23
By the time Molly came downstairs, Maisie and Mammy had established something of a truce.
Saturday was wash-day, and Maisie was already rinsing out towels, tea towels, and Molly’s school clothes, having done the heavy soaking and scrubbing work.
The underwear was boiling on the stove in a copper pot, and she would wash her own uniform next.
There would be more washing once the others finished work at noon, but Maisie intended to leave soon after, to meet Alex at one.
Oh yes, she fully intended to defy her mother, and the irony was that Mammy’s ranting earlier had only served to strengthen her resolve.
‘Sorry I’m late up,’ said Molly, rubbing her eyes. ‘Took me ages to get back to sleep after Maureen came to bed last night. She was freezin’!’ Taking a bowl from the cupboard, she helped herself to the last of the warm porridge, adding a splash of milk and a teaspoon of honey.
‘Aye, I decided to let you lie on,’ said Mammy – her apparent kindness weaponised to show Maisie the extent of her ongoing disapproval about Alex.
‘Was the céilí good, Maisie?’ Molly squeezed in behind the table, which had been pushed up against the kitchen wall to allow Mammy and Maisie to take the mangle in from the yard.
Together they hefted it across the room before raising it up and fitting it over the sink.
Wooden rollers in a cast-iron frame meant it weighed a flippin’ ton.
‘It was!’ Maisie said brightly, brazening it out.
Taking a towel, she fed one end of it between the rollers then cranked the handle, enjoying the sight of all the excess water being squeezed from the towel as she pulled it gently through.
Since they got the mangle last year, the clothes now only took a fraction of the time to dry.
Once the towel had been properly mangled, she reached for the next one. Molly was filling the silence between Maisie and Mammy with her usual chatter, prompting Mammy to tell her sharply to stop talking with her mouth full.
Molly eyed Mammy suspiciously. ‘What’d I do?’
‘You were talking with your mouth full of porridge,’ Mammy snapped back.
‘Learn some manners.’ Taking the two completed towels, she made for the yard to hang them on the line.
Molly sent a questioning glance towards Maisie but Maisie simply shrugged.
No way was she explaining any of it to wee Molly.
Once the washing was done Maisie made a few sodas for the wake, covering them with a tea towel, then made her way upstairs.
Tiredness was creeping over her and she felt that she could rest now.
She closed the thin curtains and undressed, hanging up her good dress and climbing into bed in only her underwear.
She had no brain for thinking, no heart for hurting.
Closing her eyes, she welcomed the oblivion of sleep.
* * *
Alex was feeling impatient. Having spent much longer than he had anticipated with Father MacLaverty, he had decided there was no point in going home before his assignation with Maisie at the hospital tennis courts.
Instead, he had walked in the Falls Park for a while, his mind going over everything again and again.
He had saved Mrs Lennon from a quick death, yet given her a slow one.
That had been the refrain that had battered him with every heartbeat since last night.
The priest’s words about forgiveness had been powerful, though.
Perhaps, after all, there had indeed been some meaning in his actions.
And perhaps all those Catholic superstitions about confessing your sins had a positive side.
He checked his watch yet again. Maisie was now late. Had she changed her mind? Was she not coming? Deliberately he held still, not wanting to be caught pacing impatiently when she did arrive, and vaguely noticing how important it was to him that she did arrive.
It was almost a quarter past one when she finally came, and the relief that flooded through him was profound. She was in her usual thin coat, a small cloth bag dangling from her right arm, and her brow furrowed. She looked beautiful.
‘I’m so sorry!’ she called as she approached. ‘I slept too long this morning, and then I had to rush out, and I nearly forgot my sodas, and I had to get the Mass card, and—’
He stopped her words with a kiss, sliding his arms around her, and she responded reassuringly swiftly, kissing him back with a fervour which he entirely appreciated.
They surfaced, breathing raggedly, then kissed again – this time a sweet kiss filled with yearning and longing and all of the things Alex wished he could say but couldn’t.
Afterwards they walked through the hospital grounds, then out and down the Falls Road towards the park.
The day was dull and chilly, and not too many people were walking there, so they were able to hold hands and occasionally kiss among the bare trees and damp pathways.
They spoke of last night’s events, and Alex mentioned that he had returned Father MacLaverty’s bike, but he shied away from mentioning their chat about Catholic theology.
However when Maisie said that she was going to Mrs Lennon’s wake next, Alex spontaneously asked if he could go too.
He couldn’t have explained why. Perhaps it was nothing more than an impulse to know more, to understand them all – Maisie and Mrs Lennon and Father MacLaverty.
