30
‘She what? A Protestant?’ Da’s voice rose in outrage, making Maisie’s entire body jump in shock. The whole family were walking home from Mass, and Mammy had clearly decided this was a good time to break the news.
They were just in front, and Maisie’s steps faltered by Maureen’s side as Da’s head whipped round. ‘Maisie! Get over here!’
Da was rarely moved to anger, but when he was, it felt much, much worse than Mammy’s everyday irritation.
Keeping her gaze straight ahead – for she couldn’t even look at Maureen, or at Matty and Molly who were bringing up the rear – Maisie sped up to stand with her parents.
Mammy was now between her and Da, which would maybe protect her if Da decided violence was needed.
He wouldn’t, though. Even when they were children, it had been Mammy and her wooden spoon which had usually been deployed, but there was something about an angry man that was triggering primitive fear within her.
‘Yous go on back to the house,’ Mammy told the others. Maisie caught sight of Matty’s grim expression as he ushered wee Molly along, Maureen agog with a mix of curiosity and concern.
Once they had gone, Da finally turned to Maisie. ‘Your mammy says you’re walking out with a Protestant,’ he began, his face flushed with anger. ‘She says he’s some doctor from North Belfast. Is it true?’
She nodded, then winced as he began a long tirade, criticising her, the Protestant, and the notions she’d developed since travelling to England which, he declared, was full of heathens. ‘I always thought you were smart, Maisie,’ he finished sadly. ‘I never took you for stupid.’
‘I’m sorry, Da,’ she managed. ‘I never wanted to hurt you – either of yous.’
‘This is far, far worse than me and your mother being hurt,’ he said, his voice heavy with weariness. ‘This could affect your whole future.’ He shook his head slowly, then looked at her. ‘Are you willing to finish with him?’
‘I can’t, Da. I’m sorry.’
He closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. ‘My wee girl,’ he murmured. ‘Never did I think I’d see the day.’
Oh, God. This was it. Occasionally, very occasionally, Maisie had known a girl to marry a Protestant and convert to whatever branch of Christianity her young man followed. But she always moved away. Always.
Mammy was mopping her tears with a cotton handkerchief. ‘The only thing is, Mick, the young fella seems awful great with Father MacLaverty at St John’s. I met him there at the céilí on Friday night, and the priest seemed to think he was a great lad altogether.’
‘What?’ This clearly took Da aback. ‘Might he convert?’ He grimaced, answering his own question before anyone else could. ‘Can’t see it myself. A big doctor? He’ll want you to convert to his religion. What is he anyway?’
‘Presbyterian.’
‘Presbyterian?’ he echoed. He gave a short laugh, and Maisie heard heartbreak in it. ‘Henry Joy McCracken would have sorted it out, no doubt. Catholic, Protestant, and dissenter, fighting side by side to free Ireland.’ He sent her a sharp glance. ‘Is he for the treaty and the partition of Ireland?’
‘He had never really thought about it much,’ Maisie said carefully, trying not to put words into Alex’s mouth. ‘But he’s more open about things than he used to be.’
Da tutted. ‘Doesn’t matter in the end. You’ll probably end up going back to England and we’ll never see you again.
’ His voice was thick with emotion, and the guilty feelings inside Maisie were sickening.
She knew the rules; she always had. People in mixed marriages didn’t stay in Belfast. They moved away.
In that sense Da was no more in charge of her banishment than she was.
He straightened. ‘Well, if you’re not gonna give this lad up, I should at least meet him. It won’t change anything, but at least I’ll get a sense of whether he’s fit to look after you.’
‘I told him to meet us in the Falls Park after dinner,’ Mammy said quietly.
Da sent her a grateful look. ‘Oh, did you? Fair enough.’ They were at the corner of the Springfield Road. ‘Keep a dinner for me,’ he declared. ‘I just need to get me head cooled.’ With that, he wheeled off in the direction of Dunville Park.
‘But, Da—!’
‘Leave him be.’ Mammy spoke firmly. ‘Now, we may get a move on. We’ve to get home to sort out the dinner.’
A tram passed, heading down the Grosvenor Road, and when it had gone Da was nowhere to be seen. His wee heart was breaking, and Maisie’s along with it.
* * *
‘Are you going to see your girl?’ Granda was eyeing Alex as he was shrugging into his big coat – the first time he’d worn it since late spring. The day was dry, but there was a cold wind blowing outside.
‘I am.’ He looked around to make sure his parents weren’t about. ‘I’m maybe meeting her da for the first time.’
‘Well, good lad.’ Granda beckoned him into the small parlour. ‘I mind the first time I spoke to my Sarah’s father. Could hardly get me words out. But I always remember me da sayin’ to me, “Do what you have to do to get by.” Them’s were hard times and people had to do all sorts of things.’
