I stared. Your belly button?

Her voice trembled as she paced. Does it do it on its own or will the doctor have to…force it?

I was embarrassed for her. Mrs. O’Rahilly, you know that’s not where the baby comes out?

The girl blinked at me.

Think of where it got started. I waited, then whispered: Below.

The information shook her; she opened her mouth wide, then clamped it shut and coughed again, eyes shiny.

Bridie was standing on Mary O’Rahilly’s other side holding Jellett’s Midwifery, which she hadn’t asked if she could take down. Here, look, you can see the top of the baby’s head, and in the next…

She flipped the page.

…it’s sticking right out of her!

Mary O’Rahilly flinched at the graphic images but nodded, absorbing the lesson. Then walked away as if she couldn’t bear to see any more.

Thanks, Bridie.

I made a little gesture for her to put the book back before she noticed the more disturbing sections: malpresentations, anomalies, obstetrical surgeries.

Mary O’Rahilly was stumbling back and forth around the bed, blinded by fright.

Puritans who thought ignorance was the shield of purity—they made me angry. I said to her, Your mother should really have explained. Didn’t she bring you into the world this way? I’ve seen it happen dozens—no, hundreds of times—and it’s a beautiful sight.

(Trying not to think of all the ways it could go wrong. Of the young blonde I’d encountered in my first month here who’d laboured for three days before the doctor had pried out her eleven-pounder by caesarean section; she’d died of the infected wound.)

Mary O’Rahilly’s voice was barely there: Mammy passed when I was eleven.

I regretted what I’d said about her mother. I’m so sorry. Was it…

Having my last brother, or trying to.

Her voice was very low, as if it were a secret, and a shameful one, rather than the most ordinary tragedy ever told. Even if this girl was ignorant of the mechanics of birth, she knew the fundamental fact about it: the risk.

I supposed that was why I found myself telling her, My mother went the same way.

They were all looking at me now, these three women.

Mary O’Rahilly seemed almost comforted. Did she?

I said, In our case, I was four, and the baby did live.

Bridie was watching me, her eyes crinkling in sympathy.

Mary O’Rahilly sketched a cross, touching her forehead, shoulders, and breastbone, before resuming her walk.

I felt as if I were adrift in a leaking boat with these strangers, waiting out a storm.

A grunt burst out of Delia Garrett. My bowels—I need to move them, Nurse, but I know it won’t come!

I looked at her hard. I’d been so focused on the newcomer, it had completely slipped my mind that constipation could be an early hint of labour. But Delia Garrett wasn’t due for almost eight weeks, I argued with myself. This being her third go, surely she’d recognise those pangs?

Except that she was so reluctant to stay in hospital, she’d be likely to deny any hint that she might be slipping into that state. And wasn’t this flu becoming infamous for expelling babies before their time?

She let out a volley of coughs.

Tell me, Mrs. Garrett, when you get the urge, does your whole middle tighten up?

Like a drum!

That was another sign.

I laid her down on her back with her knees drawn up a little and began palpating. The baby’s bum was up, head down; that was good. Bridie, the horn?

Delia Garrett tried to sit up, eyes wild. You’re not prodding me with that thing.

It won’t hurt.

I can’t bear anything pressing on me right now.

Very well, I can use my ear.

So I set my cheek against her bump and asked her to take a deep breath.

I tell you I’m desperate for the lavatory!

I really don’t think it’s that, Mrs. Garrett, but you can try a bedpan.

Bridie rushed to fetch one.

I put my ear back to the hot, stretched skin. I found a pulse…but I could tell without counting that it was too slow to be anything but Delia Garrett’s.

Her cough resounded in my head.

Let me try a different spot…

But the young woman kept thrashing about and protesting that I was pressing too hard, and I couldn’t make out the pattering beat I was seeking, the foetal rhythm that should be almost twice as a fast as its mother’s.

Please, Mrs. Garrett, don’t move for a minute.

It hurts to stay flat on my back!

I spoke lullingly, as if to a spooked horse: I understand.

Delia Garrett’s voice went shrill: How could you, a spinster?

Bridie’s eyes widened and met mine.

I smiled and shook my head to show I hadn’t taken it personally. Labouring women often turned cranky as things came to the crunch; in fact, it was a useful sign.

Delia Garrett’s face screwed up again and she began to moan.

I noted the time.

Waiting for her pang to finish, I checked on Ita Noonan, who was still scarlet-faced and dozing.

Between their two cots, Mary O’Rahilly paced like a ghost, three steps towards the window, three steps back, trying to keep out of the way.

Mrs. O’Rahilly, how are you doing?

All right. Could I sit a bit, maybe?

Certainly, whatever you like.

I went around her to Ita Noonan and gently pulled up the woman’s lip to insert a thermometer under her tongue; she didn’t stir.

Back to kneel on Delia Garrett’s bed, because I knew there was one more bit of proof I needed: Was the head fixed in the pelvis yet or still floating?

Hold steady on your back for just a minute more, please, Mrs. Garrett.

Facing her glossy bump, I moved my right hand into Pawlic’s grip, taking hold just above the pubic bone, sinking my fingers in as if around a huge apple, and gently trying to shift the small skull from side to—

Argh!

Delia Garrett kneed me away violently.

I rubbed my bruised rib, calculating. The head hadn’t budged at all under my fingers, so, yes, this woman was in labour, two months early.

Bridie pointed.

Mrs. Noonan had let the thermometer drop out of her mouth, and it had fallen onto her blanket.

Pick it up for me, would you, Bridie? Quick, before it cools.

She scuttled between the two cots.

Show me?

Bridie put the thermometer up to my face, vertically.

Flat! So I can read the figures.

She turned it.

I read the number: 105.8. Climbing again.

Check she still has some whiskey in her cup, would you?

Bridie reported: Plenty.

You could try ice-cold cloths on the back of her neck, then.

She hurried to do that.

I tugged lightly on Delia Garrett’s drawers and said, These have to come off.

She huffed but lifted her hips so I could slide them down.

Let your knees fall apart, would you, just for a minute?

I didn’t even need to touch her. The pubic curls were crusted with red, what we called bloody show, the surest sign.

Behind me, Bridie let out a gasp of shock, but it was covered up by Delia Garrett’s groan.

I closed her legs and pulled out my watch; barely five minutes since the last pang. This was all going much too fast. Born at thirty-two weeks would mean severely premature. All we could do with those babies was keep them in the warm box upstairs for the week, send them home wrapped in cotton wool with an eyedropper for feeding, and cross our fingers—especially if they were boys, notoriously weaker—that they’d somehow live through the first year.