Page 81 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Oh, friends from work.’ Maisie turned away to fold some tea towels, unable to cope with Mammy’s searching gaze.

‘Aye, what friends?’ Mammy had suspected her for a long time, Maisie knew, but had been operating a kind of don’t-ask-don’t tell policy. Today for some reason, her curiosity had been sparked.

‘Em, Alex.’ I can’t tell her a blatant lie. She glanced back at Mammy. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Because you’re going about the house singing to yourself, and your head in the clouds.’

Feck. Mammy was far, far too fly.

‘I’m not stupid, Maisie. Alex is the Protestant, isn’t he?’

‘No.’ Frustration bubbled over. ‘He’s not “the Protestant”. He’s my friend. He’s a doctor – an excellent doctor. He’s a good person. He’s kind and he’s smart and he’s generous. His religion is irrelevant to me.’

‘Bloody hell, girl. Have you no common sense at all?’ She put a hand to her head. ‘Irrelevant? Irrelevant? It’s the single most important thing around here. Being Protestant means he’s Unionist and he’s British and he’s them. He’s not us.’ She blessed herself again. ‘Thank God your da’s out at work, for if he heard you he’d be bloody ragin’!’ She leaned closer. ‘Now you listen to me, Maisie, you drop him now, and don’t you ever meet him again.’

Maisie took a breath. ‘No.’

Mammy gasped. ‘Are you defying me?’

‘I don’t want to be defying you, Mammy. I really don’t.’ She was twisting the tea towel in her hands, barely noticing it. ‘But it’s too late. Alex is important to me.’

‘More important than your own family?’

Maisie shook her head. ‘Don’t go there, Mammy. Don’t make me choose.’

‘You’re the one that’s choosing.’ Her tone was implacable. ‘It’s your family, or this Protestant.’

Emotion was flooding through Maisie. Anger, frustration, heartbreak. Flinging down the tea towel, she grabbed her coat and bag and hurried out, giving the door a good slam behind her. Keeping her head down she hurried to the nearest quiet space, which happened to be Dunville Park. Thankfully it was early yet, the park empty apart from a few children pucking a sliotar about.

Finding a summer seat she sat and bawled, feeling as though her heart was literally breaking in two. Images of her whole family were flooding into her mind – not only Mammy and Da, but her wee nieces and all her aunts and uncles and cousins.

Worst of all was the thought of losing all her ones – her brothers and sisters. Moya was still not pregnant, and the sisters had become really close as Moya always wanted to talk to Maisie about her monthlies – which were very irregular – and how she might know when she was finally expecting. Michael and Maolíosa were still a huge part of her life – they were always popping into each other’s houses for tea and talk. And as for the younger ones – Matty was a wee dote, and working hard on his apprenticeship. He often confided in Maisie, and she really valued her close relationship with him. Maureen’s friend Áine had been sent away, so Maureen was relying more on Maisie these days for company. And as for wee Molly . . . her heart lurched in pain at the notion she would never see her again.

Oh, God. She loved Alex, but she loved her family too.

What am I gonna do?

* * *

Alex had had a busy morning. Despite the late night he had awoken early, his heart full of love and his head full of ideas. Kissing under the stars was all very well, but in daylight the enormity of the challenge before them was beginning to hit home.

Protestants and Catholics didn’t walk out together. It simply wasn’t done. If he went ahead and married Maisie – his dearest wish – the ripple effect would hurt his whole family. He winced as he thought of Granda Lowe – old, and frail, and relying on Alex to continue the family name. His parents would be talked about at church – whispers behind their backs, a suggestion they had failed in the most important aspect of child-rearing.

And it would doubtless be similar for Maisie’s family. From what Maisie had said, they were staunch Catholics, every one of them.

Being a Presbyterian was part of his heritage. That mattered. He was the last Lowe in the line. If he left his church, it would break a chain going back countless generations. God, what a nightmare!

This morning, in an attempt to find out more about the religious side of things, he had cycled to two churches on the northern outskirts of Belfast – one Catholic, one Presbyterian. No one knew him there, and so he felt more able to ask his questions.

Having requested to speak to both ministers on matters of faith and doctrine, he posed the question of a mixed marriage, pretending to be a Catholic to the Presbyterian minister.

‘You’re saying you’re Catholic, and you want to marry a Presbyterian girl?’ The minister had been dismayed. He shook his head. ‘Not to be recommended. You would have to become a Presbyterian, to take instruction, to publicly renounce Catholic doctrine, and to vow to remain a Presbyterian for life.’

The Catholic priest told him a similar tale. ‘You can’t have a mixed marriage in any of the local Christian denominations, and the people who do convert to Catholicism often lose touch with their Protestant community. It’s a big step, and not one to be taken lightly.’

As he freewheeled back towards the city down a long hill, Belfast Lough to his left, he reflected that the religious beliefs themselves were not a major issue for him. He frequently called in with Father MacLaverty – they were friends now, and chess rivals – and had a fair understanding of Catholic beliefs, none of which seemed too far-fetched to him.

Politically too he had shifted. Being in Edinburgh had already widened his horizons, and reading Dan’s copies of the Irish News – the newspaper preferred by Catholics – had shifted his viewpoint on some historical atrocities – including the hated Penal Laws, when the English had persecuted both Catholics and Presbyterians, banning them from educating their children, holding their religious services, and owning land.