4
‘Well, did you enjoy that?’
Maisie and Molly were walking down the High Street in Belfast, having enjoyed Sunday tea and cake in the Albert Ices café, as Maisie had promised.
‘It was class, Maisie!’ Molly wrapped her shawl more tightly about her – for early September, it was fairly cold in Belfast. ‘But I wish I’d gone for an ice cream instead of Victoria sponge.’
‘Ah now, don’t be starting that! It took you a good ten minutes to decide as it was! Besides, it’s freezing out. Imagine how cold you’d be feelin’ if you’d just eaten an ice cream.’
Molly giggled. ‘I was a disaster, wasn’t I?’
As she chattered on, Maisie briefly allowed herself to think about the war now raging in Europe.
As with the Great War, more countries were joining every day, it seemed – on both sides.
There had been a radio in the café, and conversations all around them had been focusing on the war, and Canada’s recent declaration of war against Germany.
Canada! Maisie shivered – this time, not from the cold.
Thankfully, she’d been able to keep her sister distracted.
Wee Molly didn’t need to be worrying about things she could do nothing about.
Having gone down Castle Street and King Street, they were now heading southwards towards the Grosvenor Road corner. Molly kept looking up in awe at the impressive buildings they were passing. ‘What’s that one, Maisie?’
‘That’s Inst,’ she said shortly, sighing at Molly’s puzzled look. ‘The Royal Belfast Academical Institution. It’s a school.’
‘Wow.’ Molly’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a school?’
‘Aye. A very fancy school. You have to pay to go there, I think.’
‘So it’s not for the likes of us.’ Molly’s tone was matter-of-fact.
‘Well, it’s for boys anyway.’ And almost all of them Presbyterian, Maisie thought, but kept that to herself.
‘Ach, right.’
‘Why? Would you actually want to go to a school like that?’ They were now directly level with the Inst front lawn – a large expanse of immaculate grass surrounded by mature trees.
‘The thing is . . .’ Molly spoke slowly, as if articulating something she had never before said out loud. ‘Ever since you went away to England to learn to be a midwife, I keep thinking maybe I could do something like that someday. Something . . . fancy. Could I, Maisie?’
Maisie’s heart sank. The answer should be a clear No. And yet . . .
‘Who knows? I had no idea I was gonna be so lucky. And now our Matty might get an apprenticeship. So who’s to say what might happen for you?’
‘Aye.’ Molly looked pleased, and Maisie bit her lip. God, I hope I haven’t given her notions of impossible things! Disappointment, as she well knew, was a hard lesson to take.
They were now approaching the Presbyterian Assembly Buildings, and as they reached it a crowd of well-dressed people began emerging from the main door. It was late afternoon, and most church services were done by Sunday lunchtime – though not, it seemed, for the Presbyterians.
Instinctively, Maisie slowed down to step among them, and Molly matched her, slipping a hand through her arm.
The Presbyterians ignored her and Molly of course, too busy conversing among themselves.
A prayer meeting, she realised, listening to some of the chatter.
Protestants seemed to like their prayer meetings.
Only really holy Catholics went to extra stuff like that.
Bible study and all. Still, war was here.
Maybe extra prayer meetings weren’t such a bad idea.
Instinctively, Maisie lowered her eyes, focusing on legs and feet, avoiding eye contact. She wouldn’t know any of them anyway, and there was always the risk that there would be a bigot among them – a bigot ready to say something.
They can’t possibly know we’re Catholic, she reminded herself.
But they would know that Maisie and Molly were not well off.
While Maisie was wearing a coat, it was thin and hadn’t cost very much, while Molly wore the traditional shawl associated with the millies – and which was also worn by the shawlies, the country women who would come into Belfast to sell their eggs and butter on market days.
The clothes she and Molly were wearing had nothing on the rich fabrics and detail of the well-to-do Presbyterians emerging from their gathering, and that fact would be obvious to anyone who gave them more than a passing glance.
Even the difference in shoes marked them out.
The pavement was full of feet encased in fancy leather, buffed to a shine – for both the men and the women.
The men wore suit trousers, the women expensive nylons.
In contrast, Maisie’s sensible brogues and dark thick tights were the same ones she wore for work – she and Molly only owned one pair of shoes each.
And sure, why would anybody waste precious funds on something as superfluous as extra shoes or fine nylons?
There were still children in West Belfast who had never worn shoes; Maisie was grateful her family had avoided that level of poverty. So far.
She stopped. A fine pair of men’s leather shoes was blocking her way.
‘Maisie! Miss Canavan!’ The voice was deep, and attractive, and somehow familiar. Lifting her eyes, she met the grey-eyed gaze of Dr Alexander Lowe, and her heart stupidly decided to skip a couple of beats.
