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

those delivering new lives, here, in this clinical space. Never mind midwifery, I vowed, I’ll make damn sure I’ll skip motherhood.
    Then, almost as an anticlimax, the baby’s head was eased out.
    â€˜Another wee push now.’
    Shoulders emerged and then the rest of the baby. The cord was cut, airways briskly cleared and cleaned, and the baby wrapped in a cloth. Then, releasing the tension, a tiny cry made a loud statement.
    â€˜It’s a girl! You’ve got a wee girl!’ The student, sounding more excited than the mother, handed her over.
    Jinty, weary and cradling the baby awkwardly, touched her cheek. ‘A daughter!’
    She sighed as she checked to see if the student was right. Then, with her vocal cords apparently affecting her as much as motherhood, she said in a voice like broken glass, ‘Ah ye poor wee thing. You’re crying now but you don’t know what lies ahead of ye.’

7
‘ WHERE THERE IS WHISPERING
THERE IS LYING .’
    â€˜That left nothing to the imagination,’ said Seonaid, allowing the labour ward suite door to swing shut behind us. ‘And to think Mrs Murphy’s gone through it nine times already. The woman needs a medal for endurance!’ She shook her head. ‘Or a new brain.’
    Passing the theatre door on our way out, we’d seen a red light above it. It was a sign that an operation was in progress. It must be for Mrs Murphy.
    As impressed at so recently having being present at a birth as depressed by the perils of having so many, I said, ‘Well something needs sorted. She must have had to have that Caesarean. I hope she’s all right and maybe she’ll get her tubes tied as well. Save a next time.’
    â€˜They’d need to get her husband’s permission for that.’ Margaret, probably rankling after getting that gas and air row, spoke with the authority of somebody bulked of it. ‘It might be alright in Aberdeen but they do things differently here.’
    â€˜I’ll take that as a compliment.’ I was more aggravated than certain. Sterilisation wasn’t a subject I remembered anything about but surely it couldn’t be the case back home. If I’d thought the matter of stopping pregnancies by a simple enough operation was such a contentious subject I’d have paid more attention to the snoozeinducing lectures by droning old gynaecologists.
    â€˜Ah, girls, stop your arguing. Why don’t you start praying for her like me?’ Marie’s colour was as retrieved as her faith.
    Remembering some publicity about a burly, ugly-faced Ulster preacher coming to Aberdeen, I was exasperated. ‘For the love of Mike, give that God of yours a break. When I was in Aberdeen we never bothered ours except maybe on a Sunday and then for just an hour.’ I warmed to my theme. ‘Then someone from Ireland came to preach in a well-loved church to,’ I air-punctuated the words, ‘“ show us the way ”. Apparently all he did was upset congregations and keep them awake by thundering a Hell, Fire and Damnation sermon. Then some large men put round pails to be filled with money, preferably notes, as a mark of gratitude.’
    I chuckled. ‘He must’ve forgotten he was dealing with Aberdonians. The good folk had never seen or heard the like before and found his buckets and bigotry a complete turn off.’
    Marie gave a horrified squeak. ‘I’m sure that man wouldn’t have been one of ours. I couldn’t imagine any of them carrying a pail, but Jane,’ her eyes were filled with anxiety, ‘have you no worries about your soul?’
    â€˜Not really, but if it’s worrying you and you’re on the line to your God you can put in a word for me. Personally I think he’s a bit overstaffed .’ I nodded at Father O’Patrick heading our way. ‘Look, just what I’m saying. Here’s one of his busiest helpers.’
    The priest