Monthly Archives: September 2014

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 3, Guilt

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A/N: Many thanks to This Unruly Heart for her guidance with this chapter. This is a subject that could easily slide into melodrama, and I thought our poor distraught friend deserved more than that. Unruly’s help has given me new insight into what I’ve been trying to do all along here.

Previous Chapter

***   ***

For the first several weeks, she rarely left her room. Nausea and other side effects of the therapy made her weak, unable to do more than lie in her darkened room and sleep. Gradually, as her body grew used to the strong antibiotics of her treatment, the nausea dissipated. She became less tired and more able, though less willing, to participate in the society of her new world. For the first time in her life, hibernation became her preferred state. Claiming to be too weak to leave her room, she remained in seclusion long after necessary.

Unable to concentrate on much and eager to repress her wayward thoughts, she began to notice the details of her temporary home. The room was cheerful with its bright floral wallpaper and sunny window, a window she had for some reason avoided. The warm space was intended to welcome her, make her feel at home. It was so different from her small cell at Nonnatus, yet even after ten years that room had never felt like her own, either. In both places, the rooms had been furnished by others, designed to meet her needs, but showing little of herself.

Her life was not her own. As a nun, she had turned it over to the religious life she vowed to honor in service to others and God. Adjusting to the life of a sanatorium patient should have come easily to her. The doctors had strict rules regarding patients’ activities, offering little individuality. While in earlier years this would have garnered little resistance from her, now she inwardly rebelled.

She swallowed the uncomfortably large pills.  She withstood the painful jabs, the countless blood draws from the collapsed veins of her pale arms, even the prickling rash that spread across her torso. All these afflictions were borne without complaint. She was the model, if taciturn, patient. All attempts to draw the quiet nun out of her shell went unrewarded.

She paced the carpet of the room, trying to understand what had become of her life this past year. Doubts and questions had struggled to the surface despite her efforts to subdue them. Foolish thoughts took the place of her prayers, displacing discipline and structure and she flushed in shame at their memory. She knew ways to redirect such feelings, and yet she had not done so. She was weak to fall victim to such corporeal desires. They would not offer true relief to her soul. Why could she not rein them in?

There were other Orders, stricter, more removed from daily life, which demanded absolute obedience. Straying from the path called for self-punishment. Is that what she needed? Consequences so great so as to prevent straying in the first place?

She could not believe her mentor would demand such recourse from her. Her whole life she had believed in a God of love and understanding, one who recognized human frailties and offered forgiveness.

But forgiveness was only truly granted to those who sought to purge the sin. Perhaps the fact that she had not taken those steps was yet another indication that she wanted to stray.

She had known her feelings, and could put a name to them. In the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, she knew of their depth, had even recognized a glimmer of their return in his eyes. She knew, yet she did nothing but pray over them and for the first time, prayer offered no answers. Such a sign should have warned her that she was in too deep. She could not, or would not, confess her transgressions to Sister Julienne. To do so would have forced her from her stasis; her mentor would have required some action. She should have left Nonnatus on her own, putting all temptation away from her.

She did nothing, and continued in this state of disobedience. She rarely spoke to him, only working with him when required to do so, but this tacit acceptance of the status quo was nearly as bad as if she had shouted her feelings to all. And now God had sent her a forceful reminder to reconsider her priorities.

Surely she had brought this upon herself. This illness must be a direct result of God’s displeasure.

Part of her brain rejected this idea. She did not believe God was so unforgiving. All she had been taught supported the notion of a God that did not mete out punishments or vengeance in this way. Her illness was the result of exposure, she reminded herself. Isolation was a necessary step towards not only her own cure, but towards eliminating the disease from her community entirely.

Yet the feelings stirring in her heart reminded her of her complicity and guilt and fear won out. In the not-so-distant past, those lucky enough to have survived did so only through terrifying surgeries and years-long isolation from all they held dear. She had not removed herself from her temptations, so God would do so for her.

Her gaze was pulled to the dresser, a lone unopened envelope mocking her. She remembered the long, silent car ride from Poplar, the air between them thick with her shame. She could not so much as glance at him, for even then she did not trust herself to remain silent. Her stiff response to his attempts to reassure her was all she could muster. She knew he was not blind to her weakness, that his empathetic soul would try to heal her even then.

