mess. Stumbling over a sopping towel, Andrew almost dropped the child which was now wet and slippery in his hands, like a strange white fish.
‘For mercy’s sake, doctor,’ whimpered the midwife. ‘It’s stillborn.’
Andrew did not heed her. Beaten, despairing, having laboured in vain for half an hour, he still persisted in one last effort, rubbing the child with a rough towel, crushing and releasing the little chest with both his hands, trying to get breath into that limp body.
And then, as by a miracle the pigmy chest, which his hands enclosed, gave a short convulsive heave. Another. And another. Andrew turned giddy. The sense of life, springing beneath his fingers after all that unavailing striving was so exquisite, it almost made him faint. He redoubled his efforts feverishly. The child was gasping now, deeper and deeper. A bubble of mucus came from one tiny nostril, a joyful iridescent bubble. The limbs were no longer boneless. The head no longer lay back spinelessly. The blanched skin was slowly turning pink. Then, exquisitely, came the child’s cry.
‘Dear Father in Heaven,’ the nurse sobbed hysterically. ‘ It’s come … it’s come alive.’
Andrew handed her the child. He felt weak and dazed. About him the room lay in a shuddering litter: blankets, towels, basins, soiled instruments, the hypodermic syringe impaled by its point in the linoleum, the ewer knocked over, the kettle on its side in a puddle of water. Upon the huddled bed the mother still dreamed her way quietly through the anaesthetic. The old woman still stood against the wall. But her hands were together, her lips moved without sound. She was praying.
Mechanically Andrew wrung out his sleeve, pulled on his jacket.
‘I’ll fetch my bag later, nurse.’
He went downstairs, through the kitchen into the scullery. His lips were dry. At the scullery he took a long drink of water. He reached for his hat and coat.
Outside he found Joe standing on the pavement with a tense, expectant face.
‘All right, Joe,’ he said thickly. ‘ Both all right.’
It was quite light. Nearly five o’clock. A few miners were already in the streets; the first of the night shift moving out. As Andrew walked with the others under the morning sky he kept thinking blindly, oblivious to all other work he had accomplished in Drineffy: ‘I’ve done something, oh, God, I’ve done something real at last.’
Chapter Eleven
After a shave and a bath – thanks to Annie there was always plenty of boiling water in the tap – he felt less tired. But Miss Page, finding his bed unslept in, was dryly ironic at the breakfast table, the more so as he received her shafts in silence.
‘Hah! You seem a bit of a wreck this mornin’, doctor. Bit dark under the eyes like! Didn’t get back from Cardiff till this mornin’, eh? And forgot my pastries from Parry’s too, like. Been out on the tiles, my boy? Yes! You can’t deceive me! I thought you were too good to be true. You’re all the same, you assistants. I never found one yet that didn’t drink or go wrong somehow!’
After morning surgery and his forenoon round Andrew dropped in to see his case. It had just gone half past twelve as he turned up Blaina Terrace. There were little knots of women talking at their open doorways and as he passed they stopped talking to smile and give him a friendly, ‘Good morning.’ Approaching No 12 he fancied he saw a face at the window. And it was so. They had been waiting on him. The instant he placed his foot on the newly pipe-clayed doorstep the door was swung open and the old woman, beaming unbelievably all over her wrinkled face, made him welcome to the house.
Indeed, she was so eager to make much of him she could barely frame the words. She asked him to come first for some refreshment to the parlour. When he refused she fluttered:
‘All right, all right, doctor, bach. It’s as you say. Maybe you’ll have time, though, on your way down for a drop of elderberry wine
‘For mercy’s sake, doctor,’ whimpered the midwife. ‘It’s stillborn.’
Andrew did not heed her. Beaten, despairing, having laboured in vain for half an hour, he still persisted in one last effort, rubbing the child with a rough towel, crushing and releasing the little chest with both his hands, trying to get breath into that limp body.
And then, as by a miracle the pigmy chest, which his hands enclosed, gave a short convulsive heave. Another. And another. Andrew turned giddy. The sense of life, springing beneath his fingers after all that unavailing striving was so exquisite, it almost made him faint. He redoubled his efforts feverishly. The child was gasping now, deeper and deeper. A bubble of mucus came from one tiny nostril, a joyful iridescent bubble. The limbs were no longer boneless. The head no longer lay back spinelessly. The blanched skin was slowly turning pink. Then, exquisitely, came the child’s cry.
‘Dear Father in Heaven,’ the nurse sobbed hysterically. ‘ It’s come … it’s come alive.’
Andrew handed her the child. He felt weak and dazed. About him the room lay in a shuddering litter: blankets, towels, basins, soiled instruments, the hypodermic syringe impaled by its point in the linoleum, the ewer knocked over, the kettle on its side in a puddle of water. Upon the huddled bed the mother still dreamed her way quietly through the anaesthetic. The old woman still stood against the wall. But her hands were together, her lips moved without sound. She was praying.
Mechanically Andrew wrung out his sleeve, pulled on his jacket.
‘I’ll fetch my bag later, nurse.’
He went downstairs, through the kitchen into the scullery. His lips were dry. At the scullery he took a long drink of water. He reached for his hat and coat.
Outside he found Joe standing on the pavement with a tense, expectant face.
‘All right, Joe,’ he said thickly. ‘ Both all right.’
It was quite light. Nearly five o’clock. A few miners were already in the streets; the first of the night shift moving out. As Andrew walked with the others under the morning sky he kept thinking blindly, oblivious to all other work he had accomplished in Drineffy: ‘I’ve done something, oh, God, I’ve done something real at last.’
Chapter Eleven
After a shave and a bath – thanks to Annie there was always plenty of boiling water in the tap – he felt less tired. But Miss Page, finding his bed unslept in, was dryly ironic at the breakfast table, the more so as he received her shafts in silence.
‘Hah! You seem a bit of a wreck this mornin’, doctor. Bit dark under the eyes like! Didn’t get back from Cardiff till this mornin’, eh? And forgot my pastries from Parry’s too, like. Been out on the tiles, my boy? Yes! You can’t deceive me! I thought you were too good to be true. You’re all the same, you assistants. I never found one yet that didn’t drink or go wrong somehow!’
After morning surgery and his forenoon round Andrew dropped in to see his case. It had just gone half past twelve as he turned up Blaina Terrace. There were little knots of women talking at their open doorways and as he passed they stopped talking to smile and give him a friendly, ‘Good morning.’ Approaching No 12 he fancied he saw a face at the window. And it was so. They had been waiting on him. The instant he placed his foot on the newly pipe-clayed doorstep the door was swung open and the old woman, beaming unbelievably all over her wrinkled face, made him welcome to the house.
Indeed, she was so eager to make much of him she could barely frame the words. She asked him to come first for some refreshment to the parlour. When he refused she fluttered:
‘All right, all right, doctor, bach. It’s as you say. Maybe you’ll have time, though, on your way down for a drop of elderberry wine
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