I got Ita Noonan into a fresh nightdress, and I unclasped the miniature tin crucifix from around her neck and tucked it under her thumbs. I put a white cloth over her face.

I packed up her few things. A paper bag I found turned out to hold her shorn hair—that almost broke me. Those Noonans waiting for her to come home, the barrel-organ man (when would he hear that he’d been widowed?) and the seven children, would receive instead of her this bag of limp curls.

Groyne followed Bridie in, serenading her:

When I leave you, dear, give me words of cheer,

To recall in times of pain.

They will comfort me, and will seem to be

Like the sunshine after rain…

I snapped: I asked for two men.

Sorry, I could only find Mr. Groyne.

He glanced at the cot on the left. Ah, now, don’t tell me the mad shawlie’s croaked?

I spoke through my teeth. Mrs. Noonan was only delirious.

He was unperturbed. So she’s joined the choir invisible, then, the heavenly chorus. Answered the great call, poor biddy. Crossed the border. She’s—

Shut up!

That was Delia Garrett, growling from her bed.

For once, Groyne held his tongue.

I pushed the crib towards him, and one wheel squeaked. Could you please get this out of here and come back with one of the other men and a stretcher?

Subdued, the orderly took the crib and rolled it out of the room.

I checked Delia Garrett’s temperature, pulse, and respirations. Physically, she was making a perfect recovery.

Bridie wiped down the counter and desk with disinfectant, mopped the corner where it was daubed with Ita Noonan’s fluids, then changed the water to clean the rest of the floor.

We all pretended a dead woman wasn’t lying among us with a cloth draped over her face.

What seemed like hours later, Nichols and O’Shea carried in a stretcher tipped on its side, like a ladder or a pane of glass.

Mary O’Rahilly blinked at the men, one hand over her mouth, as if she’d woken to find herself in a bad dream. Mother of God!

Nichols kept his eyes down. Sorry, ladies.

I realised that she hadn’t encountered his metal mask before. I was struck by the misery of the man’s situation: to walk among his kind but with a copper half-face—better than the grotesque crater it hid, but still eerily unlike.

I spoke to the orderly in a kind tone: Carry on, Nichols.

Bridie was right by Mary O’Rahilly, arm around her, whispering in her ear. She had to be explaining what had happened to Ita Noonan.

The men got the body onto the stretcher easily enough; Shaky O’Shea was capable, for all his tremor. Was it his hands that had been damaged at the front or his brain? So many veterans, such as my brother, had come back damaged goods though they hadn’t a scratch on their bodies, only invisible bruising of the mind.

We all crossed ourselves as the orderlies carried Ita Noonan out.

After a long silence, Bridie asked, What happened to his face?

I said, The war.

How much of it’s left, though, underneath?

I couldn’t tell you, Bridie.

I took down Mary O’Rahilly’s chart to get the loose nail because I hadn’t recorded Ita Noonan yet. I pulled out my watch and looked for a space among the scratches crowding the silver disk. I’d reached the point of each woman’s round moon having to overlap with that of one who’d gone before her or with the crescent or broken line of an infant lost after or before birth. I gouged Ita Noonan’s small circle with the nail as neatly as I could, but it skidded and finished at a sharp point. I gripped the watch as if I were counting its ticks. The hieroglyphic tally of the dead floated past me, a stream of stardust.

Everything dimmed, and for a moment I thought there was something wrong with my eyes. Then I registered that it was the ward lights.

Mary O’Rahilly gasped.

Another brownout, I said mildly. Apologies, all.

This had come to be a regular occurrence in the early evenings as hour by hour more workers came home and got the tea on, huddling around the limited light we all had to ration out.

In the murk, Bridie stripped the cot on the left without being asked.

I asked, Did you have a nice sleep, Mrs. O’Rahilly?

She spoke confusedly: I suppose so.

I felt her bump to check the foetus was still in the right position; I took down the horn and found the faint, rapid heartbeat. And the pains now—are they different at all?

Not really, I don’t think.

She shivered and coughed.

I made a hot whiskey and set it in her hands.

Mary O’Rahilly gulped it and spluttered; it nearly slopped over the rim.

Little sips, now, if you’re not used to spirits, I told her. This should help with the pangs as well as your cough.

I was secretly concerned she mightn’t have the strength to deliver when it finally came to it. Could you fancy an egg flip, Mrs. O’Rahilly? Beef tea?

She shook her head in revulsion.

A bit of dry bread?

Maybe.

As I got her half a slice from the packet on the shelf, Mary O’Rahilly fretted aloud: Himself would rather I’d stayed at home than come to hospital. They’re not even letting him in to see me.

Delia Garrett spoke up hoarsely: Well, at least you’ve no other children at home to worry about.

Mary O’Rahilly nodded and nibbled her bread. Though I look in on my five brothers and sisters morning and night, she mentioned, so I don’t know how Dadda’s going to manage.

Bridie asked, Can’t your husband keep an eye on your brothers and sisters for you?

The young woman shook her head. Mr. O’Rahilly used to be a stevedore, but the port’s at a standstill right now, so he’s started as a conductor. Only a spare man, though, not a permanent, she added breathlessly. He’s obliged to turn up at the tram depot every morning, rain or shine, and if they’ve no work for him, he’s had the trip for nothing.

It was probably the whiskey loosening her tongue. I said, That must be inconvenient.

When she answered, her voice was small, as if she were on the verge of a cough. It maddens him! And now I’m getting behind on my work too.

Bridie asked, What kind of work?

I used to work on the slob lands, cinder-picking, but Mr. O’Rahilly didn’t like that.

(I was taking against the man without ever having met him.)

The young woman went on, So now I draw threads at home. A boy delivers a bundle of handkerchiefs and I pull threads out of them to make a pattern with what’s not there, see?

Delia Garrett said, I have a set like that.

Maybe I did them!

Then Mary O’Rahilly went ramrod stiff as a pain seized her. She coughed hard into her hand, four times.

I checked my watch in the faint lamplight; a quarter of an hour since the last.

When she flopped back, I suggested, Maybe walk around some more, Mrs. O’Rahilly, if you’re able?

Obedient as a puppet, she got out of bed.

Here, let me help you with your shawl.

I wrapped it around her shoulders and over her head.

Her face contorted. She whispered, Nurse, why won’t my baby come out? Might it be…like hers?

A slight tip of the head towards Delia Garrett, just feet away.

I took the girl’s warm hand, the skin a little scaly. I told her, I heard its heartbeat loud and clear with the ear trumpet, remember? It’s just not quite ready yet.