Page 39 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

He was trying to be nice, so she didn’t mention the trappings of poverty that were obvious if you know how to look. Some of these tiny two-up-two-downs had fifteen people living in them.

‘Have you far to go?’ she indicated the bike.

‘Cliftonville Road. Not far.’

Aye, not far in miles. But Cliftonville Road was in a fancy part of North Belfast. A world apart.

‘So what was your brother doing today?’

‘Oh – he started as an apprentice painter.’

‘That’s brilliant. Hard to get a start.’

‘Hard to break out of the mills. We’re lucky.’

‘Yous are. In lots of ways. You’ve a brother and a sister, and maybe more. I’m the only one in my house.’

‘Ah God love ya. Must have been hard – though you won’t have wanted for anything.’

‘We were never short of money,’ he conceded, ‘but the house was very quiet.’

‘Ouch. Are you being diplomatic?’

He laughed. ‘Trying to. My mother and father are the salt of the earth, you know? And my granda is class. But I’d have loved a brother.’ His eyes grew wistful as he gazed once more down Dunlewey Street.

‘Well there was seven of us, plus Mammy and Da, and I’d have loved a bit of peace and quiet sometimes!’

‘Seven! Good Lord!’

‘Good Lord!’ she echoed, just to try such a fancy expletive in her mouth. ‘Aye, packed like sardines we were, until the big ones got married. I’m the eldest at home now.’

‘What are they all called?’

In a sing-song voice she rattled off the names. ‘Michael, Maolíosa, Moya, Maisie, Matty, Maureen, and Molly.’

‘Molly! I’ve met her.’

‘You have.’

‘Nice wee girl. So am I right in saying there’s four of you still at home, along with your parents?’ She nodded. ‘You, Matty, Molly, and . . . one more.’

‘Maureen,’ she supplied.

And I’m assuming Michael, Moya, and . . . the second one are all married?’

‘Maolíosa. Aye.’

‘Of course! Melissa,’ he repeated, so she had to correct him.

‘Not Melissa, Maolíosa,’ she said, emphasising the ee sound. ‘Like Lisa, rather than Lissa.’

‘Oh. Maleesa, then. Is that a Catholic name?’

She nodded. ‘Means servant of Jesus, apparently.’

‘Huh. That’s quite nice.’

‘Not so nice for our Maolíosa when our Matty and Michael used to wind her up by firing orders at her. Wash my cup, servant! That sort of thing. She used to lose her temper every time.’