Delia Garrett gripped the towel, her breathing harsh.

I pulled up her nightdress and bent her right leg up in my lap to get a good look.

I hadn’t noticed when Bridie wheeled in the crib I’d asked for. She was looking white; faintness, fatigue, or just excitement? Of all the wards for her to have walked into this morning—had the young woman had any idea where Sister Luke was sending her?

Thanks, Bridie. Hurry for Dr. MacAuliffe now.

She shot off again.

The young surgeon might be irked if he had to stand around and wait through more than a few pushes, but I’d rather chance that than have him stay away too long.

The next pang made Delia Garrett screech.

I reminded her, Low sounds, they have the most heft to them.

I knelt over Delia Garrett and set my thigh into the small of her back for her to brace herself against as she pushed. The towel was so tight around her hands, it striped them with white. That silence as she held her breath and bore down; there was nothing like it. I realised something then: no other job would ever satisfy me.

Urghhhhhhh!

I said, And rest a minute now, catch your breath.

I felt her pulse to make sure its force wasn’t too high.

Lunch. (A voice I didn’t recognise.) Sorry it’s so late.

I whipped down Delia Garrett’s nightdress for decency and turned my head to the door, where that kitchen maid with a purple birthmark held three stacked trays. Not just now, please!

Thrown, she gazed around. There wasn’t enough room on the counters or desk. Maybe if I set them down on the floor?

I knew one of us would be sure to stumble over them. I told her, Outside the door.

The kitchen maid disappeared.

I shook off my irritation and focused on Delia Garrett again. I could see the next pain in her eyes, an oncoming train. Chin down, now, Mrs. Garrett. Curl into the push. Kick with that heel and haul on the towel.

She moaned.

I thought of something Ita Noonan had said when she was admitted last week, back when she was still compos mentis. She hadn’t wanted to let me near her at first because she said she’d always had a neighbour called Granny in when she was having her babies, and Granny had lucky hands—did I have lucky hands? I’d been tempted to point out that I had three diplomas instead. But half the battle with patients was persuading them out of their fear, so I’d looked Ita Noonan in her red-rimmed eyes and sworn that I did indeed have lucky hands.

I pulled up Delia Garrett’s nightdress again for a better look. I wrapped my left arm around her right leg and held it up out of the way. She went quite silent as she heaved this time. Her face was a dull crimson.

Between her thighs, at the heart of her purplish flesh, a darker tuft. I can see the head, Mrs. Garrett!

She sobbed, and it disappeared again.

Don’t push this time, just nice little breaths, I urged her. As if you’re blowing out candles.

Her perineum was bulging redly. If the head crowned too fast, during a contraction, it could tear her open. I could press on the perineum, but that would further strain the delicate skin. Instead I did what Sister Finnigan had taught me: set the heel of my right hand behind Delia Garrett’s anus, pushing the unseen head forward, and snaked my left arm over her thigh and through her legs so I’d be ready at her soft parts. Now!

She pushed, heaving in my arms so hard, I thought she might snap my wrist.

I glimpsed the head again, just inches from my face, and with three fingers of my left hand I tried to get a purchase on the slickly furred scalp and draw it forward…

Delia Garrett made sounds like she was being eaten by wolves. She kicked at the cot rails.

Thudding steps behind me. Just Bridie. Seeing Delia Garrett with her head almost hanging off the end of the bed, she gasped.

The dark tuft disappeared again, swallowed up in purple. I kept my voice steady: Where’s Dr. MacAuliffe?

Men’s Fever, sorry. They wouldn’t let me up there, but they’ve sent him a message.

I shut my eyes just for a second. I reminded myself that I knew how to deliver this infant. Lucky hands.

Again I waited for a gap between contractions. Heel of right hand, fingers of left, straining for a grip on the slippery scalp like a climber on a rock face in the rain. Now, with all your strength, Mrs. Garrett—

Urghhhhhhhhhhhh! A blue vein inflated at the woman’s temple. Delia Garrett was a key in a lock, jammed, jammed, then suddenly turning—

She roared. She ripped, a wet parcel. Blood seeped through my knuckles. Not just a head but the whole baby shot out on the sheet.

I cried, Magnificent!

But the infant had dark cherry lips. Skin bruised in places, peeling as if after sunburn though it had never seen the light. A girl. A tiny, still girl.

I picked her up in an infant blanket. A big head for such a meagre body. Just in case by some chance I was wrong, I smacked her on the back.

I waited.

I hated to do it, but I slapped Delia Garrett’s baby one more time.

Nothing.

I smoothed the flaking skin. The wide face, exquisitely moulded eyelids.

Bridie goggled at the limp creature in my hands. Why’s it all—

Dead, I mouthed.

Her face shut like a book.

On the middle cot, Mary O’Rahilly was propped up on one elbow, watching with appalled eyes. She read our expressions and turned away, contracting around her cough.

Give Mrs. Garrett back that inhaler, would you, Bridie?

Finding it in her mouth, Delia Garrett drew on it with a hiss.

My fingertips rested on the small, cooling limbs. Silently moving my lips: Mother of God, take home this sleeping child.

Then I shrouded her and asked Bridie to fetch me a basin.

I set the swaddled still into it. A clean cloth now, please.

I stretched it over the top. My eyes swam. I knuckled them dry.

It was so hushed in that close little room. Delia Garrett was slumped with her eyes shut, worn out from her work. I felt her pulse. Not bounding at all; that was good, at least.

The woman stirred. A girl?

I summoned all my strength. I’m afraid I have to tell you, Mrs. Garrett…she was born sleeping.

She didn’t seem to understand.

I spelled it out: A dead birth. I’m awfully sorry for your loss.

Delia Garrett coughed as if she were choking on a rock and began to sob.

Bridie was rubbing the woman’s shoulder, stroking her damp head, murmuring to her: Shush, now, shush.

It wasn’t protocol, but there was such instinctive gentleness in it, I didn’t say a word.

I made a reef knot around the bright blue cord two inches from the still’s belly as if this were a live child. The second ligature I tied just past Delia Garrett’s swollen parts. My fingers slid on the cord’s jelly. Half an inch above the baby’s knot, I cut through its rubbery toughness.

I picked up the basin.

Bridie whispered, Mrs. Garrett, do you want to see your daughter?

I stopped in my tracks. I’d been taught to take away a still as soon as possible and encourage the mother to start putting the loss out of her mind.

Delia Garrett squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Water leaked down her cheeks.

Only then did I carry the draped basin across the ward and set it down on the desk.

Bridie, could you get her right way round in the bed now?

In the silence, I remembered to check on my other patients. Mary O’Rahilly, in the next cot, was lying as rigid as a statue, but I could tell by the way she’d wrapped her arms around herself that she was mid-pang.