26
When Maisie awoke, she was conscious of a feeling of profound contentment within.
It wasn’t joy – that was too intense a word to describe it.
Too fleeting. This was quiet, and deep, and real.
For an instant, she noticed the feeling itself, then her mind caught up and she remembered Alex’s words to her last night. He loves me!
Now joy did flare through her, fuelled by excitement. Alex, the best, kindest, cleverest man she had ever known, loved her. And he thought he was the lucky one! Maisie knew better. She was the luckiest woman in Ireland.
As she rose and dressed, for the tiniest second her mind flicked to Gerald – just to check there truly was nothing left there. And there wasn’t. No love, no heartbreak, no anger towards him. A trace of regret, perhaps, about her own foolishness, and that was all.
She was next on duty on Sunday night – tomorrow night – and so she and Alex would meet this afternoon in their usual spot by the tennis courts. Today, though, their conversation would be different.
Reality – the reality that they were different religions – threatened to shadow her happiness for a moment, but thankfully Mammy distracted her with talk of laundry and ration books and Hitler’s armies marching inexorably towards Paris.
That was a different form of reality, but equally as worrying.
Everyone had assumed the Nazis would never come anywhere near Ireland – the south had declared themselves neutral, and the north was well out of range for aircraft from Germany.
But if the Nazis succeeded in taking France, then Belfast could be in serious trouble.
‘God help them poor people in Holland and France,’ Mammy said, blessing herself as they were sorting out the clothes for the wash. ‘God knows what they’re going through.’
‘I know, Mammy, it’s desprit. I’ll light a wee candle for them when I go up the road later.’
Mammy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Who’s this you’re meetin’ the day?’
‘Oh, friends from work.’ Maisie turned away to fold some tea towels, unable to cope with Mammy’s searching gaze.
‘Aye, what friends?’ Mammy had suspected her for a long time, Maisie knew, but had been operating a kind of don’t-ask-don’t tell policy. Today for some reason, her curiosity had been sparked.
‘Em, Alex.’ I can’t tell her a blatant lie. She glanced back at Mammy. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Because you’re going about the house singing to yourself, and your head in the clouds.’
Feck. Mammy was far, far too fly.
‘I’m not stupid, Maisie. Alex is the Protestant, isn’t he?’
‘No.’ Frustration bubbled over. ‘He’s not “the Protestant”. He’s my friend. He’s a doctor – an excellent doctor. He’s a good person. He’s kind and he’s smart and he’s generous. His religion is irrelevant to me.’
‘Bloody hell, girl. Have you no common sense at all?’ She put a hand to her head.
‘Irrelevant? Irrelevant? It’s the single most important thing around here.
Being Protestant means he’s Unionist and he’s British and he’s them.
He’s not us.’ She blessed herself again.
‘Thank God your da’s out at work, for if he heard you he’d be bloody ragin’!
’ She leaned closer. ‘Now you listen to me, Maisie, you drop him now, and don’t you ever meet him again. ’
Maisie took a breath. ‘No.’
Mammy gasped. ‘Are you defying me?’
‘I don’t want to be defying you, Mammy. I really don’t.’ She was twisting the tea towel in her hands, barely noticing it. ‘But it’s too late. Alex is important to me.’
‘More important than your own family?’
Maisie shook her head. ‘Don’t go there, Mammy. Don’t make me choose.’
‘You’re the one that’s choosing.’ Her tone was implacable. ‘It’s your family, or this Protestant.’
Emotion was flooding through Maisie. Anger, frustration, heartbreak.
Flinging down the tea towel, she grabbed her coat and bag and hurried out, giving the door a good slam behind her.
Keeping her head down she hurried to the nearest quiet space, which happened to be Dunville Park.
Thankfully it was early yet, the park empty apart from a few children pucking a sliotar about.
Finding a summer seat she sat and bawled, feeling as though her heart was literally breaking in two. Images of her whole family were flooding into her mind – not only Mammy and Da, but her wee nieces and all her aunts and uncles and cousins.
Worst of all was the thought of losing all her ones – her brothers and sisters.
Moya was still not pregnant, and the sisters had become really close as Moya always wanted to talk to Maisie about her monthlies – which were very irregular – and how she might know when she was finally expecting.
