31 #2
‘But I know what it’s like to convert,’ Mother continued, ignoring Granda’s levity.
‘Walking into an existing community and trying to join it isn’t easy.
And I think—’ She bit her lip. ‘Some part of him probably feels like he was never fully accepted by some of the church families – the ones who knew about what your Granda just told you.’
‘He’s ashamed of who he is,’ said Granda sadly, ‘and he’s spent his life trying to be the big man – to do more, to be better than the others.’
Hence his anti-Catholic bigotry.
‘Your father only wants what’s best for you, Alexander,’ Mother repeated.
That was probably true. ‘Fair enough, but he is gonna have to wise up now, and calm the feck down about all this religion nonsense.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘He’ll be welcome at my wedding, but make no mistake: the wedding will go ahead whether he’s there or not.’
‘Good lad.’ Granda nodded in approval. ‘Now, ask me about your da’s name.’
What was this? More secrets? ‘Granda, you’re a terror!’ he declared affectionately. ‘Right. Is my father’s name really Henry, and why is it significant?’
Mother rolled her eyes. ‘I know this, so I’m not staying for this part.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll go and see if Henry has calmed down at all.’
Once she had gone, Granda pointed to Alex’s chair. ‘Sit yourself down, lad, for I’ve a quare tale to tell.’
Alex sat, his heart still thumping over Granda’s shockingly wonderful revelation. And there was, it seemed, more to come.
‘Fadó, fadó,’ Granda began with a flourish, then broke off to give Alex a mischievous grin. ‘That’s how we start the old tales in Irish, you know. It means, long, long ago. The story I’m about to tell you isn’t from that long ago, but we Irish know how to spin a good yarn.’
Irish. I’m Irish! Well, he had already known he was, but today’s revelations made it all the sweeter. ‘Will you teach me some words in Irish?’ he asked. ‘I already know mo chara. It means my friend.’ Dan had taught him that.
‘You have a friend who speaks the old tongue?’
‘I do. Dan from work.’
‘Well, here’s a couple of Irish phrases to start you off.
They took our language, you know. Forced us to speak the English.
I would be hit in school every time I spoke my mother tongue.
They literally beat it out of me. Now, listen.
Is fearr Gaeilge bhriste ná Béarla cliste. Do you know what that means?’
‘I have no idea. I think I heard you say something about Gaelic?’
‘Gaeilge. That’s the word for our language. Irish.’
‘Gael-ig-uh,’ Alex tried the word in his mouth. ‘What does the rest mean?’
‘Broken Irish is better than clever English. It tells you to always use what Irish words you have, and never worry about the fact you’re just learning.’
The force of this hit Alex like a blow. Why did he not know his mother tongue? In that moment he realised he had lost something special – all the more precious because it was so rare. ‘And the other phrase?’
‘Tír gan teanga, tír gan anam,’ Granda said softly. ‘A country without a language is a country without a soul.’
There was now a lump in Alex’s throat, and he vowed silently to learn as much Irish as he could. Granda would be his first teacher, but after Granda was gone he would find others.
‘Anyway, back to my tale,’ said Granda, clearly in his element. He’s been carrying this burden for a long, long time.
‘My own granda was called Pat John McCloy. He was born in seventeen hunderd and eighty-one, and he fought with the United Irishmen in 1798.’
Alex was gripped. Never could he have imagined what he was hearing.
He had an ancestor who had fought for Irish freedom!
The United Irishmen – Catholic, Protestant, and dissenter standing side by side.
Suddenly it was more than words in a history book.
‘He won at Saintfield,’ Granda continued, ‘lost alongside McCracken at Antrim, and was taken by the British. He escaped execution because he was only a lad of seventeen, and went on to have a family of his own, including my father, Eamon Patrick McCloy.’
Confusion was once more racing through Alex’s mind. ‘McCloy? But—’
‘Aye, me da changed the family name to Lowe once he converted.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a common thing. But can you work out why I named one of my boys Henry?’
The answer came immediately. ‘After Henry Joy McCracken, the rebel leader!’
‘Exactly. He was a Presbyterian who believed in Irish freedom. All these divides between us are a load of guff!’
‘I agree with you, Granda.’ He swallowed. ‘So, will you come to my wedding?’
‘You just try and keep me away, son!’
* * *
Alex went for a pint with Mr Canavan, who bid him call him Mick, and who was keen to talk finances.
