29 #2
They had been chatting all week, and Alex now had a fair idea about Granda’s marriage to Sarah Thompson in Duncairn Presbyterian church, and the birth of his three sons, John, Patrick, and Henry – Henry being Alex’s father.
Alex’s two uncles had died at the Somme; as the youngest, Father hadn’t been able to enlist. It was all fascinating, and sad, and so far as Alex could work out, there was no obvious scandal or controversy in anything he’d heard.
They’d been properly wed a good year before their first child had been born.
The whole conversation was fascinating, though, since Granda’s living memory contained facts and recollections about history as it interacted with his personal experiences.
‘When were you born, Granda?’ he asked, trying to figure something out.
‘Eighteen hundred and forty-four,’ he replied, ‘when the priddies in the ground were all rotten and the ordinary people were starving to death.’
Priddies, as Alex well knew, were potatoes. ‘You were born during the famine!’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never talked to you about it before! I’m such an eejit!’
‘Now, Alex,’ Granda admonished, ‘we’ve time enough before we go back that far. I have to tell you things in the right order, and there’s certain things I can only tell you if you ask me directly.’
He gave Alex a look so full of meaning that Alex literally felt hairs rise on the back of his neck. I was right! Clearly, there was something of vital importance – some piece of information that Granda held and Alex needed, but—
‘Why? Why do I have to ask you directly?’
Granda’s gaze drifted to his teacup. ‘When you’re sworn to secrecy you have to take it seriously – especially if it’s from your nearest and dearest.’ He looked directly at Alex. ‘But I’ll not tell a direct lie either, so keep asking, if there’s things you want to know.’
Alex’s mind was awhirl. After years of medical school and complex clinical cases, this seemed to him to be the greatest conundrum he had ever faced. There was a secret. And Granda had been sworn never to tell. Nearest and dearest.
‘Tell me more about my father’s attachment to the church,’ he said. That was as good a place as any to start. Because religion and politics and national identity were all intertwined in Belfast, he’d have to pull on a thread and follow it, hoping it would unravel the mask of secrecy.
‘Good lad.’ Granda’s gaze became distant.
‘Me and your grandmother were never big ones for the church. Her family were Presbyterian going back generations, but she was never mad into it, like. Believe in God, say your prayers, raise your family. That’s it.
But your da was different.’ He shook his head slowly.
‘He wanted to do well for himself. Had great fire in him. All his early business contacts were with people from church, and he built his business on those connections. I think he came to believe everything would fall down unless he hugged the altar rails.’ He tutted.
‘Sometimes I think he’s ashamed of our background; of who we really are. ’
‘So were you . . . were you poor, Granda?’
‘I was, lad. The Thompsons barely accepted me, so I know what it’s like to be under that sort of cloud.
I was born into a stone cottage with a well nearby and rats in the thatch.
This place’ – he gestured about him – ‘well, I’m proud of my Henry, I really am.
He’s done quare and well for himself . . .’
But. There was a ‘but’ there, Alex was sure of it.
‘But what, Granda?’
‘But he’s so hemmed in by fear he’s forgetting what’s important. Family.’ Granda leaned back in his chair. ‘So. Tell me about this girl you’re courting.’
* * *
Maisie had been jittery all morning, waiting for something – anything – from Mammy. When it finally came, it wasn’t too bad. ‘How come thon Protestant fella knows Father MacLaverty?’ She didn’t look at Maisie as she said it, seemingly busy kneading dough.
‘They’re friends. Alex visits him at least once a week. They talk, and they play chess.’
‘Hrmph.’
What did that mean? Maisie was far too agitated to work it out.
‘If it’s still dry the morra afternoon,’ Mammy continued casually, ‘your da and me thought we’d go for a wee dander round the Falls Park.
God knows this is probably the last of the good weather.
We’ll take the chile, and our Moya might want to come too, for she’s fed up wonderin’ if she’s actually expectin’ this time. ’
‘Aye, it must be stressful for her.’ Moya hadn’t bled for nearly eight weeks now, and was daring to believe she might actually finally be expecting.
Inwardly, Maisie was noting the significance of Mammy’s announcement.
If Maisie and Alex could bump into them, Mammy was saying, Alex could speak to Da.
Oh, God. It was all coming to a head. After tomorrow, who knew what might happen?
