21
‘You sure you don’t want me to come in?’ Alex asked the priest, teeth still audibly chattering.
‘No, son. Get you on home to the warm. You’ve done plenty this night.’
Alex’s face twisted. ‘Not enough.’
Father MacLaverty placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s received the Last Rites. That’s important.’
‘Is it?’
‘Aye. Come round to the presbytery and I’ll explain it some time.’
‘I just might do that,’ Alex replied softly. ‘Right! I’m away on then.’ Reaching out, he touched Maisie’s face with one cold hand and she eyed him helplessly.
‘Get yourself home,’ she managed, a tremble in her voice, and he went.
Father Mac leaned his bike against the wall and knocked quietly on the door. It was opened almost immediately by Mr Lennon – Danny, Maisie remembered. His hair was dishevelled, his shirt undone at the neck, and the anguish in his eyes was clearly apparent.
‘Teresa?’ His breath caught. A priest and an unknown woman at his door at near midnight. His eyes widened, then wordlessly he stepped back, allowing them to enter.
The house was a typical two-up-two-down, but Maisie realised straight away that the living room was not as tidy as most women kept it.
The fire was lit and the house smelled clean, but there was a pile of ironing in the corner, and Maisie could also see through the open door the remains of dinner on the kitchen table.
‘Where’s Teresa? Have they found her?’
‘She’s in an ambulance on her way to the Royal.’
‘Oh thank God.’ Danny blessed himself. ‘What happened to her?’
‘I’m Father MacLaverty from St John’s. And this is Miss Canavan – Maisie Canavan.’
‘Hello, Danny. I’m a midwife at the Royal.’ Maisie now saw vague recognition in his eyes.
‘Mr Lennon,’ Father MacLaverty spoke softly, his face filled with kindness and compassion. ‘Your wife was in the water at the Broadway Reservoir.’
‘Ah, God, no!’ He sank down on to the settee, burying his face in his hands. He raised his head then, his eyes wild. ‘But she’s alive?’
‘She is, but they’re not sure she’ll make it. It was a doctor that pulled her out.’ Father MacLaverty sat beside him, waiting a moment before asking quietly, ‘Was there a row?’
‘No.’ His expression grew bleak. ‘She lost a child a couple of months ago and couldn’t get over it. She would sometimes go out at night, to try and clear the head, you know? But she would never . . . We’ve three other children.’
‘Aye.’ Father MacLaverty patted his hand. ‘Of course.’
No more probing questions would be asked, Maisie knew. Father Mac was not the sort of man to go hunting for something he didn’t want to find.
He took a breath. ‘Mr Lennon, you need to know something. I gave her the Last Rites in the ambulance. I’m so sorry.’
The man paled even further – his face now ashen and his hands trembling. Shock.
‘I’ll make a wee cuppa tea,’ Maisie murmured, making for the kitchen.
Thankfully, the kettle was already boiled – Mr Lennon was probably trying to keep himself awake by drinking tea.
Finding a clean cup on the shelf, Maisie made the tea, adding a generous amount of sugar.
She brought it through to Mr Lennon, who took it wordlessly. God help him.
‘. . . so we better go, as soon as you’re ready,’ Father MacLaverty was saying.
‘You think she’ll still be alive when we get there?’ Mr Lennon took some tea.
‘I don’t know, Danny. I honestly don’t know.’
‘Right.’ He took another mouthful then rose, putting a hand to his head briefly. Maisie took the cup to allow him to reach for his donkey jacket on the back of the front door, then offered it to him again.
‘Take another wee drink,’ she murmured. ‘Sweet tea is good for you right now.’
‘Is it?’ His eyes were bleak, empty, but he took another gulp, looking into the teacup. ‘The children!’ he said suddenly, and his gaze lifted to Maisie.
‘I’ll stay here with them,’ she promised.
‘Thanks. Maisie, isn’t it?’
‘Aye.’ He definitely knows me.
Then they were gone, and the house was quiet. Maisie built up the fire, tidied up, did the dishes, and set the iron on the stove to heat. After that she sat for twenty minutes gazing into the flames, her hands wrapped around her own cup of tea.
What a night! The céilí, poor Teresa, and now this. God love poor Danny Lennon. And their wee children. Teresa had clearly been bad with her nerves since the impossible dilemma created by two men; Fenton and Wallis. Why are some men so—?
No. Better to focus on the good men. Father Mac. Da. Alex. The world was filled with a mix of people, and while Maisie firmly believed everyone had good in them, some people lived that goodness better than others.
Alex, for example . . . The man was a hero.
He hadn’t hesitated, had run to the reservoir and dived in to save an unknown woman.
And despite his bravery, poor Teresa would probably die anyway.
God, she hoped Alex wasn’t hypothermic too.
No, she reassured herself, he had been still in the shivering stage, and thanks to the bike he’d be home already.
He’ll be grand. She couldn’t help worrying, though.
Her mind returned now to her earlier terror for his safety – a moment when she had feared he might be drowning.
Another, when she had realised he too was at risk of hypothermia.
The pain and fear that had gone through her had been like nothing she had ever known.
Sitting here before the fire, she was slowly realising that she was feeling things for him – things that weren’t sensible given his community background.
Things that didn’t work with a ‘light’ relationship.
And she knew, more than anything, there could be no future in a relationship with a Protestant.
Having agreed to keep things light, it was gradually dawning on Maisie that such a thing was easier said than done.
This won’t end well. Still, it wouldn’t be right to break with him either.
They were going through something together right now, so meeting tomorrow to talk it through would probably help them both.
Finishing her tea, she rose and started the ironing.
It would help her stay awake, and poor Teresa wouldn’t be back to do it herself.
Her sister Carmel would be devastated, and it would probably fall to her to rear her nieces and nephews alongside her own children.
That was how it worked. She would need help, though.
In her head, Maisie began planning. There were various charitable groups who could provide the basics – food and coal for the family while Danny was off work for his wife’s wake and funeral.
Yes, the St Vincent de Paul would surely help.
And the neighbours too. The parish sometimes .
. . but no, it was unlikely Danny would want to go anywhere near Father Wallis. God, what a mess. What a feckin’ mess.