An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (40 page)

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Half an hour had passed since O'Reilly had put on rubber gloves and carried out a pelvic examination. He had determined that the neck of the uterus, the cervix, had become paper-thin and dilated to eight centimetres—only two more to go before the birth canal was free from obstruction. The leading part of the baby's head had descended well into the pelvis, and the landmarks on the tiny creature's head had allowed him to determine that although the head was lying with its widest part in line with the widest axis of its mother's bony pelvis, as it descended farther toward the outside world the head would rotate until it was lying, he smiled at his nautical usage, exactly fore and aft in relationship with the middle of the mother's pubic symphysis in front and her coccyx, her tailbone, astern.

During those thirty minutes Kitty had kept a regular watch on the mother's blood pressure and both her and the unborn's heart rates. All had remained normal, and judging by how little she now moaned, the Entonox had certainly helped reduce her ability to feel the contractions.

He was now jacketless with his shirt sleeves rolled up, wearing a floor-length red rubber apron, face mask, and rubber gloves. He stood on the right side of the bed. Kitty, also bare-armed, gloved, and masked, was on the left. Mabel had withdrawn with a promise that she would “put the kettle on anyroad, because even if nobody else wanted one, she was sure Doreen would like a wee cup of tea in her hand once the baby was born, like.”

“Won't be long now,” he said to a drowsy Doreen, who at that moment was gasping into her mask as a contraction hit. As he had been taught as a student all those years ago at the Rotunda, the toughest part of midwifery was the waiting, but the waiting was nearly over. At the peak of this contraction, a black circle appeared, about the size of one of those American silver dollars he'd seen during the war. “She's fully dilated,” he told Kitty, “and the head's nearly crowned.” It would be fully crowned when the widest diameter of the baby's head had entered the world.

“Time to get her pushing,” Kitty said.

“Aye,” said O'Reilly, “you've not forgotten your old trade.”

“No, but I had almost forgotten how exciting it is to help bring a new wee one into the world,” she said. “The last time we did this was more than a year ago now, before we were married.” She puckered at him then asked, “Dorsal or left lateral?”

“Dorsal,” O'Reilly said. “I think she'll be able to push better and be a bit more comfortable. In fact…” And why not? “You're on her left side. Why don't you deliver her and I'll help?”

“May I?”

“Don't see why not. You're fully trained and it's like riding a bicycle. You don't forget how. It all came back to me after the war.” And not giving Kitty the chance to back out, O'Reilly said, “Doreen?”

“Uhhh?”

“I want you to lie on your back and draw your knees up. The baby's coming. You're going to have to push now.”

Doreen nodded.

Kitty turned and leaned over Doreen's left thigh, facing the foot of the bed, while O'Reilly supported the labouring woman's shoulders.

Doreen started to make a growling noise in her throat. Another contraction was starting.

O'Reilly put one arm round her shoulders and helped her to bend so she was squatting more vertically. “Push, Doreen. Push.”

The veins stood out on her forehead. She clenched her teeth and O'Reilly could feel the effort as Doreen contracted her belly muscles to add downward pressure to that being exerted by the uterus.

“Push.”

“Head's crowned,” Kitty said. “Starting to extend. No more pushing.”

“Big breath, Doreen. Pant.” O'Reilly knew that now the widest part of the baby was through the pelvic canal, the back of the head, the occiput, would pivot on the symphysis and it would be Kitty's job to guide and control it so that there was no tearing of the mother's tissues by the baby's face and chin. Her task would be easier if the forces bearing on the baby were lessened.

Doreen's breathing became more shallow. The uterine contraction had passed.

He looked to where Kitty was busying herself with a mucus-trap suction device, using her own mouth to suck on one end while at the other a narrow plastic tube cleared the baby's mouth and nose of mucus that would drop into a plastic bottle between the two tubes.

“I have to push again, I have to.”

“All right, Kitty?”

“Go ahead. The shoulders will be here in no time.” Kitty sounded as if she was out for a gentle ramble on a beach. No fuss. No bother.

