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

competitive but the worry of Denise was already giving me palpitations. Not for the first time in a career on which I was so determined, I wondered why on earth I was pursuing it. It was bad enough having responsibility for one, never mind two, even if the second had sentenced its mother to a ninemonth puke. Denise’s rocketing blood pressure could lead to a ‘bad news all round’ eclamptic fit whilst still to come was the actual birth!
    My stroke would just have to wait.
    â€˜Every baby is an individual,’ Miss Harvey had intoned, ‘and so nobody can actually say for sure how quickly they will arrive. Sometimes,’ she had given a little chortle, ‘the little rascals can surprise even the most professional of midwives, so you need to keep a lookout all the time.’
    Unsure how to define ‘lookout’ other than peeking under the sheets whilst listening for unusual sounds, I was convinced that, with each contraction, this little rascal of a baby would arrive. Presumably one born in a bed would get me black marks. If I didn’t read the signs accurately and Denise didn’t get transferred to the labour ward in time it would figure badly in my record book as well as putting Margaret and Cynthia’s superiority at an all-time high. I put my hand on Denise’s abdomen and felt its hard contraction.
    Oh Lord! Was this it?
    Denise moved restlessly.
    â€˜You alright?’ I asked, finger hovering over the panic button.
    She raised an eyebrow. ‘Never better, and would ye calm down? You’re making me nervous, so ye are.’ She reached towards her locker, pushing aside the sickness bowl. ‘I don’t think I’m needing that. Now where’s me Ulster Farmer’s magazine?’ She sounded a different girl – presumably her sickness had joined the baby in moving out.
    â€˜Denise! You’re full of surprises. I thought Ulster Fashion Tips would be more your line.’
    â€˜Ye thought wrong then, didn’t you,’ said Denise, waving the magazine . ‘Us farmers need to keep up with what’s going on. Now put away that eau de cologne you keeping drowning me with and see if there’s any messages from that baby.’
    Pleased with her humour, I put the stethoscope in place, closed my eyes and listened. My heartbeat was so loud I wondered why my textbooks hadn’t offered any handy tips on screening out such competition.
    â€˜Hello! I’m back. I’ve just had my last witness,’ announced Oliver from the doorway. Now, apparently qualified as a self-appointed advisor, he strolled in, pursing his lips to convey serious intent whilst folding his arms and looking over the charts as if they were ledgers.
    â€˜Hello, Denise,’ he said, favouring her with a smile that made him look like a friendly ferret. ‘Things coming along fine are they? Thought I’d just see how you’re both faring.’
    I presumed he meant the baby but he was raising his eyebrows and pointing to a graph that, before I’d gone deaf, had recorded a baby’s very fast heartbeat. It was about to go off scale. This baby must be doing circuit training, but surely it was time to get it off the treadmill . Any more of this and I’d not only be getting more graph paper, I’d be ringing that bell.
    â€˜Uh-huh. You’ll need to watch this,’ he breathed.
    â€˜What’re you whispering about?’ asked Denise, suddenly looking anxious enough to tear herself from the fascinations of pig breeding. ‘Is everything all right there?’
    â€˜Absolutely fine. If Mr Allan would just shush, I’d get a good listen. See what’s the news.’
    As the baby clocked another round, I took another reading and breathed easier. This was better. It must be taking a rest – even Denise’s blood pressure was back on track. I must read that article on pigs, I thought, it might relax me too.
    Oliver had fetched a