Patrick bowed his head and let out a long, slow breath, his eyes falling shut as the air filtered out of his lungs. The silence of the room was almost oppressive; heavy and dark and threatening to overwhelm both hum and the other occupant of the room. Beside him, crouched at the side of the blood-soaked bed that dominated the room and was the centre of the deathly quiet, Sister Bernadette's lips moved silently as she prayed to a God he had long since stopped believing in for the safe journey of the young mother who lay on the bed before them, growing colder with every passing minute.
A whimper from the large wooden dresser in the corner of the room drew his attention away from the scene in front of him. The little girl nestled safely within the open drawer, swaddled in towels and laid amongst her mother's clothes, let out a small cry. Her tiny fist flailed in the air; small and pink and so very much alive that Patrick felt he might collapse from the sheer relief of knowing at least one life had been saved.
The moment was fleeting. He slowly removed his soiled gloves and placed them next to the pile of used instruments that littered the top of a battered leather storage trunk at the foot of the bed. He dragged a shaking hand down his face in a vain attempt to wipe away the weariness that was quickly setting in. There was still much work to be done.
He waited quietly for Sister Bernadette to finish her prayer, watching as she opened her eyes and smiled sadly at the girl and reached across to move a stray strand of hair from her pale face, gently arranging the tangled golden hair to lie more neatly against the striped pillows. He turned away from her as she moved to surreptitiously wipe a tear from her own face, giving her the privacy to grieve for her patient, if only for a moment.
"Doctor Turner, would you mind fetching some more water please?" Her voice was serene, betraying little of the hurricane of emotions that he knew she was feeling. He was feeling them too.
"Yes, yes of course." He collected the ceramic basin from beside their discarded instruments and made his exit from the room. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against the solid wood, bowing his head as he did so and trying to process all that had happened in the ten minutes he had been inside the small flat.
The message he had received when he returned to the surgery following the last call on his rounds had made his blood run cold. Tessie Baker had haemorrhaged. Badly. Patrick hadn't hesitated to turn on his heel with barely a word to his secretary, the tails of his overcoat twisting around his legs as he rushed off in the direction of his car. By the time he had arrived at the old tenement building that Tessie occupied his palms were sweating and he was desperate for a cigarette. There was no sign of the Flying Squad outside of the building and it was all he could do to hope that they had already arrived and taken Mrs Baker to the London.
His hopes had been dashed when he walked into the second floor flat to find Sister Bernadette gently closing Mrs Baker's eyes, her hands already crossed delicately upon her still chest. The nun had barely glanced in his direction, instead keeping her attention fixed firmly upon Mrs Baker.
"The Flying Squad?" He had breathed, eyes scanning the room and taking in the details laid before him.
Sister Bernadette had sighed and turned to look at him, heartbreak plain for all to see in her blue eyes, "I rang for them over twenty minutes ago." She had sounded like she had entire weight of the world upon her shoulders. And maybe she had. It had taken all of his willpower to not slam his fist into the door behind him. Instead he had moved further into the room and stood over the sleeping infant in the drawer. The tiny pink bundle looked so innocent and peaceful, completely unaware of the horror that had occurred in the room around her merely moments before. Patrick had never been so grateful, and envious, of a baby and its ignorance as he had left her and carried out the motions of confirming her mothers death.
It didn't take long for Patrick to warm some water on the stove and fill the basin but found himself drawing out the time to give Sister Bernadette time to centre herself for the difficult task of cleaning up the room, and to give himself a moment to push away the guilt that was starting to worm its way into his brain. He should have gotten there sooner.
Patrick sighed heavily for what he felt was the hundredth time that day and picked up the bowl of water before making his way back towards the bedroom. When he entered the bedroom he did not expect to find Sister Bernadette facing the window, reverently cradling the newborn and singing softly. He could not make out the words. He set the bowl down on the storage trunk, wincing when the nun startled.
"She started fussing a moment ago," she adjusted her hold on the baby as she turned to face him. "The poor wee thing has no idea what's happened."
Patrick nodded and went to stand beside her, "Thank God for small mercies." The baby squirmed in the young Sisters arms, a small pink arm slipping from beneath the swaddling and flailing in the air. He couldn't stop himself from capturing the tiny fist in his hand and letting the delicate fingers curl around his own. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, maybe this could have been prevented."