She should tear the letter up. His gesture of friendship would not soothe but exacerbate her pain. All contact must be stopped. God had shown his displeasure.

Guiltily, she took the envelope in her hands, caressing the very places he must have touched. Was this letter a test? Did her penance demand its destruction? Long moments passed, her mind lost in indecision. The light in the room changed and the late afternoon sun poured through the window, warming her face. She looked up and felt her lungs fill with air. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she slid the letter underneath her sole box of personal items.

She would not destroy the letter today.

She knelt on the cold hard floor and tried to pray.

Next Chapter

Finding a Way

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The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic scratch of the needle on the record player. Patrick hadn’t wanted to get up to turn it off, so sweet did Shelagh look asleep against his arm. He smiled softly as he watched her doze against him, her own book abandoned, glasses folded in her lap. It wasn’t so very late, but perhaps she had walked further today, he thought. Her long walks through Poplar seemed to be helping. She smiled a bit more readily, and laughed more easily with them. Maybe it was just the healing effect of time. Soon, he hoped, she would be happy again.

It felt good to have her pressed against him now. He had kept his distance for weeks, waiting for Shelagh to recall the spark between them, the spark that had warmed them so many nights since their wedding, but dimmed since her surgery.  He sighed as he allowed memories of her wash over him, just this once. He would be understanding when she woke, he could wait until she was ready again. It was enough to have her here safe beside him. But for now, he remembered how she felt, so small and light against him, her skin smooth and velvety beneath his hands, his mouth. The sound of her breath as she sighed from delight. He knew she loved him, that though shy, she had embraced the physical side of their marriage. They would return to that, in time, but he did miss her.

A small sound stirred him from his thoughts, and he put his book down as he watched her wake. Blinking rapidly, she tried to focus on him. A warm smile spread across her face and she gripped the hands wrapped around his upper arm snugly. Nuzzling against him she murmured, “You shouldn’t let me sleep like this. Your poor arm must ache you dreadfully.” She squeezed the muscle gently, massaging any stiffness from it.

“I’m fine, love. I’d cut my arm off before I let you go,” he answered with mock gallantry.

A warm chortle escaped her lips. “Ridiculous man.” Her hands crept up to his shoulder and she shifted her body up on her knees to better reach the base of his neck. He groaned quietly as she found the spot, right there, where her fingers would do the most good. Quiet moments passed as Patrick felt the tension in his body change. This wouldn’t do. He found himself struggling with the urge to press her body deep into the couch, silencing her hesitation. If he was going to be patient, he would need to do it with a bit more space between them.

Standing, he stretched and said, “Well, I’m for bed. I’m completely knackered, and tomorrow’s clinic.” He removed the needle from the phonograph and picked up his teacup. When Shelagh made no move to join him, he asked, “You coming?”

Shelagh placed her glasses on her nose and nodded. “It is late, after all.” In the kitchen, he watched as she made quick work of the few dishes to be washed and made for their room.

“Shelagh?” Patrick reached for her hand. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” she answered a bit too quickly.

“Shelagh,” he smiled, but could not hide the concern from his eyes. “Tell me. Were you all right alone, today?”

“I was fine, Patrick. All is well.” She smiled up at him then squared her shoulders. “You’ve been very good to me, dearest. Very…patient.” She glanced away.

Now he understood. She had picked up on his growing frustration. Step lightly, lad, he told himself. Smiling crookedly, he replied, “It’s all right, Shelagh. I can wait until you’re ready.I don’t want to rush you.”

Her eyes flashed something he couldn’t read, then she nodded and led the way to their bedroom.

***   ***

She was sitting up in their bed when he joined her after his wash, nervously squeezing her hands. Patrick tossed his towel in the laundry basket and began to button his pyjama top closed. He could ask again what concerned her, but he knew its source, and he knew she would say it in her own time. Climbing under the covers, he kissed her cheek and turned off the light. Still she hadn’t moved.

“Patrick?”

