3 #2
‘And,’ Maisie declared, having just had an idea, ‘I’ll take you into town on Sunday for tea and a bun in a café.’
‘A café? An actual café?’ Molly had only been in cafés a handful of times in her life. She bounded towards Maisie. ‘You’re the best!’
Maisie laughed. ‘You’re soaking me!’ But she hugged her wee sister in return, regardless of wet handprints on her back.
‘Sorry!’ Molly was grinning as she returned to the dishes. ‘What’s your work like?’
An image of Mrs Lennon flashed into Maisie’s brain – Mrs Lennon as Maisie had last seen her, headed out the door with Junior by her side, and an appointment card in her handbag to return in a week.
‘My work is . . . amazing. It’s hard at times, but it’s class being there for the women and their wee ones. ’
‘Aye, wee babies are lovely.’ Molly shrugged. ‘I dunno what I want, though. I want to be a mammy when I grow up, but mammies never get to go anywhere, do they?’
‘So you want to be a mammy. That means getting married. And you want to travel as well. Hmmm. Sounds like you need to marry a rich man!’
Molly laughed. ‘As if !’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Are there even rich people in Belfast?’
‘There certainly are! Sure there’s fancy houses all over the place.’
‘Aye, but it’s mostly normal houses like ours.’
Normal. Two rooms upstairs, two downstairs, and an outhouse in the yard.
‘It’s not normal everywhere.’ In London Maisie had supported women in all sorts of houses – from absolute slums to mansions.
Hopefully, she would eventually get out on the district here too supporting the women birthing at home.
That was real midwifery in Maisie’s eyes.
Mammy came in then, bustling about. ‘Well, Maisie, how did you get on the day?’
I’ve been waiting for this moment. ‘Good.’ She took a breath. ‘I got paid for my first two weeks, Mammy.’ Opening her bag, she took out a small brown envelope, handing it over. ‘Here you go.’
Mammy counted it out, and Maisie saw her jaw drop. ‘Seven shillings a week!’ She blessed herself. ‘That’s near double what a man gets in the mills!’
‘Class, isn’t it?’
‘And will they be giving you seven shillings every week?’
‘They will, aye.’
‘Thank the Lord! This is – this is feckin’ unbelievable!’ Mammy blessed herself to apologise to God for cursing, and Maisie stifled a smile. Mammy never said bad words normally – not even things as mild as ‘feckin’’. She got pulled in for a hug then – and Mammy’s hugs were special.
‘Ah, Maisie, Maisie.’ Mammy seemed fairly overcome. ‘It’s like having two extra wages now you’re home, so it is!’
‘Remember, though, that we need to put aside five or six shillings in the pound for the tax bill that they’ll give me in March. We got a talk about it on Tuesday.’
‘Right. Right. I’ll keep that in the tax tin every week, so.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And will the tax man know exactly what you’ve earned?’
Ah, Mammy – cute as a fox, and twice as fly! ‘Yeah, the Royal tells them about the standard wages.’ She winked. ‘But not the overtime.’
‘And will you have the chance of overtime?’
‘I will, once I’m finished this orientation stage,’ she mouthed the word carefully.
‘Orientation, is it?’ Mammy’s eyes widened. ‘Orientation, and seven shillings a week! My God, Maisie, you’re a – a professional!’ She turned to Molly. ‘Go you to the shop and get flour, butter, sugar, and apples.’
Molly’s eyes widened. ‘Are we having apple tart, Ma? On a Friday?’ Maisie handed her the tea towel to dry her hands.
‘We are, for this isn’t just any Friday. This is the best Friday we’ve ever seen! But don’t you be tellin’ anybody about our Maisie’s wages, you hear me?’
‘No, Mammy.’ Molly finished drying her hands and headed out through the living room, a couple of coins and a string bag in her hand.
Mammy exhaled slowly. ‘I knew you’d probably be on good money, Maisie, but I never expected this.’ She frowned, considering. ‘I’ll talk to your da about it, but I’m thinkin’ we might be able to get our Matty an apprenticeship.’
Maisie’s heart swelled. The money wasn’t hers – it belonged to the family.
Everybody handed over their wages to Mammy, who managed their finances as best she could.
Even though Maisie had turned twenty-one last month she would still be handing over her wages.
They had seen some hard times over the years – the entire 1930s had been a disaster for most families, financially.
