The Irish Midwives 3

Book 0: The Irish Midwives

by Seána Tinley

Genres: World War II; Sagas

Synopsis

Can their love survive a community at war?

When World War Two is declared, Maisie Canavan is working as a newly-qualified midwife in Belfast's Royal Maternity Hospital, helping women and babies across community divides. In a city already torn apart, Maisie now faces the terrifying prospect of helping new life enter the world under the blitz of a bombing raid.

Teaming up with Dr Alex Lowe to plan for the worst, Maisie starts to fall for his kind grey eyes and gentle heart. Despite being from opposite sides of the political divide, Maisie and Alex find themselves drawn together - but the world around them isn't ready to accept love between a Catholic and a Protestant. With the war worsening tensions between neighbours, they have no choice but to keep their feelings a secret...

As bombs begin to rain on Belfast, and she sees Alex risking his life to care for the whole community, Maisie can't help but wonder why two people in love should be kept apart.

Can Maisie find the strength to go against her own community for love - or will the dangers of war destroy it before she gets the chance...

Release date: September 10, 2026

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

Prologue

London, July 1939

Maisie Canavan, pupil midwife.

So the badge proclaimed, and Maisie tapped it with a fair degree of satisfaction after pinning it to her uniform. Fixing her neat cap to her tied-up red hair, she donned her cloak and picked up her bag before making her way downstairs to the hospital bike sheds. The morning was cold, dull, and foggy, but Maisie didn’t care. She had had three full nights’ sleep in a row – the good women of Camberwell, Brixton, and Peckham deciding not to go into labour during the night this week. Or at least, not calling for her until dawn was approaching.

But a call had come in a wee while ago, and the attendant on duty had rapped Maisie’s door to let her know. Mrs Edie Forrest of Gateley Road in Brixton had need of a ­midwife, and Pupil Midwife Canavan was the next on call. More importantly, this would be her last birth in London, the last baby she would see born as a student midwife, so she was going to savour every moment. It took only ten minutes to get there by bicycle, down Coldharbour Lane and Millbrook Street, past the Astoria and into Stockwell Avenue – places that were now as familiar to Maisie as her beloved Belfast had been.

A pang went through her as she thought of home – not only the places, but of Mammy and Da and all the Canavans back in Ireland. Her sister Moya was getting married in a few weeks, and Maisie had to be home for the build-up to the wedding.

Brixton was a long, long way from Dunlewey Street, and everything was so different here. But soon she would be home, away from unfamiliar places and faces and voices. Away from Gerald. The thought sent a mix of feelings running through her – sadness, mostly, but also regret, and a hint of something else . . . Relief? Surely not. Gerald had been her boyfriend for nearly ten months, and she was going to be lost without him. The vague sense of relief was probably that the uncertainty and friction would be finally over.

Oh, but how she was dreading the conversation she would have to have later! Her ticket was booked, and he well knew it. But all the while Gerald kept on and on trying to persuade her to stay. And she couldn’t stay. She really couldn’t. She had been open with him from the start, right from the moment they’d first met, about the fact London could never be her permanent home, and that hadn’t changed. Her place was in Belfast, with her family. She couldn’t begin to imagine a life without seeing them all the time.

Besides, Granny had funded her training on the understanding that she would come home and boost the family income with a midwife’s salary. It was her duty to do so. More than that, it was the right thing to do. She had explained it all to Gerald, many times. Why doesn’t he ever listen to me?

There was no answer to her knock on arrival at Mrs Forrest’s, so tentatively Maisie opened the door. ‘Midwife calling! Mrs Forrest?’

A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Up here. I’m Edie’s sister, Agatha.’

Maisie smiled as she mounted the stairs, already looking for clues in Agatha’s demeanour. Edie’s sister looked tired but not concerned, which was reassuring, and Maisie introduced herself as they crossed the small landing, making for the front bedroom.

She had met Mrs Forrest already, having done the antenatal home visit a few weeks ago. Mrs Forrest was originally from Jamaica, and had travelled all the way to London for work ten years ago, as a child of only fifteen. In those ten years she had married, had two children, and was now on her third. Maisie had found it reassuring to meet strong women like Edie Forrest, women who had been courageous and had made a new life for themselves far from home. It had helped on those dark days of anguish, those long nights when she had cried herself to sleep. Pain and loss had bookended her time here – homesickness when she first came, heartbreak now she was leaving. God, how would she manage without seeing Gerald all the time?

