31
Alex’s joy carried him all the way up the Falls and across the Shankill.
Maisie had agreed to be his wife! Even better, he knew deep within that converting was the right thing for him to do.
It wasn’t only for Maisie. He liked the way the Catholics thought, liked their so-called superstitions and the way they had put an Irish spin on Christianity.
Father Mac was one of the wisest people he knew, and while he was aware that not all priests were as filled with love and grace as his friend – sure look at what had happened to Mrs Lennon when she had consulted Father Wallis – still he knew that the whole thing felt right.
By the time he was cycling up Clifton Park Avenue in the chilly air his thoughts were turning to his own family, and how he would break the news to them.
Gradually, carefully? Or should he do it suddenly and dramatically?
He wanted to inflict as little hurt as possible, and he also wanted to give everyone the best possible chance of coming round to the idea.
Gradually, then. Maybe he would tell Granda first. His heart quickened as he recalled Granda’s cryptic comments earlier.
Was he close to uncovering the family secret, whatever it was?
Posters for the Sunday papers were everywhere, so he stopped to pay tuppence for a Sunday Times, tucking it under his arm as he re-mounted.
A German bomb had hit Buckingham Palace a few days ago, but thankfully the royal family hadn’t been injured.
The aerial dogfights were continuing, and Churchill had made a speech making it clear that this week was crucial in preventing an invasion of Britain.
In that context, Alex’s troubles seemed small indeed.
Hopefully his family would have a similar perspective.
Leaving his bike in the front porch he went inside, making straight for the wee room, where Granda was dozing in front of the fire, as ever.
Moving quietly, he sat in the facing armchair with his newspaper, alternating between reading about the war and staring into the fire, allowing joy to radiate through him. She said Yes.
‘I’ve brought you your tea, Mr Lowe.’ Mrs Sinclair came bustling in with a tray, waking Granda. ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were back, Alex. D’ye want a cup?’
‘That would be lovely, Mrs Sinclair, thanks.’ He rose to take the tray. ‘I’ll do this.’
‘Ah, good lad.’ He poured for Granda, who was stretching and yawning, and gave him his tea without a word. Granda always liked a bit of peace when he first woke up.
By the time Mrs Sinclair returned with an extra cup and saucer, Granda had come round a bit.
‘No Sunday scones any more,’ he observed morosely.
‘No. It’s all rationed, and Mrs Sinclair needs the butter and flour for main meals. No luxuries any more. Still’ – Alex frowned into his tea – ‘at least we have enough to eat.’
‘Aye, you don’t want to know true hunger, son, that’s for sure and certain. Man dear, they were eatin’ grass back in the day!’
‘Tell me about that time,’ Alex urged, ‘and tell me how you survived it.’ And so Granda spoke of vague memories of soup kitchens and tickets, of emaciated people and almost everyone he knew dying.
‘I was born up in the Glens of Antrim, but Da got us to Belfast. There was only me and me da and me older sister left in the end. Me mother and nine other brothers and sisters all died of the hunger.’ His gaze became unfocused.
‘I remember knowing who was rich, because them people weren’t thin, like us. ’
‘Must have been desprit.’
‘I’ll tell you what was desprit!’ His eyes were filled with fire. ‘Them gets, takin’ all the wheat and the oats and the barley, and putting it on their ships to take to England! And then havin’ the nerve to call it a famine! It was never a bloody famine!’
‘Is it true they had armed guards on the food?’
‘Course they did. And there was many a man shot or transported to Australia for tryin’ to rob food for his family!’ He shook his head. ‘Sinful, that’s what it was.’
Mrs Sinclair had omitted to close the door, and Alex’s sharp ears now detected heavy footsteps in the hall. He ignored them. Father wouldn’t come in here, for he would hear them talking and go to the main parlour instead.
‘But, Granda, you said it was only yourself and your da in the end. What happened to your sister?’
‘She got away to America. The Presbyterian church got her on a ship.’
‘That was good of them.’ All churches had the power for good, and most used it.
‘Was it? I suppose it looks that way.’ He sighed. ‘I never saw her again. I have no idea if she even survived the journey.’
Alex gasped and shook his head slowly, trying to imagine what it had been like. With most of the family dead from starvation, Granda and his sister must have been particularly close. It was too awful even to contemplate.
The footsteps in the hall had paused, yet Alex couldn’t help but continue. Here was another relative – a great-aunt – someone he had never heard about before.
