Page 13 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘So it’s not for the likes of us.’ Molly’s tone was matter-of-fact.

‘Well, it’s for boys anyway.’ And almost all of them Presbyterian, Maisie thought, but kept that to herself.

‘Ach, right.’

‘Why? Would you actually want to go to a school like that?’ They were now directly level with the Inst front lawn – a large expanse of immaculate grass surrounded by mature trees.

‘The thing is . . .’ Molly spoke slowly, as if articulating something she had never before said out loud. ‘Ever since you went away to England to learn to be a midwife, I keep thinking maybe I could do something like that someday. Something . . . fancy. Could I, Maisie?’

Maisie’s heart sank. The answer should be a clear No. And yet . . .

‘Who knows? I had no idea I was gonna be so lucky. And now our Matty might get an apprenticeship. So who’s to say what might happen for you?’

‘Aye.’ Molly looked pleased, and Maisie bit her lip. God, I hope I haven’t given her notions of impossible things! Disappointment, as she well knew, was a hard lesson to take.

They were now approaching the Presbyterian Assembly Buildings, and as they reached it a crowd of well-dressed people began emerging from the main door. It was late afternoon, and most church services were done by Sunday lunchtime – though not, it seemed, for the Presbyterians.

Instinctively, Maisie slowed down to step among them, and Molly matched her, slipping a hand through her arm. The Presbyterians ignored her and Molly of course, too busy conversing among themselves. A prayer meeting, she realised, listening to some of the chatter. Protestants seemed to like their prayer meetings. Only really holy Catholics went to extra stuff like that. Bible study and all. Still, war was here. Maybe extra prayer meetings weren’t such a bad idea.

Instinctively, Maisie lowered her eyes, focusing on legs and feet, avoiding eye contact. She wouldn’t know any of them anyway, and there was always the risk that there would be a bigot among them – a bigot ready to say something.

They can’t possibly know we’re Catholic, she reminded herself. But they would know that Maisie and Molly were not well off. While Maisie was wearing a coat, it was thin and hadn’t cost very much, while Molly wore the traditional shawl associated with the millies – and which was also worn by the shawlies, the country women who would come into Belfast to sell their eggs and butter on market days.

The clothes she and Molly were wearing had nothing on the rich fabrics and detail of the well-to-do Presbyterians emerging from their gathering, and that fact would be obvious to anyone who gave them more than a passing glance. Even the difference in shoes marked them out. The pavement was full of feet encased in fancy leather, buffed to a shine – for both the men and the women. The men wore suit trousers, the women expensive nylons.

In contrast, Maisie’s sensible brogues and dark thick tights were the same ones she wore for work – she and Molly only owned one pair of shoes each. And sure, why would anybody waste precious funds on something as superfluous as extra shoes or fine nylons? There were still children in West Belfast who had never worn shoes; Maisie was grateful her family had avoided that level of poverty. So far.

She stopped. A fine pair of men’s leather shoes was blocking her way.

‘Maisie! Miss Canavan!’ The voice was deep, and attractive, and somehow familiar. Lifting her eyes, she met the grey-eyed gaze of Dr Alexander Lowe, and her heart stupidly decided to skip a couple of beats.

‘Dr Lowe,’ she managed. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good, thank you. Just been to a – er, to a meeting.’

‘Aye.’ Her eyes flicked briefly to the left, to the massive neo-gothic edifice that was the Assembly Buildings. There was a pause. Say something! ‘We’ve been to a café for a treat. Albert’s Ices.’

‘Oh. Is that in the High Street?’

‘It is, aye.’

‘I think I’ve seen it.’

‘I had Victoria sponge.’ Molly, clearly deciding that enough time had passed without anyone speaking to her, took a hand in matters.

‘Ooh. I love Victoria sponge.’ His eyes twinkled, and something strange stirred within Maisie. ‘Was it good?’

‘Aye. It was class, so it was!’ Molly smiled at him, sending a wave of disorientation through Maisie. Her two worlds were colliding, right here in the street. Home was home, and work was work, and never should they—

‘I’m Alex.’ He stuck out a hand, and Molly took it, looking both solemn and awestruck at the same time.

She seemed unable to speak – an unusual occurrence – so it was Maisie’s turn to intervene. ‘This is my sister, Molly.’

‘Hello, Molly. It’s nice to meet you.’

Molly gulped, nodded, then glanced at Maisie, her eyes wide.

‘How old are you, Molly – if that isn’t a rude question?’