Page 95 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘We live on the Cliftonville Road. Opposite the cricket ground there. It’s known as the Cricky – do you know it?’

‘Cricket?’ Mr Canavan’s tone was sharp, and Alex realised his mistake too late. He should have talked about the convent full of Catholic nuns that was on his road, rather than the Cricky. ‘Never seen a cricket match in my life.’

‘Is it hurling round here? And Gaelic football?’

‘It is, aye. You ever been to a game?’

‘No. I’d be interested, though.’

Mr Canavan’s tone hardened. ‘Let’s put the cards on the table, Mr Lowe. You’ve been courting my daughter.’

‘I have, aye.’

‘And you intend to keep walking out with her?’

‘I’d like to marry her, if she’ll have me.’ There. He’d said it out loud for the first time. His heart’s dream. The thing that could tear both families apart.

‘Have you asked her?’

‘No.’

‘Hrmph.’ He nodded in a satisfied way. ‘At least that.’ He turned his gaze on Alex – hazel-green eyes disconcertingly like Maisie’s but in a face that was entirely masculine. ‘Alex, you seem like a nice lad, and our Maisie would want for nothing if she married a doctor. But we both know there are problems here.’

‘We do, aye.’

‘And do you have a solution to those problems?’

In that moment, it all flew through his head. Community, family, politics, religion. All intertwined, all part of who he was. But who did he want to be? His mind was jumping about now. The joyous céilís at St John’s. His mother’s soirées. Father forbidding Mrs Sinclair from cooking fish on a Friday. Dan Sheridan, Alex’s best friend – a Catholic. The Irish News and its valid focus on the ongoing discrimination against those who thought of themselves as Irish. The familiar words in Father MacLaverty’s Catechism. Granda’s face as he told Alex that as long as Maisie was good to him, and him to her, that was all that mattered.

He stifled a sigh. It has to be me.

‘I haven’t said it to Maisie yet, but I’m considering converting.’

‘You’d do that for her?’

Suddenly, everything was clear to him. Granda had struggled with real poverty. His uncles had died in carnage at the Somme. Right now, people were dying or living in fear all across Europe. Changing religion was minuscule compared to any of that.

‘I would, and I will.’ He grimaced. ‘I just need a bitta time to talk to my ones.’

‘You do that, son.’ Mr Canavan looked grim. ‘Not an easy thing.’

‘No.’ God, how am I going to tell them?

‘Well, you can take it slow, lad. No point pushing things too hard if you don’t need to.’

Don’t take unnecessary risks. Granda’s words from earlier came back to him. ‘God is good, but there’s no need to dance in a small boat.’

Mr Canavan’s eyes widened briefly. ‘I always thought that was an Irish saying.’

Alex shrugged. ‘I heard it from my Granda, and he’s Presbyterian too.’

‘Ah, but the thing is, he’s an Irishman too, even if he doesn’t realise it,’ Mr Canavan said, eyes dancing with humour. He pursed his lips, considering, then added, ‘I wouldn’t normally be one for the pub, but would you meet me for a pint on Monday, Alex?’

‘I’d love that.’

They made the arrangements, and Mr Canavan nodded in satisfaction. ‘Now, let’s see if the ladies want to join us.’

They paused, and Maisie and her mother caught up with them. The conversation which followed felt strange. Here he was, making polite conversation with Maisie’s parents, her father the picture of affability and her mother cautiously polite. Maisie, of course was all astonishment, and kept throwing Alex incredulous looks when she could get away with it.