Michael and Maolíosa were still a huge part of her life – they were always popping into each other’s houses for tea and talk.
And as for the younger ones – Matty was a wee dote, and working hard on his apprenticeship.
He often confided in Maisie, and she really valued her close relationship with him.
Maureen’s friend áine had been sent away, so Maureen was relying more on Maisie these days for company.
And as for wee Molly . . . her heart lurched in pain at the notion she would never see her again.
Oh, God. She loved Alex, but she loved her family too.
What am I gonna do?
* * *
Alex had had a busy morning. Despite the late night he had awoken early, his heart full of love and his head full of ideas. Kissing under the stars was all very well, but in daylight the enormity of the challenge before them was beginning to hit home.
Protestants and Catholics didn’t walk out together.
It simply wasn’t done. If he went ahead and married Maisie – his dearest wish – the ripple effect would hurt his whole family.
He winced as he thought of Granda Lowe – old, and frail, and relying on Alex to continue the family name.
His parents would be talked about at church – whispers behind their backs, a suggestion they had failed in the most important aspect of child-rearing.
And it would doubtless be similar for Maisie’s family. From what Maisie had said, they were staunch Catholics, every one of them.
Being a Presbyterian was part of his heritage. That mattered. He was the last Lowe in the line. If he left his church, it would break a chain going back countless generations. God, what a nightmare!
This morning, in an attempt to find out more about the religious side of things, he had cycled to two churches on the northern outskirts of Belfast – one Catholic, one Presbyterian. No one knew him there, and so he felt more able to ask his questions.
Having requested to speak to both ministers on matters of faith and doctrine, he posed the question of a mixed marriage, pretending to be a Catholic to the Presbyterian minister.
‘You’re saying you’re Catholic, and you want to marry a Presbyterian girl?’ The minister had been dismayed. He shook his head. ‘Not to be recommended. You would have to become a Presbyterian, to take instruction, to publicly renounce Catholic doctrine, and to vow to remain a Presbyterian for life.’
The Catholic priest told him a similar tale. ‘You can’t have a mixed marriage in any of the local Christian denominations, and the people who do convert to Catholicism often lose touch with their Protestant community. It’s a big step, and not one to be taken lightly.’
As he freewheeled back towards the city down a long hill, Belfast Lough to his left, he reflected that the religious beliefs themselves were not a major issue for him.
He frequently called in with Father MacLaverty – they were friends now, and chess rivals – and had a fair understanding of Catholic beliefs, none of which seemed too far-fetched to him.
Politically too he had shifted. Being in Edinburgh had already widened his horizons, and reading Dan’s copies of the Irish News – the newspaper preferred by Catholics – had shifted his viewpoint on some historical atrocities – including the hated Penal Laws, when the English had persecuted both Catholics and Presbyterians, banning them from educating their children, holding their religious services, and owning land.
He had also learned through his own research that many Presbyterians had suffered along with Catholics in what was often described as a famine, but in reality had been nothing of the kind.
When the potato crop had failed, there had been plenty of other food in Ireland – wheat, oats, barley, livestock.
But the ascendancy class had exported most of it to England, and prevented ordinary Irish people from accessing it.
It made his blood boil even to think of it.
We should have been allies. Why was it that the two poorest groups in Ulster had ended up fighting one another so heartily, while the wealthy class – mostly Anglicans – cleaned up? I wonder if Father would be open to a conversation along those lines?
He frowned. Not a chance. Father was rigid in his beliefs. No way would he accept Alex marrying a Catholic. And even if Maisie converted to Presbyterianism – which Alex thought unlikely – she would never be fully accepted into his parents’ tight-knit social circle.
As he made his way towards the tennis courts his heart felt heavy. Maisie loved him back, which was wonderful, but their path ahead was dark and dangerous and currently, he could see no obvious way through.
She was there already. As he spotted her waiting for him, his spirits rose. Being with Maisie always had that effect on him. Braking, he jumped off the bike, letting it fall to the ground, and drew her into his arms.
They hugged, then kissed, then kissed again. Finally, he drew back to look at her, frowning as he saw reddened eyes and skin that looked a little blotchy. She still looked beautiful, but she had clearly been crying.
‘What happened?’