Page 90 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

The two men looked towards one another briefly, warmth and humour in their shared glance.

‘We do, aye. We’re great friends,’ said Father MacLaverty. He sobered, and Maisie could tell he had some sort of plan. This was no random conversation, she would swear to it. ‘The thing is, being a priest can be a lonely enough life, Mrs Canavan. And that means having strong friendships is really important.’

She frowned in confusion. ‘I never thought about that before.’

‘These two’ – Father MacLaverty slung an arm around each of them – ‘are one of the nicest couples I’ve come across in a long time, Mrs Canavan.’ Dropping his arms, he leaned closer. ‘You’ve reared a fine daughter, Mrs Canavan.’

‘But . . .’ Mammy was lost for words. ‘But . . . he’s a Protestant!’ she eventually spluttered.

‘He is, aye. But I’m working on him!’ And with an insouciant wink, he was gone, leaving all three of them standing there in shock.

Mammy, naturally, was the first to speak. ‘Well – are you then? Are you gonna convert?’ she asked Alex baldly – the very question Maisie had been avoiding for what seemed like forever.

Alex stiffened, and Maisie held her breath. There was a pause, then he said slowly, ‘I honestly don’t know.’

She nodded. ‘Right. Well you may decide soon. It’s not right for yous two to be snaking around behind Maisie’s Da’s back. Do the thing right.’

Alex nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’ll speak to him.’

Mammy’s expression softened. ‘Don’t think I’m like this because I’m wantin’ to be bad to you. No, I’m thinking of our Maisie, and if you thought anything of her you’d never have asked her out in the first place. But you did, and here we are, and so I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Canavan.’ His expression was serious, his tone neutral. God knows what’s going on in his head!

A gleam of humour lit her eye. ‘Don’t be thanking me yet. Wait till I see you converted!’

He grimaced, but wisely, bit his tongue.

‘Now, I need to serve some more people here. The band will be starting up again soon. Sugar’s there,’ she repeated, reminding them of the tea they’d just ordered.

They took their tea, then stepped away. Maisie’s heart was still thumping. Thanks to Father MacLaverty, they had avoided a falling-out with Mammy, but of course Mammy had set a fox among the chickens with her question about Alex converting.

Taking their tea to the other side of the hall they supped, then agreed to step outside to talk. Once hidden by a cloak of darkness they hugged, Alex’s arms around her having a calming effect on Maisie’s nerves. After the ‘Oh, my God!’ and sharing how they had felt at different moments during the exchange, Alex shook his head.

‘What do we do now, Maisie?’

She bit her lip. He was asking for her insight into her own family, but in reality it wasn’t only about the Canavans, and nothing had really changed. ‘Your ones will want me to convert too Alex. We’re no further on, are we?’

He sighed. ‘I suppose not. But I have properly met your mother now, and I’ve agreed to speak to your father.’ His voice changed. ‘Good Lord, what am I gonna say to him? Is he here? Should I do it tonight?’

‘No, he didn’t come. Besides, it might be better to think about what to say and when. Don’t they always say a windy day isn’t the time to try and fix the roof?’

He laughed. ‘You’re so wise, Maisie Canavan!’ Leaning in, he kissed her. Love flowed through her. He was her fella, and she was his girl, and they would continue to fight to be together.

* * *

By morning, Alex’s mind was still in turmoil, and his heart little better. Mrs Canavan’s words from last night were haunting him. If you thought anything of Maisie you’d never have asked her out in the first place. That had felt like an accusation, and the truth of it had struck him to the core. Mrs Canavan was right. He should never have pursued Maisie.

Even though it was a Saturday, Father had gone into work already by the time Alex emerged. He didn’t always, but since they’d started working on the new order for RAF aircraft parts, he was working long hours, six days a week. The factory workers were doing the actual manufacturing, of course, but Father was looking after paperwork and keeping an eye on the supervisors, as well as quality-checking the products. Normally, he’d have been chatting to Alex about it all – working out things in his head by talking, with Alex’s gentle probing helping him to plan and prioritise. Instead, Alex was getting snippets of information indirectly, from Mother and Granda.

Given his father was gone, Alex had his breakfast in the dining room. After his mother also left – for her usual Saturday browse around the shops – that left only him and Granda, and so Alex decided to take the opportunity to question Granda some more about his childhood.

They had been chatting all week, and Alex now had a fair idea about Granda’s marriage to Sarah Thompson in Duncairn Presbyterian church, and the birth of his three sons, John, Patrick, and Henry – Henry being Alex’s father. Alex’s two uncles had died at the Somme; as the youngest, Father hadn’t been able to enlist. It was all fascinating, and sad, and so far as Alex could work out, there was no obvious scandal or controversy in anything he’d heard. They’d been properly wed a good year before their first child had been born. The whole conversation was fascinating, though, since Granda’s living memory contained facts and recollections about history as it interacted with his personal experiences.

‘When were you born, Granda?’ he asked, trying to figure something out.

‘Eighteen hundred and forty-four,’ he replied, ‘when the priddies in the ground were all rotten and the ordinary people were starving to death.’

Priddies, as Alex well knew, were potatoes. ‘You were born during the famine!’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never talked to you about it before! I’m such an eejit!’