Page 3 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘So this is it then.’ Bending his head, he pulled her to him and kissed her harshly, painfully, until she squirmed to be free.

‘Don’t!’ she managed, but he ignored her, kissing her again. This time, his hands left her shoulders to roam all over her body. He had tried this before, and every time she had stopped him, explaining she wasn’t like that. This time, however, he seemed to have lost the run of himself entirely.

‘Stop it, Gerald!’ she was genuinely frightened now. He was so angry! ‘Please, stop!’ She did her best to catch his hands, to escape, but he was too strong.

Abruptly she was free. He had pushed her away. ‘On you go then, Maisie, you bloody tease! I might have known you wouldn’t put out.’

‘Well yes,’ she retorted, sudden anger blazing through her too, despite her fear. ‘I told you enough times! It’s the way I am, it’s how I was reared. You knew that from the start!’

He leaned in to her. His face was twisted with rage, and she shrank back further. ‘I only picked you because I thought you might. But you’re useless that way, too, Maisie! I wasted nearly a whole bloody year on you! Thought you’d be my Irish tramp!’

Maisie was frozen, unable to breathe, to think, to move. She could barely take in what he was saying. His words, his angry expression, the coarseness of his language . . . It was like he was a different person. Where was the man she loved? The man who had told her a hundred times that he loved her?

He whirled away then turned to throw her a parting comment. ‘You’ll come crawling back, Maisie Canavan. You’re nobody without me.’ His tone was harsh, his words delivered slowly and deliberately, and something inside her shattered into smithereens.

She still couldn’t breathe, and her mind was entirely paralysed. She just stood there, watching him walk away, only vaguely aware that this was the last memory she would ever have of him.

1

Belfast, September 1939

WARSAW UNDER SEIGE

The newspaper posters screamed their terrifying headlines as Maisie cycled down Belfast’s Falls Road in the early morning. THREE YEARS OF WAR shouted another. EVACUATION OF CHILDREN UNDERWAY– that one sent a different type of pang through her. All those wee ones in England, being sent away from their families to live among strangers.

War is here. They all knew it. Had known it since the Prime Minister’s announcement five days ago. The news was full of Hitler and Chamberlain and the sad plight of Poland. Oh, some were still muttering that it wouldn’t last long, but deep down the fear was there – fear based on the four long years of the Great War. Maisie had been born in the summer of 1918, just as the last war was reaching its final stages. Hard to believe the world has come to this again.

Still, Belfast looked exactly the same as it had before she’d left for her training, and it warmed Maisie’s heart to be home again. Along the Falls Road, the familiar sights and sounds were like a balm to her wounded soul – Dunville Park, the Grosvenor Road corner, the Royal Victoria . . .

‘Well, Frank, what about ye?’ One man hailed another as Maisie sped by, and she almost smiled at the joy of the accent – thick and rich and familiar. Almost. Smiling was hard these days – had been hard since the evening of baby Agatha’s birth. The evening when her heart had broken in two.

Turning left, she entered the hospital site, heading for the bike sheds. Although she had only been working in the Royal Maternity Hospital for two weeks, she already knew her way about. Freewheeling down the gentle hill, she veered left around the bend. Unfortunately another cyclist had the same idea, and she only just managed to avoid crashing into him.

‘God, I’m sorry!’ he declared, as she brought her bike to a halt and dismounted. ‘I near knocked you flying!’

‘Ah, you’re grand,’ she returned, her tone light, deciding to walk her bike the final few yards rather than hop back on. The man was handsome, and tall, and probably in his mid-twenties. Just like – Danger! All her instincts immediately warned her to be wary. Good-looking lads were not what she needed in her life right now – not when she could barely breathe when she thought of Gerald. ‘Nearly never bulled a cow, as they say!’ She began walking towards the bike sheds and he fell into step beside her, the two bicycles between them.

He chuckled. ‘I’ve always loved that sayin’. But I always thought it was a criticism, not forgiveness. Like, that you want the cow to be – er – bulled, but the bull – er . . .’

‘He failed to play his part?’ Perhaps it was the kind of conversation Maisie, as a young woman, should be mortified by. But in reality, she was entirely calm about the whole thing. Being a newly qualified midwife gave you permission to be more blunt about certain things. And a heart and soul that had recently been torn to shreds gave you distance from everyone and everything. ‘Aye, I suppose.’

‘You’re a nurse?’ The young man continued the conversation, despite Maisie trying to send out go away signals. His eyes were alight with interest. In her.

Stifling a sigh, she pointed to her starched cap, perched on top of her copper curls – currently contained with about twenty hairpins. ‘It’s this, isn’t it? Bit of a clue.’ She wouldn’t normally be so cheeky or off-putting, but she really wasn’t interested in flirtation right now.

‘Kinda gives it away all right. Plus, you know, heading to the staff bike sheds.’

‘Aye, that’ll do it. But I’m not actually a nurse.’

His eyes widened. ‘Midwife?’

‘Aye.’ Pride rose within her. ‘Just qualified.’

‘Congratulations. You trained here?’

‘No.’ Her tone was curt. ‘England.’ Feckin’ England.

‘I’m only back from Edinburgh.’ She waited for him to expand. ‘Trained in Queen’s but did my obstetrics over there.’