Page 14 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘I’m t-twelve.’

‘Wow,’ he said, his tone light. ‘So grown up!’

She beamed at this. As the youngest, Molly was more used to being called the ‘chile’ and treated as younger than she was.

‘Who’s this, Alex?’ An elderly man had joined them, leaning on a stick but with intelligent curiosity in his grey eyes. Alex’s eyes.

‘Miss Canavan and her sister, Molly. I work with Miss Canavan in the Royal, Granda.’

He stuck out a hand. ‘Patrick Lowe. I’m ninety-five, you know.’

Maisie had to smile. Alex’s granda’s eyes held genuine warmth as he spoke to both Maisie and Molly, saying that he was very pleased to meet them, and seemingly oblivious to Maisie’s desire to escape as soon as she could. I can see where Alex gets his charm.

‘Alexander!’ The tone was curt, and Maisie looked to see who had spoken. This time it was a middle-aged man – handsome, impeccably dressed, and scowling. Beside him was a good-looking lady of a similar age, wearing the most beautiful blue coat.

‘My parents,’ Alex explained, turning slightly to include them. ‘Mother, Father, this is Miss Canavan. And this is her sister, Molly.’

‘How d’ye do?’ They all exchanged the required words – Mrs Lowe with politeness, Mr Lowe with clear reluctance, and Maisie with her insides cringing in mortification. Neither of them added the optional ‘Nice to meet you’. The Lowes clearly didn’t feel it, and Maisie would have died rather than give them the satisfaction of sucking up to them.

Alex’s father was currently perusing the girls’ appearance, and there was a hint of a sneer in his expression as his gaze reached Molly’s shawl. His eyes met Maisie’s and she straightened, pulling her gaze away to focus on Alex.

‘Well, we need to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr Lowe.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ His bright smile wasn’t entirely convincing.

Head held high, Maisie made her way through the throng, Molly hanging on to her arm. Crossing the street at the corner, she made for the safety of the Grosvenor Road.

‘Slow down, Maisie!’ Molly protested, and Maisie shortened her stride, her heart thumping with indignation.

Exhaling slowly, Maisie deliberately dropped her shoulders. ‘Is any of them behind us?’

Molly stole a look. ‘No. Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothin’. Nothin’s wrong.’

Molly looked dubious, then thought for a moment. ‘I like him. The doctor.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Yeah, he looks like one of them film stars in the posters.’ Filum. That’s how the word was pronounced around here. Maisie had been laughed at in London for saying it that way and had tried hard to say it their way, but it had never worked. She was too Belfast to be easily changed.

‘And he shook my hand, Maisie.’ Molly’s eyes were shining. ‘No grown-up ever shook my hand before.’

‘Well sure you’re twelve now. Soon you’ll be shaking hands left, right, and centre!’

‘Yeah. He’s definitely nice.’

‘He is.’ And you will never, ever see him again, if I have anything to do with it! Humiliation was still flooding through her, making her pulse race and her stomach churn. The disdain in Mr Lowe’s expression was something she would not forget for a long, long time.

Soon they were back at the house, and in the safety of familiar surroundings. Moya was there with John-Joe, and the house was busy, and warm, and full of cups of tea. John-Joe and Moya were bickering as usual, Da was laughing in the corner with Matty, and Mammy was bustling about with a teapot, topping up everyone’s drink. Home.

* * *

‘What this means,’ said Matron, ‘is that we will have to be ready. Supplies may become difficult to maintain, and staffing may be a challenge, as some of our colleagues will undoubtedly choose to sign up.’

There was utter silence in the baby clinic as she paused, and Maisie felt a shiver go through her. Since last week, when Chamberlain had announced that Britain was at war with Germany, it hadn’t seemed real, somehow. It was something on the radio, in the newspapers. Something far, far away, if worrying. But right now, on an ordinary Tuesday in September, hearing Matron spell out how it might begin to affect them – and soon – Maisie’s insides were churning. War.

Having been born during the Great War, Maisie had not lived through something like this before. Even the War of Independence and the Civil War which followed here in Ireland had been done and dusted by the time she had turned five. Ireland had been separated into two – the north tied to Britain, the south standing alone as a Free State. The dream of Irish independence had been crushed yet again – at least for those in the north.