‘I wasn’t sure when to send for you,’ Agatha confessed, ‘but Edie didn’t want to talk any more, so I thought it was better to call. I used the public telephone.’

‘Good for you!’ Agatha, Maisie knew, was just sixteen, and had followed her sister to England a few months ago. She had been out at work in a local factory when Maisie had visited before.

‘The other children are with their English grandmother a few streets over,’ she explained in a hushed tone. ‘Edie’s husband is there too.’

‘A good plan,’ said Maisie, entering the bedroom. ‘Hello, Edie,’ she said softly. Mrs Forrest was deep in the trance of labour, rocking quietly on the edge of the bed. The room wasn’t particularly cold, it being July, but Maisie could see that a fire had been set in the tiny fireplace, ready for lighting, as she had requested. The place was spotless – Maisie suspected both Edie and Agatha had spent the early hours of labour cleaning.

Edie opened her eyes. ‘Maisie,’ she muttered.

‘That’s right,’ Maisie said soothingly. ‘Looks like you’re doing great.’

‘What do you need, miss?’ asked Agatha, and Maisie asked for the usual – hot water, towels and facecloths, two buckets, and a cover on the bed. Agatha confirmed that Edie had already arranged everything, and that she would go and boil some more water. Taking an enamel bowl from the small table by the window, she left, and Maisie turned back to her patient.

‘You’re so well organised, Edie,’ Maisie declared in a soft voice, and Edie smiled before waving a hand at her, signalling the onset of another pain. Maisie waited while she breathed and rocked her way through it – being a midwife meant being comfortable with lots of waiting. Afterwards, Edie opened her eyes again. ‘That was a long one!’

‘That’s a good sign,’ said Maisie. ‘Do you mind if I feel your tummy and listen for baby’s heartbeat?’

Edie agreed, and Maisie helped her lie down. The assessment only took a minute or so – which was lucky, because another contraction began as Maisie was helping the woman back into a sitting position. The baby’s heartbeat was strong and fast, to Maisie’s relief. Taking a moment to notice, she thought about the fact there was another wee person in the room with them, unseen and not yet born – a wee person who would celebrate this date as their birthday for their whole life.

And I am the one who gets to help them be born. The notion was just as thrilling as it had been at Maisie’s first birth as a pupil midwife, and she hoped she would never, ever tire of it.

Edie’s pains were now intense, with very little time between them. Agatha returned with the water, and Maisie soaked a clean facecloth in it, letting it cool for a moment before wiping Edie’s face and neck with it, while Edie moaned in bliss. Agatha commented on the frequency of the pains, looking anxious, so Maisie reassured the girl that this was a sign that things were progressing well.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Edie announced that she was going to be sick, and Maisie swiftly brought the bucket to her. Nausea and vomiting affected some women at this stage, and usually heralded the start of pushing.

‘Ohhh!’ Edie’s eyes flew open. ‘Ohhh!’ An instant later she was bearing down, her chin tucked into her chest and her entire body working to help the baby descend.

‘Excellent!’ Maisie said soothingly, noticing again what one of her tutors had pointed out – that the pushing stage heralded a change in energy. In only a few minutes Edie had gone from slow, tired endurance to vigorous, strong action; from sleepy and quiet to wide-awake and working.

After only three pains the head was visible, as was often the case with a third baby. Maisie was concerned, though, that if the head emerged too quickly, Edie might end up with a tear. Moving fluidly to her feet she immersed two fresh facecloths in the water before retrieving one, squeezing it out, and folding it carefully. The temperature was just right – warm but not hot.

‘I have a warm cloth here, Edie. Is it all right if I press it to you?’

Edie nodded, so Maisie carefully and gently held the warm compress to the woman’s perineum – the skin between her birth canal and back passage. This was the place where the skin needed to stretch to accommodate the crowning, and the place most vulnerable to tearing.

Edie sighed in relief – as women often did when they received the warm compress, but Maisie knew that it wasn’t simply for the woman’s comfort; it would genuinely help reduce the chances of a tear.

When the contraction ended she put the facecloth back in the water, retrieving the other one and making a warm pad of it. She alternated the two cloths for the next few contractions as the head emerged, and was delighted to see that there was only the tiniest tear. Setting the compress to one side she knelt to receive the baby, placing towels on the floor between Edie’s feet just in case.

