11 #2
‘I’m all right.’ And she was, in a sense.
What had happened to Mrs Lennon was awful, but there was no changing it now.
‘There’s a thing I tell myself sometimes.
I got it from my mammy. You have to figure out the difference between the things you can change and things you can’t.
If there’s something you can do, and it would make somebody’s life better, then you do it.
But if you’re worrying about something that’s out of your power to change, then the best thing is to let it go.
’ Mrs Lennon. Gerald. She couldn’t change either situation, so she had to find peace with how things were, not how she would like them to be.
‘Are we still talking about Mrs Lennon?’
Damn, he was far too perceptive. She shrugged, hoping the view he seemed to have directly into her soul was shuttering. ‘It applies to the situation today, but I’ve found it useful with other things in my life.’
‘Like?’ He had stopped eating, and was watching her intently.
‘I suppose I get disappointed,’ she said carefully. ‘By people. By the world. I worry.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I get that. I’m a bit different, I suppose. I don’t tend to . . . what’s the word? Ruminate.’
‘What a great word! I have an image in my head now of a very wise cow, chewing the cud and figuring out all the mysteries of life.’
He laughed. ‘For all we know, they might well have figured everything out already. They’re just waiting to be consulted!’
She laughed along, then they ate some more wheaten in companionable silence.
‘One thing I’d like to understand better, and I hope you won’t mind me asking .
. . ’ He took another sip of tea. ‘The Catholic religion. Mrs Lennon, you know? How different are her beliefs to mine? I’m Presbyterian.
I think it would help me as a doctor to understand it, since there are so many Catholics coming into the Royal. ’
She thought about this for a moment. He seemed genuine, and if it would help even one woman to have her religious beliefs understood and respected, then that would be a good thing, surely?
‘I don’t think it is very different, to be honest. Don’t tell anybody I said that!
’ She frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t know that much about Presbyterians.
When I was in London my boyf— I knew someone who was Anglican, and we couldn’t work out many differences at all – except transubstantiation, which is frankly, a bit far-fetched. ’
‘All right, I’ll ask.’ Laughter danced in his eyes. ‘What is transubstantiation and why is it far-fetched?’
‘Right. So you know the bread and wine, and how Jesus said “this is my body” and “this is my blood” at the Last Supper?’
‘I do, aye. A lifetime of bible classes.’
‘Well, Catholics believe that the bread and wine literally changes. Like, literally.’ She rolled her eyes, then ducked, looking about and adding furtively, ‘God, I hope nobody heard me! If Father Wallis finds out, I’ll be excommunicated!’
He laughed, then asked what ‘excommunicated’ meant.
They talked for ages, then left together, walking up the Falls, past St Paul’s church, where even now the dour Father Wallis might be administering confessions.
Don’t think about him! On they went, past Dunville Park and the shops, until they reached the corner of Dunlewey Street.
Alex had his bicycle, which he wheeled alongside them. He seemed in no hurry to go home.
‘This is me,’ said Maisie, and he eyed the street keenly.
Nerves rose within her. What does he make of Dunlewey Street?
She tried to look at it through his eyes.
A big convent on the corner, the school, the mill and chimney down the bottom, and most of the street taken up by tiny red-brick houses.
‘I suppose you’re thinking the houses are awful small.
We’re all millies around here. Well, most of us.
’ She lifted her chin. Well dare he say anything to criticise her community!
‘Actually I was thinking how well you’ve done to qualify as a midwife. It mustn’t have been easy for your family to get the fees and all sorted.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to be patronising. I genuinely—’
‘No, it’s all right.’ She could see he was mortified. ‘I can tell you don’t mean anything bad.’
‘No.’
‘Well, Maisie!’ Someone hailed her from behind and she turned.
‘Matty!’ A huge smile split her face as she saw her brother. He was clearly on his way home after his first day as an apprentice painter. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Good,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I done all right.’
‘Ah that’s class!’ Overcome, she threw her arms around him. Good news was powerful today.
‘Here, go easy, Maisie!’ The tips of his ears had turned pink, and he was looking askance at Alex.
‘Sorry, sorry! This is my friend Alex from work. Alex, this is my brother Matty.’
‘Brother!’ he echoed, then stuck out a hand. ‘Good to meet you, Matty.’
