Page 10 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Then we’ll go there. Me and you. On the train.’

Molly’s eyes lit up. ‘That would be class!’

‘And,’ Maisie declared, having just had an idea, ‘I’ll take you into town on Sunday for tea and a bun in a café.’

‘A café? An actual café?’ Molly had only been in cafés a handful of times in her life. She bounded towards Maisie. ‘You’re the best!’

Maisie laughed. ‘You’re soaking me!’ But she hugged her wee sister in return, regardless of wet handprints on her back.

‘Sorry!’ Molly was grinning as she returned to the dishes. ‘What’s your work like?’

An image of Mrs Lennon flashed into Maisie’s brain – Mrs Lennon as Maisie had last seen her, headed out the door with Junior by her side, and an appointment card in her handbag to return in a week. ‘My work is . . . amazing. It’s hard at times, but it’s class being there for the women and their wee ones.’

‘Aye, wee babies are lovely.’ Molly shrugged. ‘I dunno what I want, though. I want to be a mammy when I grow up, but mammies never get to go anywhere, do they?’

‘So you want to be a mammy. That means getting married. And you want to travel as well. Hmmm. Sounds like you need to marry a rich man!’

Molly laughed. ‘As if !’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Are there even rich people in Belfast?’

‘There certainly are! Sure there’s fancy houses all over the place.’

‘Aye, but it’s mostly normal houses like ours.’

Normal. Two rooms upstairs, two downstairs, and an outhouse in the yard. ‘It’s not normal everywhere.’ In London Maisie had supported women in all sorts of houses – from absolute slums to mansions. Hopefully, she would eventually get out on the district here too supporting the women birthing at home. That was real midwifery in Maisie’s eyes.

Mammy came in then, bustling about. ‘Well, Maisie, how did you get on the day?’

I’ve been waiting for this moment. ‘Good.’ She took a breath. ‘I got paid for my first two weeks, Mammy.’ Opening her bag, she took out a small brown envelope, handing it over. ‘Here you go.’

Mammy counted it out, and Maisie saw her jaw drop. ‘Seven shillings a week!’ She blessed herself. ‘That’s near double what a man gets in the mills!’

‘Class, isn’t it?’

‘And will they be giving you seven shillings every week?’

‘They will, aye.’

‘Thank the Lord! This is – this is feckin’ unbelievable!’ Mammy blessed herself to apologise to God for cursing, and Maisie stifled a smile. Mammy never said bad words normally – not even things as mild as ‘feckin’’. She got pulled in for a hug then – and Mammy’s hugs were special.

‘Ah, Maisie, Maisie.’ Mammy seemed fairly overcome. ‘It’s like having two extra wages now you’re home, so it is!’

‘Remember, though, that we need to put aside five or six shillings in the pound for the tax bill that they’ll give me in March. We got a talk about it on Tuesday.’

‘Right. Right. I’ll keep that in the tax tin every week, so.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And will the tax man know exactly what you’ve earned?’

Ah, Mammy – cute as a fox, and twice as fly! ‘Yeah, the Royal tells them about the standard wages.’ She winked. ‘But not the overtime.’

‘And will you have the chance of overtime?’

‘I will, once I’m finished this orientation stage,’ she mouthed the word carefully.

‘Orientation, is it?’ Mammy’s eyes widened. ‘Orientation, and seven shillings a week! My God, Maisie, you’re a – a professional!’ She turned to Molly. ‘Go you to the shop and get flour, butter, sugar, and apples.’

Molly’s eyes widened. ‘Are we having apple tart, Ma? On a Friday?’ Maisie handed her the tea towel to dry her hands.

‘We are, for this isn’t just any Friday. This is the best Friday we’ve ever seen! But don’t you be tellin’ anybody about our Maisie’s wages, you hear me?’

‘No, Mammy.’ Molly finished drying her hands and headed out through the living room, a couple of coins and a string bag in her hand.