And there it was! Shoulders and body emerged in a ­single slither, and Maisie caught the child, sweeping it up to its ­mother’s arms in a single fluid movement. ‘A girl!’ she declared, having learned to stop saying ‘A wee girl’ or ‘wee boy’ since ‘wee’ meant something entirely different in London.

At the same time, she was patting the baby with a soft towel, and assessing the situation. There was no gush of blood on the towels on the floor – just clear waters with a small trace of red. The baby was moving appropriately, but had not yet cried. And was her skin a bit dusky? It was harder to tell in dark-skinned babies, but it seemed to Maisie there was a greyish tinge to the baby girl’s skin. Perhaps the cord had been a little compressed in the past few minutes. It was, however, pulsating merrily at present, doing its work of pumping oxygenated blood into the baby. Within less than a minute, thankfully, the baby’s skin colour had a healthy tone and she was crying lustily.

Agatha was crying happy tears, Maisie saw, and as she hugged her sister and they both exclaimed over the baby, ­Maisie got to work, cleaning the floor by the bed using the towels, and then wrapping the used facecloths in them. The bed was clean and dry, and so she made a thick pad of clean, dry towels, placing it under Edie, and getting her settled in a lying position. The baby latched on soon afterwards, and Agatha left to take away the used towels and set more water on the stove to boil. When she returned, Maisie slipped quietly downstairs to the kitchen, where she submerged her stork-shaped scissors in the boiling water. Looking out the window at the small yard and red-brick wall, she was conscious of a feeling of contentment. Not joy – joy was too fleeting, too intense. This was better – a calm feeling of peaceful satisfaction. Her mind flicked to her boyfriend, and the difficult conversation that was looming later, but she shied away from the thought, returning to the calm.

When she was sure the scissors were well sterilised, Maisie extricated them carefully and wrapped them in a clean cloth. Emptying the used water, she set more on to boil – this time, for tea. When she got back upstairs the baby had finished feeding and the cord had completed its work. It was now white, flaccid, and empty, and ready to be cut.

Following tea, toast, and conversation, Maisie weighed the baby using the Salter spring scale, carefully placing the baby girl in the cloth hammock and lifting the device off the bed an inch or two, allowing the spring to move the needle on the scales. ‘Eight pounds two ounces!’ she declared, smiling, before taking a clean nappy from the pile Edie had prepared and deftly putting it on the baby. She followed up with a tiny vest and a soft cotton gown, then returned the child to her mother. ‘Have you a name for her?’

‘I do,’ said Edie. ‘She will be called Agatha.’

At this, there were more tears from her sister, and the whole thing meant Maisie was grinning like an eejit as she cycled back to the nurses’ home at around noon. After returning the hospital bike to its shed she went straight to the maternity office to fill in the register, writing baby Agatha’s details in her neatest handwriting. In the column marked ‘Midwife’ she wrote her name, a feeling of pride running through her. Today, finally, she would officially qualify, and never would she forget baby Agatha. Her final baby as a pupil midwife.

That done, she went to her room to change out of the King’s Hospital uniform – again for the last time – then slept for a while before tea in the hospital canteen. Afterwards, she made her way out to the coffee house where she and Gerald had arranged to meet this evening. He was there already, supping his drink.

‘I didn’t know when you’d be coming, so I haven’t ordered you anything.’ His eyes were dull and his mouth turned down. Our last ever evening.

She felt sad too, but kept her voice cheery as she removed her coat. ‘That’s all right! I’ll order my own!’ She went to the counter, returning with a cup of tea.

‘How was your day?’ She took a sip of her drink, enjoying the sensation as it slid down her throat.

‘Ah, you know. War preparations and all that. Extra drills, and vehicle training, you know? Being in the service corps means we look after logistics.’ He loved that word, logistics. Maisie now knew it meant they handled food, fuel, ammunition, and clothing for the army, wherever the army happened to be. He continued talking, running through his day with a fair degree of detail, until they had both finished their drinks. ‘Shall we go?’ He was already rising, standing as Maisie shrugged into her coat.

They set off on the long route back to the nurses’ home, her hand in his as usual. This was when they would usually talk, though this time, there were strained silences. Hardly surprising, since everything was changing. Their time together was ending. Maisie’s heart felt sore.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she offered tentatively, and he swung his head to look at her.

‘So you’re going through with it then?’ There was bitterness in his tone. He’s hurting too!

‘I’m so sorry, Gerald. I have to.’

‘Why? Why do you have to?’

