In the staff room, an unfamiliar silence hummed like a struck bell. The head midwife, Margaret Hayes, sat with red-rimmed eyes, staring at an empty teacup. Several mismatched mugs with cold tea were scattered about, as though abandoned in haste.
But the worst of it wasn’t the mess. It was the desk. The one that always gleamed with immaculate order—neat stacks of folders, pens, paperclips, everything lined up just so. The desk where the legend himself sat—Archibald Stevens, our old Stevie. Today, it was unrecognizable. Piles of crumpled papers, scribbled birth records, torn surgical masks, medicine wrappers, plastic cups, tangled gauze…
Stevie sat with his head bowed, gazing into nothing. His hands trembled—the very hands that had worked miracles in the operating theatre for decades. Broad, solid, with short fingers, unremarkable yet magical. These were the hands that had saved mothers, pulled babies back from the brink when all hope seemed lost. Never—never before had I seen those hands shake.
“A complaint came through,” whispered Margaret, her lips close to my ear. “Someone high up, from the ministry. The board screamed—said he’s a pensioner, how much longer can he go on? That’s it.” Her voice cracked. “They told him: ‘Retire.'”
…More than twenty years ago.
I had just finished my residency. Me and Dave, my classmate, were on our first night shift. Fifth birth, transverse lie, time slipping away. I felt for the baby’s head—it was wedged to the side, barely reachable. Dave braced the mother’s abdomen, trying to stabilize. Both of us slick with sweat, hands slipping, hearts in our throats…
Then he walked in—Stevie. No fuss, just calmly pulled on gloves. One smooth motion, effortless as a conductor catching a note, he reached through the membranes, found the baby’s feet, and—on the first push—guided them free. By the second, he was holding the newborn. A girl. She cried at once. Alive.
“Could’ve torn,” he murmured. “I’d have answered for that. Obstetrics isn’t heroics. It’s knowing. Read your books, kids.”
And we did. No internet back then. But there was Stevie’s desk. And beneath it—the books you couldn’t find in any library or shop.
…Fifteen years ago.
Midnight. Preterm labour, massive hemorrhage. The baby didn’t make it… Mother on the edge, me—falling apart. Stood in the break room, fumbling a cigarette. Stevie walked over, silently took it, poured my cold tea down the sink, and handed me his thermos.
“Herbal blend. Honey from Devon. A woman brings it every year. Sip slow. Try to sleep. Get used to it. That’s how it is here. If you tear yourself up over every loss, you won’t live to see the next shift.”
I lay down. He tucked a blanket over me, switched off the light, and closed the door without a sound.
…Ten years ago.
I was the senior on call. Stevie had stayed late, finishing paperwork, popped in to say goodnight. Delivery room—weak contractions, baby’s head too high. Then—bradycardia. The child was slipping away. No time for theatre. Forceps.
I set the anesthetic, but the blades wouldn’t align. Mind blank, pulse in my temples, hands icy. Then, just behind me—his quiet voice:
“Happens. Step back a moment…”
When had he scrubbed in? Gently, he shifted me, adjusted with his hands. There—the blades locked. I took over. He just stood there. Steadied me. Then said:
“Right, I’m off. Late again. See you tomorrow.”
…Three years ago.
“See this rose?” He adjusted his glasses. “Was half-dead. Now look—three feet tall. And that colour! Pale gold, edges like sunset. Ever seen life bloom like that?”
We sat in his cottage garden. His little paradise. Where the cherry tree fruited for the third year. Where he rolled dough for jam pasties, thin as parchment, shaped by his own hands.
“Shame you’re leaving. Grandkids are coming for summer. And you…” His gaze held no hurt, no blame. “Course I’ll miss you. But I sleep now. Imagine that? Sleep like a normal man. First few months, I’d wake in a panic—thought it was a call. Then I couldn’t sleep because I’d forgotten how. But now… now I live. Breathe. Maybe for the first time, I know what it is to just be a man. Not a doctor. Just a grandad. With roses. With family. With a home.”
He fell quiet, stood. Passing the bush, he plucked a yellowed leaf—one flick of his fingers. The rose didn’t stir. Just the sun brushing its petals. And it was clear—his hands still remembered how to save. Only now, they saved silence. The garden. Life.
