Читать книгу Keeping Faith - Roger Averill - Страница 17

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I was working alone in the Natural Birthing Centre’s Pan Room when someone knocked on the door. It was open and I told them to come in.

Wearing elbow-length woollen mittens, taking a steaming hot bedpan from the steriliser, I turned round and saw a woman in her early twenties, with short, crimson-coloured hair and a ring through her nostril. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, half lifting her hand as if to wave.

I slotted the metal pan into the rack on the wall. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Jenny, our midwife, sent me here. She said you’d be able to give me the placenta.’

Judging by the hair, the green, crushed-velvet top, I expected her to be louder, more brash, but she was softly spoken, almost old-fashioned in her politeness. Slipping off the mittens, I walked to the bench beneath the dispensary window and picked up a small white plastic bag. ‘What’s the name?’ I asked, trying to find an identification label on the bag. ‘Williams?’

‘Yeah, that’s Carly — it’s her placenta; I’m just her helper.’

Handing it to her, feeling the slimy thing through the plastic, I said, ‘Hold it underneath; they’re not real strong these bags. You wouldn’t want it splitting open.’

As she was about to leave I asked what they were going to do with it, teasing her by saying I had heard they were good for the garden.

‘We’re going to eat it,’ she said, grinning, enjoying seeing me shocked. ‘They’re full of iron, you know.’