He loved how she said his name, as if she were the only one in the world who said it. It gave him hope. He reached up and pulled her into his arms, guiding her head to the spot on his shoulder that wouldn’t ache later and would allow him to press a kiss to her hair.

“My love?”

“You’ve been so kind. Its been weeks since my…surgery, and you haven’t once…”

His breath brushed her forehead as he kissed her. “All in good time, Shelagh. When you’re ready, then we can.”

“But that’s just it, Patrick. What if I’m never ready? I couldn’t do that to you.”

His heart clenched in fear for just a moment. It was a possibility, after all. Shelagh had blossomed sexually a bit on the late side, and trauma had been known to play havoc with a woman’s sexuality. How would he cope then, he wondered. Would he remain patient, or would resentment start to take root? He turned his head, avoiding her eyes. “You’ll be ready one day soon, Shelagh. I’m not worried,” he fibbed.

“How do you know? I think, sometimes, perhaps I want to, and then I remember…and I can’t. How could I possibly when I know there’s no chance we could…” her voice trailed off into his shoulder.

Patrick held her for a long time, then he spoke. “This love between us, Shelagh, it’s precious. But it isn’t wonderful simply because we might have made a baby. It’s wonderful because every time I touch you I feel closer to you.” He tipped her chin up to his face and kissed her gently. “It wasn’t always about making a baby before, either, if you remember. I seem to recall a few -activities- that you enjoyed that made pregnancy highly unlikely,” he teased. Perhaps laughter would help them through. He hoped so, because he didn’t think he could go without her for much longer.

Shelagh blushed furiously and buried her face in his neck. He frowned, grateful she couldn’t see his face. “We’ll make it back, sweetheart. Now stop worrying and go to sleep.”

***   ***

Shelagh didn’t sleep, though, so she wrapped herself around her husband, comforted by his quiet snores. She could nudge him to his side, his breathing was quieter when he wasn’t on his back, but she liked sleeping against him this way. It had been a long time since she felt willing to be so near to him, for fear of arousing his hopes. She pressed more closely to him and felt his arm squeeze her closer in his sleep. Even unconscious he tried to comfort her, and she longed to repay him.

He would be patient, she knew. From the very start, he had allowed her to lead when he detected uncertainty in their bed. For the first time, however, she considered his sacrifice. Out of love for her, had he held himself back from his own fulfillment? Her diagnosis had been a blow to them both, but his feelings were never discussed. In fact, it was always about her. Her decision to chose him over her life in the Order, her worries for acceptance, her fears for the new world marriage opened up to her, those issues had been their focus. She had never asked about his feelings, once assured of his love.

Shelagh’s eyes opened widely, trying to understand. Was she being selfish? She knew so little of relationships and had never mastered the give and take they seemed to demand. The diplomacy practiced in her life before had been to soothe others and create temporary peace. Perhaps marriage required more than that. She took care of Patrick and his son, and knew life was happier for them both since the marriage. But was she doing her share of the “heavy lifting,” as Sister Evangelina called it?

Part of her wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep, but ignoring her fears would not make them go away. She had felt doubts before in her life and found ways to resolve them. Her confusion surrounding their…sex life… she made herself think the words, needed to be resolved.

Patrick would be gentle with her. Any fears on that score were easily settled. So what was holding her back? She had known before they married that she would be glad of the closeness it created, but had been surprised on the wedding night by the joy and ecstasy she found in his arms. She had never expected to be as eager for him as she had been those happy first months. Could she feel that way again, knowing no baby could come of it? And even if she couldn’t, didn’t she owe Patrick some measure of her own offering? She could tell he was suffering, too. Didn’t she bear some responsibility for his happiness?

Sister Julienne’s face appeared before her eyes, her expression warm and understanding. Bewildered by the connection, Shelagh felt a memory surface.

In the parlor room of the old Nonnatus House, a young Sister Bernadette sat by as the older nun spoke with a young bride-to-be frightened of  what was to come. “Do not be afraid of your feelings, my dear,” she told the young girl. “God has given us the gift of touch to bring us closer to one another. A handshake or embrace between friends, or the caress of a mother for her child, they soothe us. A husband and wife should be closest of all; there is no shame or disgrace in their closeness.” A beatific smile graced the nun’s face. “I sometimes think procreation is a secondary benefit to humans. Love is its real purpose.”

