34 #2
Soon afterwards Alex had cleared a decent-sized hole at the back of the shelter, and he and Father manoeuvred the two panels ajar – enough to free Mother, who hugged Alex, her tears flowing freely.
Granda came next, blinking in the daylight and hugging Alex tightly.
‘I thought mebbe me time had come last night, and that’s no lie,’ he declared, adding, ‘but sure it’s hard to kill a bad thing! ’
After helping Granda up to Mother, the two of them began to head towards the house.
And then Father was there, and all Alex could do was fling his arms around his old man. Father stiffened for a moment, then returned the hug. ‘Thanks, son,’ he muttered, turning away – but not before Alex had seen that his eyes were suspiciously moist.
Alex stood for a moment, surveying the damage.
The shelter would have to be cleared and repaired before nightfall, but he had to get back to the Royal, and he desperately needed some sleep.
Still, he knew he was one of the lucky ones.
His family had survived, as had his sweetheart.
For thousands of Belfast families, the night had brought grief as well as terror.
The town gas was off, so Father was sent to the shelter to retrieve their paraffin stove and one of the bottles of water, for tea.
Once again, drinking the soothing hot liquid felt incredible – small pleasures counted for a lot this morning.
They ate a bit too, some of yesterday’s bread with what was left of the blackberry jam Mrs Sinclair had made last autumn.
God, hopefully Mrs Sinclair and her husband were safe too in their own wee house.
Father went to check on the Wallaces, speaking to the air raid warden who was in charge of their area and returning with the grim news that their neighbours had both perished in their house – having surprisingly not made it to the shelter by the time the bomb had struck.
Their bodies had already been moved to a makeshift mortuary at St George’s Market in the city centre, and their daughters had been informed.
Yet another blow. George’s children would grow up without knowing their grandparents.
Within the hour Alex was on his way back to the hospital, having sorted the shelter with Father as best they could. As they worked they had talked – nothing of significance, just casual comments about their task. But the hostility was gone. A miracle indeed.
In the meantime Mrs Sinclair had arrived, informing them that she and her husband had been lucky, as their house was unscathed except for some broken windows.
She and Mother had cleared up the broken glass and assembled extra supplies for the shelter, based on last night’s various discomforts.
As Alex left, they did too, making for the air raid warden to volunteer in whatever way needed.
Pride surged within him as they told him their plan, and he hoped it was showing on his face as he wished them well.
The clear-up was already underway, the people of Belfast responding to their circumstances with remarkable resilience.
Those who had decided to stay were engaged in helping others.
As he travelled southwards to the hospital, some clean clothes and half a soda farl wrapped in paper in his saddle bag, Alex noticed hundreds of people helping – clearing rubble, putting out small fires, assisting the ambulance drivers and stretcher men.
The sky was still dimmed with greyish-yellow smoke, hundreds of fires still burning.
Alex noticed at least one fire engine from Dublin – interesting in itself, considering the south was neutral.
Back in the hospital, he made for the doctors’ mess as usual, to prepare himself and report for duty. Mr Russell was there – on the telephone – so Alex washed his hands and face in the trickle of water at one of the sinks. The telephone line had already been restored. Belfast is just class!
‘Dr Lowe!’ Mr Russell shook his hand. ‘Thanks again for all your hard work last night. You were a hero, young man.’
Images flashed into Alex’s mind – of all the actual heroes he’d seen while cycling through North Belfast. ‘Thank you, but I really wasn’t.’
They talked for a moment of the devastation, and how lucky they were that most of their families had survived it. Alex knew of John-Joe; two of Mr Russell’s cousins had also perished. ‘You’re on again tonight, aren’t you?’ Russell asked then.
‘I am.’ He grinned. ‘I swapped with Dan Sheridan.’
‘Ha! A good move on Dr Sheridan’s part!’ Russell sobered. ‘Matters are under control for now. Dr Fenton has even made it in. We have plenty of doctors, so I suggest you get some sleep for a few hours.’
‘You certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘In that case I’m going to check on Maisie first.’
‘Ah, yes, Midwife Canavan. I understand you are to be married. Congratulations!’
‘Thank you.’
‘No white coat when you go to see her, mind!’ He wagged a finger, half-smiling.
‘Good idea!’ That would signal to the team that he was off duty.
What struck Alex instantly as he entered delivery suite was the air of normality about the place.
Despite last night being the worst they had ever gone through, the team had re-established their usual procedures, standards, and hygiene.
Yes, there were workmen boarding up some of the windows – there would be a serious shortage of window-glass in the city now, Alex reckoned – but a different sister was in charge, and the day-shift midwives and doctors were moving around with calm efficiency.
When he asked after Maisie, he was told that she was sleeping in the room at the end of C ward, so he immediately made his way there, passing through the main bay and keeping his head down.
There were still lots of women there – chatting, weeping, or rocking with the unmistakable movements of early labour.
He knocked the door at the end, but there was no reply so he cautiously opened it. The room was cool, with quite a few broken windows, but the three beds had been freshly made up, and there was Maisie, in the far bed, sound asleep.
He had never seen her asleep before, and his heart turned over at the sight of her. She is so beautiful. Leaning in, he kissed her forehead and she stirred, her eyes opening. She smiled then.
‘Alex!’
They spent a few moments together, talking.
She had managed to get over to Dunlewey Street and meet with her family.
Thankfully, the area had not received any direct hits.
John-Joe had been the only family casualty, and poor Moya was now widowed, with a new baby and no house, for she had been living on the Crumlin Road near John-Joe’s family.
‘She’ll move back in with us,’ Maisie said. ‘That way, we can all help.’
‘Won’t it be a tight squeeze?’ Alex asked, thinking of just how tiny their house was.
‘They’ll be grand,’ said Maisie. ‘Especially since I’ll be gone in a lock of weeks.’
‘You will, won’t you?’ Alex smiled. ‘It won’t be long now.’
Not long, and then they would be married.