Page 91 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Now, Alex,’ Granda admonished, ‘we’ve time enough before we go back that far. I have to tell you things in the right order, and there’s certain things I can only tell you if you ask me directly.’

He gave Alex a look so full of meaning that Alex literally felt hairs rise on the back of his neck. I was right! Clearly, there was something of vital importance – some piece of information that Granda held and Alex needed, but—

‘Why? Why do I have to ask you directly?’

Granda’s gaze drifted to his teacup. ‘When you’re sworn to secrecy you have to take it seriously – especially if it’s from your nearest and dearest.’ He looked directly at Alex. ‘But I’ll not tell a direct lie either, so keep asking, if there’s things you want to know.’

Alex’s mind was awhirl. After years of medical school and complex clinical cases, this seemed to him to be the greatest conundrum he had ever faced. There was a secret. And Granda had been sworn never to tell. Nearest and dearest.

‘Tell me more about my father’s attachment to the church,’ he said. That was as good a place as any to start. Because religion and politics and national identity were all intertwined in Belfast, he’d have to pull on a thread and follow it, hoping it would unravel the mask of secrecy.

‘Good lad.’ Granda’s gaze became distant. ‘Me and your grandmother were never big ones for the church. Her family were Presbyterian going back generations, but she was never mad into it, like. Believe in God, say your prayers, raise your family. That’s it. But your da was different.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘He wanted to do well for himself. Had great fire in him. All his early business contacts were with people from church, and he built his business on those connections. I think he came to believe everything would fall down unless he hugged the altar rails.’ He tutted. ‘Sometimes I think he’s ashamed of our background; of who we really are.’

‘So were you . . . were you poor, Granda?’

‘I was, lad. The Thompsons barely accepted me, so I know what it’s like to be under that sort of cloud. I was born into a stone cottage with a well nearby and rats in the thatch. This place’ – he gestured about him – ‘well, I’m proud of my Henry, I really am. He’s done quare and well for himself . . .’

But. There was a ‘but’ there, Alex was sure of it.

‘But what, Granda?’

‘But he’s so hemmed in by fear he’s forgetting what’s important. Family.’ Granda leaned back in his chair. ‘So. Tell me about this girl you’re courting.’

* * *

Maisie had been jittery all morning, waiting for something – anything – from Mammy. When it finally came, it wasn’t too bad. ‘How come thon Protestant fella knows Father MacLaverty?’ She didn’t look at Maisie as she said it, seemingly busy kneading dough.

‘They’re friends. Alex visits him at least once a week. They talk, and they play chess.’

‘Hrmph.’

What did that mean? Maisie was far too agitated to work it out.

‘If it’s still dry the morra afternoon,’ Mammy continued casually, ‘your da and me thought we’d go for a wee dander round the Falls Park. God knows this is probably the last of the good weather. We’ll take the chile, and our Moya might want to come too, for she’s fed up wonderin’ if she’s actually expectin’ this time.’

‘Aye, it must be stressful for her.’ Moya hadn’t bled for nearly eight weeks now, and was daring to believe she might actually finally be expecting. Inwardly, Maisie was noting the significance of Mammy’s announcement. If Maisie and Alex could bump into them, Mammy was saying, Alex could speak to Da.

Oh, God. It was all coming to a head. After tomorrow, who knew what might happen?

There was a knock on the door. ‘I’ll get it.’

It was a boy of about twelve. ‘Is this the Canavans’? Is there a midwife lives here?’

Maisie nodded, suddenly alert, all thoughts of her personal woes immediately leaving her mind. ‘I’m the midwife. Maisie Canavan.’

‘Me ma says can you come?’ He gave the address – Waterville Street, beside the Clonard Monastery.

‘I’ll get my bag.’ Maisie was thinking rapidly. She and Alex usually met at the tennis courts on Saturday afternoons – a habit grounded in the very earliest days of their connection.

The boy’s name was Jem, he said. ‘So who’s your mammy, Jem?’ Maisie was still getting to know the pregnant women in the area, having finally joined the district team just a few weeks ago.

‘She’s Mrs McGrath.’

‘Ah, very good.’ Maisie remembered now. Mrs McGrath was in good health, and this would be her eighth baby. Or possibly her ninth. ‘Jem, I’ll need you to bring a note to someone later.’

‘Aye. Who?’

‘My – my young man. I was supposed to meet him at two o’clock by the tennis courts at the Royal.’