She stifled a sigh. She had explained it already, dozens of times. Tonight, though, she had to make allowances for his pain. ‘Belfast is my home. I’m only here because my family paid for my training. It’s my duty to go back now I’m qualified. My wages as a midwife will really help.’ There was no point dwelling on the fact she missed her family and could never stay away from them forever. He was not close to his, and seemed to have no concept of such things. Surely he would understand duty, though?

His lip curled. ‘Midwives only earn a few shillings a week!’

‘That might seem like nothing to you, but in my family it’s a lot,’ she returned firmly. The man had no idea of the true value of a shilling. Of course it wasn’t his fault that he had grown up in a wealthy family.

‘Why did you not train in Ireland then, if money is so tight?’

‘Remember I told you about my mother’s cousin who trained here as a nurse? Well it was her that told Mammy about the special scheme at King’s where midwifery tuition was almost for nothing; you only had to pay for your room and board. It ended up being even cheaper than training in Belfast, and we could just about afford it out of the money my granny was giving me.’ The option of training in Belfast and living at home but failing to bring in wages might have tipped her family’s finances from just about managing into something much worse – especially since the Royal Maternity Hospital in Belfast charged quite a bit for tuition. At least here, Maisie wasn’t burdening her family with her food costs.

Oh, but she missed them so much! The eleven months she’d been here had felt like decades. She had gone home only once – for Christmas – and it had been so lovely to be among them all, even for a short time.

‘Would you . . .’ Be brave, she told herself. Ask him. ‘Would you ever think about moving to Belfast?’

His head whipped round, his expression incredulous. ‘To Ireland ?’ His evident horror suggested she had asked him to move to some horrific place peopled by wild savages.

He was now raging. She was all too familiar with the clenched jaw, furrowed brow, and general glower he adopted when angry about something. Sometimes, she could placate him, avoid the explosion. This being their last ever evening together he knew he would never see her again, so was likely to want to say his piece. Maisie kept quiet, knowing from experience that trying to justify herself any further wouldn’t yield a positive response.

It was too dark to go into Ruskin Park, so they kept to the streets, taking the longer route up Coldharbour Lane towards Denmark Hill then on to Camberwell Grove. It was a brisk walk of around forty-five minutes, but tonight, it seemed, Gerald had little to say. It was only when the hospital was in sight, and they paused at the secluded corner where they usually kissed goodnight, that he spoke again.

‘So this is it then.’ Bending his head, he pulled her to him and kissed her harshly, painfully, until she squirmed to be free.

‘Don’t!’ she managed, but he ignored her, kissing her again. This time, his hands left her shoulders to roam all over her body. He had tried this before, and every time she had stopped him, explaining she wasn’t like that. This time, however, he seemed to have lost the run of himself entirely.

‘Stop it, Gerald!’ she was genuinely frightened now. He was so angry! ‘Please, stop!’ She did her best to catch his hands, to escape, but he was too strong.

Abruptly she was free. He had pushed her away. ‘On you go then, Maisie, you bloody tease! I might have known you wouldn’t put out.’

‘Well yes,’ she retorted, sudden anger blazing through her too, despite her fear. ‘I told you enough times! It’s the way I am, it’s how I was reared. You knew that from the start!’

He leaned in to her. His face was twisted with rage, and she shrank back further. ‘I only picked you because I thought you might. But you’re useless that way, too, Maisie! I wasted nearly a whole bloody year on you! Thought you’d be my Irish tramp!’

Maisie was frozen, unable to breathe, to think, to move. She could barely take in what he was saying. His words, his angry expression, the coarseness of his language . . . It was like he was a different person. Where was the man she loved? The man who had told her a hundred times that he loved her?

He whirled away then turned to throw her a parting comment. ‘You’ll come crawling back, Maisie Canavan. You’re nobody without me.’ His tone was harsh, his words delivered slowly and deliberately, and something inside her shattered into smithereens.

She still couldn’t breathe, and her mind was entirely para­lysed. She just stood there, watching him walk away, only vaguely aware that this was the last memory she would ever have of him.

1

Belfast, September 1939

WARSAW UNDER SEIGE

The newspaper posters screamed their terrifying headlines as Maisie cycled down Belfast’s Falls Road in the early morning. THREE YEARS OF WAR shouted another. EVACUATION OF CHILDREN UNDERWAY– that one sent a different type of pang through her. All those wee ones in England, being sent away from their families to live among strangers.