Shelagh trembled at the memory. Patrick’s words tonight had been very nearly the same. She smiled. Not for the first time, she found clarity from the words of two people she loved best in the world. She wanted a baby of her own, yes, but that was not the source of her love for her husband. Now it was necessary for her to put her grief to the side and focus on him.

Nervously, Shelagh shifted her weight against him and whispered his name. Grunting, he turned in his sleep to face her, pulling her close.

“Patrick,” she repeated.

He responded with a sound low in his throat.

“Patrick,” she murmured again, gaining confidence, forgotten sensations returning. Her hands slid between them, finding the soft skin beneath the buttons of his top. “Patrick, wake up.”

“Hmmm, Shelagh?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong, dearest.” Her hands moved to quickly open the buttons, then slid down to the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms. “I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I bothered you?”

***   ***

Much later, Patrick fell back to his pillow, the happiest of men.

“Shelagh?” he asked, still a bit out of breath.

“Hmmm?” came the contented reply.

“Always bother me.”

 

 

The Wardrobe

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Patrick stood in front of the large wardrobe, hands on his hips, a determined look on his face. It was time. Marianne was a part of his past, and it was time to move on. Keeping her things alongside his own would keep him trapped in the past. Unsure what the future held, he had to step into it.

Opening the wardrobe door, he was overwhelmed by her scent still lingering on her clothes. His throat tightened as he fought to control his breathing. Strange how scent could do that, his logical brain reasoned. He could look at photographs now and not feel the lurch of pain behind his ribs, could see her handwriting and not feel the sting of loss. His mind could see these and shield itself from the memories, but his body had no such defenses.

He clenched his fists and fought for control. He would do this. He would reclaim his life. Marianne was a good wife and friend and would have wanted him to move on. If she could have, he knew she would have packed up her dresses herself at the end;  closed so many doors left open.

A mere half hour later, the wardrobe hung empty, boxes stacked at the door. Patrick looked at the collection of barren hangers, lonely in the space. He turned to the piles of his own clothes, scattered on the sole chair, the dresser, some hanging off the doors and curtain rods. What a mess he had made in his sadness. It was time to take charge again. Methodically, he began to fill the wardrobe with his own clothes. As much of a mess they made scattered around the room, they didn’t take up much space. Determinedly, he created his own place.

It wouldn’t do for Timothy to see the boxes go out. His young mind would assuredly misunderstand, and they had only just begun to heal their own relationship. He had Sister Bernadette to thank for that. The nun had encouraged them to forgive each other for the selfishness of grief. They were resilient, she reminded them, and would survive this.

The last box carried down to the car, Patrick took a last look around the room.His eye caught the glitter of trinkets on her nightstand. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he considered donating her jewelry as well. Nodding, he took her jewelry box from the dresser and ran his fingers across its lid. A small smile graced his face as he placed those last few items inside.

This wouldn’t go. He would save this for Timothy. One day, the boy would want to have pieces of his mother to remember.

Patrick opened the wardrobe again, smiling this time. He placed the jewelry box on the upper shelf, out of the way. He doubted Timothy would see it, but he knew it was there, safe. Marianne did not need to disappear from their lives. She would always be there, over their shoulders, watching.

Trying to Hear God: Chapter 2, Confusion

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Previous Chapter

Her body ached with exhaustion. The long night had required all her stamina, and at its end she felt as if layers had been stripped away. There had been difficult births over the years, too many to count, and she had experienced such joy at the display of love and human perseverance each time. For too long now she left the birthing room feeling empty, with less and less desire to ever return.

Kneeling at her bedside in her narrow cell, she sighed deeply and clenched her hands together. Focus, she needed to focus. But the deep breath did not help to clear her mind, it did not soothe her body. The prayers would not come. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the edge of the bed and struggled to keep from vocalizing the pain she felt. She was broken, lost and forgotten, and it was her own doing.

A sob shook through her small body, stifled in the covers of the hard mattress. Even after her mother’s death she had never felt so abandoned. The long, terrible illness had given them time to prepare, if one could in fact prepare for the death of a beloved mother. While devastated and stunned when the inevitable finally happened, there were loved ones to share her pain. There had been no reason to hide.

