Page 69 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Mammy sniffed, the mention of Father MacLaverty mollifying her a little. ‘Right. Which Mrs Lennon? There’s two sisters married to two brothers. I would know Mrs Johnny from the chapel.’

‘It’s Teresa,’ Maisie responded. ‘Mrs Danny.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘No. She died during the night.’ Maisie felt rigid, detached from it. She just wanted to get her jobs done so she could snatch a few hours’ sleep.

Mammy blessed herself. ‘Lord rest her.’ Her tone changed. ‘And who’s this Alex boy that was at the céilí?’

That’s why she’s annoyed. ‘You mean the Alex boy who pulled her out of the water and might have drowned doing it?’ Maisie gave her a steady look, uncaring that Mammy would see it as defiance. ‘You know who he is. You saw me talking to him one day on the way home from work.’

‘The Protestant? I told you to keep away from him!’

Maisie held herself rigid, rage rising within her. Because of arrogant doctors and arrogant priests, Teresa Lennon was dead, and people spent their energies worrying about the wrong things. Even Mammy. ‘It’s not very Christian of you to be so bigoted, Mammy,’ she said, her face twisting.

She got a slap for that. ‘Don’t you dare give me cheek, miss! I’ll speak to you however I want! As long as you’re under my roof, you’ll do as I say!’

‘Will I?’ Strangely, Maisie was now briefly homesick for her lonely little room in London. At least there she hadn’t had to put up with Mammy. She shrugged, knowing it would make Mammy even madder, but not caring.

Going through to the kitchen she saw that the porridge pot had been emptied and was in the sink. Mammy hadn’t kept any for her. The house was quiet – Mammy usually let wee Molly lie a bit later on a Saturday. Wordlessly, Maisie rolled up her sleeves, put an apron on over her good dress, and washed the pot, then began making fresh porridge for herself and Molly, while wondering if Teresa’s children were eating their breakfast yet.

In the background, Mammy was now at one of her long rants, words like disrespect and London and notions all merging into a litany of criticism that Maisie had heard a hundred times before, merged with extra words like Protestants and sin and heathen. She would get tired of it eventually, Maisie knew, but for now she just had to let Mammy at it.

Three children, Mrs Lennon had said that first day. Two boys and a girl. An image came to her now of the littlest child, the boy with brown eyes. Junior. Junior would have to go through life without a mammy. Nobody to look after him or cuddle him or care about him in the way that only a mother could. Carmel would be good to them, Maisie knew. There would be love, and chaos, and all the family things. But it wouldn’t be the same.

As she stirred the porridge, pressing lumps against the sides of the saucepan to get rid of them, Maisie was half-listening to Mammy’s rant. Yes, it kept circling round to gallivanting with Protestants and being cheeky, but there were other things in there too. Money worries, always. All the Christmas preparations. The bloody Nazis. Our Moya and John-Joe at each other’s throats morning, noon, and night. Maisie frowned at this last one. So Mammy had noticed that too?

Well of course she had. She noticed everything, worried about everything. Carried the entire worries of the family on her shoulders. Da worked hard, but didn’t carry anything. Nothing at all. That was woman’s work. And unlike the hours at the mill, it was invisible work.

Mammy worried about Matty’s apprenticeship and Molly’s homework. About making the money stretch as much as possible. About whether her daughter was making a mistake by being too friendly with a Protestant.

And she was bloody right; that was the worst thing. Life would be so much simpler if Maisie’s eye had fallen on a nice Catholic boy. But Alex was nice too. That was the thing. Everybody at the céilí had liked him. Mammy would probably like him too, if she gave him a chance. But he would never have that chance as long as Mammy was worrying that he and Maisie were a bit too friendly.

I hope he’s all right. Hopefully even now he was tucked up warm and cosy somewhere, and not being ranted at by a well-meaning parent. Still, she would see him later. At least she had that to hold onto.

* * *

It was mid-morning, and Alex was cycling down the Falls Road. His heart was heavy, but his body had thankfully fully recovered from last night’s drama. Lord, he had been foundered, though! He couldn’t even imagine how Mrs Lennon must have felt, lying there on the freezing ground by the reservoir.

His mind skittered away from the thought. He had achieved exactly nothing. And so it was with a heavy heart that he cycled down the Falls – glancing wistfully at Maisie’s street as he passed. He would see her later, a thought which made him feel marginally better. He would see her, and they would talk, and maybe this heaviness in his heart would ease a little.

He sped on, past Saturday workers and children playing – some of them barefoot in the November cold. He kept his gaze grimly straight ahead as he passed the top of Broadway, avoiding the sickening feeling that he knew would come if he turned his head to look there. A few minutes later he was wheeling into St John’s – the church, parish hall, and the priest’s home all on the same site, a primary school next door. Propping the bike against the wall of the house, he rang the doorbell and a housekeeper answered it.

‘Hello,’ he said politely, ‘I’m returning this bicycle which I borrowed last night.’

The housekeeper had already assessed him, he knew. With a swift glance she had taken in his clothing, and had probably also noted his speech, which was much more refined than some Belfast people. Then, when he mentioned the bicycle, her eyes widened.

‘You’re the young man who helped last night!’ She stepped aside. ‘Come in, Mr—?’

‘Lowe,’ he provided. ‘Alex Lowe.’

She led him to a comfortable parlour. ‘I’ll get Father MacLaverty for you now.’

‘Oh, there’s no need—’ But she was gone, and shortly afterwards the priest appeared, shaking Alex’s hand warmly and bidding him sit down.

‘Alex! How are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’ The automatic words left his mouth as they had each time he’d heard that prompt. Years of politeness.