War is here. They all knew it. Had known it since the Prime Minister’s announcement five days ago. The news was full of Hitler and Chamberlain and the sad plight of Poland. Oh, some were still muttering that it wouldn’t last long, but deep down the fear was there – fear based on the four long years of the Great War. Maisie had been born in the summer of 1918, just as the last war was reaching its final stages. Hard to believe the world has come to this again.

Still, Belfast looked exactly the same as it had before she’d left for her training, and it warmed Maisie’s heart to be home again. Along the Falls Road, the familiar sights and sounds were like a balm to her wounded soul – Dunville Park, the Grosvenor Road corner, the Royal Victoria . . .

‘Well, Frank, what about ye?’ One man hailed another as Maisie sped by, and she almost smiled at the joy of the accent – thick and rich and familiar. Almost. Smiling was hard these days – had been hard since the evening of baby ­Agatha’s birth. The evening when her heart had broken in two.

Turning left, she entered the hospital site, heading for the bike sheds. Although she had only been working in the Royal Maternity Hospital for two weeks, she already knew her way about. Freewheeling down the gentle hill, she veered left around the bend. Unfortunately another cyclist had the same idea, and she only just managed to avoid crashing into him.

‘God, I’m sorry!’ he declared, as she brought her bike to a halt and dismounted. ‘I near knocked you flying!’

‘Ah, you’re grand,’ she returned, her tone light, deciding to walk her bike the final few yards rather than hop back on. The man was handsome, and tall, and probably in his mid-twenties. Just like – Danger! All her instincts immediately warned her to be wary. Good-looking lads were not what she needed in her life right now – not when she could barely breathe when she thought of Gerald. ‘Nearly never bulled a cow, as they say!’ She began walking towards the bike sheds and he fell into step beside her, the two bicycles between them.

He chuckled. ‘I’ve always loved that sayin’. But I always thought it was a criticism, not forgiveness. Like, that you want the cow to be – er – bulled, but the bull – er . . .’

‘He failed to play his part?’ Perhaps it was the kind of conversation Maisie, as a young woman, should be mortified by. But in reality, she was entirely calm about the whole thing. Being a newly qualified midwife gave you permission to be more blunt about certain things. And a heart and soul that had recently been torn to shreds gave you distance from everyone and everything. ‘Aye, I suppose.’

‘You’re a nurse?’ The young man continued the conversation, despite Maisie trying to send out go away signals. His eyes were alight with interest. In her.

Stifling a sigh, she pointed to her starched cap, perched on top of her copper curls – currently contained with about twenty hairpins. ‘It’s this, isn’t it? Bit of a clue.’ She wouldn’t normally be so cheeky or off-putting, but she really wasn’t interested in flirtation right now.

‘Kinda gives it away all right. Plus, you know, heading to the staff bike sheds.’

‘Aye, that’ll do it. But I’m not actually a nurse.’

His eyes widened. ‘Midwife?’

‘Aye.’ Pride rose within her. ‘Just qualified.’

‘Congratulations. You trained here?’

‘No.’ Her tone was curt. ‘England.’ Feckin’ England.

‘I’m only back from Edinburgh.’ She waited for him to expand. ‘Trained in Queen’s but did my obstetrics over there.’

‘Right.’ Suddenly she knew a lot about him. Fairly posh Belfast accent. Doctor, likely newly qualified. Protestant. Catholic medical students tended to do their obstetrics year in Dublin; Protestants went to Edinburgh. Or at least, so she’d been told by her new friends here. ‘So you’re just qualified too?’

‘Aye. Started in Royal Maternity this week. After you.’

She preceded him into the bike shed, leaning her bike against two others on the left. The bicycle was her own – not belonging to the hospital – and she had carefully painted her wicker basket in a nice bright yellow, so she never had any difficulty finding it among the others. Her ma and da had bought it for her only a few weeks ago, the day after she arrived home off the boat from Liverpool. She patted it, still thrilled to own something so fine. He was busy finding a spot for his own bike, but they ended up stepping outside at the same time. He stuck out a hand. ‘Alexander Lowe. I get Alex.’

She touched his fingers briefly, feeling a brief, unwelcome thrill. Definitely dangerous. ‘Maisie Canavan.’

‘Nice to meet you, Maisie.’

She couldn’t reciprocate; the lie would simply not form itself in her mouth. Instead she said, ‘I’m not sure I’ve seen you about.’

He shrugged. ‘This week has been all induction stuff. ­Lectures, paperwork, and a wee bit of clinical care. We even had to go to a reception on Wednesday.’

