18 #2
He reached out, squeezing her shoulder briefly.
Inside, his stomach felt sick. ‘Of course you aren’t!
’ Ensuring his mother’s happiness was one of his missions in life.
Father could be morose at times, and critical, and even cutting, and Alex had taken it upon himself to protect her from some of Father’s worst comments – often by giving his father cause to divert his ire away from his wife and towards his son.
Granda helped too, at times, but mostly he would simply set his jaw and glare at his son.
Now, being the cause of his mother’s distress was terrible.
‘Your father is going to go clean mad!’ She sounded frightened now, which Alex understood. While Father had never raised a hand in anger to either of them, his anger was not a small thing.
He shrugged, knowing he needed to minimise the possibility of doing something that would upset them this badly. ‘Clean mad about what? Sure, nothing’s happened!’
‘Yes, but if you end up wanting to marry this Catholic . . .’ Her tone was scathing, and he cringed inside at being faced with just how bigoted she was. His own mother, whom he knew to be a good person, yet she could not see past her own bias. Or her fear of her husband. Or both.
He managed a light laugh. ‘All I said was that I like her. I like lots of people.’
‘Well, if you do ask her out, I don’t want to know about it!’ she declared fiercely.
‘I hear you,’ he said seriously.
‘Good.’ She paused. ‘And don’t do this to your father. It would break his heart.’
And that’s that. Mother wasn’t asking him to avoid Father’s anger. Instead, she was now asking him to show love. How could any good son break his father’s heart?
His own heart was sore. Although he had known what a big issue this was, somehow he had been lulled by Edinburgh into hoping it might be different.
A new notion came to him, blindingly obvious now he had thought of it.
Perhaps this was partly behind Maisie’s withdrawal from him.
Perhaps she understood these things better than him.
His mind was reeling, and he honestly felt like he had been walking around with his head in the clouds, believing that any bigotry in his own family didn’t run deep.
He’d been wrong, for if even someone as kind as Mother could react like this, what hope was there for progress in this place?
Yet he remained drawn to Maisie. He could picture her now – cheeky grin, beautiful face, stunning figure.
No other girl had ever occupied his thoughts as she did.
And he knew it went deep with him, the way she made him feel.
God help me, I don’t know if I can let this go.
Almost, he hoped she didn’t like him, for that would be more straightforward.
Unfortunately, it was entirely possible that she too had enjoyed their kisses, but was wary of getting close to a Protestant – despite having an Anglican boyfriend during her training.
But Belfast was not London. It mattered here.
Was there another way? Could he indulge this fascination, let it lightly run its course, and get her out of his head that way?
Maybe. Perhaps it was all so captivating only because there was an air of the forbidden about it.
Forbidden because they worked together, and because everyone noticed things, speculated.
And forbidden because they were from such different backgrounds.
Yes, that might explain the degree of attraction he was feeling.
So maybe, without making a big thing of it with Mother, he could ask Maisie out, perhaps even take her out a few times, let his infatuation with her die a natural death.
Like the light connections he’d made in Edinburgh.
Girls who were perfectly nice, but whom he now rarely even thought about, and he knew they would not be thinking of him either. Light. Casual. Fun.
Aye, that was a better plan. Far, far better.
* * *
They were back at the Orpheus, and it was exactly like before.
Despite all her inner warnings and worries – which had prevented her from sleeping well – Maisie was dancing every dance with Alex Lowe.
It seemed natural, somehow. Even though she could never truly be his girl.
Even though he would be an entirely unsuitable boyfriend.
But when he and Dan had come up to her and Peggy, like last time, Alex had smiled at her, and her heart had melted, and stupidly, she had smiled back. Yup, she had stood there grinning like a loon, and when the music had started they had moved to the dance floor together without him even asking.
They had now reached the interval, and were seated together on the plush chairs, his arm along the back of her chair and his face dangerously close to hers.
‘Dan keeps going on at me about these céilís,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘But what could be better than this?’ He waved a hand vaguely at their fancy surroundings.
‘Beautiful ballroom, good music, great company . . .’ His eyes darkened as he said the last, and her pulse skipped at his undoubted meaning.
Alex had this power to make her entire body thrill and fizz when he gave her certain looks – like the one he was giving her now.
‘To be fair,’ she managed, ‘St John’s parish hall isn’t fancy like this, and there bees only a few musicians on the stage, but .
. .’ She thought for a moment. ‘The dances be special. And the locals getting up to sing or say a poem . . . there’s a sense of belonging.
Like, the dances in London were exactly like this one.
Not one bit o’ difference. Same music, same type of hall, same dances.
And you’d get the same in – I dunno, New York or Paris or somewhere.
But you can only get a St John’s céilí at St John’s, you know? ’
‘Well, no. I don’t know. That’s kind of the point. But I am curious, so I’ve finally agreed to go to the next one with Dan in a fortnight.’
‘Oh.’ Her sister would be there, and she didn’t want to get in trouble with Mammy.
But, oh! It would be such great craic to try to teach Alex the céilí dances!
He was watching her intently, so she babbled on.
‘Aye, that’ll be the last one before they stop for Advent.
There’s always a big one between Christmas and New Year, though. ’
‘Well, mebbe I’ll go to that too, if I like the first one.’ He grimaced theatrically. ‘Or if they don’t kick me out for being a Protestant!’
‘And sure why would anybody do that?’ Her hackles were up. ‘We welcome visitors, so we do. There’s usually a few Anglicans who come that are into Irish music.’
‘Ah, the Anglicans . . .’ He sent her a keen look. ‘I remember you said you used to have an Anglican boyfriend?’
She took a breath, knowing she was more ready this time to talk about this.
‘I did. Gerald, he was called. I went out with him in London.’ She had told him this much before, but if Alex was interested enough to ask questions, she’d answer them.
Her insides were surprisingly calm. Right now, her time with Gerald seemed like a hundred years ago.