Page 37 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Mrs Watson is still struggling with the feeding. Bit worried that her wee one might not be getting enough.’

‘Right-oh,’ he declared, bracing himself to be cheerful. ‘And Sister . . .’

‘Yes?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’

* * *

This had to have been one of the longest days she had ever spent. As Maisie threw her used apron into the laundry basket in the nurses’ changing room and reached for her coat and bag, she felt as though she had been here for a week. Thank God it’s home time!

‘Maisie!’ It was Alex, still in his white coat. ‘I wanted to talk to you. I’m only finished. Will you wait for me?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll go to the canteen.’

‘Great.’ He exhaled in what looked like relief, then hurried towards the stairs. Maisie watched him go, grateful to have had his support today. She had friends here already. This was the sort of place where people bonded quickly. You had to.

Arriving in the canteen, Maisie ordered two teas, and bought a couple of slices of wheaten bread at the same time. Alex hadn’t had any lunch either. He must be famished.

She added milk to her tea but left Alex’s untouched, as she hadn’t yet worked out how he liked it. It was one of the key missions of working in a hospital – finding out and remembering how everyone liked their tea. Arranging the cups and plates, she added wheaten and a knife to the empty space opposite, checking that she had all she needed at the edge of the table – butter, jam, sugar. Apparently there were worries that certain foods would have to be rationed – even here in Belfast, so far from the fighting. Hopefully if that were to happen, it would be short-lived.

The canteen was quiet, with most of the day crew heading for home and the night shift not yet hungry enough for dinner. If this place was anything like King’s College Hospital in London it would be absolutely packed between six and seven, the current lull a breathing space for the hard-working canteen staff.

There he is! She couldn’t stop her heart from leaping on seeing Alex Lowe, any more than she could stop the sun from rising. Both were entirely out of her control.

And yet somehow she had to guard her heart against him. Because of Gerald being Gerald. Her heart was not whole, and she shouldn’t be taking up with any fella right now.

However, she reminded herself, today was unusual, and so she gave him a small smile as he thanked her for the tea. Sure there was no harm in being friendly.

‘I got us wheaten as well,’ she added. ‘I dunno about you, but I’m starving!’

‘Life saver!’ he declared, already starting to butter his bread. ‘I’ll get you back, I promise.’ The next few minutes were spent on ‘Pass the jam, please’ and ‘Could I have the milk?’, and there was a harmony to it all that Maisie found strangely soothing. Then Alex took a long sip of tea (milk, no sugar, Maisie noted) and sighed.

‘That was some day!’

‘Aye. How was your afternoon?’

‘Busy. I meant to get down to see you but was flat out. I did call in to the clinic about half an hour ago but couldn’t see you.’ He picked up his wheaten, now liberally slathered with pale butter and blackberry jam. She couldn’t help but watch his mouth as he took a bite, his attention entirely on the wheaten, then shook herself out of her momentary stupor.

‘Half an hour ago? Oh, Sister Hanna let me run up to see Mrs Lennon again. Sister seemed to realise I was upset – talked to me about how the job can be hard sometimes but we all look out for each other – that sort of thing. She was really nice.’

‘So no trouble from Fenton then?’

‘Not so far. And maybe it would be all right even if he did say something.’

‘I’m relieved to hear that.’ He sent her a keen glance. ‘How was Mrs Lennon?’

‘Not good. Still very tearful. Blaming herself.’

‘I was up earlier and Sister told me the same. Poor woman.’

‘Aye, God love her.’

His grey eyes were on hers now, and once more Maisie felt that strange sensation she’d felt a couple of times before – a kind of deep connection. It was nothing like her adoration of Gerald, nor was it admiration in the usual sense, such as she’d felt for clever or skilled men and women she’d encountered through work. This was the oddest thing – a sort of knowing. She felt that she knew Alex already – even though she had met him for the first time so recently.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m all right.’ And she was, in a sense. What had happened to Mrs Lennon was awful, but there was no changing it now. ‘There’s a thing I tell myself sometimes. I got it from my mammy. You have to figure out the difference between the things you can change and things you can’t. If there’s something you can do, and it would make somebody’s life better, then you do it. But if you’re worrying about something that’s out of your power to change, then the best thing is to let it go.’ Mrs Lennon. Gerald. She couldn’t change either situation, so she had to find peace with how things were, not how she would like them to be.