Once he heard about Alex’s doctor earnings, and his ability to buy a good house for him and Maisie to live in, he whistled.
‘Our Maisie is set for life, and no mistake!’ He sent him a keen glance. ‘But yous’ll stay in Belfast?’
‘Definitely! We haven’t had the chance to plan properly yet, but I’d imagine we’ll look for a house somewhere around here.’
‘Good stuff. And the wedding?’
‘No need to wait too long, I suppose.’ He grimaced. ‘With the war and all.’
They talked of the news then, and agreed on almost everything.
By the time they left the pub Alex was feeling reasonably confident that he would have a good relationship with his father-in-law.
Maisie’s mother was quite another matter.
‘I wondered if I could treat you and Mrs Canavan to afternoon tea at the Grand Central Hotel next Sunday? Maisie should be off that day.’
‘Thank you, Alex. That’s very generous of you. Now, come you on with me, and meet the family – or some of them, anyway.’
Nerves fluttered in Alex’s gut. These people were set to be an important part of his life from now on; he needed to make a good impression.
Entering Maisie’s family home for the first time was a surreal experience.
They were clearly expected; despite the fact it was Monday they were all wearing their Sunday best, and the table in the tiny kitchen was set with a snowy white cloth.
There was even a bunch of late wildflowers – harebells and heathers – in a tiny vase on the mantel, directly below a picture of a female saint who was holding a bunch of roses.
Maisie was there, joy in her eyes, along with her brother Matty and her two younger sisters.
He’d met every one of them before, which helped.
Although Matty was a few years younger than him, already Alex hoped he would become a brother to him.
Maureen he knew from the céilís, and the awful night Mrs Lennon had died.
And as for wee Molly, she was bouncing about with excitement; he clearly had made a good impression with her.
He had been worried about Maisie’s mammy, but Mrs Canavan was like a woman transformed.
Gone was the cool politeness; she was warm and welcoming and clearly delighted about his decision to switch religions.
With the directness he had already come to expect from her, she asked when he would be taking instruction.
‘Oh, I’ve already borrowed a Catechism from Father MacLaverty,’ he said, and she nodded.
‘Good, for they usually do the converts at Easter. You’ve plenty of time between now and then.’ She sent a pointed glance towards Maisie. ‘Time to plan a wedding too, maybe.’
‘Maybe.’ Maisie was non-committal. ‘We haven’t had the chance to even talk about it yet.’
They had tea then, and freshly made soda farls spread with precious butter from their rations, which was generous of them. Two ounces of butter per person per week was all anyone was allowed, so this signalled something of a celebration.
Afterwards he and Maisie went for a walk up the Falls in the cold, dark evening, each carrying hooded lamps. Not that they cared about the cold or the darkness, for they had a million things to talk about.
Almost straight away they decided that Father MacLaverty was the priest they wanted for their wedding – even though he was at St John’s and not St Paul’s.
Early summer seemed a good time for the wedding, so they resolved to speak to the priest about a date as soon as they could.
They spoke of houses, and Maisie shed a happy tear when Alex made it clear they could buy rather than rent, and that they could easily afford to buy a nice three-bedroom somewhere nearby.
‘We’ll have an indoor plumbed bathroom too!
’ he said, and suggested that Maisie’s family could come over for baths any time they wished – for which he got a grateful hug.
‘What about your ones?’ she asked then, and he grinned.
‘Oh, one or two developments there.’
‘What?’ She stopped walking, lifting her lamp to peer at him closely. ‘Something happened. What is it?’
‘Not much,’ he replied in a casual manner. ‘Just that I found out my great-great-granda fought with the United Irishmen, that my father is named after Henry Joy McCracken, and that my father’s whole family were Catholic up until the time of the famine.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘What? You serious?’
‘Yup. I could hardly believe it myself. And my granda speaks Irish!’
‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ She blessed herself. ‘It’s a miracle, Alex. An actual miracle.’
‘It does feel that way, to be honest. All those candles you lit, I reckon.’
She was crying again. ‘I can’t believe it! It’s gonna actually be all right!’
‘Not completely,’ he said grimly. ‘My father is still fell out with me, and says he won’t come to the wedding.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry, Alex.’
He shrugged. ‘His choice – though I can’t deny it hurts.
But Granda says he’ll definitely be coming, and I reckon Mother will come too.
’ Setting his lamp down, he slid his arms around her.
‘But the most important thing is that we’re getting married, Maisie.
’ His lips found hers, and joy spread through him.