Page 11 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Mammy exhaled slowly. ‘I knew you’d probably be on good money, Maisie, but I never expected this.’ She frowned, considering. ‘I’ll talk to your da about it, but I’m thinkin’ we might be able to get our Matty an apprenticeship.’

Maisie’s heart swelled. The money wasn’t hers – it belonged to the family. Everybody handed over their wages to Mammy, who managed their finances as best she could. Even though Maisie had turned twenty-one last month she would still be handing over her wages. They had seen some hard times over the years – the entire 1930s had been a disaster for most families, financially. Yet somehow Mammy had managed to keep on paying the rent and putting food on the table week after week.

Da and Matty both worked in the Springfield Mill, along with Maureen, Maisie’s seventeen-year-old sister. It’s where Maisie would have still been working too, if she hadn’t been lucky enough to get to England for her midwifery training. Thank God for Granny’s gift! Granny Canavan had come into money late in life, thanks to unexpectedly inheriting the family farm. She had promptly sold it, dividing the money up among all her children and grandchildren, including buying an apprenticeship for the oldest unmarried grandchild in each house – boy or girl. In their house that should have been Moya, but since Moya was already engaged, and said she wanted to concentrate on marriage and babies, the gift had passed to Maisie. She would never forget the day when Granny had spoken to her about the plan. Her parents had already known, having been involved in the many complex family discussions that had been going on for weeks.

‘Now, think carefully, Maisie,’ Mammy had said, ‘about what training you want. There’s enough for a full apprenticeship – same as your cousins. You could be a seamstress, or a nurse, or a teacher, maybe.’

Maisie hadn’t hesitated. ‘I want to be a midwife.’ She had been nine when Mammy had given birth to Molly – her last child – and still remembered being astounded by the midwives and handywomen who had supported her. Handywomen were the uncertified lay midwives who had served the women of Belfast for generations. They had been around long, long before the advent of formal training courses for midwives, and Maisie had great respect for them. For her, though, the certified midwife in particular had been an impressive figure, with a bicycle, a leather bag, and even a uniform.

Until that moment in Granny’s house, Maisie had never shared her yearnings with anyone, knowing it was an impossible dream. But the dream had become reality, and now her midwifery earnings might offer a similar chance to her lovely younger brother. Granny had died before Maisie left for England, but Maisie knew how proud her grandmother would have been.

Matty (who was between Maisie and Maureen in the family) was eighteen, and they had never been able even to consider an apprenticeship for him before, as the family simply wouldn’t have been able to manage without his mill wages. As an apprentice, her brother would earn very little – especially in the first year – but with Maisie’s wages helping out, they should be able to manage.

We are poor. The notion struck Maisie anew. Having been out in the world for a year, she could see certain things more clearly. She and her entire family would never have savings, never own their home, never go on ‘holiday’ or own a car or wear fancy clothes. There would be times when they’d worry about having enough money for food and coal and shoes. But Maisie’s job would make a big difference, and for that she was grateful. It wasn’t her doing anyway – this was Granny Canavan’s money coming back round to help again in a new way. Thank you, Granny. She blessed herself and glanced upwards, hoping Granny (Lord rest her) could hear her.

She finished the dishes while Mammy saw to the food, and the only sounds in the kitchen for a while were the splash and clink of delph, the bubbling of the vegetables on the cooker, and the hum of voices from the living room. Once the dishes were done Maisie went through to sit with Maureen and her friend Áine.

Maureen and Áine had been in the same school year, though Áine was a few months younger. They were now together in the mill, and were generally inseparable. Áine had a hard home life – her da was fond of the drink, and Áine’s ma sometimes had bruises that she said was her own clumsiness. Maisie wasn’t so sure.

Still, Áine was always welcome in their house, even when money was tight and food was short. Mammy never complained, and Maisie knew why. You did the right thing, in whatever wee way you could.

‘Well, girls!’

‘Well, Maisie. How’s the job goin’?’

