Page 25 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘You think so?’

She leaned against the sink, sending him a challenge with her eyes. ‘Aye. Aye, I do.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘One day,’ she declared, ‘I’ll remind you of this conversation – once you’re engaged to one of those nice girls from your church.’

‘Huh. I’ll look forward to it!’

He winked, and left, and Maisie sagged back against the sink. God, what a day!

Later, she would allow herself to think about Gerald again, and the moment of insight she’d had today – insight that she reckoned had completely changed how she felt about her break-up with him. For now, though, she was distracted by one small thing. What had Alex meant by that wink?

* * *

Alex was even quieter than usual during dinner, though Mother had not yet remarked on it, being busy telling both him and Father all about her day, in great detail. Granda, as ever, was mostly focusing on his food.

Alex was only half-listening. Why had Maisie been so upset earlier? And why was it affecting him so? The memory of how it had felt to hold her in his arms was strong – how her trembling had gradually settled, how she had accepted comfort from him. He had no idea what had caused her distress, yet it almost didn’t matter. She had trusted him enough to allow him to comfort her. The memory would stay with him for a long time, he knew.

Her comment about Dan and Peggy had also struck him as odd. Maybe he wasn’t right for her. Wasn’t good to her. Had someone hurt Maisie? A man? The notion sent anger flaring within him, along with a wave of protectiveness. How could anyone hurt someone so good?

I hardly know the girl. For all he knew, she might turn out to be messed up or unkind.

Nah, unlikely.

He was also irritated. For the hundredth time he had gone over in his mind Maisie’s confidence that he would end up married to one of the girls from church. Was that really what he wanted for his life? Being set up by his mother’s matchmaking machinations?

Was that how it worked? Even now, in the twentieth century? There were quite a few young married couples at church, and as he’d noted earlier, most of his school friends were married . . . How had they gone about it? He took a sip of wine, recalling that most had paired off during church functions and excursions. Which was perfectly logical. That was the social circle they moved in, and ‘youth’ activities in the church were probably designed to encourage them to pair up. They chose their own partners from within the group, not being pushed by anyone. And yet . . .

Realisation came to him. It was laggards who were being pushed. Laggards like himself, who had been busy at medical school for years. Almost as if he was late. Almost as if there were rules. Hidden rules.

Maisie knew about them, it seemed. His irritation rose as he recalled her serene confidence that he would toe the line and marry someone his parents approved of. Someone from church. It was even more annoying, given she was the one girl he had become seriously attracted to since moving home. Despite the insouciant wink he had sent her, his mind was now circling again and again on the big questions about his future – questions he had not even considered while a medical student in Queen’s and in Edinburgh.

The war too was having an impact. Well, how could it not? Like everyone else he had been glued to the news reports on BBC radio before dinner. France had advanced into German territory, and yesterday there had been a meeting of the Anglo-French War Council in Abbeville. Alex knew that men of his age and younger were even now enlisting to fight Hitler. Many of them would die without ever knowing what it was to be a husband, a father. Without ever knowing romantic love.

The notion was disturbing. Although the London government had decided not to introduce conscription here in Northern Ireland – probably for fear of Catholic riots – as a doctor he would have been exempt regardless. Was it cowardice to feel slightly relieved about that? So why was he – like countless others, no doubt – suddenly turning his mind to love, and marriage, and fatherhood?

Baby Watson came to mind. Having examined many babies with professionalism and skill, their fragility called to him. Fatherhood called to him. What must it be like for men like Mr Watson, to know that the child they cradled was their own son or daughter, born out of the love between husband and wife? The same protectiveness surged through him again – this time for the idea of a son or daughter.

His attention returned to the present, for Mother was talking about the Ladies Committee at church, who were apparently planning fundraising events. Fundraising for Spitfires. Spitfires! Lord, who’d have thought it?

‘We have fundraisers coming up for the hospital too,’ he said shortly.

‘Well, you must do your duty by the church,’ she replied primly.

He sighed. ‘I’ll end up having to go to both, I suppose.’

‘Why so reluctant? I’d have thought you’d want to mix with other young people. We’re planning receptions, and tea dances, and garden parties next spring.’

Garden parties! ‘We’re at war, Mother. Do you think there’ll still be garden parties?’

‘Of course there will! Sure that nasty Hitler person is miles away! The fighting will all be in Germany and Poland. Nothing will happen here.’

About to contest this, Alex thought better of it, saying only, ‘I hope you’re right.’

There was a brief silence. ‘So tell me about the hospital fundraisers.’

‘I don’t know that much – we heard about them at that reception last week. Tea dances in the Orpheus once a month, they said.’