‘Dr Lowe,’ she managed. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you. Just been to a – er, to a meeting.’
‘Aye.’ Her eyes flicked briefly to the left, to the massive neo-gothic edifice that was the Assembly Buildings. There was a pause. Say something! ‘We’ve been to a café for a treat. Albert’s Ices.’
‘Oh. Is that in the High Street?’
‘It is, aye.’
‘I think I’ve seen it.’
‘I had Victoria sponge.’ Molly, clearly deciding that enough time had passed without anyone speaking to her, took a hand in matters.
‘Ooh. I love Victoria sponge.’ His eyes twinkled, and something strange stirred within Maisie. ‘Was it good?’
‘Aye. It was class, so it was!’ Molly smiled at him, sending a wave of disorientation through Maisie. Her two worlds were colliding, right here in the street. Home was home, and work was work, and never should they—
‘I’m Alex.’ He stuck out a hand, and Molly took it, looking both solemn and awestruck at the same time.
She seemed unable to speak – an unusual occurrence – so it was Maisie’s turn to intervene. ‘This is my sister, Molly.’
‘Hello, Molly. It’s nice to meet you.’
Molly gulped, nodded, then glanced at Maisie, her eyes wide.
‘How old are you, Molly – if that isn’t a rude question?’
‘I’m t-twelve.’
‘Wow,’ he said, his tone light. ‘So grown up!’
She beamed at this. As the youngest, Molly was more used to being called the ‘chile’ and treated as younger than she was.
‘Who’s this, Alex?’ An elderly man had joined them, leaning on a stick but with intelligent curiosity in his grey eyes. Alex’s eyes.
‘Miss Canavan and her sister, Molly. I work with Miss Canavan in the Royal, Granda.’
He stuck out a hand. ‘Patrick Lowe. I’m ninety-five, you know.’
Maisie had to smile. Alex’s granda’s eyes held genuine warmth as he spoke to both Maisie and Molly, saying that he was very pleased to meet them, and seemingly oblivious to Maisie’s desire to escape as soon as she could. I can see where Alex gets his charm.
‘Alexander!’ The tone was curt, and Maisie looked to see who had spoken. This time it was a middle-aged man – handsome, impeccably dressed, and scowling. Beside him was a good-looking lady of a similar age, wearing the most beautiful blue coat.
‘My parents,’ Alex explained, turning slightly to include them. ‘Mother, Father, this is Miss Canavan. And this is her sister, Molly.’
‘How d’ye do?’ They all exchanged the required words – Mrs Lowe with politeness, Mr Lowe with clear reluctance, and Maisie with her insides cringing in mortification.
Neither of them added the optional ‘Nice to meet you’.
The Lowes clearly didn’t feel it, and Maisie would have died rather than give them the satisfaction of sucking up to them.
Alex’s father was currently perusing the girls’ appearance, and there was a hint of a sneer in his expression as his gaze reached Molly’s shawl. His eyes met Maisie’s and she straightened, pulling her gaze away to focus on Alex.
‘Well, we need to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr Lowe.’
‘Yes, indeed!’ His bright smile wasn’t entirely convincing.
Head held high, Maisie made her way through the throng, Molly hanging on to her arm. Crossing the street at the corner, she made for the safety of the Grosvenor Road.
‘Slow down, Maisie!’ Molly protested, and Maisie shortened her stride, her heart thumping with indignation.
Exhaling slowly, Maisie deliberately dropped her shoulders. ‘Is any of them behind us?’
Molly stole a look. ‘No. Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothin’. Nothin’s wrong.’
Molly looked dubious, then thought for a moment. ‘I like him. The doctor.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Yeah, he looks like one of them film stars in the posters.’ Filum. That’s how the word was pronounced around here. Maisie had been laughed at in London for saying it that way and had tried hard to say it their way, but it had never worked. She was too Belfast to be easily changed.
‘And he shook my hand, Maisie.’ Molly’s eyes were shining. ‘No grown-up ever shook my hand before.’
‘Well sure you’re twelve now. Soon you’ll be shaking hands left, right, and centre!’
‘Yeah. He’s definitely nice.’
‘He is.’ And you will never, ever see him again, if I have anything to do with it! Humiliation was still flooding through her, making her pulse race and her stomach churn. The disdain in Mr Lowe’s expression was something she would not forget for a long, long time.
Soon they were back at the house, and in the safety of familiar surroundings.
Moya was there with John-Joe, and the house was busy, and warm, and full of cups of tea.
John-Joe and Moya were bickering as usual, Da was laughing in the corner with Matty, and Mammy was bustling about with a teapot, topping up everyone’s drink. Home.
* * *