"There was nothing you could have done, it all happened so quickly." Sister Bernadette peered up at him, sorrow clouding her eyes. "You are a wonderful doctor, but even you can't be in two places at once." Patrick tilted his head as he watched her carefully put the baby back into the open drawer, unsure what to say in response, but knowing she was saying it to herself as much as to him. He was saved from having to try when she went and picked up the bowl of water and placed it on top of the dresser. "She needs cleaning."
Patrick reached to for a small cloth and dipped it into the warm water, "Here, let me help." Sister Bernadette gave him a small, tired smile and nodded, picking the baby up once more and carefully unwrapping the towel she was swaddled in. Together they worked to wipe the worst of the blood and amniotic fluid from the girl, Sister Bernadette hushing her with soft murmurs in her lilting voice whenever the baby protested.
Just as they were finishing and carefully patting the baby dry, a loud knock at the door of the flat pierced the flat. Patrick frowned and dropped the towel onto the top of the dresser.
"I imagine that's the Flying Squad." Sister Bernadette commented as she wrapped the baby in a soft blanket that had been laid out by Tessie before she had arrived. He watched her for a brief moment, appreciating the tireless care and attention she paid to the baby, and he wondered yet again what had drawn her to this life. She would have been a wonderful mother.
Another heavy knock at the door shook him from his thoughts and Patrick forced himself to turn away from the nun and the baby in front of him. There was still work to be done.
It didn't take long for Patrick to give a summary of the events to the members of the OFS as he lead them through the flat to the bedroom. Suspected major placental abruption, death confirmed upon arrival, one healthy neonate. The words seemed too hollow and too few to describe what had happened that day and he found himself once again watching Sister Bernadette as she held the baby close to her, gently stroking a finger against the girl's cheek.
"Mr Baker is away at sea, I don't know how we can contact him until he arrives home." The nun spoke without taking her eyes off the child in her arms. "Mrs Baker has family in Manchester, her mother was due to come visit a week on Monday."
Patrick scrubbed his hand through his hair and looked at the obstetrician who was busy examining Tessie Baker's body. The man grunted and arched an eyebrow at the Sister. "We will take the baby with us and arrange for her to be put into foster care until a family member can take her." He gestured to the body in front of him. "We will also arrange for a postmortem to confirm cause of death." He nodded to the midwife that had arrived with him who moved forward to claim the baby from the arms of the nun.
Sister Bernadette's forehead crinkled in an almost imperceptible frown, Patrick doubted he would have noticed it if he hadn't worked with the woman in all manner of stressful situations for ten years. She relinquished her hold on the baby without fuss and took a step back, distancing herself from the girl as much as she could in the cramped room.
All they could do now was wait for the team to remove the body of their patient. The sombre silence that had been so oppressive earlier returning with a vengeance as the team worked to carefully transfer Tessie Baker to a stretcher and take her down to the ambulance.
Patrick discreetly watched Sister Bernadette as the team worked. Her hands were clasped together in front of her so tightly he instantly knew it was to hide their shaking. And there was nothing he could do about it. He waited for the OFS to leave before stepping over to her and touching her gently on the shoulder.
"I am sorry." He murmured, though he couldn't say exactly what he was apologising for. For not being there sooner. For not being able to comfort her like he would one of the other nurses if they had been there instead of her. For thinking that way in the first place. She nodded absently and looked over at the now empty bed. Patrick exhaled roughly at the realisation of what had to come next. "I'm afraid I need to go to the hospital with them." Sister Bernadette didn't look at him or acknowledge his words. "Would you like me to call someone to come and help? Sister Julienne?"
Her head whipped up at the sound of her mentors name and she gave that small almost imperceptible frown again. She shook her head and went to start packing away her instruments.
"No thank you, Doctor." She gave him a tiny, forced smile. "I can manage on my own."
"I have no doubt." He replied, earning himself another forced smile. He retrieved his stethoscope from the storage trunk and stuff it into his medical bag before snapping it shut and collecting his coat. "I'll come by Nonnatus with my report later." He looked around the small room again, the sight of the bloody bed making his stomach clench. He hated the idea of having to leave her to clean away the evidence of what had transpired by herself.
She didn't reply but gave him an amicable nod as she continued placing her instruments neatly into her bag in precise, measured movements. Patrick took that as his cue to leave, closing the bedroom door behind him. He had almost made it out of the front door when he heard the muffled sob from the other side of the flat. He closed his eyes, his free hand folding into fist at his side.
After several long, deep breaths, he forced himself to walk away.