Page 67 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Hello, Danny. I’m a midwife at the Royal.’ Maisie now saw vague recognition in his eyes.

‘Mr Lennon,’ Father MacLaverty spoke softly, his face filled with kindness and compassion. ‘Your wife was in the water at the Broadway Reservoir.’

‘Ah, God, no!’ He sank down on to the settee, burying his face in his hands. He raised his head then, his eyes wild. ‘But she’s alive?’

‘She is, but they’re not sure she’ll make it. It was a doctor that pulled her out.’ Father MacLaverty sat beside him, waiting a moment before asking quietly, ‘Was there a row?’

‘No.’ His expression grew bleak. ‘She lost a child a couple of months ago and couldn’t get over it. She would sometimes go out at night, to try and clear the head, you know? But she would never . . . We’ve three other children.’

‘Aye.’ Father MacLaverty patted his hand. ‘Of course.’

No more probing questions would be asked, Maisie knew. Father Mac was not the sort of man to go hunting for something he didn’t want to find.

He took a breath. ‘Mr Lennon, you need to know something. I gave her the Last Rites in the ambulance. I’m so sorry.’

The man paled even further – his face now ashen and his hands trembling. Shock.

‘I’ll make a wee cuppa tea,’ Maisie murmured, making for the kitchen. Thankfully, the kettle was already boiled – Mr Lennon was probably trying to keep himself awake by drinking tea. Finding a clean cup on the shelf, Maisie made the tea, adding a generous amount of sugar. She brought it through to Mr Lennon, who took it wordlessly. God help him.

‘. . . so we better go, as soon as you’re ready,’ Father MacLaverty was saying.

‘You think she’ll still be alive when we get there?’ Mr Lennon took some tea.

‘I don’t know, Danny. I honestly don’t know.’

‘Right.’ He took another mouthful then rose, putting a hand to his head briefly. Maisie took the cup to allow him to reach for his donkey jacket on the back of the front door, then offered it to him again.

‘Take another wee drink,’ she murmured. ‘Sweet tea is good for you right now.’

‘Is it?’ His eyes were bleak, empty, but he took another gulp, looking into the teacup. ‘The children!’ he said suddenly, and his gaze lifted to Maisie.

‘I’ll stay here with them,’ she promised.

‘Thanks. Maisie, isn’t it?’

‘Aye.’ He definitely knows me.

Then they were gone, and the house was quiet. Maisie built up the fire, tidied up, did the dishes, and set the iron on the stove to heat. After that she sat for twenty minutes gazing into the flames, her hands wrapped around her own cup of tea.

What a night! The céilí, poor Teresa, and now this. God love poor Danny Lennon. And their wee children. Teresa had clearly been bad with her nerves since the impossible dilemma created by two men; Fenton and Wallis. Why are some men so—?

No. Better to focus on the good men. Father Mac. Da. Alex. The world was filled with a mix of people, and while Maisie firmly believed everyone had good in them, some people lived that goodness better than others.

Alex, for example . . . The man was a hero. He hadn’t hesitated, had run to the reservoir and dived in to save an unknown woman. And despite his bravery, poor Teresa would probably die anyway. God, she hoped Alex wasn’t hypothermic too. No, she reassured herself, he had been still in the shivering stage, and thanks to the bike he’d be home already. He’ll be grand. She couldn’t help worrying, though.

Her mind returned now to her earlier terror for his safety – a moment when she had feared he might be drowning. Another, when she had realised he too was at risk of hypothermia. The pain and fear that had gone through her had been like nothing she had ever known. Sitting here before the fire, she was slowly realising that she was feeling things for him – things that weren’t sensible given his community background. Things that didn’t work with a ‘light’ relationship. And she knew, more than anything, there could be no future in a relationship with a Protestant.

Having agreed to keep things light, it was gradually dawning on Maisie that such a thing was easier said than done. This won’t end well. Still, it wouldn’t be right to break with him either. They were going through something together right now, so meeting tomorrow to talk it through would probably help them both.

Finishing her tea, she rose and started the ironing. It would help her stay awake, and poor Teresa wouldn’t be back to do it herself. Her sister Carmel would be devastated, and it would probably fall to her to rear her nieces and nephews alongside her own children. That was how it worked. She would need help, though. In her head, Maisie began planning. There were various charitable groups who could provide the basics – food and coal for the family while Danny was off work for his wife’s wake and funeral. Yes, the St Vincent de Paul would surely help. And the neighbours too. The parish sometimes . . . but no, it was unlikely Danny would want to go anywhere near Father Wallis. God, what a mess. What a feckin’ mess.

22

Alex was finally starting to feel warm. The cold had gone bone-deep into him, and as soon as he had reached home he had stripped off the wet clothes in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil. Thankfully his parents and Granda hadn’t stirred; he wasn’t yet ready to speak about tonight’s events. Grabbing two thick towels and a blanket from upstairs, he had dried himself and wrapped himself up in the thick woollen blanket, before making tea and filling a sturdy rubber hot-water bottle. He was now in bed, wearing multiple layers of clothes – even a hat. The hot-water bottle was gently warm on his chest, and finally, finally, he could feel that his core temperature was rising.

His mind was racing, and he knew that sleep would be slow to come. I might have died tonight. There had been a moment in the water when, weighed down by Mrs Lennon combined with the weight of his own clothes and shoes, his head had gone under and he had been close to panic. But in that split second, he had known that no one was coming to save him, and that if he panicked, he was a goner.

Somehow, he had pushed away the panic, kicking out towards the male voice shouting about steps some way above him, guiding him home. Once out of the water he had gone straight into doctor mode, trying to expel the water from the lady’s lungs. Then there had been the ambulance, and the ride with Maisie on his crossbar, the warmth from her body a gift on his chest.