There was no one now. Even God seemed to have forsaken her. Desperate for the comfort the love of God had afforded her, she recited the prayers, recalled the Bible passages that had always refreshed her faith. She worked harder, longer hours than ever and made every offer of help possible. Through service she had hoped she could return to her previous state of serenity, but somehow, she still felt empty. Purple-gray shadows appeared beneath her eyes and she began to fade from view.

There was no one to listen, no one to understand. If she spoke, there would only be condemnation and abandonment. She had tried to reach out, but each time was prevented by circumstance. Perhaps that was for the best. How could another understand when she could not understand herself? Even more, would her confusion be seen as a rejection of all the promises she had vowed to honor?

Shaking, she rose from her knees and slid into bed, hiding her face in her pillow. Why had this happened? She wasn’t even sure what this was, she simply knew there was something there. She had been solitary for so much of her life; it had been many years since she had felt the need to connect with another. Her sisters afforded her the love and quiet companionship she thought was enough. Even Sister Julienne, her mentor and guide, did not arouse a need for more.

Now her heart ached for it. The warm friendship enjoyed by the nurses evoked a slash of envy. They were not much younger than she, confident in their belief that the world was their oyster, while she could have been an old woman, separate as she was.

She tossed in her bed, attempting  to stop her thoughts from taking what was becoming a well-worn path. In the religious life, she told herself, she would move beyond friendship; the spiritual state she could find by devoting her life to God would supercede ordinary relationships. By not singling out a few, she could devote herself to all. She reminded herself of this again and again, and understood the truth of it. Yet she still could not deny her loneliness.

“You don’t always feel lonely,” a voice beckoned in her heart. A tear slipped out of eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders spasmed. In recent weeks, the whispers that spoke more loudly than her prayers threatened to overtake her. If she could stop their echoes, she could return to the way things were before.

These whispers had changed of late, confusing her even more. While still longing to join in with the others, there was another whose company she preferred, one whose nearness alerted every nerve ending, one who roused an interest she could not ignore.

She knew when he entered a room before she saw him, or even heard him. His weary voice tempted her to soothe his worries. Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to mend his lab coat? To help his lonely son? It was not purely her own empathy for the boy’s motherlessness that pushed her to befriend him and give the comfort of a womanly voice.

She had always respected and admired the devoted doctor who gave so much to the community they both served. Attending so many births together over the years, they had developed an understanding of each other, an ability to anticipate the other’s moves and needs: a connection that made many of the positive outcomes possible.

Last night had been such a delivery. The strange nature of the Carter family, their resistance to medical intervention, and the intensity of the delivery of the twins had required all the resources they could muster to save mother and child. She still trembled at the memory of the lifeless form of the infant in her arms, unable to takes its first breath. Knowing he was there with her gave her strength, and she tried a technique that surprised even her. When the infant’s lungs filled the room with the shrill cry, she lifted her eyes to him in shared joy.

Afterwards, she felt an exhilaration she hadn’t felt from a delivery in some months. Perhaps that was the source of her unexplained, bold behavior later as they prepared to leave. She cringed at the memory. To some, the sharing of a cigarette was simply a result of a professional camaraderie, a normal denouement to a harrowing experience, and she had pretended to herself at the time that it meant nothing. But she knew otherwise. They had shared more than a cigarette. She revealed a private memory, wanting to forge a deeper connection with him, and found she needed to know more of him.

With him, she longed to be herself, someone she hadn’t been in many years. She wanted to talk about the world, her life, learn about him. The hodgepodge she knew of his life was not enough and she felt a pull towards him that was becoming difficult to ignore. With him, in those moments they were alone together, she did not feel alone.

The last rays of light streamed through the tiny window of her cell as finally the demands of her weary body took over and gratefully, she slept.

Next Chapter

Hundred Word Challenge: No Boys Allowed

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“Where’s Angela?” Patrick  asked as he sat to dinner.

“”Bye, Dad!”  Angela Turner appeared at the door, dressed to go out.

Frowning, he said, “Where are you going? It’s a school night. You know the rules.”

