an atmosphere charged with good humour and excitement.

A group of men had just strutted round the corner to join the procession. They wore bowler hats, white gloves and had badges with ribboned paraphernalia round their necks. They were rather like those decorative halters worn by Clydesdale horses at agricultural shows. Putting such eccentric-looking gear together must have given the group a lot of work.

I'd laughed in appreciation of their effort and promptly been re- located.

‘Och, Seonaid!' I protested when she eventually removed her gagging hand. ‘They look droll. You're not telling me they're serious?'

‘Believe you me, it's no joke. They're key players in an Orange Parade. It's to show allegiance to the Crown,' she pointed her thumb as if hitching a lift, ‘and a really old tradition – a celebration of King Billy winning the Battle of the Boyne. Come on! I don't trust you to keep your mouth shut. The way you're speaking you could start a riot.' Already she was dragging me away.

‘So what battle was that then?'

‘William of Orange beat James II. In 1690. Proddies versus Catholics really.' She'd broken into a jog.

By comparison, Scotland's 1746 bloodbath, the Battle of Culloden, was a recent event but certainly not an occasion for celebration.

I hurried after her. ‘You wouldn't find a march like this in Aberdeen,' I said, thinking with affection of a tolerant city, and momentarily forgetting Belfast didn't hold my old training ground in the same regard. I should have remembered the night I arrived.

I'd thought my taxi driver would give a big Belfast welcome to a nurse from Aberdeen. OK, maybe November wasn't the best time to promote it as the Silver City with the Golden Sands, but his take on it seemed a little excessive.

‘More like Abortion City, so it is.' Settling jug-like ears on the mantle piece of his coat collar, he'd spat on two fingers. He wound down the window, doused his cigarette, then flung it out onto the Falls Road: the one the Orange March was now taking.

He drew up at a large, well-lit building. ‘Bostock House,' he announced, ‘and a quair name for a nurses' home, so it is.' His tone was combative as if I might argue but I was relieved. The hearse-like cab and his manner were so suited to the nearby cemetery I'd thought I might be dumped there instead.

He pretended indifference but I caught him looking pleased as, purse in hand, I struggled out with luggage reluctant to follow. I hiked a smile over gritted teeth then shut the door with such a slam, it echoed down the empty road like a pistol shot.

I hadn't expected to feel defensive but bending to speak through a window now half closed, I gestured at the sad neon-lit street.

‘So no back-street abortions here then?'

It was 1966. Aberdeen's concession to swinging still only extended to the Pill given as a contraceptive prize for marriage; but at least my old training ground was trying to put a stop to illegal, miserable and dangerous terminations with safer hospital provision.

He shrugged and pointed to a nearby sign marked Royal Maternity Hospital. ‘Sure not this close anyway.'

I posted a fist of ten bobs through the window. ‘Keep the change. I wouldn't want you calling it “Abermean” as well.'

His answer was a revved engine. Then he roared away. As the cab rounded the corner, the rain blurred an angry red of brake lights. Surprising, considering so little evidence of them on the way from Aldergrove Airport.

Being here at all was something of a miracle and certainly no thanks to a boyfriend who'd met me off my Aberdeen bus connection to Glasgow. Judging by the anxious way he'd consulted his watch, he was keen to ensure my onward journey even if native thrift made it tricky.

‘There is an airport bus,' he'd said in such a bright way it ought to have invited suspicion, ‘but it's expensive. If we just wait at this stop, we'll get the Paisley one. It'll save a few bob and take us near enough.'

I should have asked him to define near enough as the bus (late) apparently bent on making up time, gathered speed approaching the airport, then whizzed past with complete disregard for all appeals to stop. Had it not been for the combination of a slowing roundabout and the ability to get off in the running position whilst catching suitcases thoughtfully thrown out by the boyfriend now demoted to mere acquaintance, I might have missed that plane and all its waiting passengers.

Responding to their universal sigh as the last one tumbled aboard, the air hostess quietly closed the door behind me with a mild, ‘Well she's here now. Now, would yez all belt up?'

There was hardly time to enjoy being airborne. Only enough to glimpse land below, so green, it was easy to see why it was called the Emerald Isle. Then we'd landed and I'd got that taxi.

Now, thanks to that driver and thoroughly grounded, I checked around, seeing a church poking one finger heavenward whilst surrounding low buildings crouched serf-like, humble in close, wiremeshed confabs. They looked as dismal as judgemental neighbours. By comparison, the home was big, bright and welcoming in cleanlined modernity.

Since Aberdeen had so prompted the taxi driver's disapproval, I thought I'd say I'd trained in Inverness. Who was to know?

Lie at the ready, I opened the door.

‘Well, well! Last but not least eh? Sure if it's not the wee nurse from Aberdeen.'

A figure on skinny legs and stilettos burst from a small kiosk-like office at the entrance of a hall, which, with its high ceiling and shiny floor, had the barren feel of an ice rink. Now she was skating across it and going fast. Her bust and head, crowned by something resembling a rookery, made her look top heavy, as if she'd to run to keep up with her front.

I thought we'd have a collision, but she pulled up just in time.

