December dawned unseasonably mildly, but the most radiating warmth that week came from the glow from Sister Frances' beaming smile. She had been invited to attend the launch of Shelter and had been overawed by the spectacle, the media attention, the buzzing positivity that surrounded her. Nancy and Trixie were sitting up waiting for her when she returned and the three girls sat talking around the kitchen table well into the small hours. Sister Frances, too excited to sleep, Nancy and Trixie revelling in their friend's delight.
Later that week, a heavy knocking on her door woke Sister Frances from a deep sleep.
"Come in!" Sister Frances called, blearily wiping the sleep from her eyes.
Trixie slid into the room, fully dressed in her uniform, her medical bag in her hand.
"Sorry sweetie," Trixie began, flicking on the lights dazzling Sister Frances in the process, "it's all kicked off, I'm off to Mrs Laidlaw, her husband's telephoned saying that the contractions are every seven or eight minutes, but given it's her sixth we may not have long. Oh and then Mr Rosen telephoned, saying that Sister Hilda needs some back up in Zetland Street. He said that his wife's labour has been somewhat prolonged," she added, echoing what Sister Hilda had clearly told Mr Rosen to recite, "I've told Lucille she's next on call. Chop chop!"
Trixie had disappeared down the corridor before Sister Frances had thoroughly registered what had been asked of her. She looked at the clock beside her bed. It read 1:25 am. The realisation of the time made her jolt into consciousness. Sister Hilda had gone to Mrs Rosen at some point between lunch and Vespers the previous afternoon. She assumed that Sister Hilda had been home for hours. It had been too long. Far too long.
Suddenly wide awake, Sister Frances blindly threw her habit on and sprinted down the stairs towards the clinical room. Grabbing her medical bag, and taking a detour to the kitchen to swipe a packet of Custard Creams from the cupboard, she leapt onto her bicycle and began furiously pedaling in the direction of Zetland Street. As she veered around the final corner, flanked on both sides by old terraced houses, she rued the fact that she had forgotten to check the address in the Rolodex before she left. Thankfully, a man's voice began to ring out through the dark night.
"Over 'ere Sister!"
Sister Frances slammed on her brakes and her bicycle came to a squeaking halt in front of who she assumed must be Mr Rosen. He was tall, head and shoulders above Sister Frances, and his dark hair looked as though he had spent many hours nervously running his hands through it.
"I'm worried Sister," Mr Rosen murmured, "I think summats not right."
"Your wife is in very good hands," Sister Frances replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt, "Sister Hilda is a very capable midwife, she'll know what to do."
"Then why's she called you?" Mr Rosen asked, "And, beggin' your pardon, you look too young."
Sister Frances ignored Mr Rosen's remarks and followed him into the house. The Rosen's occupied rooms on the middle of the three floors. There was a fire flickering in the grate and despite the pokiness of the room, it appeared homely. And full of everything a newborn would need. Sister Frances entered the Rosen's bedroom, where Mrs Rosen was pushing through the last remnants of her most recent contraction.
"That's it Charlotte," Sister Hilda soothed as the pain came to an end, "well done."
At this point, Sister Frances was able to begin to process the scene that lay before her. As anticipated, both Charlotte, a pretty green-eyed, auburn-haired girl of twenty five, and Sister Hilda looked exhausted. Even in the flickering light of the single bulb in the room, she could see the deep circles under their eyes, the pained expressions on their faces, the colour and life beginning to drain.
"Baby has been somewhat reluctant to make an appearance," Sister Hilda began as chirpily as she could manage, "Charlotte has been eight centimetres dilated for a couple of hours now but no further progress has been made." She paused, trying to formulate the next sentence. "Mother's blood pressure and foetal heart rates are steady for now."
"Stop," Sister Frances advised. She pulled Sister Hilda closer to her and whispered, "you're both exhausted, see if Mr Rosen will make you and his wife a sweet tea, and there's Custard Creams in my overcoat." Sister Hilda tried to give Sister Frances an admonishing look without betraying the fact she wanted nothing more than to devour the entire packet, but failed miserably. "Out!" Sister Frances finished.
Sister Hilda complied, but not without slipping her hand into the pocket of Sister Frances' coat and retrieving the biscuits.
As soon as Sister Hilda was out of the room, Sister Frances turned her attention to examining Charlotte. Sister Hilda was right, she was still only eight centimetres dilated. With every contraction that rippled through her, Charlotte was becoming weaker, more and more exhausted. Half an hour slipped by. Suddenly, Charlotte cried out in pain, but the expected contraction did not peak. Sister Frances listened for the baby's heartbeat. Her own began to rise as she could not immediately hear it. When she located it, it was faster, 160 she thought she counted, and less distinct than before.
"Stay calm," she thought, "stay calm."
The time for remaining calm however was short lived. At that moment, Charlotte whimpered in pain and a rush of bright scarlet blood suddenly flooded onto the bed sheet. Sister Frances listened again for the heartbeat. Weaker again. Irregular this time.
"I'm just going to get Sister Hilda," Sister Frances explained to Charlotte, "one second."
Before Charlotte had time to respond, Sister Frances had sprinted out of the room and was leaning over the bannister, staring down to where Sister Hilda was sitting on the bottom step, slumped against the wall, a mug with dregs of her tea in hand, biscuit crumbs on her habit.
"Suspected placental abruption," Sister Frances called down the stairs.
Sister Hilda jolted to her feet immediately. Motioning to Sister Frances to return to Charlotte, Sister Hilda called out into the street for Mr Rosen. He appeared in an instant, listened to her instructions and disappeared out again into the night towards the telephone box. Sister Hilda returned to the room, surveyed the scene, and said, "I'm afraid that baby is not very happy Charlotte, your husband is telephoning for the Obstetrics team from The London."
