Page 98 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘If necessary,’ Alex returned calmly – more calmly than he was feeling.

‘You made me promise,’ said Granda, his voice a little thick. ‘And I’ve kept that promise all these years, to keep the peace, and to allow the boy to grow up without confusion. But Alexander is a man now. He deserves to know about his family. And I won’t lie when I’m asked a direct question.’ He looked to Alex. ‘You asked me earlier how we managed to survive the famine. Here’s the answer. We were soupers. We took the soup.’

‘Bloody hell!’ said Father. ‘I told you never to tell him that!’

‘He needs to know. Do you know what a souper is, son?’

Alex was full of bewilderment. ‘I have no clue!’

‘Would yous all please keep the noise down!’ Mother had joined the fray. ‘Mrs Sinclair will hear yous!’

‘I believe that my son here is the only one losing the run of himself,’ Granda replied with a wry smile. ‘My Henry’s not happy that our Alexander is finally being told the truth.’

‘What truth?’ The words exploded from Alex. ‘Tell me!’

Granda nodded. ‘Alexander, the only soup kitchen that would take us was the Presbyterian one.’

‘And what? We were Presbyterians. Sure why wouldn’t they take us?’

There was a silence – a silence charged with tension, and meaning. Mother had her hand at her mouth, while Father remained rigid with rage. What the hell is going on?

Granda didn’t answer, instead gazing calmly at Alex. Work it out.

Alex’s entire body was alert, the hairs on his arms standing to attention, as an incredible possibility came to him. ‘Granda, what religion were you?’

‘I was reared a Catholic, and I’ll stay a Catholic in my heart until the day I die,’ Granda said, his voice strong. ‘My da agreed we would convert for the sake of free food, to keep us alive. He’d already lost nearly everybody. This was the best chance he had of making sure me and our Bríd survived.’

Alex put a hand on the back of his armchair, feeling suddenly unsteady. ‘Catholic? We’re Catholics?’

‘Indeed we are not!’ Father spluttered. ‘We’ve taken a step up, outgrown that childish, superstitious religion. We speak English and we mix with better people now.’

‘Better people?’ Better than Maisie and her family? Dan and Peggy? All the welcoming people at the céilís? Mr and Mrs Lennon? Father MacLaverty? ‘I don’t think so.’ He straightened. ‘Well, that settles it.’ Alex was no longer worried. His path had just been cleared, and relief and joy was flooding through him. ‘I’m converting back to Catholicism and I’m going to marry the girl I love!’

‘You do that, son! And good luck to ya!’ Granda was smiling now.

His father, though, was clearly fuming. ‘You do what you want!’ Father declared. ‘But I’ll not be going to no papist wedding!’ Turning on his heel, he stormed out. For the first time in her life, Mother didn’t follow him.

‘Alexander,’ she said softly, ‘your father thought he was doing what was best, what was right. He was reared Presbyterian by his own mother, and our friends in the church have been good to us.’ She looked uncomfortable. ‘And all that stuff about better people; that’s him. That’s not Presbyterians generally. Or at least, he thinks it’s more important than many other people do. Of course everyone is encouraged to marry within their own church, but you can do that without having to disparage others.’

‘To be fair, Mother, I have heard others say similar things.’

She sighed. ‘Everyone does. People like to think they’re better than ones that are different. Some Anglicans think they’re better than Presbyterians, Presbyterians think they’re better than Catholics, and the Catholics think they’re better than everyone!’

‘The one true faith!’ declared Granda, with a wink.

‘But I know what it’s like to convert,’ Mother continued, ignoring Granda’s levity. ‘Walking into an existing community and trying to join it isn’t easy. And I think—’ She bit her lip. ‘Some part of him probably feels like he was never fully accepted by some of the church families – the ones who knew about what your Granda just told you.’

‘He’s ashamed of who he is,’ said Granda sadly, ‘and he’s spent his life trying to be the big man – to do more, to be better than the others.’

Hence his anti-Catholic bigotry.

‘Your father only wants what’s best for you, Alexander,’ Mother repeated.

That was probably true. ‘Fair enough, but he is gonna have to wise up now, and calm the feck down about all this religion nonsense.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘He’ll be welcome at my wedding, but make no mistake: the wedding will go ahead whether he’s there or not.’