Page 70 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Hmm.’ Father MacLaverty sent him a keen look. ‘Are you, though?’

Alex froze, his mouth opening and closing idiotically. He had not expected this challenge to his polite lie. The priest’s expression, however, signalled only sympathy and a desire to help.

‘Last night,’ Father MacLaverty continued, ‘you said that you felt you hadn’t done enough for poor Mrs Lennon, Lord rest her.’

Lord rest her. ‘She died, then?’ He had known she must be dead, and here was confirmation.

‘She did. A peaceful death. We priests know when someone is at peace. And her husband was with her when she died.’

‘I suppose that’s something.’

The priest spoke carefully. ‘While I don’t know all the ins and outs of Mrs Lennon’s life these past months – and I don’t need to know – I have the impression that she was very troubled. But because you saved her from the water, and young Maisie brought me there, Mrs Lennon was able to receive absolution as part of the Last Rites.’

‘You – you mentioned that. What does it mean?’

The priest’s kind face softened. ‘It means that whatever worries Mrs Lennon was carrying, whatever guilt, she was able to be freed from it.’

‘How does that work then?’

And so Father MacLaverty explained. If someone had sinned, was sincerely sorry, and resolved not to do it again, then that sin could be forgiven.

‘Just – forgiven?’ Alex asked, astonished. ‘Just like that?’

The priest nodded.

‘And what is a mortal sin?’ Mr Lennon had told him, that awful day when Fenton had carried out the D&C, that his wife was worried she had committed a mortal sin – a phrase which Alex had not really understood.

‘Something serious,’ Father MacLaverty said, ‘something like murder, for example. It only applies if the sin is grave, if there was full knowledge of its sinfulness, and if there was complete consent.’

‘And if consent was pressurised?’

The priest shrugged. ‘Then it’s not consent, and the sin is not a mortal one.’

Alex shook his head sadly. ‘I wish all ministers were like you.’

‘Ah, now. All men of God try their best. I am a flawed human being, son, but all I can do is try, moment to moment, day after day.’ He shrugged. ‘Compassion. Love. Starting fresh each day with a new resolve to use the time I have been given in the best way I can.’

‘But . . . there are so many different religions. Why is it they all believe they are right?’

‘Now that’s far too big a question for a simple parish priest.’ Father MacLaverty smiled. ‘I’m a Christian, and a Catholic, and I have come to believe that my path is a good one. But unlike many, I don’t believe there’s only one right way. You have to find your own way, Alex.’

Find my own way. How, when he was hemmed in by expectations and rules on all sides?

‘Come back and see me again, Alex,’ Father MacLaverty offered. ‘If you’d like to.’

‘I think,’ said Alex slowly, ‘that I would like that. Thank you.’

23

By the time Molly came downstairs, Maisie and Mammy had established something of a truce. Saturday was wash-day, and Maisie was already rinsing out towels, tea towels, and Molly’s school clothes, having done the heavy soaking and scrubbing work. The underwear was boiling on the stove in a copper pot, and she would wash her own uniform next. There would be more washing once the others finished work at noon, but Maisie intended to leave soon after, to meet Alex at one. Oh yes, she fully intended to defy her mother, and the irony was that Mammy’s ranting earlier had only served to strengthen her resolve.

‘Sorry I’m late up,’ said Molly, rubbing her eyes. ‘Took me ages to get back to sleep after Maureen came to bed last night. She was freezin’!’ Taking a bowl from the cupboard, she helped herself to the last of the warm porridge, adding a splash of milk and a teaspoon of honey.

‘Aye, I decided to let you lie on,’ said Mammy – her apparent kindness weaponised to show Maisie the extent of her ongoing disapproval about Alex.

‘Was the céilí good, Maisie?’ Molly squeezed in behind the table, which had been pushed up against the kitchen wall to allow Mammy and Maisie to take the mangle in from the yard. Together they hefted it across the room before raising it up and fitting it over the sink. Wooden rollers in a cast-iron frame meant it weighed a flippin’ ton.

‘It was!’ Maisie said brightly, brazening it out. Taking a towel, she fed one end of it between the rollers then cranked the handle, enjoying the sight of all the excess water being squeezed from the towel as she pulled it gently through. Since they got the mangle last year, the clothes now only took a fraction of the time to dry.