28
The summer advanced, as did the Nazis. France had surrendered by the end of June, and German forces were now comfortably established throughout Western Europe – including in the Channel Islands, from where they clearly intended to invade Britain.
The battles in recent weeks had been airborne, with the Luftwaffe and the Royal Air Force engaged in daily aerial dogfights.
From what Maisie had been hearing on the radio the RAF were holding up, but surely they couldn’t last forever?
This morning’s newspapers, though, had held devastating news.
Last night, the Luftwaffe had turned their attention to ordinary people and civic buildings, with hundreds of Nazi planes dropping bombs on London.
The BBC correspondent on the roof of Broadcasting House had talked of firestorms, with Tower Bridge and St Paul’s Cathedral silhouetted against a sky that was red from flames.
Hundreds of ordinary people were dead, among them quite possibly people Maisie knew – women she had supported, colleagues she had worked with, strangers she had passed on the roads and pavements of Lambeth and Camberwell.
On the news, King’s College Hospital had been mentioned among other targets, the main entrance and casualty ward having taken a direct hit.
The notion left Maisie feeling sick. It’s a hospital, for God’s sake!
Bowing her head as the Latin words of the Sunday Mass washed over her, she prayed for everyone affected, for the people of the occupied countries, and for her own family. As ever, she prayed too for a miracle that would allow her and Alex to be together always.
On that front, the situation was unchanged.
Both she and Alex continued to live with their families, Alex’s father still not speaking to him and his mother still disapproving.
Things were a little less grim in her own house, for Da still didn’t know and Mammy acted as if their conversation back in June had never happened.
Except . . . the easy relationship between Mammy and Maisie was gone, replaced by something that was cool at best, and hostile at worst. Maisie had shed many tears over it, but was at a loss as to what she could do about it.
Giving Alex up was unthinkable, but she missed her mammy.
Peggy and Dan’s wedding had taken place last month, and Maisie and Alex had attended.
Mammy hadn’t been invited, for she didn’t know the Cassidys that well, but like many in their community she had made a point of coming to stand outside St John’s with Maureen and Molly, in order to see the newlyweds coming out and wish them all the best. Pointedly, Maisie had stood with Alex, and Mammy had sent them a few dark looks, her face rigid and inscrutable.
The hostility and anger in her stance were like needles to Maisie’s heart.
She’s hoping it will blow over. It was so obvious now, that that had been Mammy’s plan all along. Telling Da would have resulted in fireworks; Mammy had clearly made a calculated decision to Say Nothing, on the assumption that something would happen to split Maisie and Alex up.
Well, nothing had, and Maisie believed nothing ever would.
Looking at Peggy and Dan’s evident happiness, the smiling faces of both sets of parents, Maisie knew that what she wanted most in the world was to have that for her and Alex.
To be his wife. To have her family and his supporting them. She sighed. Impossible.
There was a small flyer at the church entrance advertising the next céilí night at St John’s.
Maisie’s family usually went to Mass in their own parish church, St Paul’s, further up the Falls, and Mammy never usually bothered with the St John’s céilís.
But later that day, Maureen told her that Mammy had mentioned going to the September céilí, which was to happen in a few days’ time, on Friday the Thirteenth.
It sent a cold shiver down Maisie’s spine even to think of it.
An unlucky date, and now Mammy was thinking of attending?
If Mammy did come, if she saw Alex and Maisie dancing together all night as they usually did, would she start something?
Make a fuss in public? Say something bad to Alex?
The notion was unthinkable. Yet not going wasn’t an option either.
That would feel like a betrayal of Alex.
They had decided not to hide any more – or at least, to be more open.
Everyone at work knew they were together, as well as everyone who saw them at the Orpheus or the céilís.
With the world in turmoil and hostility at home, Alex was the best thing in Maisie’s life, and their bond was closer than ever.
* * *
Alex bowed his head as the service continued.
He was feeling very devout these days, for he genuinely prayed hard every single day.
For the people affected by war. For his Maisie and her family.
For his own family, and the hope that Father might come around.
Mother, big-hearted as she was, had already softened a bit – but even that was only slight.
Alex was still barred from his father’s presence – from the dining room or the drawing room or wherever he might be at that particular moment.
When they passed on the stairs or in the hall, Father would become a man of ice, his shoulders stiff and his face set.
It was painful every time, which was no doubt the intention, but Father was in pain too, Alex could see it – and that notion was hard to bear.
Mother, on the other hand, spoke normally to Alex when Father wasn’t around, the only hints of trouble in the strain around her eyes and the sad sighs she gave in quiet moments.
He was hurting her – hurting them both. He knew it, yet he couldn’t lose Maisie.
And Mother didn’t want to lose him, he knew.
As for Father, the stubbornness in him that Alex had always known about was now on full display.
Granda was a different matter altogether.
He and Alex had taken to spending time together in the wee room – a small parlour on the ground floor that had previously rarely been used.
They spoke of Alex’s work, of the Nazis and the air raid shelters and the bombs dropped on London.