‘And you. Right, I’m away on in.’
‘I’ll be in in a minute.’
He raised a hand in farewell, and she noticed Alex watching to see which house Matty went into. ‘I bet yours is a bit bigger than ours.’ It didn’t matter if he judged her. She knew she had the best deal, even if he lived in a mansion. No family could be better than her own.
‘Aye, a bit. But a house is a house, right?’
He was trying to be nice, so she didn’t mention the trappings of poverty that were obvious if you know how to look. Some of these tiny two-up-two-downs had fifteen people living in them.
‘Have you far to go?’ she indicated the bike.
‘Cliftonville Road. Not far.’
Aye, not far in miles. But Cliftonville Road was in a fancy part of North Belfast. A world apart.
‘So what was your brother doing today?’
‘Oh – he started as an apprentice painter.’
‘That’s brilliant. Hard to get a start.’
‘Hard to break out of the mills. We’re lucky.’
‘Yous are. In lots of ways. You’ve a brother and a sister, and maybe more. I’m the only one in my house.’
‘Ah God love ya. Must have been hard – though you won’t have wanted for anything.’
‘We were never short of money,’ he conceded, ‘but the house was very quiet.’
‘Ouch. Are you being diplomatic?’
He laughed. ‘Trying to. My mother and father are the salt of the earth, you know? And my granda is class. But I’d have loved a brother.’ His eyes grew wistful as he gazed once more down Dunlewey Street.
‘Well there was seven of us, plus Mammy and Da, and I’d have loved a bit of peace and quiet sometimes!’
‘Seven! Good Lord!’
‘Good Lord!’ she echoed, just to try such a fancy expletive in her mouth. ‘Aye, packed like sardines we were, until the big ones got married. I’m the eldest at home now.’
‘What are they all called?’
In a sing-song voice she rattled off the names. ‘Michael, Maolíosa, Moya, Maisie, Matty, Maureen, and Molly.’
‘Molly! I’ve met her.’
‘You have.’
‘Nice wee girl. So am I right in saying there’s four of you still at home, along with your parents?’ She nodded. ‘You, Matty, Molly, and . . . one more.’
‘Maureen,’ she supplied.
And I’m assuming Michael, Moya, and . . . the second one are all married?’
‘Maolíosa. Aye.’
‘Of course! Melissa,’ he repeated, so she had to correct him.
‘Not Melissa, Maolíosa,’ she said, emphasising the ee sound. ‘Like Lisa, rather than Lissa.’
‘Oh. Maleesa, then. Is that a Catholic name?’
She nodded. ‘Means servant of Jesus, apparently.’
‘Huh. That’s quite nice.’
‘Not so nice for our Maolíosa when our Matty and Michael used to wind her up by firing orders at her. Wash my cup, servant! That sort of thing. She used to lose her temper every time.’
‘See? Brothers and sisters. I never had any of that.’
‘Honest to God, you’re lucky!’
‘Why all the names beginning with M?’
‘People always ask us that. Mammy and Da both have names beginning with M. Michael was named after Da – he’s Mick – and then Maolíosa was named after my granny.
After that they just kept going. Mammy often says God didn’t send her any more children after Molly because there weren’t any good names left beginning with the letter M!
’ She spotted Mammy at the front door, hands on hips, looking at them. ‘Uh-oh. I have to go.’
He followed her gaze. ‘Your mother?’
‘Aye. I reckon she needs me to help with the tea. See you tomorrow.’
‘See you!’
Mammy headed inside once she saw that Maisie was coming, and she couldn’t resist turning to look at Alex one last time.
He was on his bike, and already disappearing around the corner towards North Belfast. They had had a nice chat, but she mustn’t read too much into it.
She had clicked with him, as she had with Peggy. They were all friends, nothing more.
The more Maisie got to know Alex though, the less like Gerald he seemed, and the more she wished she might be able to open her heart to him.
But their conversation about religion and family had made her look at something she knew in her heart of hearts: it didn’t matter whether she now felt ready for another boyfriend or not.
It could never be Alex, even when she was sure she was ready.
Alex was Protestant. And as his inability even to pronounce her sister’s name demonstrated: he knew little about the Catholic faith, or the Catholic community. And that was bigger than any heartbreak that had come before: that was the biggest possible barrier round here.