Page 85 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Ironically, she had thought herself heartbroken when she and Gerald had split up. But that had been nothing in comparison to this. She had had no idea about real pain, real anguish. How could she choose between the man she loved and her family?

Her heart was broken in two.

27

Cautiously, Alex made his way through the dimly-lit hallway of his own home. No one seemed to be around, and the front door lock hadn’t been changed – or not yet, at any rate.

Tiptoeing up the stairs – and skipping the third stair from the bottom, which creaked – he made his way safely to his bedroom, looking out on the familiar starlit view over Belfast before closing his blackout curtains and turning on the big light. Confusion came over him as he looked around his bedroom. Here he had played with toys as a wee lad, had done countless pieces of homework, had dreamed his dreams. Never could he have imagined the possibility of his family cutting him off.

Yet this was real. Every time he allowed himself to recall the implacable tone of his father’s voice in the car, he felt sick.

Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe now his father had calmed down . . . That was hope, not expectation. He knew his father, knew his stubbornness, his need for control. He was a good man, even though sometimes Alex and his mother had to find ways to work around him. But this was much, much worse than Alex choosing not to go into the family business. Father’s religion – and the politics intrinsically entwined with it – was part of who he was.

Well, if Alex was going to be kicked out, then there were things he wanted to take with him, as well as clothes. Personal things. The photo album on his shelf. The silver-framed photographs from his bedside table – his parents, his grandfather, a family group. His medical textbooks. Trying not to think about it too much, he pulled a canvas bag out from the back of the wardrobe and began to pack.

That done, he went to bed, though sleep was hard to find. He kept waking up, his mind racing and his heart pounding, as if he was in imminent danger. But there was no fierce dog attacking him or bull chasing him. The danger was the rift with his family, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Morning came, finally, and he rose feeling old and tired. He washed and dressed, then made for the kitchen, where Mrs Sinclair was bustling about as normal. He often skipped formal breakfast, and she was used to doing him some scrambled eggs and toast before he headed to the hospital. This morning, though, everything was different. Everything he saw and heard and did seemed sad, poignant. Would he ever see Mrs Sinclair again? She had been part of their household since he was a child, her kitchen a haven of informality and warmth. He watched her prepare his parents’ breakfasts, forcing himself to eat his eggs as she brought food through to the dining room where, he had no doubt, his father was currently eating in glowering silence.

He didn’t lift his head when he heard the front door slam. That was Father leaving for work, much earlier than usual. But why? Was there to be no confrontation this morning? Or had they agreed that Mother would tell him to go?

Sure enough, when he was passing through the hall on the way back upstairs, Mother emerged from the dining room, following him wordlessly. Of course; no rows in front of Mrs Sinclair. He continued upstairs, conscious of his mother’s near-silent steps behind him. Reaching his bedroom, he picked up his suit jacket and was just shrugging into it when Mother knocked and entered, her gaze going straight to the canvas bag, which was stuffed full of the items he’d prioritised.

‘So you’re going to be stubborn about this, then?’

‘It’s not stubbornness, Mother,’ he returned quietly. ‘I have to see this through.’

‘You’re breaking his heart.’

‘Aye, and my own along with it.’

There was pain in her eyes. Pain that he had put there.

‘I’m sorry. I truly am.’

She swallowed, then gestured towards the bag. ‘There’s no need for that. I spoke to your father last night. While you’re walking out with this girl he will tolerate you living here but he does not wish to speak to you.’

Relief flooded through Alex. He inclined his head. ‘I’ll eat in the kitchen, or here in my room.’

‘Just to be clear. This doesn’t mean I approve of what you’re doing. You are betraying us – both of us. This is not how we reared you.’

He frowned. ‘You reared me to do the right thing. I love you and Father, but I love Maisie too.’

Her expression hardened. ‘Well, you may snap out of it, before you lose your family forever. I told your father that this is likely to be a passing thing, so I’m relying on you getting a bit of sense soon.’

Not gonna happen. Alex didn’t say it out loud, but he knew it in his heart. ‘I better go,’ he said evenly. ‘Work.’

Mother turned and left the room without another word.

Alex stood there for a moment, feeling disorientated. While relieved that he wasn’t being put out on his ear, he knew the time ahead would be hard. Father was good at being angry, good at holding onto it. And Mother would be stuck in the middle, hating the tension in the house but preferring that to the alternative, which was Alex leaving. And as for poor Granda, he would hate the fact there had been a falling-out.

He sighed, then made his way downstairs, picking up his bicycle from the shed and heading down the Cliftonville towards Girdwood, across the Shankill and down past the weaving factory and flax mill on Northumberland Street. Finally, the hospital came into view, and his heart lifted a little. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they might have been. His parents knew he was walking out with Maisie, and he hadn’t been kicked out. Or not today, anyway.

He made straight for Russell’s sitting room, where his boss was sipping tea and looking unusually tired.

‘I need you in delivery suite this morning, Lowe. That young girl is in labour.’

‘Maggie-Ann? Did her waters go?’