The Midwife's Special Delivery. Carol Marinelli
cholesterol low…’
‘Lucky you.’ Ally poked her tongue out at him then carried on reading her paper.
‘What time do you finish?’
‘Three,’Ally said, without thinking.
‘I’m off at five.’
‘Good for you.’
‘We could have dinner.’
‘I can’t.’ Ally didn’t even look up. ‘I’ve got an antenatal class at six.’
‘Congratulations!’ Rory grinned. ‘You should have told me the news!’
‘I’m teaching an antenatal class at six,’ Ally said through gritted teeth. ‘A mature parents’ antenatal class.’
‘Which means it will go on for ever,’ Rory groaned in sympathy. ‘Why is it that the older they get, the more questions they have?’
Ally gave a very reluctant smile at his insight. It was a question she’d pondered many a night when she’d packed up after a class that had run way overtime.
‘And they always have a list,’ Rory carried on, warming to the subject as he registered her reaction. ‘One father-to-be waylaid me in the corridor at work the other week to ask about perineal massage to stop his wife from tearing.’
‘So?’ Ally frowned.
‘He had a list of oils and asked me to choose the one that was most appropriate.’ Rory gave her a wide-eyed look. ‘I told him to save his money and that a pair of scissors—’
‘You didn’t!’ Shocked, she interrupted, then glared as he laughed.
‘No, of course not. I told him that the hundred-dollar oil on the top of his list sounded great, and then I used the sterile scissors a couple of weeks later.’
‘Perineal massage works,’ Ally retorted. ‘You’re so anti anything remotely alternative.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Rory said, mopping up the last of his egg yolk with his toast. ‘In fact, perineal massage is way up on my list of recreational activities…’ Green eyes met hers but it was Ally who looked away first, Ally who blushed purple before he continued, ‘for parents-to-be. It creates intimacy, gives the mum some much-needed pleasure, but I’m not convinced it reduces the episiotomy rate.’
How had he done that? As Win came into the staffroom, flustered, Ally flicked through the paper and stared unseeingly at an ad for a flash new sports car. Just one pause, one flash of his eyes and a safe medical topic had bordered on dangerous—or at least it had for her. Rory, it would seem, was completely unfazed, his generous grin aimed at Win now as she came to collect his plate.
‘I’ll wash it, Win,’ Rory feebly argued as she replaced his empty mug with a full one and took his eggy plate. ‘It’s the least I can do. That was the best breakfast I’ve had for ages.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Win chided, but her beaming face said otherwise. ‘It’s great to see you back here, Dr Rory.’
‘Great to see you too, Win.’ Rory smiled back, clearly delighted to see her again. ‘What’s all this nonsense I hear that you’re thinking about retiring?’
‘It’s true.’ Win’s resigned voice had Ally looking up and she silently prayed that Rory would tread carefully. Win had been the maternity unit’s domestic for more than three decades and had run the place with utter devotion over the years. Widowed at a young age and the mother of five children, she had worked a mix of morning and evening shifts to earn enough to raise her children. And in the thirty-five years she had worked on the unit the entire place had remained spotless under her care. Win looked after the patients and staff of the maternity unit way and above the call of duty, cups of tea appearing at busy times, a piece of home-made cake coming out during quieter ones. But way more valuable than the tea and cake was Win’s insight: on more occasions than Ally could recall, she had found Win chatting to an anxious mum, somehow putting a woman at ease in the way only the voice of wisdom could. Many times the powers that be had tried to get Win to sign a new contract, to schedule her hours in line with the rest of the health network, but she had stood firm, keeping to the old rules. But now Win couldn’t do it any more. She couldn’t manage the forty-hour weeks, and reducing her hours would mean signing the dreaded contract, which could see her allocated to any ward in the hospital.
‘I need to cut down my hours. I was hoping to just do one shift a week—you know, to keep my hand in—but if I do, my supervisor has told me that they won’t be able to guarantee that I’ll be rostered here on the maternity ward. She’s spoken with management and they said I’ll have to go to wherever I’m needed most if I’m only working one shift a week. I could end up on A and E perhaps or maybe even Intensive Care, and that’s the last thing I want.’
‘A change is as good as a rest,’ Rory offered, and Ally just wished he’d drop it, sucking in her breath as he pushed on. ‘But if you don’t want to go to another ward, just tell them that you belong here,’ Rory said, as if it was that easy. ‘The ward will back you. After all, you’ve been here longer than I’ve been alive. Surely the hospital should bend over backwards to accommodate you, shouldn’t they?’ He looked over at Ally, clearly expecting her support. ‘Have you spoken to Win’s supervisor about this?’
‘Of course I have,’ Ally answered, but her eyes were warning Rory to drop it. Ally, along with most of the senior staff on the maternity ward, had been vocal in her efforts to keep Win, but the sad fact of the matter was that she was considered too old and too inflexible for the job. The truth, though Win didn’t know it, was that the powers that be knew full well that Win couldn’t bear to work anywhere other than her beloved maternity ward, and that was the very reason they weren’t offering it—they wanted her to leave! It had been left to Vivien, the maternity unit manager, to soften the blow a bit, to explain to Win that despite the staff’s protests, if she signed the new contract, there was no guarantee she’d be working on maternity.
Once Win had gone, Ally half expected Rory to pick up the conversation where it had been before Win had come in—to tease her a little bit more—but Rory had other things on his mind.
‘Did you really speak to her supervisor?’ Rory checked.
‘I just said so, didn’t I?’ Ally answered abruptly.
‘So why can’t she stay?’ Rory pressed.
Ally wished he would just leave it. ‘Rory, I did speak with her supervisor, so did Vivien, so did Mr Davies, the consultant, but, as much as we all adore Win, that’s not the issue.’
‘Win’s been here—’
‘Win’s been here for more than thirty years,’ Ally broke in. ‘Which is exactly the problem. Win runs the ward as she did when she started. She refuses to change her routine.’
‘Why should she,’ Rory answered, ‘when clearly her way works?’
‘It doesn’t any more, though,’ Ally snapped. ‘Take the eggs! The days are gone when you bring food in from home and give it to the patients. As nice as it is to spoil the mums, there are health regulations that have to be followed, and for ages Win refused to abide by them. Over and over the staff tried talking to her, telling her that she couldn’t keep cooking for the patients, but she refused to listen. It took two written warnings—’
‘Written warnings!’ Rory’s voice was incredulous. ‘Over eggs on toast! You know when I applied for the registrar’s position here, I was sent a load of stats, and one of the things that stood out was the infection control rate. This may be a relatively small suburban hospital but the infection rates in this ward are second to none. That has nothing to do with luck, you know, Ally.’
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