Ernest hardly knew what to do. He had trained briefly as a nurse, and his father had been a doctor, but men had never in his time been allowed in the room for a delivery. He'd overheard some of the things his father spoke of, but nothing too enlightening. Something about breathing and pushing- maybe?
But then, perhaps she would just know, instinctively? Was that written into a woman's DNA or something?
All he could do was let her cling to his hand as hard as she liked, offer his physical and moral support, and gently soothe her with mumbles of positive affirmations. "You're fine, you're doing fine, sweetheart. It's all okay," and so on.