Then I caught myself—I’d known her only two days.

Sister Luke put one fingertip to the baby’s scribble-shaped lip and sighed. Unlikely to thrive, of course, she murmured. I’ll get Father Xavier in to baptise him.

I resented her defeatism. You won’t have been trained in the care of newborns, I suppose, Sister?

Her lips tightened. I’m familiar with the basics.

Plenty of babies do very well being bottle-fed nowadays, and so, I expect, will Mrs. White’s.

She conceded, Ah, I don’t mean the disfigurement’s going to choke him in itself.

Her voice dropped to a gossipy murmur. But our sisters who work with unfortunates tell me his kind generally have more than one hereditary weakness.

By his kind, she didn’t mean the harelipped, I realised, but the illegitimate.

Often don’t last long, poor things, as if they know they’re not wanted…

I would have sorely liked to tell the night nurse she was wrong, except hadn’t Dr. Lynn quoted a similar statistic about the mortality of children born out of wedlock?

I turned away. I took down my coat and said, I’ll be staying in the nurses’ dormitory tonight, Sister.

(I neglected to mention that the doctor had advised it because I might feel the aftereffects of having given blood; I didn’t want her to question my capacities.)

Do have a midwife called down from Maternity if you’ve any cause for concern about Mrs. White, I added, or if Mrs. O’Rahilly needs help with her little girl.

Sister Luke nodded equably.

I hated the fact that I had to leave my patients in this woman’s care.

Good night, Mrs. White. Mrs. O’Rahilly. Mrs. Garrett.

I paused for one more look at the White baby, whose mouth had the pursed curve of a sweet pea. Then I went on my way.

IV

Black

OUTSIDE THE WARD, I spotted Bridie’s bright head. Was she waiting for me?

Thin coat folded over her arm, she was studying the latest poster.

THE GOVERNMENT HAS THE SITUATION

WELL IN HAND

AND THE EPIDEMIC IS ACTUALLY IN DECLINE.

THERE IS NO REAL RISK

EXCEPT TO THE RECKLESS

WHO TRY TO FIGHT THE FLU ON THEIR FEET.

IF YOU FEEL YOURSELF SUCCUMBING,

REPORT YOURSELF

AND LIE DOWN FOR A FORTNIGHT.

WOULD THEY BE DEAD

IF THEY’D STAYED IN BED?

Julia, she murmured without even turning her head. Is that true at all?

I asked, caustic, Which bit—are the dead to blame for dying?

The line I found most laughable was the one about lying down for a fortnight; who could afford or manage that without a houseful of servants?

She shook her head. Where they say it’s in decline.

Propaganda, Bridie. Government lies.

She didn’t seem surprised. It’s like the song.

What song?

Bridie put her head back and gave the verse, full-throated, despite the fact that we were on a busy landing with people pushing past. So stand to your glasses, steady, she sang,

This world is a web of lies.

Then here’s to the dead already,

And hurrah for the next one who dies.

It made some heads turn.

I chuckled. Well, that’s a jolly one.

The tune is, anyway.

You’ve a lovely voice, Bridie.

She puffed out her breath in scorn.

I don’t flatter. Now, tell me, why did you scarper when Sister Luke came in?

Bridie looked back towards the door. So the old crow couldn’t tell me to go straight to the motherhouse, no dillydallying or shilly-shallying.

I grinned at the imitation. Where are you going, then?

I’m not leaving if you’re not. You need keeping an eye on, the doctor said.

I only lost half a teacup of blood.

Still.

I glanced down the stairs with yearning. I’d been looking forward to the walk to the tram to settle my nerves after the day. I suppose I must be tired, I said, but I don’t feel as if I could sleep yet.

Bridie said, Me neither.

Well, the dormitory’s upstairs if you mean to stay too.

She followed, asking, Will they let me in even though I’m only a helper?

I don’t suppose anyone will make a fuss at a time like this.

Second floor, past Maternity. My ears made out the weeping of a mother in labour and the uncertain cry of another woman’s newborn.

Bridie admitted on the third staircase, I am a tiny bit tired, actually.

I laughed, out of breath.

But not sleepy yet.

We got to the fourth floor, but the door I led her to had a notice tacked up: Men’s Fever (Overflow). A rumble of voices behind it.

Well, I said, that settles that.

Bridie’s voice was disappointed: There’s no dormitory anymore?

I suppose we’ll have to head home after all.

I winced at my own word. Bridie didn’t have a home, only a bed in a convent. Her life was ruled by the same order who’d run the so-called home she’d grown up in. A hidden, upside-down world where children had no birthdays and sisters were no longer sisters; just one part of the pipe.

Unless we go up on the roof for a bit of air?

I said it lightly.

Bridie looked taken aback.

I suppose I was feeling festive because it was my birthday. Our birthday. Also, it had been a good day. For all the slow misery of Mary O’Rahilly’s obstructed labour, and the horror of Honor White’s bad reaction to my blood, nobody had died. Not in our ward, at least; not in our small square of the sickened, war-weary world.

Bridie asked, Climb up the side of the roof, you mean?

I smiled at the notion. No climbing necessary. There’s a flat part one can walk out on, between the pointy sections.

Well, that’s a relief.

What I treasured about this young woman was that she never said no. She was game for anything, it seemed, including scrambling up the gabled roof of a four-storey building.

I grabbed a handful of blankets from a shelf as we were passing. I led Bridie through an unmarked door and up a narrow staircase. The last, smallest door seemed a dead end, but I’d been up here before when I needed a break, a breath, a cigarette, and a view of the city. I told her, It’s never locked.

Out onto the tarred rooftop. It was a grand clear evening, for once, not a rag of cloud in the navy-blue sky. On a fine day in summer, there’d be little knots of staff basking during their dinner hour, but after nine o’clock on an autumn night, the two of us had the expanse to ourselves.

The old moon wrote its last faint C just above the parapet. A little streetlight leaked up from the hushed city below. I leaned my elbows on the bricks and peered down. I said, A walk would have been nice too. Maybe another day.

It hit me that once the hospital got back to its standards and routines, an unqualified skivvy would no longer be needed or, in fact, allowed. Odds were, Bridie would be thanked and discharged. Would I ever—no, how would I contrive to see her again?

I’m a grand walker, Bridie was saying, I can go on forever. Every Sunday at the home, we used to go five miles to the sea in a crocodile.

Ridiculously, I envisioned her in the belly of an actual crocodile. I tried to replace that picture with an image of a small Bridie dancing on the shoreline, tossing stones at the waves, running into the water and screeching with delight.