04. Rhoda

A/N: Thank you weshallc for catching my Americanisms. And thank you to all of my reviewers for your insights and encouragements! You really do help keep me going. :-)

"And he says, 'These M.C. nurses, eh, luv? All it takes is one stiff breeze to knock 'em over.' And our Glad, she says, 'You call that a stiff breeze? I can do better, and I ain't even had beans today!' Well Mike got a kick out of that, I can tell you. Nearly tore out his stitches laughin, he did. By the time he mended up, them two was thick as thieves. He asked if he could write her from the front lines. And the rest, as they say, is history."

Chummy was pushing the pram down Burdett Road. Freddie and Davey were both freshly bathed, and dolled up in sailor suits beneath their winter coats and caps. Myrtle walked alongside, regaling them with the story of how Peter's sister met her husband. The timeless tale of 'injured soldier meets army nurse', with a twist of Cockney humor.

It was late February. The Nonnatans had returned; Chummy had hung up her nurse's cap. Tomorrow Myrtle would return to Walton-on-Naze, and Chummy would stay home with her boys once again. Today, they were heading to Violet Buckle's haberdashery, so that Myrtle could stock up on her bobbins, ribbons, and local gossip. Then it was on to luncheon at a cousin's house, where Myrtle fully intended to "show off" her littlest grandsons.

They passed by the local grammar school as the morning bell rang. Chummy spotted a young girl in uniform, walking briskly away from the school.

"Belinda!" she called. "One hopes you're not skiving off!"

Chummy barely knew Belinda Mullucks. In fact, she only recognized her because she was the spitting image of her mother. They both had dark hair, and faces that looked like they'd been rigorously scrubbed of both dirt and affectation: with ever-pink cheeks, blunt features, and direct gazes.

The Mullucks attended the same church as the Noakes. Rhoda, the mother, was in the choir with Chummy and Peter. People said that the choir was the only thing Rhoda Mullucks still did for herself. It was the only time all week that she was parted from her youngest child. Baby Susan was nearly a year old, and still Rhoda kept her bundled tightly in blankets- and even tighter in her arms.

Poor Rhoda, folks murmured behind her back. And that poor child.

Belinda stopped still before Chummy and Myrtle. She made no excuse about a forgotten sack lunch or gym uniform. Instead she asked, "Aren't you a nurse?"

"Why yes, I am," Chummy replied.

"Can you come with me? I need your help."

Myrtle patted Chummy's elbow. "Go on, love. You catch up with us later. You know the way to Vi's, and Vi knows the way to my cousin Elsie's."

Belinda led Chummy north, back the way she and Myrtle had just come. The Mullucks lived in the same neighborhood where the Noakes had lived when Freddie was a baby. Long terraces of two-up two-downs walled in narrow, tidy streets. Belinda walked with great purpose. Chummy wondered what was the matter.

Was baby Susan ill? Chummy had never seen Susan unwrapped, much less examined or treated her. Luckily, Dr. Turner and his wife Shelagh, a nurse, had flown home from South Africa last week. Chummy knew that the Turners took great personal responsibility for Susan's care. If Chummy needed to refer Susan to them, they would drop everything for her.

Or was it Belinda who needed help? Chummy's thoughts jumped to one's first monthly. Belinda was about the right age, if on the younger side. Chummy had started early, herself. No one had prepared her. Perhaps no one had prepared Belinda, either… Her poor mother had so much on her mind…

After about half a mile, Belinda glanced back to make sure Chummy was still following her. "It's my mum," she explained. "She's sick to her stomach. She won't say what's wrong, only that it's not catching. She sends me and Perry off to school and tells us not to worry. But I can't not, Nurse. It's been weeks now, and she just keeps gettin' worse…"

Chummy didn't know which house was the Mullucks', until Belinda stopped and opened the unlocked door. Chummy followed her in. They heard Susan wailing in the kitchen at the back of the house. Rhoda sat on the staircase, slumped in a loose and ginger fetal position.

"Belinda, you see to Susan. Call for me if you need help," Chummy instructed. Belinda obeyed. Chummy climbed up and took a seat on the step below Rhoda.

Rhoda Mullucks was a proud woman. She kept up appearances, with her bright silk blouses, floral perfumes, and meticulous bouffant. But now she was in a nightdress and housecoat that smelled of stale sweat. Her hair was flat and greasy. A wastepaper basket sat at her feet, empty except for a few trails of saliva. Her usual flush complexion was replaced with a yellowish, papery look.

Liver cancer? The thought came to Chummy unbidden. Her mother had died of the disease. But she focused on the patient in front of her now. There were other possibilities, after all.

"Good morning, Rhoda. I say, you have a lovely home." (This was true. The Mullucks' décor was cheery and modern, and the place was tidy and dusted, despite Rhoda's current state.) "It's Nurse Noakes, from the church choir."

"I know that." Rhoda's voice might have been indignant, if it wasn't so small. At least her faculties are in working order, Chummy thought.

"Belinda asked me to pop in, give you a once-over."

"What about Susan?" Rhoda rasped.

The baby had stopped crying. Chummy called down into the foyer. "What-ho, Belinda! How's the littlest Mullucks getting on?"

"She was just hungry," came the reply. "I'm giving her mushed banana."

The mere mention of food sent Rhoda scrambling for the wastebasket. Chummy brushed Rhoda's hair back, taking the chance to feel her forehead. She didn't have a fever. But she radiated anxiety, and her skin was very dry. Chummy was building a hypothesis.

"Rhoda, when was the last time you had something to drink?"