‘What was her name, Granda?’ Having a name would make her seem more real, and give her the respect of being properly remembered all these years later.
‘Bridget,’ he said, looking Alex directly in the eye. ‘But we called her Bríd.’
This was unexpected. ‘Bríd? Like, the Irish version?’
‘Aye. Bríd an t-ainm a bhí uirthi,’ said Granda. ‘Bríd was her name,’ and the door flew open, hitting the wall with a crash.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Father strode forward, glaring at Granda, his face red with anger.
Granda started, but remained remarkably calm – at least on the surface. Alex noticed that his hands were gripping the arms of his chair, the knuckles white.
‘I told you never to speak of those things, never to speak that disgusting language!’ His tone was accusatory, his stance aggressive. It was totally out of order, so Alex stood, protective of his grandfather.
‘That’s enough!’ He spoke directly to his father for the first time in months. ‘Don’t you speak to Granda like that!’
‘And who’s gonna stop me, boy?’ Father’s face was red with anger. ‘You?’
‘If necessary,’ Alex returned calmly – more calmly than he was feeling.
‘You made me promise,’ said Granda, his voice a little thick.
‘And I’ve kept that promise all these years, to keep the peace, and to allow the boy to grow up without confusion.
But Alexander is a man now. He deserves to know about his family.
And I won’t lie when I’m asked a direct question.
’ He looked to Alex. ‘You asked me earlier how we managed to survive the famine. Here’s the answer. We were soupers. We took the soup.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Father. ‘I told you never to tell him that!’
‘He needs to know. Do you know what a souper is, son?’
Alex was full of bewilderment. ‘I have no clue!’
‘Would yous all please keep the noise down!’ Mother had joined the fray. ‘Mrs Sinclair will hear yous!’
‘I believe that my son here is the only one losing the run of himself,’ Granda replied with a wry smile. ‘My Henry’s not happy that our Alexander is finally being told the truth.’
‘What truth?’ The words exploded from Alex. ‘Tell me!’
Granda nodded. ‘Alexander, the only soup kitchen that would take us was the Presbyterian one.’
‘And what? We were Presbyterians. Sure why wouldn’t they take us?’
There was a silence – a silence charged with tension, and meaning. Mother had her hand at her mouth, while Father remained rigid with rage. What the hell is going on?
Granda didn’t answer, instead gazing calmly at Alex. Work it out.
Alex’s entire body was alert, the hairs on his arms standing to attention, as an incredible possibility came to him. ‘Granda, what religion were you?’
‘I was reared a Catholic, and I’ll stay a Catholic in my heart until the day I die,’ Granda said, his voice strong.
‘My da agreed we would convert for the sake of free food, to keep us alive. He’d already lost nearly everybody.
This was the best chance he had of making sure me and our Bríd survived. ’
Alex put a hand on the back of his armchair, feeling suddenly unsteady. ‘Catholic? We’re Catholics?’
‘Indeed we are not!’ Father spluttered. ‘We’ve taken a step up, outgrown that childish, superstitious religion. We speak English and we mix with better people now.’
‘Better people?’ Better than Maisie and her family?
Dan and Peggy? All the welcoming people at the céilís?
Mr and Mrs Lennon? Father MacLaverty? ‘I don’t think so.
’ He straightened. ‘Well, that settles it.’ Alex was no longer worried.
His path had just been cleared, and relief and joy was flooding through him.
‘I’m converting back to Catholicism and I’m going to marry the girl I love! ’
‘You do that, son! And good luck to ya!’ Granda was smiling now.
His father, though, was clearly fuming. ‘You do what you want!’ Father declared. ‘But I’ll not be going to no papist wedding!’ Turning on his heel, he stormed out. For the first time in her life, Mother didn’t follow him.
‘Alexander,’ she said softly, ‘your father thought he was doing what was best, what was right. He was reared Presbyterian by his own mother, and our friends in the church have been good to us.’ She looked uncomfortable.
‘And all that stuff about better people; that’s him.
That’s not Presbyterians generally. Or at least, he thinks it’s more important than many other people do.
Of course everyone is encouraged to marry within their own church, but you can do that without having to disparage others. ’
‘To be fair, Mother, I have heard others say similar things.’
She sighed. ‘Everyone does. People like to think they’re better than ones that are different. Some Anglicans think they’re better than Presbyterians, Presbyterians think they’re better than Catholics, and the Catholics think they’re better than everyone!’
‘The one true faith!’ declared Granda, with a wink.