Page 57 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Sure I don’t need nothing. Your da needs a new donkey jacket. I’m sick of adding new patches to the elbows.’

‘Aye, true. What about Maureen?’

‘Our Maureen wants everything she sees. She’s easy to buy for.’ She thought for a minute. ‘I’m going to get somethin’ wee for Áine too. God love her.’

‘How are they doin’?’

Mammy pursed her lips. ‘I seen bruises on her wrist yesterday.’

‘On Áine’s wrist?’ Has that fecker started hitting his daughter as well as his wife?

‘No. Her mammy.’

‘Oh, right. I wish she would leave him.’

‘Ah now, it’s a big thing, to leave a husband. She made a sacred vow. Marriage isn’t something you can get out of, you know.’

Till death do us part. A notion passed through Maisie’s mind, of herself stuck with Gerald for fifty years. She shuddered. He had never been actually violent – well, nothing worse than occasionally forcing a kiss on her when she was mad at him, or roaming his hands all over her despite her fighting him off, or occasionally refusing to let her go when she wanted away. ‘You’re mine,’ he had hissed once, his expression threatening, ‘and don’t you forget it!’

Thank God she had always known she would return to Belfast. He had been really angry that last day when he had finally accepted she had meant it, and that neither threats nor entreaties could change her mind. ‘But I have to go,’ she had told him repeatedly, for weeks. ‘It’s my home. They’re my family.’

At times, she recalled, he had looked at her as if she was speaking a foreign language, and she realised that he had rarely spoken of his own family – parents, and a younger brother somewhere in Hampshire. He had no idea what it meant to be close to family, clearly.

As one of the midwives not taking a job in King’s, she had been required to vacate her room by the end of July, and so the timing had not been negotiable. ‘You’ll come crawling back, Maisie Canavan,’ he had told her sneeringly that last evening, before marching off into the London streets, leaving her devastated.

She had stayed in the city long enough to enjoy the ceremony where she and her classmates had received their certificates and badges, then booked her tickets for home; a train to Liverpool, a boat to Dublin, then a train north to Belfast. And she had indeed regretted leaving, occasionally, at first. Had wondered what might have happened if she’d stayed, taken up a midwifery job in London, perhaps married Gerald.

No, they wouldn’t have suited. In the fog of his attentions, and confused about her own worth, she might have stayed had she been someone else. But she was Maisie Canavan from Dunlewey Street, and her only option was to return home. Her family were a part of her, as was Belfast itself, in a way. And Belfast had its rules. Rules she understood. Catholics and Protestants. Rich and poor. The sanctity of marriage.

Marriage isn’t something you can get out of. Some women, however, did escape violent husbands. She had met a few during her training. Could Belfast change? Could there be room for exceptions, even here? ‘In London—’ she began, but Mammy was quick of mind. She saw exactly what Maisie was getting at, and she wasn’t having it.

‘Never mind what happens in London. Probably all heathens anyway. We’re God-fearin’ people here, and we follow the teachings of the Church.’ She rose, smoothing her apron. ‘Now come on and we’ll get the cupboard ready for the Christmas stuff, and no more nonsense from you.’

Maisie suppressed a sigh. Why was everything so rigid and inflexible and – and stupid ? She was as good a Catholic as anybody else, but it didn’t stop her from asking questions sometimes. Just because she had chosen this – home, and family, and Belfast – it didn’t mean she couldn’t see its flaws. She simply had no power to change things.

As they worked together to sort out the kitchen cupboard, Mammy started humming a wee tune, and before long they were both belting out everything from ‘The Minstrel Boy’ to ‘Molly Malone’. It made Maisie’s spirits soar and the work seem lighter. Aye, maybe being home wasn’t so bad.

18

‘There’s Prudence Crawford, Alexander.’ Mother’s tone held a hint of slyness, and Alex suppressed a sigh. ‘I thought she’d be here tonight.’

It was a Thursday evening, and the church was having yet another social. There was a collection tin labelled Spitfire Fund, plenty of traybakes and tea, and Mrs Crawford smiling broadly at him from across the room. They had already had prayers and a short speech from the Right Reverend Haire.

Alex squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Did you?’ he offered mildly. ‘I see Brian’s arrived. Better have a word with him.’

With determination and more than a hint of irritation, he made his way across to Brian, who was his own age but already married and a father. For the next wee while he heard about the joys and tribulations of fatherhood in great detail, but it was better than being stuck with Prudence, who had little to recommend her beyond a pretty face. Mother was becoming increasingly forthright with her ‘hints’, and he foresaw an awkward conversation at some point in the future.

But not tonight. As Brian droned on about wee Samuel’s accomplishments – apparently for a child to take his first steps at only ten months of age was akin to feeding the five thousand – he allowed his mind to wander. It went where it often did – to Maisie Canavan, and to their evening together at the September Orpheus dance. God, those kisses! Dancing with her had been a dream. Kissing her . . . fire blazed through him at the memory. He’d kissed a fair few girls in his time, but never could he recall such a feeling. And he knew why too. It was because it was her. Maisie. He liked her. Liked her lively mind, her kind heart, the way she spoke, the way she turned her head.

He hadn’t disliked those other girls, but no one had ever fascinated him before. Maisie fascinated him. Had he been from a more superstitious era, he might have suspected witchcraft, for the way in which she had captivated him was unlike anything he had ever known.

She kissed me! Even weeks later, he was still flying high at the thought. All through that evening, the signs had been there – the dancing, holding hands on the walk through Belfast, the way their eyes kept meeting . . . He had known that they both wanted that kiss. And it had indeed been wonderful – their mouths and bodies as attuned as their minds and hearts, or so it had seemed to him. One kiss had become three, four, five, ranging from tender to passionate and back again. They hadn’t just kissed; they’d had a kissing session! He suppressed a grin as exhilaration rushed through him once more.

But then . . . she had said that thing about it being a bad idea, and all his hopes had been dashed. She might have kissed him, but Maisie Canavan clearly didn’t want anything more than that, and now he didn’t know where he stood. Had the wonder of their kisses been only in his head? She had been pleasant but distant at work, and it had been work that she’d talked about when she’d stepped away from him that night after their kisses. Have I lost her already?

‘. . . and he can wave bye-bye too, when you ask him. Knows every word!’ Pride suffused Brian’s pleasant face, and abruptly Alex felt really glad for him.

‘Sounds like he’s really special, Brian.’