"And kept it down?" Rhoda asked grimly. "Yesterday, I s'pose. Not a lot."

"When did you last have a bite to eat?"

She just closed her eyes and leaned against the wallpaper.

"And, Rhoda, if I may… When was your last monthly cycle?"

Rhoda began to shake. Her face pulled, and she gasped a few dry sobs. "I'm sorry," she whimpered.

Chummy frowned. "What ever for?"

"Susan. She needs me. I can't have another…"

"Never mind that now, Rhoda. Susan needs you well. And for that, we need to get you fed and watered any way that we can. I'll call Doctor-"

Rhoda's eyes flew open. She caught Chummy's wrist in a crushing grip. "No."

"Come come, Rhoda. You know you can't keep on like this-"

"I won't take any pills," she said raggedly. "I swear. I'd sooner lose this one than take any pills."

If anyone had a right to fear pills, it was Rhoda Mullucks. Chummy understood that. But Rhoda's condition was dire. If the women's shared suspicion was correct, then Chummy knew there was a good chance that the Mullucks would lose Rhoda before Rhoda lost the baby. And if they were wrong, then they needed to find the correct diagnosis as quickly as possible.

Chummy picked up the little gold cross she wore on a necklace. She took a deep breath, then took Rhoda's hands in hers. She held two fingers to the inside of each of Rhoda's wrists. It was an old trick for seasickness. Chummy learned it from her Ayah, on the ship from India. It wouldn't cure Rhoda. But it might soothe her, calm her down enough to listen to reason. It also allowed Chummy to check Rhoda's pulse; it was fast and faint.

"Rhoda, I think you may have a condition called hyperemesis gravidarum. It's what happens when morning sickness calls in the heavy artillery. It's very serious; I think you realize that. But you won't need any pills. We'll bypass that troublesome tummy altogether, by giving you fluids through a needle in your arm."

"It won't hurt the baby?"

"No. It's an old technique, tried and true. Thousands of mothers and babies have come through it unscathed. And you won't even have to go to hospital. You can stay in the maternity home, at Dr. Turner's surgery."

Rhoda nodded. "They're good people, the Turners."

"The very best," Chummy agreed. "Now. Let's sit you somewhere comfortable while I ring the surgery."

Rhoda moved to stand, but her legs shook, and her head bobbed limply. Groaning, she let Chummy scoop her up like a child, and carry her downstairs.

Chummy called the Turners' surgery from the pay phone down the street. Shelagh promised they'd be ready when Chummy and Rhoda arrived by cab.

"I'd send Patrick to fetch you in the car, if we weren't so busy picking up after the locum," Shelagh said in her breathy brogue. "But at least let me call Mr. Mullucks at work for you."

Chummy smiled to herself. The Turners really were the best sort of people.

She called a cab, then returned to the Mullucks' house. Rhoda was resting on the settee. Chummy went into the kitchen. She praised Belinda for her quick thinking that morning. She explained what was happening, but avoided mentioning the maternity home, or Rhoda's suspicion of pregnancy. That news wasn't Chummy's to break. She did tell Belinda that her mother would probably have to stay at the surgery for several weeks.

"Do you think you could stay here alone with Susan?" Chummy asked.

Belinda sighed heavily. "S'pose I'll have to, won't I, Nurse? Dad's got work. Perry's too young, and a boy and all. He could bring my schoolwork home, though… Will my mum be better before exams week, d'you reckon?"

"Gosh, Belinda. I only meant for today, not for the duration! Your mother tells the whole choir how hard you worked to get into grammar school. We can't have you jeopardizing your studies. Surely you have an aunt that can watch Susan during the day, or a neighbor?"

Belinda shook her head. She counted off on her fingers: "Neighbors don't hardly talk to us no more. Auntie Ava lives in Harlow. Auntie Effie's busy selling Avon. And Auntie Mary would never take Susan- she still thinks Mum and Dad should've put her away."

Chummy looked at Susan. She sat up on her own in her high-chair, bright-eyed and babbling, like any other child her age. She had big blue eyes, wispy blonde curls and soft white cheeks: a little angel's face. Belinda had tried to wrap her up when Chummy came in, but Susan had squawked in protest. She was thoroughly enjoying her rattle, thank you very much. And her freedom from the blanket cocoon.

The women at choir murmured metaphors behind Rhoda's back. Some talked of God losing the stitch when He knitted this little one together. Others spoke of flower buds stopped short by a late frost. Perhaps they used these images to brace themselves, in case they ever saw Susan unwrapped. Perhaps they were steering their vivid imaginations away from darker paths.

Chummy needed no such sentimentality. She'd seen much more gruesome sights in her nursing career. Susan was calm and clean; she wasn't injured or ill. In fact, she seemed to be as healthy as one could hope for. Considering she had no arms or legs.

Susan's little pink feet sat at odd angles, directly in front of her nappy. A trio of fingers sprouted from each shoulder. She was trying to pick up corn flakes from her high-chair tray. She twisted her body, grunting with effort. The rattle slipped from her other hand and fell to the floor. She startled, then whined straight at Belinda as if it were her fault.

Belinda smiled and tapped her sister's nose. "Silly Sue," she teased.

Chummy bent down and retrieved the rattle. "Whoopsy-daisy," she sing-songed. As she handed the rattle back, Susan caught Chummy's fingers in her grip.

Chummy did pause, very briefly, in shock. But Susan's fingers were so much like any other child's: small, strong, and sticky from breakfast. Chummy smiled, and wiggled her fingers beneath Susan's.

She smiled back.

"You won't have to stay home with Susan," Chummy promised Belinda. "I know someone who can look after her."