Áine wasn’t simply asking out of politeness, Maisie knew. The girl regularly helped her granny, Ma Kennedy, who was a well-respected local handywoman. Officially, qualified midwives were supposed to disapprove of handywomen, but Maisie had been reared in West Belfast and, to her, they were as important a part of the community as the nun, the seamstress, and the milly.

‘I love it.’ It was true. Sitting here, with girls who would no doubt give their right arm for the opportunity, Maisie knew that, no matter how tough the work was, she had to be grateful.

Carefully, she told the girls about some of the women she’d supported during her first week – ensuring she didn’t share anything that might reveal their identity. The girls seemed fascinated. She left out the story of poor Mrs Lennon, though. Mrs Lennon, who would probably talk to Father Wallis tonight after evening Mass, who would be in pure turmoil right now about what Dr Fenton had said to her that morning.

‘And do you not get to see the babbies being born?’ Áine seemed fascinated.

‘I did in London, and will here eventually, but me and the other new girls have to do some time in the clinics and the wards before they let us into labour ward – delivery suite, I mean – or out on the district.’

Áine’s brow was furrowed. ‘What’s the difference between labour ward and delivery suite?’

‘No difference. Delivery suite is just a fancier way of saying labour ward. It’s the part of the hospital where the women actually give birth.’

Áine had plenty more questions, and by the time Matty and Da had arrived and had a wash, the dinner was ready and the time had flown. Such a contrast with Maisie’s time in England, where she’d have spent the evening either in her room or in the common-room, chatting with girls from England about their studies, their exams, their teachers.

And about boys. On Fridays, if not on duty, they’d all go to the socials, to flirt and carry on with doctors and airmen and soldiers. It struck Maisie now that she hadn’t thought of Gerald in hours, not since – she reviewed her day – Fenton’s watch!

Never would she have expected to go so long without thinking about him. He had been her everything for almost a year. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it seemed she had meant a lot less to him. Or maybe he had been so hurt and angry that last night, he had lashed out with lies. Once more her mind went around and around the familiar pain, trying desperately to make sense of it all.

There were seven of them for dinner, which meant the youngest ones eating off their knees, for there were only four chairs around the kitchen table. Molly sat in the living room, while Maureen and Áine took their dinners to sit at the bottom of the stairs. Tucking into delicious potatoes, turnip, and cabbage, Maisie added a curl of pale butter to her spuds and reflected on her good fortune. Being home meant everything was new – her job as a qualified midwife, the way her wages would help the family, even the fact that she owned a bicycle for the first time in her life. Could she, also, become new again? Could Midwife Maisie nullify the ghost of Pupil Maisie? The girl who had stood out because she was Irish, and didn’t know which fork to use, and had never before been to a concert or a museum?

Maybe she wouldn’t be heartbroken forever. Maybe, with time, thoughts of Gerald and his cruelty that last night would lessen. Maybe her wounds would heal.

She could only hope.

* * *

The ticking of the clock was the loudest sound in the drawing room. Alex, well-used to the silence, passed no remarks. It gave him time to think. Mother was sewing, Father reading the paper, Granda enjoying a wee nap in his armchair, and Alex was . . . reflecting. It was odd, how he was being treated so differently now he was qualified. Medical students were not well valued in the hospitals. For years, Alex had felt like an irritant, barely tolerated by doctors, nurses, and midwives. He had had no clue how to dress a wound or administer an injection or check blood pressure. Well, of course he hadn’t! He was learning!

Now though . . . During his first week as a qualified doctor, everyone had been respectful. He had first worn a white coat in anatomy class as a young student, but now he wore it over a suit. Medical students always dressed neatly, but only qualified doctors wore suits. He even had a brand-new pocket watch, given to him by Granda on graduation day. He still recalled the surprise he had felt outside the Whitla Hall that day when he had been presented with the watch.

Granda – his father’s father – knew that Father had been unhappy with Alex’s choice of career, and had pointedly told Alex that he ‘couldn’t have been prouder’ that day. Father had sniffed and turned away. Thinking about it now, Alex could not recall any occasion when Father had suggested he was proud of him. Just the way he is.