3 #3
‘I did in London, and will here eventually, but me and the other new girls have to do some time in the clinics and the wards before they let us into labour ward – delivery suite, I mean – or out on the district.’
áine’s brow was furrowed. ‘What’s the difference between labour ward and delivery suite?’
‘No difference. Delivery suite is just a fancier way of saying labour ward. It’s the part of the hospital where the women actually give birth.’
áine had plenty more questions, and by the time Matty and Da had arrived and had a wash, the dinner was ready and the time had flown.
Such a contrast with Maisie’s time in England, where she’d have spent the evening either in her room or in the common-room, chatting with girls from England about their studies, their exams, their teachers.
And about boys. On Fridays, if not on duty, they’d all go to the socials, to flirt and carry on with doctors and airmen and soldiers. It struck Maisie now that she hadn’t thought of Gerald in hours, not since – she reviewed her day – Fenton’s watch!
Never would she have expected to go so long without thinking about him.
He had been her everything for almost a year.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, it seemed she had meant a lot less to him.
Or maybe he had been so hurt and angry that last night, he had lashed out with lies.
Once more her mind went around and around the familiar pain, trying desperately to make sense of it all.
There were seven of them for dinner, which meant the youngest ones eating off their knees, for there were only four chairs around the kitchen table.
Molly sat in the living room, while Maureen and áine took their dinners to sit at the bottom of the stairs.
Tucking into delicious potatoes, turnip, and cabbage, Maisie added a curl of pale butter to her spuds and reflected on her good fortune.
Being home meant everything was new – her job as a qualified midwife, the way her wages would help the family, even the fact that she owned a bicycle for the first time in her life.
Could she, also, become new again? Could Midwife Maisie nullify the ghost of Pupil Maisie?
The girl who had stood out because she was Irish, and didn’t know which fork to use, and had never before been to a concert or a museum?
Maybe she wouldn’t be heartbroken forever. Maybe, with time, thoughts of Gerald and his cruelty that last night would lessen. Maybe her wounds would heal.
She could only hope.
* * *
The ticking of the clock was the loudest sound in the drawing room.
Alex, well-used to the silence, passed no remarks.
It gave him time to think. Mother was sewing, Father reading the paper, Granda enjoying a wee nap in his armchair, and Alex was .
. . reflecting. It was odd, how he was being treated so differently now he was qualified.
Medical students were not well valued in the hospitals.
For years, Alex had felt like an irritant, barely tolerated by doctors, nurses, and midwives.
He had had no clue how to dress a wound or administer an injection or check blood pressure.
Well, of course he hadn’t! He was learning!
Now though . . . During his first week as a qualified doctor, everyone had been respectful.
He had first worn a white coat in anatomy class as a young student, but now he wore it over a suit.
Medical students always dressed neatly, but only qualified doctors wore suits.
He even had a brand-new pocket watch, given to him by Granda on graduation day.
He still recalled the surprise he had felt outside the Whitla Hall that day when he had been presented with the watch.
Granda – his father’s father – knew that Father had been unhappy with Alex’s choice of career, and had pointedly told Alex that he ‘couldn’t have been prouder’ that day.
Father had sniffed and turned away. Thinking about it now, Alex could not recall any occasion when Father had suggested he was proud of him. Just the way he is.
A step in the hall made him lift his head. Sure enough it was their housekeeper, Mrs Sinclair, come to announce that dinner was ready. As he tucked in to delicious cod with potatoes, green beans, and parsley sauce, Alex made idle conversation – idle that is, until he referenced the war.
‘Aye, it was inevitable, really, when you think about it,’ Father agreed.
‘I reckon Chamberlain hoped it wouldn’t happen, but he was smart enough to prepare anyway.
I got a new order yesterday. A big one, for shell casings.
Could be the first of many.’ He grimaced.
‘Not that you want to be making money out of war, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Alex felt torn. Here he was, dedicating his life to saving lives, while his father was literally manufacturing weapons. Or parts of weapons. And yet . . . ‘Hitler can’t be allowed to just take over other countries.’
‘Exactly.’
Mother had been listening with interest. ‘But what does it mean? For us? For Belfast?’
‘We’re a long way from Germany,’ Father said. ‘Unlikely to affect us directly. I’m too old to get called up, and Alexander is a doctor, of course.’
‘Good lad, Alexander,’ said Granda, and Alex had to admire his cheek. He had no fear of his son’s rigid views, often deliberately winding him up.
There was a silence as they all reflected on the fact that, if he hadn’t gone into medicine, Alex might soon be swapping his day clothes for a soldier’s uniform. Alex’s conversation with Dan earlier came to mind. ‘No conscription at all here.’
Father snorted derisively. ‘Aye, only so the papists can get out of it! I’ve no doubt that young Protestant men will do their duty without any need to be forced into it!
’ His eyes flashed fire. ‘Mrs Sinclair!’ he called, while Mother’s mouth tightened into a hard line.
She did not approve of Father’s occasional fits of what she deemed ‘uncouthness’.
Mrs Sinclair appeared in the doorway, her face red from exertion and her brow furrowed. ‘Yes, Mr Lowe? Have I forgotten something?’
‘Why are we eating cod?’ asked Father, his tone blunt.
‘Oh, I thought you liked cod, Mr Lowe. Should I not cook it no more?’
‘The cod is not a problem,’ said Father. ‘Eating it on a Friday is what I don’t hold with.’
There was a stifled guffaw from Granda, and Father sent him a sharp look. ‘We do not partake in ridiculous papist superstitions!’ he continued to Mrs Sinclair, his tone indignant.
‘Yes, Mr Lowe.’ Mrs Sinclair nodded, her brow clearing.
‘And can we have more parsley sauce, please?’
‘Yes, Mr Lowe.’ She took the sauce boat and departed, leaving behind a tension that had not been there before.
Sectarianism. During his time in Edinburgh, Alex had gradually learned there was a different way of life – one that didn’t obsess over which branch of Christianity people followed.
The university prided itself on being what it described as ‘multi-cultural’, and Alex had encountered people from all races and religions, and from all parts of the world.
Now that he was home, the Catholic–Protestant thing seemed petty.
And what Father had just done was decidedly small-minded.
Riled, he opened his mouth to challenge Father, but a quelling look from Mother stopped him.
She’s right. Father would never change, and all he would achieve would be a row that would leave the whole house disturbed. Uproar, and to what end? His shoulders tense, Alex applied himself to his cod.