My most urgent task was to look after the mother, I reminded myself. To keep Delia Garrett’s blood pressure from going through the roof.

I took her wrist now. Under the pads of my fingertips, her pulse leapt, a river in spate. I plumped her pillows. Sit up and lie back on these, dear.

Blinking, she did.

Bridie was still standing there with the thermometer, openmouthed.

I asked her to disinfect it just to get her over to the sink. I followed her and murmured in her ear, You know what part of a nurse is the most important?

Bridie looked blank. Her hands? Her feet?

I pointed to my face and made it serene. If a nurse looks worried, patients will worry. So guard your face.

She nodded, absorbing that.

I went back to Delia Garrett. I believe you’re on your way, dear.

Fear in her voice, for the first time. I can’t be! She’s supposed to be a Christmas baby.

As lightly as I could, I said, Well, she seems to believe she’s a Halloween one.

Ah, no!

I turned to see Bridie with an appalled face, one hand trickling scarlet. I demanded, What have you done?

She cringed. Sorry, I set the thing, I put it down in the hot pot, but it must have hit something—so I took it out again—

I’d meant her to dip the thermometer in the basin of carbolic. What kind of eejit didn’t know that boiling water would crack a delicate glass bulb?

But I bit my tongue. I could hardly expect this young woman to pick up the basics of nursing in a couple of hours.

Excuse me a minute, Mrs. Garrett.

She buried her face in the pillow and moaned.

I crossed the room, took Bridie’s hand, and shook it a little over the bubbling water till she released the shards. I dried the bleeding finger on a sterile cloth and gave the cut a dab with a styptic pencil from my apron to seal it up so she wouldn’t go off dripping scarlet like a murderess in a play.

There you go. Now, could you run upstairs to the maternity ward and find Sister Finnigan? Tell her I have a precipitate premature labour—

Damn it, Bridie would never hold on to those unfamiliar words.

A rapid premature labour, I said instead.

(Would I be better off taking the time to write a note?)

Tell Sister Finnigan that Mrs. Garrett’s pangs are less than five minutes apart and we need a doctor. If the lady one isn’t in yet, then anyone else at all. Will you remember?

Bridie echoed in a thrilled voice: Rapid, five minutes, any doctor.

She scurried off.

I called after her, Don’t actually run.

Delia Garrett grunted crossly. I keep telling you, I need to go.

I reached for the bedpan Bridie had brought over.

Not that!

You have to rest and conserve your strength, Mrs. Garrett.

(What I was thinking was, what if her baby dropped out in the passage or in the toilet?)

Mutinous, she allowed me to pull her nightdress up and get the bedpan under her, but as I’d expected, nothing came out. I said, While I have you here, let me clean you.

She didn’t object, just shut her eyes as she crouched miserably on the pan. I gave her soft parts a thorough going-over first with soap and water, then with warm, dilute disinfectant, to get rid of the germs that could infiltrate her or contaminate the baby as it came out.

As the next pang took Delia Garrett, she hung her head and let out a guttural sound that turned into a racking cough. Something for the pain, Nurse Julia?

I’m sure when the doctor comes—

Now!

I’m afraid nurses don’t have authority to order medicine.

Then what bloody use are you?

I had no answer for that.

Let’s get you lying down now, Mrs. Garrett. On your left, that helps.

(If the labouring woman turned on her right, the uterus might compress the vena cava and reduce blood flow to her heart.)

I urged, Take long breaths.

I took a clean cloth from the packet and dipped it in boiling water. When it had cooled enough, I wrung it out, folded it smaller, and went over to where Delia Garrett lay on her side. Slide your knees up towards your chest for me, so your rear’s sticking out?

She grumbled but did it.

Here’s a hot compress, I said, then pressed the cloth to her perineum.

A sob.

That pressure behind, that’ll be the baby’s head you’re feeling.

Make it stop!

I wondered, For how many millennia have women been vainly asking that?

No, no, I assured her, it means you don’t have long to go.

(And where, oh, where was the blasted lady doctor?)

In the middle bed, young Mary O’Rahilly was coiled around her own slow, unceasing pains. A little damp across the forehead, her hair a black oil slick; dark underneath the eyes. Birth was such a roll of the dice, I thought; labour could keep a woman in painful limbo for days on end or strike her as hard and fast as lightning.

I simply couldn’t give hands-on care to two women at once, and Delia Garrett’s need was more urgent. But when Mary O’Rahilly straightened again, I asked softly, Was that a bad one, Mrs. O’Rahilly?

A hapless shrug, as if the seventeen-year-old were unqualified to measure what was being done to her. She let out a series of small coughs.

When Bridie Sweeney gets back, I’ll have her make you more hot lemonade.

Delia Garrett cried out.

I kept pressing on the hot compress with one hand, and I checked my watch with the other. Her pains were close to three minutes apart now. I fingered the silver disk as if I could smooth away the terrible scratches. I pushed it back into my bib pocket.

Delia Garrett wailed, It wasn’t like this the other times, Nurse Julia. Can’t you give me something?

And why was I not allowed to do that in a pinch when half the protocols had been thrown out the window?

Instead, I threw the compress into the waste bucket and got behind her. Let’s see if this helps, Mrs. Garrett. Up on your hands and knees?

She grunted angrily but heaved herself into a cow-like position. With the heels of my hands, I pressed hard on her two sitz bones, pushing the very base of her pelvis forward.

Oh, oh!

I hoped that meant I was taking the edge off the pain.

For the next contraction, three minutes later, I tried thumbing the last few vertebrae on both sides of her spine, but that did nothing for her. I switched to the dimples of Venus at the base of her back; I set my knuckles into them and leaned hard.

Any better?

Delia Garrett sounded preoccupied: A bit.

These tricks of counterpressure weren’t in any manual, just passed down, midwife to midwife, though the more stern of our profession didn’t approve of anything done to relieve pains they considered natural and productive. But I was firmly in favour of whatever helped a woman keep up her strength and get through.

In the silence, Delia Garrett sank back against the pillows and pulled her nightgown down. Her eyes were shut as she muttered, I didn’t want this baby.

A sound of footsteps behind me. I could see by Bridie’s face that she’d caught that.

I took Delia Garrett’s hot hand with its manicured nails. It’s natural enough.

Two seemed plenty, she confided. Or if my little girls could have had more time…it’s not that I wasn’t willing to have a third, only not so very soon. Am I dreadful?

Not at all, Mrs. Garrett.

Now I think I’m being punished.

None of that! Rest and breathe.