To the manner born, O'Reilly thought. She'd come a long way from the student nurse who, back on a ward at Sir Patrick Dun's Hospital in the '30s, had collected up all the old men's false teeth and washed them in one basin—with predictable results when she'd tried to match each set of dentures with each set of toothless gums. Kitty really was a consummate professional now and he admired that greatly.

“All right, puuush.” O'Reilly supported Doreen's shoulders and watched Kitty as she guided the newly emerged baby's head, then its shoulders and its trunk from the birth canal. He could see the umbilical cord—the spirally, twisted pair of arteries and one vein surrounded by protective jelly.

“It's a boy,” Kitty said with satisfaction.

Doreen's reply was drowned by a powerful screech.

“And he's a boy with healthy lungs,” O'Reilly said as Kitty gently laid the baby on the rubber sheet and clamped and cut the umbilical cord.

O'Reilly lowered Doreen onto her pillows. “Just be a tick,” he said, and moved to the foot of the bed. “All right?”

“Fine,” Kitty said. “No tears and I've just to wait for the afterbirth. You carry on.”

“Right.” He inclined his head. “There's ergometrine already drawn up in a syringe for when you're sure the placenta's out in one piece. I'll see to the wean.” He had a towel ready and picked up the chissler, gently wiping away the greasy, whitish
vernix caseosa,
the waterproof material that still clung to the baby's skin. As he worked, he calculated the Apgar score, named for the American anaesthetist Virginia Apgar, who in 1952 invented a ready reckoner for assessing the health of newborns. Her own name was the mnemonic for the criteria by which the baby was graded. Appearance. Pulse. Grimace. Activity. Respiration. On a scale of nought to ten, O'Reilly gave young Duggan a nine. First rate. Then he quickly made sure that the baby boy had a full set of fingers and toes. Finally he fished in his trousers pocket and brought out a small bottle of silver nitrate. A few drops in each eye would protect the baby from gonorrhoeal eye infection contracted during passage along the birth canal, and subsequent blindness. While it was unlikely that this infant was at any real risk, it was always better to be safe than to be sorry.

He picked up the bundle. He had wrapped the newborn in his blanket so that a hood was formed around its head—babies could lose a lot of body heat through their heads. “Here you are, Mammy,” he said as he presented her with her new son. “One healthy wee boy complete with all his bits and pieces.”

She smiled and took the bundle. “Thank you,” she whispered, peeping in under the hood and pointing with an outstretched finger. “Och,” she said, “och, Doctor O'Reilly, he's beautiful. Thank you. And thank you, Mrs. O'Reilly.” Two tears ran down Doreen Duggan's cheeks. As she smiled and spoke gentle nonsense words to the babe, a tiny hand reached out and clasped his mummy's finger.

And Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, tough as nails, felt a lump in his throat but managed to keep his voice level as he said, “Och sure, and doesn't a baby bring his own welcome? Well done, Doreen.” He swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked down to where Kitty had put the placenta in a dish and was finishing washing Doreen's nether regions. “And well done, Nurse Kitty O'Reilly.” He grinned and blew her a kiss. “Do you know,” he said, “if you didn't already have a job looking after me I'd offer you one.”

O'Reilly looked hard at the woman he loved. He'd been absolutely right trusting in her professional skills to manage the delivery, just as, he shook his head, he'd been a bloody eejit mistrusting her about this business with the Spaniard before the war.

He laughed and said, “I'll tell you what I think, Kitty O'Reilly. As Donal might say, ‘You done good,' and to celebrate let's not bother going to Bangor today. We'll go home and have a jar.”

“I'd like that,” she said, and smiled at him.

Kinky would be home with Archie, Barry was heading directly to Holywood to see Sue after his calls, and after a jar or two Fingal O'Reilly was going to show Kitty O'Reilly exactly how much he loved and trusted her.