Yet somehow Mammy had managed to keep on paying the rent and putting food on the table week after week.
Da and Matty both worked in the Springfield Mill, along with Maureen, Maisie’s seventeen-year-old sister.
It’s where Maisie would have still been working too, if she hadn’t been lucky enough to get to England for her midwifery training.
Thank God for Granny’s gift! Granny Canavan had come into money late in life, thanks to unexpectedly inheriting the family farm.
She had promptly sold it, dividing the money up among all her children and grandchildren, including buying an apprenticeship for the oldest unmarried grandchild in each house – boy or girl.
In their house that should have been Moya, but since Moya was already engaged, and said she wanted to concentrate on marriage and babies, the gift had passed to Maisie.
She would never forget the day when Granny had spoken to her about the plan.
Her parents had already known, having been involved in the many complex family discussions that had been going on for weeks.
‘Now, think carefully, Maisie,’ Mammy had said, ‘about what training you want. There’s enough for a full apprenticeship – same as your cousins. You could be a seamstress, or a nurse, or a teacher, maybe.’
Maisie hadn’t hesitated. ‘I want to be a midwife.’ She had been nine when Mammy had given birth to Molly – her last child – and still remembered being astounded by the midwives and handywomen who had supported her.
Handywomen were the uncertified lay midwives who had served the women of Belfast for generations.
They had been around long, long before the advent of formal training courses for midwives, and Maisie had great respect for them.
For her, though, the certified midwife in particular had been an impressive figure, with a bicycle, a leather bag, and even a uniform.
Until that moment in Granny’s house, Maisie had never shared her yearnings with anyone, knowing it was an impossible dream.
But the dream had become reality, and now her midwifery earnings might offer a similar chance to her lovely younger brother.
Granny had died before Maisie left for England, but Maisie knew how proud her grandmother would have been.
Matty (who was between Maisie and Maureen in the family) was eighteen, and they had never been able even to consider an apprenticeship for him before, as the family simply wouldn’t have been able to manage without his mill wages.
As an apprentice, her brother would earn very little – especially in the first year – but with Maisie’s wages helping out, they should be able to manage.
We are poor. The notion struck Maisie anew.
Having been out in the world for a year, she could see certain things more clearly.
She and her entire family would never have savings, never own their home, never go on ‘holiday’ or own a car or wear fancy clothes.
There would be times when they’d worry about having enough money for food and coal and shoes.
But Maisie’s job would make a big difference, and for that she was grateful.
It wasn’t her doing anyway – this was Granny Canavan’s money coming back round to help again in a new way.
Thank you, Granny. She blessed herself and glanced upwards, hoping Granny (Lord rest her) could hear her.
She finished the dishes while Mammy saw to the food, and the only sounds in the kitchen for a while were the splash and clink of delph, the bubbling of the vegetables on the cooker, and the hum of voices from the living room.
Once the dishes were done Maisie went through to sit with Maureen and her friend áine.
Maureen and áine had been in the same school year, though áine was a few months younger.
They were now together in the mill, and were generally inseparable.
áine had a hard home life – her da was fond of the drink, and áine’s ma sometimes had bruises that she said was her own clumsiness. Maisie wasn’t so sure.
Still, áine was always welcome in their house, even when money was tight and food was short. Mammy never complained, and Maisie knew why. You did the right thing, in whatever wee way you could.
‘Well, girls!’
‘Well, Maisie. How’s the job goin’?’
áine wasn’t simply asking out of politeness, Maisie knew.
The girl regularly helped her granny, Ma Kennedy, who was a well-respected local handywoman.
Officially, qualified midwives were supposed to disapprove of handywomen, but Maisie had been reared in West Belfast and, to her, they were as important a part of the community as the nun, the seamstress, and the milly.
‘I love it.’ It was true. Sitting here, with girls who would no doubt give their right arm for the opportunity, Maisie knew that, no matter how tough the work was, she had to be grateful.
Carefully, she told the girls about some of the women she’d supported during her first week – ensuring she didn’t share anything that might reveal their identity.
The girls seemed fascinated. She left out the story of poor Mrs Lennon, though.
Mrs Lennon, who would probably talk to Father Wallis tonight after evening Mass, who would be in pure turmoil right now about what Dr Fenton had said to her that morning.
‘And do you not get to see the babbies being born?’ áine seemed fascinated.