Hard Labour

3

3After his early morning surf, Vince ducked home and fed his perpetually hungry dog, Deefer. He’d recently moved from a depressing sixties-style unit on the highway to a small house in South Warrnambool, an unfashionable part of town near the beach, his modest dwelling close to the large textile factory that had provided employment for generations of his neighbours. Vince reckoned the area was the town’s best-kept secret, but unfortunately some local developers agreed and rows of fisherman’s cottages like his were slowly being replaced by boxy apartments for yuppies and empty nesters.

His new abode was within walking distance of the beach and the rent was cheap, but the twins, who’d visited last weekend, had been less than impressed with his choice.

‘This place is so cold, Dad,’ commented Tessa, ‘and there’s nowhere to sit down or put your stuff.’

‘Yeah,’ added Georgie. ‘And the bathroom is gross! Living in this dump is like camping. It’s sooo not like a real home.’

Christ, thought Vince, they are fourteen-year-olds, what do they know? ‘Listen girls, I won’t be here all that long, so there’s no point getting too carried away with the Home Beautiful thing.’

‘It was better the last time we came,’ Georgie went on, ‘when you were in that poxy flat. At least the toilet flushed properly.’

‘Okay girls, I get the message,’ he responded. ‘Tell you what, I’ll enter the joint in one of those TV makeover shows and get it zizzed up before your next visit.’ Which gives me plenty of time, he observed darkly, as he dropped them off at the station on the Sunday night.

Deefer gobbled up her tucker but Vince couldn’t come at any breakfast himself—his nerves were jangling too much, just like when he was drinking, and he quickly poured down a strong instant coffee before jumping in the shower. After rinsing off the salty ocean water he emerged cleaner and warmer, then stepped out onto the faded blue lino and glanced at himself in the cracked mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

The steamy image looking back was certainly no oil painting: freckly Wimmera skin, a completely chrome dome, and a dial only a mother could love. Big enough—over six foot two in the old, and solidly put together.

‘You’re built like a brick dunny, son,’ his father used to tell him from the boundary line, ‘so get in and bust a few packs open.’

So he did, and now had the crooked hooter, buggered knees and bent fingers to show for it. Lydia used to say his smile was his most attractive feature but Vince didn’t do much smiling these days.

Forty minutes in the cold Southern Ocean had certainly cleaned out the cobwebs, but a nauseating sense of déjà vu remained and he knew that not even a tsunami would wash that away. He returned to the hospital with an unsettling feeling of dread.

Vince parked and walked up the ramp to the main entrance. The Warrnambool Base Hospital was an architectural hotchpotch of different styles and vintages, with the original redbrick building surrounded by two sixties-era cream brick wings and now a recent modern extension with sleek rendered walls, shiny metal panels and gleaming glass windows; mostly, as far as Vince could tell, to accommodate the ever expanding Administration Department.

He started his rounds as usual with the children’s ward and finished on the midwifery floor, where, as well as the new baby, he had a thirty-one weeker with high blood pressure. His other overnight obstetric admission had proved to be a false alarm and been sent home, and he had two postnatal patients to visit.

In his previous life, Vince used to sit on the bed of each new mother and earnestly quiz her about after-pains, sore perineum and engorged breasts, and cluck-cluck over every newly hatched sprog. These days, he just raced through the ward and the staff knew they would have to virtually trip him up if they want him to attend to something.

After the round, he scribbled in the patients’ progress notes and looked up at the Nurse Unit Manager. ‘Barbara, could you arrange a little meeting for me with the staff that were on last night?’

‘Well, Doctor Hanrahan, I hardly think a meeting is necessary at this stage,’ answered Sister Barbara Craig. ‘We will conduct our usual routine debriefing following a maternal or foetal death. Surely we should wait for the autopsy and Coroner’s findings before any further discussion?’ A frown creased her brow. ‘The hospital insurers will expect a major incident report in due course. My staff from last night are naturally upset and are having a well-earned rest before the debriefing this afternoon.’

Lucky midwives. The nursing hierarchy obviously realised that it made good sense to provide counselling to staff after traumatic events. There was no such luxury for doctors. No doubt there had been many incidents, especially during his early days in the game, which had caused Vince significant psychological angst. Of course he hadn’t realised this at the time; like most young doctors he thought he was bullet proof. And there was nothing a few glasses of red couldn’t fix.

‘Oh come on, Barbara, it’s no big deal,’ he responded impatiently. ‘I’m the one carrying the can here and it would be useful to have a talk about Polly’s labour to try to see what might’ve gone wrong. Call it quality assurance.’

She paused, considering his request. They went back a long way and he knew she would cooperate eventually—in her formal, prickly, old-school way. Barbara had been a charge nurse at the Royal Women’s Hospital when Vince was a resident and she still treated him like the ignorant ingénue he was back then. Her reputation was that of a very good midwife, an excellent leader who didn’t take s**t from anyone.

When Vince first arrived in town, there was initially much gossip about the two of them getting together, but that was never going to happen. She was completely wrapped up in her job—twenty-four-seven; in fact, Vince wouldn’t be surprised if she wore her uniform to bed. Besides which, she just did not press his buttons.

‘Barb, I haven’t got all day. Let’s just make a time and get on with it.’

‘Very well, Doctor,’ she relented, with an air of condescension. ‘Shall we say one o’clock here in the staff tea room?’