Page 92 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘Tennis courts?’ he echoed dubiously, so she described the place, and shortly after arriving at the McGrath house she scribbled a note for Alex and sent Jem off to deliver it. Alex wasn’t on duty again until Monday, she knew – unlike her. It was frustrating not seeing him today, for they had so much to talk about – not only Mammy and Father MacLaverty from last night, but the possibility of Alex speaking to Da tomorrow.

Maisie was enjoying working on the district. It was less structured, less predictable, for no one knew when the women would go into labour. The midwives worked it out between them, taking the lead with specific women, and mucking in with others as needed. Maisie had visited Mrs McGrath in her first week on the district, had given the woman her address and told her to ‘give me a shout’ when the time came.

And the time had most definitely come. Mrs McGrath was pacing up and down, stopping at times to lean over the kitchen table or the tiny mantelpiece in her living room. She was praying, too – long litanies which she’d clearly memorised, or simply the rosary. Her living room contained pictures of Our Lady and the Sacred Heart, as well as a small statue of the Child of Prague, which had pride of place on the mantelpiece. It was all entirely familiar to Maisie. The rhythm of her life had beat to images and sounds like these, and she was entirely at ease with Mrs McGrath’s beliefs and rituals. Could she give it up, even for Alex? Maybe. But it would be hard.

Stifling a sigh, she concentrated on Mrs McGrath, setting some water to boil on the stove, and finding the towels, buckets, and baby clothes she would need for later. The woman’s husband and other children had been banished from the house – scattered among grannies and aunties for the day, with everyone assuming the baby would be born by nightfall and they could all return to sleep in their own beds. It was time to get to work.

* * *

She isn’t coming. Alex checked his watch again. Nearly half past two. Disappointment was flooding through him. Days when he couldn’t see Maisie were not good days, and he wanted to tell her about Granda’s remarkable acceptance of the fact that Alex was seeing a Catholic.

‘So long as she’s good to you, and you’re good to her, that’s all that matters,’ he had said, and Alex could have hugged him, he was so happy. He didn’t of course. The Lowes were not the huggy type.

Mounting his serviceable bicycle, he was about to ride off when he noticed a boy pounding towards him.

‘Mr Lowe?’ he called breathlessly.

‘Yes?’

‘The midwife sent this.’ He held out a note. ‘Sorry I’m late. I clean forgot!’

Alex grinned. Maisie had sent a note, and so his day had suddenly got a little better. He gave the boy a penny. ‘Thanks.’

‘Thank you, sir!’ the boy returned, clearly delighted at having earned such a bounty. He would be heading straight to the nearest sweet shop, Alex reckoned.

He opened the note. Well, Love, Maisie had written. I’m with a woman in labour, so I won’t make it today. My ma was all right with me this morning – I don’t think she knows what to make of Father MacLaverty and you being friends. Anyway, she says her and Da will be walking in the Falls Park tomorrow if it’s dry. Can you meet me at the tennis courts after dinner? I’ll go to early Mass. I love you! Maisie.

He rubbed a thumb over the I love you, feeling the same warmth in his chest as he usually did when Maisie told him that. They had rarely written to each other before – there hadn’t really been the need – so he knew this note was something to be treasured.

As he cycled through the hospital grounds there were random pictures in his head – Maisie and her I love you. Father MacLaverty. Maisie’s mother, flabbergasted at the priest’s intervention. Maisie’s father, a dark and shadowy image, for he’d barely even seen the man. As he left the Falls Road to freewheel down the slight incline that led to St John’s, Alex realised he’d somehow decided to go and see Father MacLaverty.

‘Ach, well, Alex.’ The priest’s housekeeper knew him well now. ‘Father MacLaverty is out but he’ll be back shortly. Go you on into the front parlour.’

He often had to await his friend while Father MacLaverty was out and about on pastoral duties. Today though, instead of perusing the newspapers on Father MacLaverty’s side table, Alex went straight for a book he’d seen before on his friend’s bookshelf but never touched. The Catechism, it was called, the subtitle indicating it had been Ordered by the National Synod of Maynooth. St Patrick’s College in Maynooth, he knew, was the main seminary for Catholic priests in Ireland.

Holding his breath, he went to the first page of the preamble. Nothing too shocking there – the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary words of the angel Gabriel, and the Apostles’ Creed, listing the core beliefs of all Christians – not only Catholics. The only line he had any worries about was the ‘I believe in the Holy Catholic Church’. In the Presbyterian religion, the word ‘Catholic’ was taken to mean ‘universal’. In this context however, Alex suspected a different slant. Intrigued, he read on. Lesson One contained nothing he could disagree with. He was just getting stuck into Lesson Two when Father MacLaverty arrived.

* * *

Everyone was right about Mrs McGrath’s baby coming that day – just about. Unusually, Mrs McGrath had a long pause in her labour before the pushing part. Maisie had seen it before, and so she didn’t panic. Some women needed to rest a while before the hard work of pushing began, and Mrs McGrath, she suspected, rarely got a minute to even bless herself. So when regular pains gave way to sleep, Maisie simply noted the time and quietly left the room to do a small bit of housework for her. She kept checking on the woman, who had a sound sleep lasting more than an hour, before labour woke her up again. She was pushing soon after with renewed energy.

Baby Frances was born by teatime in the front bedroom, and the family were allowed back in to coo and celebrate by eight in the evening. Maisie, who had finished all her midwifery duties with the mother, happily helped the older children get the younger ones ready for bed before returning to the living room, where Mrs McGrath and her husband were saying a decade of the rosary in thanks for the safe birth of Frances. Maisie joined in, enjoying the familiar words, yet at the same time feeling a bittersweet pain at the thought she might have to leave her faith and her family to be with Alex.

No point in thinking about it. Right now, she was here, with a beautiful wee baby and a lovely family. After saying her goodbyes she headed for home, feeling a sense of warm satisfaction as she walked away knowing the children were cosy, the mother and baby were well, and that she definitely, one hundred per cent, had the best job in the world.

* * *

Calmly, Alex set the Catechism book down, though it was clear Father MacLaverty had seen what he was reading. After the usual greeting and banter about their last chess game, Father MacLaverty sent him a keen glance.

‘Mrs Canavan is a formidable woman,’ he began, throwing the words into their light politeness like a pebble into a still lake.

‘She is.’ Alex exhaled. ‘Thank you for – intervening last night. I think it probably prevented her and Maisie having a major row.’ He looked steadily at his friend. ‘Over me.’

‘Aye, I wondered about that.’ He made a face. ‘It’s a tricky one, I’m not going to deny it. As a Catholic priest, I’m supposed to try and convert you. But despite what I said last night, as your friend I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I appreciate that.’ To be fair, Father MacLaverty had never pushed his religion on Alex – though he had always readily answered his questions. He took a breath. ‘Theoretically, if there was a person interested in converting, what would it involve?’ He knew some of the answers already, having questioned a random priest back in June. But asking Father MacLaverty made it seem more real somehow. More scary.

‘Well,’ Father MacLaverty leaned back in his chair, ‘that part isn’t particularly complicated. It involves taking instruction, making a profession of faith, and being received into the Church.’ He made a face. ‘Apparently it’s become fashionable in intellectual circles to convert to Catholicism. Poets, philosophers, and authors are all finding their way to the Church, but I’m not sure what I think about it. Evelyn Waugh, GK Chesterton, Graham Greene. People like that.’ He frowned. ‘I worry that some are just following their herd – even thoughtful, clever people.’ Sending Alex a keen glance, he added, ‘You’re not a man to follow the herd, I think.’