Farewell To The East End

narrowly missed having her hands crushed, tried to calm her.
    ‘The bed broke, but the baby is all right, and if you are not hurt, no harm has been done. In fact it’s a good thing, because delivery of your baby will be easier.’
    Chummy’s concern now was that the baby’s head might be born too quickly. The slow and steady delivery of the head is what every midwife hopes for, but with no perineal resistance, this baby could well shoot out with the next contraction.
    Another contraction came, and Kirsty raised her knees and braced herself to push, but Chummy stopped her. ‘Don’t push, Kirsty, don’t push. I know you want to and feel you must, but don’t. Your baby’s head will be born with this contraction, but I want it to come slowly. The slower the better. Concentrate on not pushing. Take little breaths, in-out, in-out, think about breathing, think about relaxing, but don’t push.’ All the time she was saying these words Chummy was holding the head, trying to prevent it from bursting out of the mother at speed. The contraction was waning, Chummy eased the slack perineum around the presenting crown, and the head was born.
    Chummy breathed a sigh of relief. She had been concentrating so hard that she had not noticed the cramp in her legs as she squatted on the deck of the cabin; had not noticed the poor light cast by the hurricane lamp as it swung from a beam; had not noticed the movement of the ship, nor the occasional lurch as the wind hit it. All that she knew was that the miracle of a baby’s birth would shortly take place, that the safe delivery was in her hands, and that the head had been born. Chummy kept her hand under the baby’s face in order to lift it away from the hard floor and waited. Another contraction was coming. Chummy felt the face she was holding move.
    ‘It’s coming, Kirsty. You can push now. Hard.’
    Kirsty drew her legs upwards and pushed. Chummy eased the shoulder out and downwards. The other shoulder and arm quickly followed, and the whole body slid out effortlessly.
    ‘You have a little girl, Kirsty.’
    Emotion flooded over Kirsty with such intensity that she could not speak. Tears took the place of words. ‘Let me have her. Can I see her?’ she spluttered, still floundering with her head on the deck, unable to lift her shoulders. Chummy said ‘I am going to lay her on your tummy while I cut the cord, then you can hold her in your arms.’
    The baby sank into the soft cushion of her mother’s stomach. She was slightly blue around the mouth and extremities, but otherwise she seemed to have suffered no harm from the drama of labour. Chummy severed the cord and then held the baby upside down by the heels. Kirsty gasped and held up her hands protectively.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop her,’ said the midwife, ‘this is done in order to drain the mucus out of the throat, and to help breathing.’
    Then she gave a short, sharp pat to the back of the baby, who at once gave a shrill yell. ‘That’s what I like to hear, let’s have another one.’ The baby obliged, crying lustily, and from outside the door a chorus of men’s voices were heard cheering, shouting, whooping and whistling. They started to sing, in a united and raucous male voice. Kirsty called out to them in Swedish, but they were making so much noise they could not hear her. The captain’s daughter was obviously very popular, and the men responded in their own way. ‘I expect they will all get drunk now,’ she said dryly.
    Chummy wrapped the baby in a towel and placed her in the arms of her mother, who was weeping with joy. ‘Are you all right on the floor like that?’ Chummy enquired with concern.
    ‘I’ve never been better in my life,’ answered Kirsty. ‘I would like to stay here for ever, cuddling my baby.’ She gave a sigh of contentment.
    Chummy now had to deal with the third stage of labour. In retrospect she would say that it was not the most comfortable third stage she had conducted, sprawled as she was across the floor, but at least it was uneventful.
    Chummy washed Kirsty and cleared up the mess as best she could under the circumstances. The problem of how to get Kirsty up off the floor was her next concern. The mother obviously couldn’t care less. She was cuddling, and cooing, and whispering sweet nothings to her baby. Calling the captain was Chummy’s only option, but Kirsty was stark naked. Chummy’s modesty shrank from the thought of exposing her patient, naked,