37

Those in Peril on the Sea

Fingal clutched the rope harness that suspended him between
Warspite
and HMS
Touareg
. This is bloody well terrifying, he thought as he was transported between the two vessels in a bizarre contraption called a breeches buoy. Even his vivid imagination had not envisioned this when he had risen before dawn for the morning watch. He felt like a spider crossing its web and looked up at the thick rope running between the two ships. His seat, a circular life ring with attached canvas short trousers, hung from a block trundling along the hawser from
Warspite
to the destroyer. The line being used to haul him across the sea, tossing and churning between the two vessels, swung, swayed, and, oh Jesus, dipped then tautened again, but at least he was making progress. He could hear the tumbled waves displaced by the passage of the two vessels slapping against their hulls. As ever, the roar of
Warspite
's propellors thundered on. It was a feat of seamanship keeping the two ships running at exactly the same speed and maintaining the same distance between them. Fingal offered up a silent prayer that both helmsmen were really on their toes. His imagination had no difficulty conjuring up pictures of what would happen if the ships hit broadside to broadside with him, the mustard in the sandwich, or swung away from each other, pulling apart the rope and dumping him into the water. Being swept into
Warspite
's four huge propellors was an image never far from his mind. He stared at the destroyer's deck and willed the crew there hauling him in to hurry up. Hurry. Up.

Everything had happened so quickly he'd barely had time to anticipate the precariousness of his current position, but he was making up for it now.

When Fingal had reached his action station less than an hour ago, there had been no more sounds of the air raid, and the antiaircraft guns had fallen silent, so he'd assumed the surviving Italian bombers had gone home.

Richard Wilcoxson had risen from his chair in the for'ard medical distribution centre. “It's all right, Fingal,” he said. “We know you stopped to watch the air raid—”

“I'm sorry—”

“No need to be. We've all done it. Curiosity's a natural human response. So is a fear of heights. I hope you're immune.”

Fingal had frowned and said, “I'm sorry. I don't understand.” He wondered why CPO Paddy O'Rourke and PO Fletcher were both looking at him as if he were a child about to be taken to the dentist instead of for an anticipated treat. “We're four decks down here.”

“I'm afraid you're going to be up in the air soon.” Richard clapped Fingal on the shoulder. “You can refuse if you like, but you're the best officer I have for the job.”

“What job?” What the hell was going on?

“Did you see any of our ships hit?”

“A destroyer.”

“That was
Vixen,
an old V-and-W-class destroyer. She has damage for'ard but her engine and steering's fine so ABC's sent her home to Alex.”

“And I saw an explosion on
Gloucester
's bridge.”

“It killed her skipper and seventeen others. She and
Touareg
both took a couple of very near misses. Lots of bomb splinters. Both ships are still able to keep up with the fleet and fight, but
Touareg
's got three dead and a number of casualties, one or two serious. Their MO was one of those killed. ABC's asked me to send over a replacement.”

Realisation dawned. “And you want me to…? Oh shite…” And he'd known he couldn't refuse, not if he ever wanted to look Richard or the SBAs in the eyes again.

“The breeches buoy is being rigged as we speak.”

And here he was now dangling over the guard rails of the much smaller ship. Hands grabbed the contraption, dragged him inboard, and helped him to struggle free of the harness. Fingal, had he been on his own, would have dropped to his knees and kissed the iron deck.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” a petty officer said. “Hope you'd a pleasant trip, now hang on a jiffy, please.” He turned his back for a moment. “Right, you lot, breeches buoy crew, you know the drill. Get at it. Handsomely. You're in charge, Ronson. Don't drag that little battleship under if you can help it.”

“Aye, aye,” said the leading seaman called Ronson, and the assembled men laughed and bent to their tasks.

The PO turned back to Fingal. “Skipper says to take you straight to the sick bay, sir. No need to report on board to the officer of the deck. Better you get on with your job, sir. So if you'll follow me?”

Fingal fell in step with the man. The destroyer, tiny in comparison to the great grey behemoth steaming alongside, was certainly more lively. The deck pitched and rolled, which didn't seem to faze the CPO. But twice Fingal had to grab at a rail for support. On his way he saw the evidence of splinter damage on the starboard side, bright scores in the steel of the upper deck, jagged holes in a gun shield and, high up, dents and a gap where smoke was leaking from a rent in the foremost of her two funnels. One ship's boat was hanging drunkenly in twisted davits and had been smashed to matchwood. Damage-control parties were hard at work. One sailor, stripped to the waist, was swinging a sledgehammer against a lump of twisted metal and singing to himself to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”