Sometimes Alex wondered if Granda wanted to speak of more personal things, but Alex shied away from it, steering the conversation into safer waters.
He didn’t want Granda to fall out with him too.
After Sunday service, Alex didn’t hang about.
Some weeks he’d be on duty at work and not able to attend, but when he did, he would walk or cycle all the way from home to the Assembly Buildings and back again, knowing he was not welcome in Father’s car.
Today he had walked down, but when they emerged there was an absolute downpour going on.
The greenness of Ireland came at a price.
‘Stay here!’ Father said to his wife and father, ‘I’ll bring the car round.’
Alex waited with them for a moment, dreading the long walk home in the pouring rain.
When the car appeared he helped Granda into the back seat, making sure the elderly man didn’t fall as he was manoeuvring his way in.
As he was passing Granda’s stick to him, Alex noticed Father leaning over to speak to Mother.
What happened next had him freezing in surprise.
‘Get in, Alex,’ she said, her expression neutral.
‘What?’ Had he heard her correctly?
‘Get in. You’re getting soaked.’
He needed no second invitation, and hurried round to the other back door. A moment later he was inside, and as the car made its way towards the Antrim Road he couldn’t help exchanging a glance with Granda. Granda nodded at him, his air one of surprised approval.
It meant nothing, really. Father could have let him ride merely because as a good Christian it would have been bad to let him get soaked. Or he might have been embarrassed in front of his friends from church. It didn’t matter. Alex’s heart was full of hope.
Damn it! Why did he always cling to hope?
Once home, however, their normal routine continued. Father marched into the house without looking back, leaving Alex to help Granda inside. Mrs Sinclair took their coats and told them she was about to serve dinner, glancing at Alex.
‘Er, can I have mine in the wee room?’ he asked.
She nodded, then walked away, and he could see disapproval in the way she was holding herself.
She was tired of the split between Alex and his father.
They all were. The pressure to agree to what Father wanted, just to keep the peace and restore harmony, was there all the time, unceasing, unending.
‘In here, then,’ Granda said, jerking his head towards the wee room and making for his usual armchair. This was certainly not their usual Sunday routine. Alex followed, his mind flashing all sorts of possibilities – some good, some bad – even while his heart told him it was all useless.
‘Sit down there, son. I have to talk to you,’ Granda said, in an unusual moment of command over Alex. ‘This nonsense is going on long enough.’
Alex sat, his mind racing. If Granda was going to tell him to apologise to his father and stop seeing Maisie, he wouldn’t be able to do it. But I can’t lose Granda too!
‘I’m ninety-six now, Alexander,’ Granda began, and Alex’s heart warmed at Granda’s predictability. He told everyone his age. Everyone.
‘I’m not going to have much longer on this earth,’ Granda continued, and Alex nodded sadly. There was no denying it. Ninety-six was a quare age for any man to get to.
‘So why is it,’ Granda pondered, ‘that you’ve never asked me about my boyhood, about our family, about your own ancestors? Or at least, not recently?’
Alex’s jaw dropped. Whatever he had thought Granda was about to say, it wasn’t this. ‘I – I don’t know.’ His mind was hazy, his thoughts confused. Why on earth had he never heard stories from Granda’s past?
‘Your father always was an awkward get,’ Granda said reflectively, staring into the empty fireplace. ‘He’s never felt easy in the skin he’s wearing – who he is and who he isn’t.’ He turned to look at Alex. ‘It’s why he’s so hard on you.’
‘Dinner’s ready!’ Mrs Sinclair’s voice sounded in the hall, and Granda, having just sat down, pushed himself up again.
‘No,’ he said, when Alex would have helped. ‘I’m grand. But you think about what I’ve just said.’ Sending him a last, significant look, he hobbled out towards the dining room.
Alex sank back in his own chair, his mind awhirl.
Memories were coming to him now. Times in the past when he’d asked Granda innocent questions.
Where did you live when you were small, Granda?
Can you remember your grandparents, Granda?
Every time, Father had intervened, telling Alex to stop asking stupid questions and ordering Granda not to answer.
‘The past is the past,’ he’d say. ‘We don’t need to think about it any more. ’
What the hell was that about? Had there been some awful thing in Father’s childhood, some traumatic event that Alex wasn’t to be told about?
Or was it, perhaps, something more prosaic?
Had Father been conceived out of wedlock, maybe?
That would be a shocking history for an upstanding member of the Presbyterian Church.
Yes, Father would hate that. Would absolutely detest it.
But it might explain his determination to prevent Alex from talking to Granda, from finding out about the Thing.
Whatever the Thing was. If there even was a Thing.
Alex literally rubbed his hands together, excitement running through him. Whatever the big secret was, he was determined to find it out. And judging by Granda’s choice of timing, and the knowing way he’d looked at him, Granda seemed to reckon it might unstick the current impasse.
Well, thank God something will. Alex was sick, sore, and tired of the whole bloody thing. All he wanted was to propose to the girl he loved without worrying that both families wouldn’t be gobshites about it. If something didn’t change soon, then by God he would make change happen.