‘Sure and it must be Nurse Macpherson!' Bosoming frills quivered whilst her bangled hand pumped mine, ‘and may I just, right here and now, welcome you to the shores of Ulster, UK.' The bracelet charms clinked as her other hand rooted about in her hair, red varnished nails darting like fish amongst weeds.

‘I'm Miss MacCready, spelt with one “a” and two “c's” and I'm
the
Home Receptionist, and completely responsible for the comfort and safety of all you girls living here, and of course,' she gestured at the office, ‘in charge of your security, keys and mail.' Her huge spectacles magnified eyes fanned with laughter lines and gleaming with a manic energy I couldn't comprehend; but then I'd been travelling all day with morning and home surely a lifetime away.

Indifferent to my travel fatigue, Miss MacCready powered on. ‘Would you ever wait till I get me pen? Ah ha! Here we are!' In triumph she located one from her nest of hair and spoke to it as if it were a naughty child. ‘I wondered where you'd gone, you useless article. To be sure you'll be pleased that's everybody accounted for now – thanks be to God and you'll get to bed soon too. Let's go!'

She tucked her blouse into the back of a heroically short skirt then glided down a corridor leading off the hall. There was a listed sheet of paper headed ‘Fresh Student Midwives' taped to the wall beside a lift garlanded with bright buttons. Two girls stood beside it.

‘All correct now.' With a flourish, Miss MacCready ticked off my name, consulted the biro then sent it back to the rookery. ‘You're a great wee operator, so you are!'

The lift looked a lot safer and was modern compared to the mantrap hiding in a dark corner of the Aberdeen nurses' home, yet one of the girls was gazing at it with terror. The other had the bored air of a seasoned traveller. Amongst the jumble of luggage surrounding them, the smart liveried stuff with its double-barrelled name tag was probably hers.

Miss MacCready threw out her arms, impresario-like. ‘And would you not say that's great timing? These girls here are fresh too so you'll all be going the same way.' She pointed heavenward then produced a key, presenting it as if conferring an honour. ‘Now, Nurse Macpherson. This is all yours, and for the whole of next year! Room seven-hundred fourteen – top floor. You'll get a grand view to be sure.'

A small hand fluttered over nervous Miss Mouse's mouth but not in time to muffle a squeak. ‘Top floor? Is that where we're going? Mother of God! I was so scared seeing this big place, sure I wasn't paying attention and here I am and not even a head for heights.' She glanced at the key jingling in her hand. ‘And I've got seven-hundred thirteen! Sacred Heart of God. Thirteen now!'

‘There's one good thing and that's I now know who my neighbour is. I'll be next door. Hello, I'm Jane.'

Unsure of Irish formality, I twiddled my fingers then stuck out my hand into which hers, quivering and cold as a landed tiddler, fell. A wan smile flickered. ‘This place is so big. How d'you look so confident ? Are you not just terrified of getting lost?'

‘Not really, but I certainly don't feel
fresh
,' I said, nodding at the heading on the new students' list, but the quip was lost.

‘I'm alright that way,' she said in a voice soft as rain. ‘It didn't take too long to get here. Actually, Cynthia and I arrived at the same time.'

‘But not off the same boat, Marie.' Cynthia's laugh was cool. She was tall with a splendid nose, down which, on account of our stunted growth and proximity, she had to squint. ‘Though we seem to be in one now, so come along, do. Sorry I'm holding the controls, you'll have to take the handshake as read.' She had a conductor finger pressed over the lift button whilst holding up a key in her other hand. ‘And it appears I'm a neighbour too but look, sorry to sound impatient , but we really must be getting on. You might not have been travelling all day, but I have.'

The lift arrived with smooth efficiency. Cynthia stepped inside keeping the door open with a large best-leather and shining-shod foot. Pocketing her key, she leant forward to pick up her luggage as if it were lightweight.

‘Are you coming or not?' She sounded exasperated as Marie and I struggled with our own loads. ‘I would like to get settled in before midnight.'

She gave a world-weary sigh but the receptionist was unfazed, responding only by clapping her hands, checking her watch and trilling. ‘Well then if you hurry you should just make it, and even though you're the last girls to arrive, the best room hasn't been taken yet and I'm thinking, Nurse Fitzwilliam, you might just be the lucky one. Number or not.' She touched Marie lightly on the arm and gave a scream of laughter. ‘When you see it, you'll be saying it's the luck of the Irish.'

Marie looked disbelieving and Cynthia thoughtful. The latter said, ‘Is there a penalty to being English then?'

Miss MacCready kicked in the last few pieces of luggage and gave a carefree twirl. ‘Not at all. It's not as if you can help it.' She chuckled then tucked away a few nesting-down twigs, adjusted her spectacles, lowered her head and glided away, the sounds of, ‘Goodnight, goodnight . God bless,' floating in her wake.

Cynthia took her foot in to let the lift doors close. ‘Peasant!' she sighed. She leant back, glared at us, raised her eyebrows and tapped her head on the wall as if it soothed her. ‘Coming from The London Hospital was a long trip. The least I was expecting was to meet somebody normal.'

‘‘Holy Mother!' Marie backed into the corner, clasped her hands and closed her eyes.

As if rocket powered, the lift shot straight to the top. Then, with the same formidable efficiency, the doors opened in a whisper.