“It’s a school event, dear,” Shelagh soothed. “A poetry reading. We didn’t think you’d want to attend.”

“Not likely. But what about-?”

“No worries, Dad. Schoolworks done, and Leslie’s bringing me back. I’m off!”

As the door closed, Patrick proudly turned to his wife. “At least she isn’t boy crazy like that Charlotte.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Wait. Leslie isn’t a girl, is he?”

“Poor Patrick.”

Hundred Word Challenge: Trials of a Bridesmaid

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“All right, then, Trixie. Confess.”

Trixie Franklin was acting very strangely, and Jenny would have none of it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jenny Lee,” came back the sharp retort.

“Sorry, Trixie, I think Jenny’s right. I should think you’d be over the moon.” Cynthia’s confused face spoke greater volumes than her soft voice.

Irritated, Trixie rolled her eyes.“I know. Practically the center of attention and all that. Maid of Honor should be a dream come true!”

“So?”

She huffed. “You do realize my dance partner won’t be able to buy me a drink until 1966?”A Hundred Word Challenge

The Hundred Word Challenge: Stay Out of the Kitchen

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It got kind of addictive…

As Nonnatus House cook for fifteen years, Mrs. B thought she had seen it all. Cakes hidden in washtubs, entire platefuls of biscuits disappearing; she was used to that sort of nonsense by now.

Throwing down her dishcloth, she muttered, “This is the end of enough. Either it stops this day or I am finished.”

Shoulders back, she announced, “Just what’s  this vile concoction doing in my icebox?”

“Some sort of facial, I should think,” said Jenny.

Mrs. B glared at Trixie.

“It’s not mine!” claimed Trixie.

“Sorry Mrs. B,” came Fred’s voice. “Gotta keep up in the beauty stakes!”

The Hundred Word Challenge: Laundry

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A fun response to a Tumblr challenge to write a fic in 100 words exactly. It was much harder than I thought!

“Oh, will he never pick up his clothes?” Shelagh complained, bending for a rogue sock.

Patrick appeared in the doorway of their room and smiled at the sight of her awkward yet flattering position. “Shelagh, what -”

He stopped himself from finishing as she rose and held out the offending laundry.

Thinking quickly, he apologized. “I know. I’m as bad as Timothy. Worse, probably. I don’t deserve you.” He took the washing from her, dropping it in the waiting basket, then pulled her close. “How can I make it up to you?”

His solution: dropping her clothes on the floor.

Trying to Hear God: Chapter 1, Doubt

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For the first time in her life, she couldn’t hear God. She knew He was there, she felt His presence as she went about her duties. Babies were born, the ill were cared for, and God was there for it all. God was there when a neighbor reached across the fence to help an old woman hang out her laundry. He was there when a police constable comforted a boy after his dog had been crushed by a passing lorry. She could see God in the faces of Poplar, ordinary people living ordinary lives.

She had felt His comfort so many times in her own life. As a child, she had turned to God for solace, needing to fill the gaping wound left by her mother’s death. That early lesson had taught her not to expect God to solve her problems, but to look for her own solutions and to find contentment despite the sadness. Her faith had given her serenity and at each crossroad in her life, she could feel God guiding her. Yet now when she prayed, there was only silence.

For months now she felt this void. She recited the prayers, followed the services, but there was no comfort, no connection. Even the music would not soothe. Day after day as she knelt in supplication, she searched for His voice.

Doubt is a part of faith. She knew that raising questions helped to bring beliefs into sharper focus, that blindly accepting the path forged by others would not bring one to understanding. A regular and thorough examination of conscience was necessary to building a healthy and strong relationship with God, for without it, one became a zealot. Now doubt consumed her. It did not clarify, it did not strengthen. She could feel His presence, but not His grace.

She knelt in her cell in the cold night of early spring, evening prayers long over. The Great Silence hung over the convent, taunting her, when before it had calmed her. She tried to open her mind, to allow God to soothe her, but felt only frustration. Where was He? In her weakness had He forsaken her?

