Page 97 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Posters for the Sunday papers were everywhere, so he stopped to pay tuppence for a Sunday Times, tucking it under his arm as he re-mounted. A German bomb had hit Buckingham Palace a few days ago, but thankfully the royal family hadn’t been injured. The aerial dogfights were continuing, and Churchill had made a speech making it clear that this week was crucial in preventing an invasion of Britain. In that context, Alex’s troubles seemed small indeed. Hopefully his family would have a similar perspective.

Leaving his bike in the front porch he went inside, making straight for the wee room, where Granda was dozing in front of the fire, as ever. Moving quietly, he sat in the facing armchair with his newspaper, alternating between reading about the war and staring into the fire, allowing joy to radiate through him. She said Yes.

‘I’ve brought you your tea, Mr Lowe.’ Mrs Sinclair came bustling in with a tray, waking Granda. ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were back, Alex. D’ye want a cup?’

‘That would be lovely, Mrs Sinclair, thanks.’ He rose to take the tray. ‘I’ll do this.’

‘Ah, good lad.’ He poured for Granda, who was stretching and yawning, and gave him his tea without a word. Granda always liked a bit of peace when he first woke up.

By the time Mrs Sinclair returned with an extra cup and saucer, Granda had come round a bit.

‘No Sunday scones any more,’ he observed morosely.

‘No. It’s all rationed, and Mrs Sinclair needs the butter and flour for main meals. No luxuries any more. Still’ – Alex frowned into his tea – ‘at least we have enough to eat.’

‘Aye, you don’t want to know true hunger, son, that’s for sure and certain. Man dear, they were eatin’ grass back in the day!’

‘Tell me about that time,’ Alex urged, ‘and tell me how you survived it.’ And so Granda spoke of vague memories of soup kitchens and tickets, of emaciated people and almost everyone he knew dying. ‘I was born up in the Glens of Antrim, but Da got us to Belfast. There was only me and me da and me older sister left in the end. Me mother and nine other brothers and sisters all died of the hunger.’ His gaze became unfocused. ‘I remember knowing who was rich, because them people weren’t thin, like us.’

‘Must have been desprit.’

‘I’ll tell you what was desprit!’ His eyes were filled with fire. ‘Them gets, takin’ all the wheat and the oats and the barley, and putting it on their ships to take to England! And then havin’ the nerve to call it a famine! It was never a bloody famine!’

‘Is it true they had armed guards on the food?’

‘Course they did. And there was many a man shot or transported to Australia for tryin’ to rob food for his family!’ He shook his head. ‘Sinful, that’s what it was.’

Mrs Sinclair had omitted to close the door, and Alex’s sharp ears now detected heavy footsteps in the hall. He ignored them. Father wouldn’t come in here, for he would hear them talking and go to the main parlour instead.

‘But, Granda, you said it was only yourself and your da in the end. What happened to your sister?’

‘She got away to America. The Presbyterian church got her on a ship.’

‘That was good of them.’ All churches had the power for good, and most used it.

‘Was it? I suppose it looks that way.’ He sighed. ‘I never saw her again. I have no idea if she even survived the journey.’

Alex gasped and shook his head slowly, trying to imagine what it had been like. With most of the family dead from starvation, Granda and his sister must have been particularly close. It was too awful even to contemplate.

The footsteps in the hall had paused, yet Alex couldn’t help but continue. Here was another relative – a great-aunt – someone he had never heard about before.

‘What was her name, Granda?’ Having a name would make her seem more real, and give her the respect of being properly remembered all these years later.

‘Bridget,’ he said, looking Alex directly in the eye. ‘But we called her Bríd.’

This was unexpected. ‘Bríd? Like, the Irish version?’

‘Aye. Bríd an t-ainm a bhí uirthi,’ said Granda. ‘Bríd was her name,’ and the door flew open, hitting the wall with a crash.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Father strode forward, glaring at Granda, his face red with anger.

Granda started, but remained remarkably calm – at least on the surface. Alex noticed that his hands were gripping the arms of his chair, the knuckles white.

‘I told you never to speak of those things, never to speak that disgusting language!’ His tone was accusatory, his stance aggressive. It was totally out of order, so Alex stood, protective of his grandfather.

‘That’s enough!’ He spoke directly to his father for the first time in months. ‘Don’t you speak to Granda like that!’

‘And who’s gonna stop me, boy?’ Father’s face was red with anger. ‘You?’