It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! by Jane Yeadon

about being a very busy person without time to argue. ‘OK then, but you’ll need to go along and ask her. I’m far too busy. I need to check that everything’s ready in theatre just in case we need it for that new patient you’ve brought in.’ She sounded faintly accusing.
    â€˜Right, I’ll go and, class, mind you don’t get in anybody’s way,’ said Miss Harvey and disappeared in the direction of Sister Flynn’s nod.
    She’d no sooner gone than the professor stuck his head round the entrance doors.
    â€˜Any deliveries likely?’ Even though he’d a mouth like a trap door, he sounded civil, unlike Cynthia who, as self-appointed spokesperson, spat a ‘No’ before pointedly turning her back on him and studying the ceiling with fierce determination.
    The door banged shut. Miss Harvey was back, giving us no time to think guilt by association.
    â€˜I didn’t hear Prof. McQuaid did I?’
    Apart from Marie who looked shocked, the rest of us, determining to keep our witness slot, threw in our lot with Cynthia with a universal ‘No.’ Even Margaret joined the chorus.
    Marie, a red spot on each cheek, bowed her head as Miss Harvey said, ‘Funny, I was sure I heard his voice. I wouldn’t like him to think we were stealing a march on his students. I know he’s chasing witness deliveries at the moment but that’s fine. We’ll not bother with the “delivery notice” bell. Our patient’s got a staff midwife and student in with her already but she says she doesn’t mind a few more.’
    â€˜And she doesn’t mind an audience?’ Lorna asked.
    Miss Harvey laughed. ‘Says I can sell the tickets and she’ll take the money. She shouldn’t be long but if you go ahead into the delivery room it’ll give you the chance to look round. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
    â€˜Good,’ said Cynthia, leading the way. ‘One feels that preparation’s everything.’
    â€˜Does one indeed,’ I parodied, nevertheless falling into line and into a room where a huge wall clock, scales, cot, delivery table and enough sanitary ware to mop up Belfast Lough, made for dull props in the silent theatre that was the delivery room.
    Half the wall at the far end was windowed in frosted glass. Sunlight filtered through it. As if it were a warm-up performance, it played on the chrome instruments that were laid on a trolley like cutlery, giving a brighter lighting effect than the spotlighting disc hanging from the ceiling and trained on the bottom of the delivery table.
    â€˜Looks as if it’s waiting for the star attraction and what’s that blue machine at the top?’ I wondered.
    â€˜Ah! Now that’s an easy one.’ Margaret stepped forward, relishing the role of mystery object advisor. Dropping shoulders, stretching her neck and jutting her formidable chin, she stood beside the machine with the air of a salesperson promoting a good product. ‘D’you see the cylinders? That’s Entonox, or gas and air if you’d prefer.’ She held up a mask and held it close to her face.
    â€˜If you take that any nearer, you’ll have to clean it before anybody else uses it,’ Cynthia observed.
    Margaret glared at her. ‘From the way you’re talking, you’d think I’d a notifiable disease. Of course I wasn’t going to use it. I just wanted to demonstrate that you can’t overdose on it. The patient holds it like so.’ Defying Cynthia with a closeness that made me think she was actually going to take a quick snort, Margaret put the mask in front of her again. ‘It helps take the edge off pain but also’ll leave her in control which might not seem too apparent at the moment.’ She cupped her ear. ‘Listen! Here she comes.’
    Followed by Miss Harvey, our patient arrived threshing about in a bed wheeled in by a student and Staff