Page 105 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Got it!’ There was relief in Father’s voice, and Alex saw the panels in front of him separate at the top.

‘Oh, well done, Henry!’ That was Mother, and Alex had to pause for a second, closing his eyes against the sting of sudden tears.

‘Don’t pull them apart yet!’ he warned, his voice thick. ‘I need to dig it out.’ Jumping up, he went to the shed for a sturdy spade, and began digging out the earth around the rear of the half-submerged shelter. The design had undoubtedly saved many lives last night.

As he worked, he and his parents talked – catching up on the night’s events. Alex skimmed over the things he’d experienced in work, saying only that it had been busy, but he was able to describe the devastation he’d seen cycling home from the Royal.

In turn they talked of their fear when the sirens had sounded, and how they had cowered for hours under the bombardment, realising when the all-clear had sounded that their exit was blocked, and they would have to wait for rescue. That had clearly been scary in a very different way.

‘I was terrified,’ Mother admitted frankly. ‘It felt like Armageddon had come, and there’d be no one to rescue us.’

Alex paused to ask the question he’d been dreading. ‘What about Granda?’

‘Oh, him!’ Mother said insouciantly. ‘He’s been sleeping like a baby for hours.’

‘I have not indeed!’ Granda’s familiar croaky voice sounded, and Alex sagged against his spade handle. ‘I’ve been lying here listening, and thanking the good Lord for our Alexander!’ There was a pause. ‘It’s good to see that wee bitta daylight now.’

Soon afterwards Alex had cleared a decent-sized hole at the back of the shelter, and he and Father manoeuvred the two panels ajar – enough to free Mother, who hugged Alex, her tears flowing freely. Granda came next, blinking in the daylight and hugging Alex tightly. ‘I thought mebbe me time had come last night, and that’s no lie,’ he declared, adding, ‘but sure it’s hard to kill a bad thing!’

After helping Granda up to Mother, the two of them began to head towards the house.

And then Father was there, and all Alex could do was fling his arms around his old man. Father stiffened for a moment, then returned the hug. ‘Thanks, son,’ he muttered, turning away – but not before Alex had seen that his eyes were suspiciously moist.

Alex stood for a moment, surveying the damage. The shelter would have to be cleared and repaired before nightfall, but he had to get back to the Royal, and he desperately needed some sleep. Still, he knew he was one of the lucky ones. His family had survived, as had his sweetheart. For thousands of Belfast families, the night had brought grief as well as terror.

The town gas was off, so Father was sent to the shelter to retrieve their paraffin stove and one of the bottles of water, for tea. Once again, drinking the soothing hot liquid felt incredible – small pleasures counted for a lot this morning. They ate a bit too, some of yesterday’s bread with what was left of the blackberry jam Mrs Sinclair had made last autumn. God, hopefully Mrs Sinclair and her husband were safe too in their own wee house.

Father went to check on the Wallaces, speaking to the air raid warden who was in charge of their area and returning with the grim news that their neighbours had both perished in their house – having surprisingly not made it to the shelter by the time the bomb had struck. Their bodies had already been moved to a makeshift mortuary at St George’s Market in the city centre, and their daughters had been informed. Yet another blow. George’s children would grow up without knowing their grandparents.

Within the hour Alex was on his way back to the hospital, having sorted the shelter with Father as best they could. As they worked they had talked – nothing of significance, just casual comments about their task. But the hostility was gone. A miracle indeed.

In the meantime Mrs Sinclair had arrived, informing them that she and her husband had been lucky, as their house was unscathed except for some broken windows. She and Mother had cleared up the broken glass and assembled extra supplies for the shelter, based on last night’s various discomforts. As Alex left, they did too, making for the air raid warden to volunteer in whatever way needed. Pride surged within him as they told him their plan, and he hoped it was showing on his face as he wished them well.

The clear-up was already underway, the people of Belfast responding to their circumstances with remarkable resilience. Those who had decided to stay were engaged in helping others. As he travelled southwards to the hospital, some clean clothes and half a soda farl wrapped in paper in his saddle bag, Alex noticed hundreds of people helping – clearing rubble, putting out small fires, assisting the ambulance drivers and stretcher men. The sky was still dimmed with greyish-yellow smoke, hundreds of fires still burning. Alex noticed at least one fire engine from Dublin – interesting in itself, considering the south was neutral.

Back in the hospital, he made for the doctors’ mess as usual, to prepare himself and report for duty. Mr Russell was there – on the telephone – so Alex washed his hands and face in the trickle of water at one of the sinks. The telephone line had already been restored. Belfast is just class!

‘Dr Lowe!’ Mr Russell shook his hand. ‘Thanks again for all your hard work last night. You were a hero, young man.’

Images flashed into Alex’s mind – of all the actual heroes he’d seen while cycling through North Belfast. ‘Thank you, but I really wasn’t.’

They talked for a moment of the devastation, and how lucky they were that most of their families had survived it. Alex knew of John-Joe; two of Mr Russell’s cousins had also perished. ‘You’re on again tonight, aren’t you?’ Russell asked then.

‘I am.’ He grinned. ‘I swapped with Dan Sheridan.’

‘Ha! A good move on Dr Sheridan’s part!’ Russell sobered. ‘Matters are under control for now. Dr Fenton has even made it in. We have plenty of doctors, so I suggest you get some sleep for a few hours.’

‘You certain?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘In that case I’m going to check on Maisie first.’

‘Ah, yes, Midwife Canavan. I understand you are to be married. Congratulations!’

‘Thank you.’

‘No white coat when you go to see her, mind!’ He wagged a finger, half-smiling.