Free It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! by Jane Yeadon

nearby.’
    â€˜Confession? Confession! You’ve only been here five minutes and already you’re a beacon of hope in a class of sinners.’
    â€˜No I’m not. I’m a sinner too.’ She was determined on suffering.
    â€˜How come?’
    She looked around very carefully, then drawing her head near mine, whispered, ‘I’ve said flip three times.’ She searched my face, obviously waiting for shock to register, then as the silence between us stretched, added, ‘So now you must see why I need to go.’
    â€˜By Jove, yes,’ I said, thinking, one up to you, God. Your little angel might faint if suggesting the Showband might be a better fix as well as helping us celebrate Seonaid’s visit to Mr Murphy.
    She’d returned when we’d been having lunch, breathless but triumphant.
    â€˜Just a dawdle,’ she’d reported. ‘I was cool as a breeze with the da. I think he was more stressed out about having his mother-in-law helping than hanging out nappies in his garden where he’d gone to escape. When I told him the Doc. needed to see him he asked why, so I said I didn’t rightly know but maybe he should think about knot tying one way or another. He gave the washing line a good jiggle and said there was nothing wrong with it, and then Father Murphy arrived so I had to be quick.’ Seonaid mimicked the trouser-hitching part of ‘The Sailor’s Hornpipe’ then clapped her hands. ‘He got that message alright.’
    Marie gazed at her, round-eyed.
    â€˜You don’t mean he should,’ she dropped her gaze to her lap then faltered, ‘get done.’
    â€˜A first for Belfast, I imagine,’ I said dryly. ‘Now you know why the Scots wear sporrans, Marie.’
    â€˜Ach! Would you stop your teasing, Jane?’ Seonaid rebuked. ‘At least Mr Murphy got something other than the washing to think about. Father O’Patrick tried for a word but I told him we mustn’t mess with Dr O’Reilly’s time, and if Mr Murphy came now I could get him in by the back entrance so’s it’d be quicker.’
    â€˜And what about Father O’Patrick?’
    â€˜Left holding the babbies, or in his case the nappies.’
    â€˜You’ve got a nerve,’ Margaret had said and not in total admiration. ‘And, Seonaid, are you not a Catholic? I’d have thought all this would be against your principles.’
    â€˜Sure, not when a life’s at stake and I’m saving that oulde yoke Father O’Patrick’s conscience too. He’d feel guilty at some point – or should do. Anyway, Margaret, you’d better stay at home tonight and pray for my soul in your own way,’ said Seonaid, counting her out. ‘Would anybody else like to come to the Showband? I’ve two tickets.’
    The rest of the group declined and, having qualified on the grounds of being a stranger in town and not totally impoverished by buying Matron’s book, I was in.
    â€˜What should I wear?’
    â€˜Tight and not tartan,’ she’d advised, and now that I was back in my room, she’d come to look at a wardrobe full of stout weatherproof gear.
    She was critical. ‘I know we get a lot of rain, but you seem to be expecting a flood. What about this?’ She picked out a dress, so small it was surprising she noticed it. ‘That green’ll go great with your red hair.’
    I’d bought the flimsy thing in a fit of optimism and now, more realistically , was wondering why.
    â€˜It’ll be fine as long as I don’t breathe, and have you a shoe horn? I don’t think Belfast’s ready for so many curves in such a little space.’ I tried to grab it to put it back but Seonaid’s grip tightened. ‘Ah, for God’s sake! This is the Sixties, remember, it’s not as if you’re going to a parish meeting. You’ll be super.’ She rolled the ‘r’ in