There was a knock on the door. ‘I’ll get it.’
It was a boy of about twelve. ‘Is this the Canavans’? Is there a midwife lives here?’
Maisie nodded, suddenly alert, all thoughts of her personal woes immediately leaving her mind. ‘I’m the midwife. Maisie Canavan.’
‘Me ma says can you come?’ He gave the address – Waterville Street, beside the Clonard Monastery.
‘I’ll get my bag.’ Maisie was thinking rapidly. She and Alex usually met at the tennis courts on Saturday afternoons – a habit grounded in the very earliest days of their connection.
The boy’s name was Jem, he said. ‘So who’s your mammy, Jem?’ Maisie was still getting to know the pregnant women in the area, having finally joined the district team just a few weeks ago.
‘She’s Mrs McGrath.’
‘Ah, very good.’ Maisie remembered now. Mrs McGrath was in good health, and this would be her eighth baby. Or possibly her ninth. ‘Jem, I’ll need you to bring a note to someone later.’
‘Aye. Who?’
‘My – my young man. I was supposed to meet him at two o’clock by the tennis courts at the Royal.’
‘Tennis courts?’ he echoed dubiously, so she described the place, and shortly after arriving at the McGrath house she scribbled a note for Alex and sent Jem off to deliver it.
Alex wasn’t on duty again until Monday, she knew – unlike her.
It was frustrating not seeing him today, for they had so much to talk about – not only Mammy and Father MacLaverty from last night, but the possibility of Alex speaking to Da tomorrow.
Maisie was enjoying working on the district.
It was less structured, less predictable, for no one knew when the women would go into labour.
The midwives worked it out between them, taking the lead with specific women, and mucking in with others as needed.
Maisie had visited Mrs McGrath in her first week on the district, had given the woman her address and told her to ‘give me a shout’ when the time came.
And the time had most definitely come. Mrs McGrath was pacing up and down, stopping at times to lean over the kitchen table or the tiny mantelpiece in her living room.
She was praying, too – long litanies which she’d clearly memorised, or simply the rosary.
Her living room contained pictures of Our Lady and the Sacred Heart, as well as a small statue of the Child of Prague, which had pride of place on the mantelpiece.
It was all entirely familiar to Maisie. The rhythm of her life had beat to images and sounds like these, and she was entirely at ease with Mrs McGrath’s beliefs and rituals.
Could she give it up, even for Alex? Maybe. But it would be hard.
Stifling a sigh, she concentrated on Mrs McGrath, setting some water to boil on the stove, and finding the towels, buckets, and baby clothes she would need for later.
The woman’s husband and other children had been banished from the house – scattered among grannies and aunties for the day, with everyone assuming the baby would be born by nightfall and they could all return to sleep in their own beds. It was time to get to work.
* * *
She isn’t coming. Alex checked his watch again. Nearly half past two. Disappointment was flooding through him. Days when he couldn’t see Maisie were not good days, and he wanted to tell her about Granda’s remarkable acceptance of the fact that Alex was seeing a Catholic.
‘So long as she’s good to you, and you’re good to her, that’s all that matters,’ he had said, and Alex could have hugged him, he was so happy. He didn’t of course. The Lowes were not the huggy type.
Mounting his serviceable bicycle, he was about to ride off when he noticed a boy pounding towards him.
‘Mr Lowe?’ he called breathlessly.
‘Yes?’
‘The midwife sent this.’ He held out a note. ‘Sorry I’m late. I clean forgot!’
Alex grinned. Maisie had sent a note, and so his day had suddenly got a little better. He gave the boy a penny. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ the boy returned, clearly delighted at having earned such a bounty. He would be heading straight to the nearest sweet shop, Alex reckoned.
He opened the note. Well, Love, Maisie had written.
I’m with a woman in labour, so I won’t make it today.
My ma was all right with me this morning – I don’t think she knows what to make of Father MacLaverty and you being friends.
Anyway, she says her and Da will be walking in the Falls Park tomorrow if it’s dry.
Can you meet me at the tennis courts after dinner?
I’ll go to early Mass. I love you! Maisie.
He rubbed a thumb over the I love you, feeling the same warmth in his chest as he usually did when Maisie told him that. They had rarely written to each other before – there hadn’t really been the need – so he knew this note was something to be treasured.