"The Flying Squad?" Sister Frances whispered.
"What's wrong?" Charlotte wailed.
Sister Hilda made to once again listen for the heartbeat, but as she did so, another rush of blood flowed onto Charlotte's bed, soaking the newspaper and towels that Sister Frances had put there to absorb the first flow of blood.
"Your placenta has come away too early Charlotte, it means that baby will not be getting enough oxygen," Sister Hilda advised, her voice cracking slightly under pressure. She listened for the heartbeat once again. It had dropped to 70 beats a minute.
"They're all out!" Mr Rosen shouted from somewhere in the house, "they don't know when they'll get here."
"We need to get this baby out, now," Sister Hilda announced, "before it's too late," she whispered to Sister Frances, "in my bag there is a set of forceps and episiotomy scissors," she finished.
"What? You can't," Sister Frances stammered.
"I'm going to have to," Sister Hilda replied.
As Sister Frances made to collect the forceps, Sister Hilda began calmly to Charlotte, "I'm going to help you deliver the baby as quickly and as safely as possible. Shuffle down the bed, and bring your knees up to your chest. Sister Frances is going to hold you in the right position. And when I tell you too, I want you to push as hard as you can, alright sweetheart?"
Charlotte's pretty face was contorted with pain and fear but she nodded in agreement. Sister Frances held Charlotte in her arms as Sister Hilda performed the episiotomy. Charlotte screamed in pain, flailing so violently that Sister Frances could barely hold her still. Sister Hilda inserted the forceps into Charlotte, feeling for the baby's head and gently tightening her grip.
"Alright Charlotte, push, now!"
Charlotte complied with Sister Hilda's demand and pushed with all her strength. Sister Hilda pulled simultaneously, and the baby and the placenta were delivered in one go.
"It's a little girl," Sister Hilda announced, "Ergometrine, we don't want another haemorrhage" she added, gesturing to Sister Frances, who administered the dose into Charlotte's right arm.
"Can I see her?" Charlotte asked, but the silence that had descended in the room immediately halted her pleas.
"Come on little one," Sister Hilda pleaded to the little girl, rubbing her firmly. The baby remained silent, bruised and blue tinged at the foot of the bed.
Charlotte had begun to weep into Sister Frances' shoulder. Sister Frances held Charlotte close to her, trying to prevent the tears that were welling in her own eyes from cascading down her face. They watched Sister Hilda, who was kneeling at the foot of the bed trying to revive the baby. She listened. There was a heartbeat. Just. Only just.
"Come on little one," Sister Hilda kept repeating in between attempts.
The wait seemed to go on forever. In the absence of any more clean or dry towels, Sister Hilda scooped the baby up with the sodden newspaper and towels onto which she had unceremoniously entered the world, and drew her as close to her body as she could, hoping and praying her body heat would aid her attempts to revive her. It was then that she noticed what the little girl was wrapped in. A copy of The London Evening Standard, dated 7th December. A horrendous sense of déjà vu hit Sister Hilda square in the chest, right behind where the still-lifeless little girl was lying. Images she had hoped to never see again danced before her eyes.
"No," Sister Hilda panicked, "not today, please, not today," she whispered.
"What's happening?" Mr Rosen called from the next room.
None of the three women were in any state to answer him and remained silent. Sister Hilda made one last attempt to revive the little girl. This time, she could hear no heartbeat. No signs of breathing. She had gone. Sister Hilda had to muster every ounce of professionalism she possessed in order to compose herself, and, having taken a breath in, got up off the floor, walked round the side of the bed, placed the little girl in her mother's arms and whispered, "I'm so very sorry Charlotte, but she's gone."
Charlotte snuggled her daughter to her, kissed her forehead and remarked, "she's so beautiful."
"Just like her mother," Sister Frances confirmed.
Charlotte smiled weakly and then, turning to Sister Hilda, murmured, "thank you Sister, for being the one person whose love my daughter felt in her brief time here. Only Bob and I will ever know the love that we, her parents, had for her. But she'll always know the love that you showed her." Charlotte's composure suddenly shattered and she wailed, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I did what a midwife and a mother would do," Sister Hilda replied, her voice beginning to break, "I wish it had been enough."
Sister Frances stared, wide-eyed, at her consoeur with a mixture of immense pity and admiration. Sister Hilda noticed her looking and with a shake of her shoulders and a toss of her head said, "we have work still to be done Sister Frances, come along now." As they begin to clear the room, Sister Frances could have sworn she had seen Sister Hilda briefly wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her habit.
It was nearly five o'clock when the two nuns stepped out of the Rosen's house, having made arrangements with an undertaker and dismissed the far-too-late Obstetrics Flying Squad. Neither had the energy to ride their bicycles back, so they began to wend their way home slowly on foot. By the time they reached Nonnatus House, the combination of the cold, predawn air and sheer overtiredness had removed all sleeplessness from the two women's eyes. Having sterilised their instruments, they decided to warm themselves up with a cup of tea, sit up for Lauds and go to bed after breakfast. Sat at the kitchen table with their tea, they soon realised that, after the night's events, neither were really in the mood for conversation. Unable to stand the awkward silence, Sister Frances asked a question that had been gnawing at her for several hours, "earlier, when you said 'not today' did you mean what I think you meant?"
Sister Hilda turned away from her consoeur for a moment, unable to look her in the eye. Sister Frances reached over the table and placed a hand on Sister Hilda's arm. Turning back to face Sister Frances, attempting to smile away the pain that was gripping her like a vice, Sister Hilda replied,
"I lost my child on 8th December 1942. Twenty four years ago today. Almost to the hour."