Who’s in charge here?

I jerked around guiltily.

A stranger all in black. This had to be the infamous Dr. Lynn. Collar and tie, like a man’s, but a plain skirt and no apron. In her forties? Long hair (slightly greying) coiled up in plaits behind; this was the lady in furs I’d glimpsed from the window earlier.

She took in the sight of me and Bridie daubed with blood, standing over the shambles of Delia Garrett’s cot. The empty crib. She turned her head to find the draped basin.

II

Brown

AS I WOUND UP my report over the small sound of Delia Garrett weeping, I realised it was dim; the autumn sun had started slipping down without my noticing. I stepped over to the switch and turned on the harsh overhead light.

Thank you, Nurse.

Dr. Lynn had uttered no word of blame yet.

I was embarrassed by the gory state of my cuffs, browning already; I unbuttoned them, dropped them in the laundry bucket, washed my forearms, and found another pair of cuffs.

Bridie stood in the corner, looking dazed by the havoc of the past hour.

Dr. Lynn pushed her little glasses up on the bridge of her nose, scanned Delia Garrett’s chart, and wrote something on the bottom.

I knew I should be dealing with the mess of the birth, but I didn’t want to step between doctor and patient. The empty crib—at least I could get that away from Delia Garrett’s bed where it stood like a reproach. I wheeled it, one wheel squeaking, over to the ward sister’s desk. (My desk today. My responsibility, all of it.)

Dr. Lynn said, I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Garrett.

A whimper.

(Had I failed the woman? How I longed to get out of this airless room.)

From the look of your daughter, said Dr. Lynn, I suspect her heart stopped quite a few hours ago, most likely due to your influenza.

What the doctor meant was that the stillbirth wasn’t my doing. But my spirits sank none the less; to think that this morning, while Delia Garrett had been griping, flicking through her magazines, snoozing, eating a stolen sausage, her passenger had departed already.

Delia Garrett said, But the other doctor—Prendergast—told me I wasn’t a bad case.

Dr. Lynn nodded gravely. We’re finding that even a mild dose can endanger a child in utero or jolt it out before its time.

Fresh sobs.

In her quiet voice: I couldn’t have saved your daughter even if I’d been right here, Mrs. Garrett, but still, I’m terribly sorry I was delayed. Now, you have a little sleep while we tidy you up.

No answer from the weeping mother.

Dr. Lynn turned to me, but I was already going for the chloroform.

While the doctor disinfected her knobbly fingers, I tied the thick mask at the back of Delia Garrett’s matted head and dripped on the anesthetic. In seconds the woman was under.

The doctor murmured, Apologies to you too, Nurse—the wire from the office took hours to reach me this morning, as I was away from home at a free flu clinic I’ve set up.

So was the fur-wearing physician some sort of benevolent Lady Bountiful? She seemed serious and able, and if she had her own practice and ran a charity clinic on the side, she had to be coming into the hospital today out of civic duty rather than for a locum’s measly wages.

But I’d almost forgotten that she was a rebel combatant too—actually deported for taking part in a violent uprising, unlikely as that seemed. I couldn’t make her out, this Dr. Lynn.

I cleaned my own hands, took down an instrument tray from the shelf, fitted a long curved needle into a holder, and threaded it with a length of catgut.

Dr. Lynn had Delia Garrett’s knees open and was delicately fingering the damage. Oh dear—ripped up by that great head, and for nothing.

I couldn’t help wondering how much experience she had at what she was about to tackle. You’re in general practice, Doctor?

Shrewd eyes lifted to mine; that thin mouth had a hint of mirth. Are you asking how qualified I am to repair a lacerated vulva, Nurse Power?

I swallowed hard.

Obstetrics happens to be one of my areas of special interest, along with ophthalmology and insanity.

I blinked; that was quite a range of interests.

It may comfort you to know that I’ve a licentiate in midwifery and I’ve worked in several lying-in clinics.

Bridie, standing by the wall, seemed amused by my mortification.

I poured carbolic solution between the unconscious woman’s legs and dabbed her with some flax-tow swabs.

No cotton?

Shortages, I explained.

Dr. Lynn nodded. This tear goes all the way back to the anus, which is rare bad luck in a multigravida.

I did try to support the perineum, I told her.

Oh, no criticism implied, she muttered without glancing up. I never like to spell out to a patient that she’s had a close call, but frankly, she’d have been a goner if you hadn’t stopped that haemorrhage.

Now Bridie was grinning at me.

My cheeks scorched. God knew I hadn’t been fishing for a compliment.

Dr. Lynn took the needle-holder from me. No silk? I find it holds tighter.

I’m afraid we’ve been out of that for weeks too.

She put in the first suture. How long have you been on shift, Nurse?

Ah…since seven this morning.

No break?

I’m perfectly all right.

Dr. Lynn’s stitching was meticulous, but Delia Garrett had such a ragged laceration, I wondered if she would ever feel right in herself again.

Bridie, I asked, could you go back to the refrigerator—you remember, in the supply room—and get a frozen cotton pad?

She shot off.

Dr. Lynn snipped the last thread. There, now. At least catgut dissolves so Mrs. Garrett won’t have to come back to have her stitches out and be reminded of today.

I trickled more disinfectant and drew a sheet up to her waist for now.

After washing her hands, Dr. Lynn winched the top window all the way open. Don’t let it get stuffy in here. Fresh air!

Yes, Doctor.

I was dashing off a note asking the office to telephone Mr. Garrett right away; I finished it and tucked it into my bib.

Dr. Lynn took Mary O’Rahilly’s hand as if they were meeting at a party. Now, then, who have we here?

Mrs. O’Rahilly, seventeen, primigravida. Pangs for a day or two, but twenty minutes apart.

That doesn’t sound much fun.

The sympathy made a tear run out of Mary O’Rahilly’s left eye, and she started coughing.

I lifted down her chart from the wall and the loose nail spun across the floor. Sorry!

I handed the doctor the chart and scurried to pick up the nail. Which reminded me about my watch and the fresh mark I’d have to make for Delia Garrett’s little still.

While the doctor interviewed Mary O’Rahilly, I turned away and slid the heavy disk out of my apron. I found a space among its markings and gouged a small scratch on the silver back. Not a moon this time, just a short line.

Bridie was standing there studying me. I dropped the watch in my bib pocket and fitted the nail back into the wall.

She held out a lumpy thing—not the frozen cotton I’d asked for. It’s wet moss in a muslin casing, she told me. A nurse said it’d do nicely.

Meaning it was all they had. I sighed and took it.

In case Delia Garrett’s sleep was lightening and she could hear me, I said, We’re going to put the binder on you now, Mrs. Garrett.