Hard times. ‘Wait.’ Alex’s mind was back on the famine. ‘You told me you were born in the 1840s, Granda?’
‘Eighteen and forty-four, or thereabouts. So I was always told, anyways. There was only me and me da when I was growin’ up, and lucky we were to be alive.’
‘So how did you manage to survive the famine?’ Why had Granda survived, when so many died?
‘Aha! Now you’re askin’ the right question.
’ Granda thought for a moment. ‘I tell ya what, son. You go and see your girl’s father, and don’t be too hasty.
God is good, you know, but you should still never dance in a small boat.
Then when you come back here, you can ask me that question again. Now cheery-oh, and on you go!’
‘Cheerio, Granda,’ he replied, smiling at the little phrase he’d been hearing from his granda all his life. ‘I’ll see you later.’
As he cycled southwards he thought about what he’d learned so far.
His father’s determination to succeed was admirable.
His success in business and his marriage to a well-to-do Anglican girl had opened doors and helped him build his business up.
In turn it had elevated Alex’s prospects too.
Granda had grown up in poverty; Alex, in a comfortable house with the option of university.
And the change had come in just two generations, mostly through his father’s hard work and determination.
It was, he supposed, hardly surprising that Father had become so rigid and stubborn.
Success had come to him by doing things in a certain way, and failure was unthinkable.
Maisie was waiting for him at the tennis courts. They hugged for a long time, clinging to one another as though they would never see one another again. That was how it felt to Alex; as though endings were coming.
They began walking then, towards the Falls Park. Maisie told him of her father’s anger, and he listened, his heart sinking with every word. Mr Canavan seemed to be assuming they would move away.
Feck sake! Neither he nor Maisie wanted to leave Belfast. It was their home, and they loved the old place – despite widespread poverty, dark mills, troubled history, and all.
The people were special, and they made the town special.
It was so feckin’ stupid that he and Maisie would be torn away, or torn apart.
They had reached the park. Although it was only the middle of September the trees were on the turn – autumn hues of russet and red, amber and gold mingling with the green and hinting of impending death, decay, and loss.
Already the grass was wearing a thin carpet of crimson and bronze: soon all the trees would be bare, exposed to icy winter winds in this, a time of war. He shivered.
‘There they are!’ Maisie’s voice was low, and he followed her gaze to the middle-aged couple walking towards them.
Mrs Canavan he already knew. His attention, today, was focused on the man by her side – handsome, tall, and wearing his Sunday best. His face was expressionless, his eyes narrowed.
‘Well!’ Maisie was attempting lightness, though they all would have heard the slight tremor in her voice. ‘Da, this is Alex – Alex Lowe. Alex, this is my Da.’
Alex stuck out a hand, and was relieved when Mr Canavan shook it. They both muttered the usual polite phrases, then Mr Canavan said, ‘Walk with me.’
His heart was thumping so loudly Alex was sure everyone could hear it, but they fell in together, walking ahead of the ladies.
‘You’re a doctor, I hear,’ was Mr Canavan’s opening salvo. An innocuous enough observation in normal circumstances. In the context of wanting to marry the man’s daughter, it took on a hundred layers of meaning.
‘I am, aye. Trained in Queen’s and Edinburgh. Working in Royal Maternity now.’
‘Alongside our Maisie.’
‘Aye. That’s how we met.’
‘And your people are from North Belfast?’
‘We live on the Cliftonville Road. Opposite the cricket ground there. It’s known as the Cricky – do you know it?’
‘Cricket?’ Mr Canavan’s tone was sharp, and Alex realised his mistake too late. He should have talked about the convent full of Catholic nuns that was on his road, rather than the Cricky. ‘Never seen a cricket match in my life.’
‘Is it hurling round here? And Gaelic football?’
‘It is, aye. You ever been to a game?’
‘No. I’d be interested, though.’
Mr Canavan’s tone hardened. ‘Let’s put the cards on the table, Mr Lowe. You’ve been courting my daughter.’
‘I have, aye.’
‘And you intend to keep walking out with her?’
‘I’d like to marry her, if she’ll have me.’ There. He’d said it out loud for the first time. His heart’s dream. The thing that could tear both families apart.
‘Have you asked her?’
‘No.’
‘Hrmph.’ He nodded in a satisfied way. ‘At least that.’ He turned his gaze on Alex – hazel-green eyes disconcertingly like Maisie’s but in a face that was entirely masculine.
‘Alex, you seem like a nice lad, and our Maisie would want for nothing if she married a doctor. But we both know there are problems here.’