When had it begun? For months she had experienced a dissatisfaction she could not name. The death of a young mother and child had rattled her that past autumn. Sent to assist at the Mother House for a week, she had inwardly rebelled at the officiousness of others. At Christmas she had felt the grief of her mother’s death as if it were new. Pain and discontent began to grow in her heart, and she felt the discord deepen through the winter.

Why had these doubts begun to take hold? she grieved. Each day she saw God in the life around her. Why did she not feel his presence in her own life? Shame began to grow in her heart as she examined her sins of vanity and disobedience.

She had found herself too often peering in the small mirror of her cell, its intended use only to ensure that she had properly covered herself, hiding all clues to her individuality. Was she pretty still, she asked as she stole long looks. She had been told, long ago, that young men would not be immune to her physical charms, but had turned from such base feelings, sure in her path of service and chastity. What would have happened if she had listened then, just once? Had she hidden in fear from her womanhood rather than walking beyond such feelings, as the Order taught?

Too often and too eagerly she joined in the chatter of the young nurses these last months, and their talk of romance and evenings out made her long for an unknown. It was exciting, listening to stories of handsome escorts and evenings spent dancing under dim lights.  Never before had these diversions held any appeal for her, but last night she had found herself powerless over dreams of being held by a man, tall and sure, as the music swirled around her. She flushed at the memory of how she woke in the night breathless, her body tense with feelings she could not name.

She could not ignore the irony of the choices of her life; how the vow of chastity required by the Order juxtaposed with the work of a midwife. Those vows which denied the needs of the flesh placed side by side with the everyday evidence of those very same physical demands. Her devotion to God required she accept all His children, and the service of a midwife in such a community gave her more opportunities to challenge and strengthen her faith. As a young woman, she had been proud of this. Naive and untried, her passion for God had superseded the first early stirrings of awareness, leaving her ignorant of its power. Irony no longer offered self-protection, however, and if she found that her frequent presence at the start of life touched parts of her heart she did not know existed, she was not ready to admit it.

There was no one to whom she could turn with these feelings. Her shame kept her from it. Sister Julienne had such worries of her own, and depended upon the younger nun to help keep Nonnatus House running smoothly.

Sister Bernadette bowed her head and began to pray again.

 

Next Chapter

A Man and His Car

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This is a thank you for Rockbird86 for helping us all out with our big NZ  problem today. Oh, the agony of the Nonnatun. I’ve dropped in a reference to her Bare Arms and Engine Oil, too.

Everyone can see that Patrick’s beloved car is ready to go off to that old junkyard in the sky. Everyone except Patrick.

***   ***

“He’s late. Again,” Sister Evangelina harumphed. Standing on the steps to the Community Center, she placed her hands on her hips and assumed a belligerent stance.

Shelagh glanced sideways at the irritable nun, and sighed. “Sister, you know he doesn’t do it on purpose. The demands of the community are only getting greater and-”

Sister Evangelina thrust her hand in between them. “Listen. You can hear that car of his from the other side of the river.” A few moments later, the tardy Dr. Turner turned the corner in his adored MG Magnette, its engine no longer the quiet purr of years past but the roar of a cranky old lion.

Struggling with the door, Patrick Turner finally climbed out to the street. “Apologies, ladies. I had to stop at the petro station to put some oil into the engine.” Swinging his medical bag from the trunk, he trotted up the steps to greet his wife, adeptly ignoring the expression on the Sister’s face.

Shelagh turned her cheek up to accept his kiss and worried, “Again? You just changed the oil this weekend.” She blushed, trying not to recall just how an afternoon of automotive maintenance usually turned out at the Turner home. Mrs. Turner did appreciate her husband’s forearms, after all, but it just wouldn’t do to allow those thoughts to wander in present company.

Patrick grinned knowingly and winked at his wife. Spreading his arms wide, he benevolently attempted to escort the two ladies into the clinic, but Sister Evangelina would have none of it. “Doctor Turner, that old jalopy has got to go.”

If she had slapped him standing in the middle of the High Street, Patrick could not have been more stunned.

“You already have an issue with timeliness, Doctor. Breaking down on the side of the road will not get you to your appointments. Mark my words, if that beast survives the spring I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

***   ***

By the beginning of April, the old Magnette had gone through a muffler, a new radiator, twice, and new brakes installed. Yet Patrick was unmoved.