Catholic priests were not allowed to marry, and he had always found it both sad and impressive that such men would sacrifice their chance of a happy domestic life for the opportunity to minister to a community.
No children, no spouse to love and be loved by, no sex . . .
‘I don’t see why not,’ Maisie replied thoughtfully, and so they made their way to Harrogate Street, where a queue had formed outside the house.
They took their place in the line, greeting Danny at the door and offering condolences in the traditional manner; I’m sorry for your loss.
Danny’s brother Johnny was there with him, both men dressed in their Sunday best, and inside Teresa’s sister Carmel was directing the catering, working with a team of women to serve endless supplies of tea, plain cake, and sodas.
Maisie hugged her and added her soda farls to the collection of not-yet-plated treats on the table, then Alex followed her up the narrow staircase to the front bedroom.
The curtains were drawn, the room lit by a collection of candles round a holy picture and a small table lamp.
They shuffled in, taking their turn standing by the open coffin, Maisie making the sign of the cross and Alex just standing there.
She looks peaceful. Mrs Lennon was dressed in a smart skirt and jacket, her hair neatly done and her hands clasped around a set of rosary beads. He managed a short prayer inwardly, but was once more feeling angry at how unnecessary Mrs Lennon’s death had been.
Returning downstairs to the packed living room and kitchen they were offered tea and a bun, Alex engaging in polite conversation with various people.
All the while he was trying to decipher what was different about this, his first Catholic wake.
Protestant wakes were almost identical to what he’d seen so far – apart from Catholic objects like rosary beads, candles, holy pictures, and Mass cards.
He turned his head as someone laughed in the corner, realising with a shock that this was the difference.
At other wakes, people had been universally sombre, grave, and quiet.
Here, there were all sorts of conversations going on – many sharing memories of the deceased.
There was noise, and life, and children chattering.
A minute ago, Carmel had been crying, and she was now laughing as someone talked about an incident in the mill involving her and her sister.
He spoke to Maisie about it afterwards. ‘Aye, that’s one of the great things about a wake,’ she declared. ‘Plenty of craic about the person and their life, sharing all the memories. Sometimes the family find out things they never knew about their loved one – good things, of course. It helps.’
‘Is it not disrespectful in a way? Laughing and joking while the person is dead upstairs?’
She frowned, considering this. ‘I see what you mean. There’ll be no craic whatsoever the day of the funeral, like. But the family need everybody rallying round them, knowing that Teresa’s life was important. And a bit of lightness helps these first days to pass.’
* * *
He thought about this as he returned home, and then in the days and weeks that followed. The world was a dark place these days, with war and death and sorrow all around. Food rationing was coming in the New Year, and the corporation was now recruiting volunteers to be air raid wardens.
And through it all, he had to focus on the good things. Babies being born. Dances at the Orpheus and, now, céilís at St John’s. The slow passing of winter and the hope for spring. Family. Friends. Maisie.
Maisie was, undeniably, the best thing in his life.
His best friend, his confidante. She was beautiful and clever and kind, and an excellent midwife.
The care she had shown for Mrs Lennon, both on the day of her procedure and on her last night .
. . He had seen Maisie care for many, many women now, and never failed to be impressed by her warmth.
She would be going out on the district from next August, focusing on home births and home visits, and he knew he would miss their canteen meet-ups and the routine of walking her home on the days when their shifts coincided.
It didn’t occur to him to notice that he fully expected them still to be together next August.
Christmas had come and gone, and the year had turned.
The days were getting longer, the weather milder, and the risk of them being caught was increasing, merely because they were together so often.
Oh, they tried to be careful. They never kissed or held hands while on duty, saving those moments for dark nights when he walked her home, or dry afternoons in the park.
Even then they had to check who was about, and Alex was becoming increasingly frustrated by the need for secrecy.
Maisie was his girl, and he wanted the world to know it.
The colleagues who attended the Orpheus knew now, for it was getting harder for them to hide it, as did the regulars at the céilís.
They had to, for he and Maisie were by each other’s side all night at those events.
But everyone seemed to be working to a don’t ask, don’t tell approach, knowing rightly that they were different religions.
Alex sometimes wondered if Mother was the same, for she had never mentioned again their conversation about the Catholic girl he liked.
His main concern – the thing that held him back – was the need to avoid hurting Mother and Father.
He couldn’t break his father’s heart. Or his granda’s.
And Maisie couldn’t hurt her parents either.
Maisie was the best girl he’d ever known, yet they weren’t able to be together.
So much for keeping things light.