‘Ah, right.’ She had seen a load of fancy people heading into the baby clinic for the reception. Something to do with fundraising.

Silence fell – a silence that Maisie had no intention of breaking. No way was she going to make the same mistake twice. Handsome, confident, Protestant, sure of himself . . .

Just like Gerald. A pang went through her, and she pushed the thought of him away.

‘So, how are you finding it?’ He was eyeing her curiously, his expression open. ‘The Royal, I mean?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve only been here two weeks myself. So far me and the other new girls have had mostly orientation, as they call it.’ Orientation. Such a fancy word.

‘Do you know where you’ll be working?’

‘Aye. I’m in antenatal clinic – started there yesterday. They’ll be moving us about the place, I think, but I’m to be in the clinic for the next few weeks.’ And today, hopefully, she would receive her first pay packet, now that her paperwork was all completed.

‘Ah, right.’

They had reached the hospital entrance – the fancy one to the side that was mostly used by staff and visiting dignitaries. Stepping inside, they mounted the five shallow steps together before parting ways in the main corridor by the bas-relief – Maisie to descend to the lower floor, and Dr Lowe to the labour ward office, where he had been told to report for duty.

‘See you later!’ he said cheerily, and she responded with a ‘Good luck!’ delivered in what she hoped was a tone of friendly-but-distant.

The antenatal clinic was directly below labour ward. Both were new, fancy, and state-of-the-art. While ­Maisie was proud to have trained in King’s in London, there was something special about being part of a fairly new team in a purpose-built hospital. The Royal Maternity ­Hospital had only opened six short years ago, and everything looked bright, fresh, and airy.

‘Good morning, Midwife Canavan.’

‘Good morning, Sister.’

Sister Muriel Hanna was tall, highly accomplished, and formidable. Most sisters were formidable, to be fair. But ­Sister Hanna was said to be second-in-command to Matron – a frightening figure who had only spoken to Maisie twice; once at her interview and the other time on her first day. She had seen people – including doctors – scattering to the sides when Matron strode through the corridors on her regular tours of the building. Matron was a stickler for – well, everything; from correct uniforms to clean fingernails to dust. Woe betide anyone who was discovered with a loose strand of hair or fingernails deemed too long by Matron or the sisters.

‘Right,’ Sister Hanna said briskly. ‘Get your apron on, wash your hands, then go and help Midwife Brooks to set up for this morning’s clinic. I’m heading up to see Matron. The clinic doctors are already here.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

Midwife Brooks was a gruff fifty-year-old, with short hair and a temper to match. Already Maisie had felt the sharp end of her tongue, having forgotten to set out one of the many items on her list at the end of yesterday’s clinic. Each consulting room had to have a stock of forms, gloves, and dressings, and the chairs in the central waiting area had to be stacked to the side to allow the evening cleaners the space to do their work.

Midwife Brooks was already busy, stacking files into neat piles and checking the names against the card index. A white card, Maisie had been informed, meant a private patient; the buff ones were for public patients referred by GPs.

‘You can start on the chairs,’ Midwife Brooks declared, pointedly glancing at the wall clock. The chairs had to be lined out every day in neat rows across the waiting area, a large space punctuated by three pillars.

‘Yes, Midwife Brooks,’ she said, although internally she screamed to herself, It’s only twenty-five past eight! As she got stuck into the task, Maisie mulled over her start time. Her contract said that she was to begin work at half past eight on clinic days, but that was clearly not the expectation in reality. Noted.

There were usually two doctors in the clinic – one senior, one junior. Each would have a midwife to assist him, with the third midwife based in the waiting room, keeping the clinic running smoothly and handling the paperwork. Yesterday Maisie had spent the afternoon assisting Mr Russell, the current Chair of Obstetrics – the most senior doctor in the hospital, and a man who managed somehow to be less terrifying than Matron, despite his lofty role. He had actually thanked Maisie after the last woman had left yesterday. She wasn’t sure an obstetrician had ever thanked her before.

Moving the last of the chairs she straightened, looking over her work with a critical eye, before heading back to her superior to be given her next task. ‘I’ve finished the chairs, Midwife Brooks.’

‘Let me see.’ Walking down the lines, Midwife Brooks made a tiny adjustment to one of the chairs – not because it was out of line, but, Maisie reckoned, because she wanted to find something to criticise in her handiwork.

Clearly strugg