“A few maintenance issues, Tim, that’s all. She’s fine. I’ll be driving that car to Angela’s wedding.” Patrick tweaked the girl’s ponytail.

“No, you most certainly will not,” asserted Shelagh from the stove. “Patrick, Tim’s right. I’m afraid it’s time to replace that car. The transmission is on it’s last legs. Only yesterday it stalled on me three times.” Turning on him, she added, “Don’t even try to say I don’t know how to properly drive that car. A person should not have to pump the clutch three and a half times and lean to the right before switching gears. It’s ridiculous!”

“See, Dad? Mum says it too. Even Sister-”

“Tim, go play outside with Angela. We’ll call you down when tea is ready.” Patrick was feeling cornered.

Picking up on this, Shelagh changed tactics as the children left the house. She turned the heat off under the stew, and turned it up elsewhere. Slowly walking over to her husband, she lowered her voice. “Patrick, I know you love that car. I love that car, but-”

“You should love that car,” he told her. “I found you on that misty road in that car. I taught Tim to drive in her. And we took Angela home from the hospital in that old ‘jalopy,’ you might remember.” His hands moved to rest on his wife’s hips. Patrick was standing firm, but there was no reason why he couldn’t make his point and hold his wife closer at the same time.

“Hmmm,” Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck. “It does have some happy memories.”

Nose to nose, he continued, “We’ve had some good times in that car, sweetheart. That first night I picked you up for a date? Or when we went to the movies to see Dr. Zhivago?”

Shelagh’s fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him down closer to her lips. “I remember. We certainly steamed up those windows, didn’t we? It’s a shame you don’t want to buy a new car, though. I was rather looking forward to making some new memories in the next one.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. Shelagh had played her trump card and won.

***   ***

Two days later, Patrick walked into the sitting room with a gleeful expression on his face.

“Tim, you’ll need to mind your sister tonight.Your mother and I are going out.”

Three sets of eyes turned to him, stunned. Radio 5 was re-broadcasting the afternoon’s game between Liverpool and Sheffield, and the idea of him missing a game this late in the season was inconceivable.

“But Dad,” Tim finally got out, “tonight’s Liverpool-”

“Tim, my boy, not even the league title would keep me in tonight. Come on! Outside everyone. I’ve got something to show you.”

Still speechless with surprise, the Turners filed outside. Parked regally at the front door was a gleaming bright blue Vauxhall Viva.

“Daddy!” cried Angela. “You bought a car!”

Tim shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d ever do it, Dad. But well done.” Dating would be much less embarrassing in this car.

“And what about the Magnette?” Tim asked. “Did they let you trade it in?”

“Well, not exactly. They would have, I’m sure of it, but it was a bit dodgy on the start. But it’s better this way. Now you can share it with your mother.”

“Oh, thank you,” Timothy said sarcastically. “I’ve been given so much.”

“Yes. Well, then. Here’s some cash, take Angela for dinner. Homework done and bed early, I haven’t forgotten about your chemistry test tomorrow. Shelagh, no need to change. There’s no dress code where we’re going tonight.”

***   ***

Much later that night, the new car glided quietly to its new parking space.

Patrick turned to his wife and pulled her close. “So, do you like the new car?”

“Mm-hmm,” Shelagh returned, her hands toying with his poorly buttoned waistcoat. “It’s very comfortable, dearest.” She looked up and smiled contentedly. “And the back seat is so roomy. Not cramped at all.”

Several minutes of blissful quiet passed when they were startled by a knock at the window. Unable to see through the steamed windows, Patrick rolled one down to see the source of their interruption.

“Oh, sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know it was you. New car, sir? Very nice.” Officer Brogan was new to the beat, but had quickly learned the doctor kept odd hours. “Defogger not working? Been a bit misty out-Oh, Mrs. Turner. Didn’t see you there. Evening ma’am. Oh.” The young constable eyes roamed  anywhere but the interior of the car. But he had to be wrong. He couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was. Could he? No, it wasn’t possible.

It simply was not possible that the respected Doctor Turner and his widely admired wife were snogging in the backseat of a car now, was it?