Monthly Archives: December 2014

A Christmas Feast

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“How on Earth is she sleeping through all this?” Patrick Turner asked his wife wonderingly.

Shelagh smiled contentedly down at the sleeping infant in her arms. “Babies always shut down when their environment gets to be too overwhelming, Patrick, you know that.” She glanced around the crowded table. “It’s a good thing, too.”

The dining room at Nonnatus House was filled to capacity, chairs rubbing up against each other, but the close quarters didn’t seem to bother anyone. Arms reached across the table to pull crackers, voices called down the length of the table sharing stories, and whilst Sister Evangelina was distracted by Sister Monica Joan’s demands, a bread roll or two may have been lobbed over heads.

Patrick’s eyes swept the room, a broad smile across his face. With his red paper hat tilted at a jaunty angle, he looked more like a mischievous lad than a responsible GP.

The joyful cacophony of the holiday was new to Patrick. For years, his life had been characterized by either the chaos of his professional life or the quiet sadness of home. Even last Christmas, expected to be so happy, had instead been filled with silent fear and dread.

He glanced over at his wife. She had brought this happiness to them. Shelagh’s love had healed so many wounds, and together they had built a loving family. He watched her cuddle their daughter, and knew his wife was a happy woman. The knowledge that her own happiness was tied up with his filled his heart with pride.

He caught her eye and grinned. “Not much chance of having any Christmas pudding with Angel Girl in your arms,” he said.

“If you think you’ll get to eat my helping, Patrick, you most certainly will not. You’ll have to help me, that’s all there is to it,” Shelagh tried to sound prim, but was failing miserably. In the months since Angela’s arrival, Shelagh had relaxed into a happier, more confident self, and Patrick was grateful for it.

“More than happy to, my love. Shall I peel you a grape, perhaps? Or crack you a walnut?” His eyes gleamed as he teased her.

Shelagh pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. “A walnut, if you please, Patrick.”

Grinning, he kept his eyes on hers as he placed two large walnuts in his hand exactly so and squeezed with bravado, cracking the larger one. It was silly, this desire to show off in front of his wife, but his chest swelled when her eyes grew wide at his trick. She must have seen a trace of what he was thinking in his eyes, for she glanced away, blushing.

They were distracted by a great cheer that went up around the table as Timothy marched out bearing the flaming Christmas pudding. Applauding loudly, happy in the warmth of tradition and familial love, they all watched as the tall boy ceremoniously  placed the traditional dessert before Sister Monica Joan. The flames blown out, Patrick’s attention again turned to his wife.

Using the extra room granted them for the baby, he shifted his body to better admire her. This was no longer a woman eager to hide. Her hair, her dress, even her bright lipstick all spoke of a confident, certain woman. She was glorious.*

She turned to Timothy as he returned to his seat, a laugh exchanged between them, and Patrick used the moment to pop her walnut into his mouth. He waited for her reaction; he would get a rise out of her, certainly. His habit of taking the last biscuit, sometimes right from her plate, never failed to exasperate her.

The smile was still wide on Shelagh’s face as she turned her gaze back to her husband. Patrick kept his face a blank mask, blithely chewing, feigning innocence. But experience had taught her to never trust that look, and she looked to her plate.

“Patrick!” she cried. She sighed deeply and shook her head. “Really, Patrick, will you never let me eat in peace,” she  laughed.

He grinned lopsidedly as he presented another nut with a flourish. He held the treat out to her, nodding as his eyebrows climbed up his forehead. Glancing nervously at the others, Shelagh closed her eyes and let him feed her. For half an instant, he let his finger rest on her lip, then turned his attention, seemingly, to the baby.

As he leant in, he whispered, “You’ll need to sleep well, tonight, Angel Girl.”

 

Dinner wound down, and the sated revelers began to clear the remains of the feast. Angela, awake, fed, and ready to be entertained, was in the arms of Sister Julienne.

Shelagh headed towards the sink with a pile of cake plates. Patrick lifted them from her, turned them over to Trixie, and slyly took Shelagh by the hand and guided her out into the hallway.

“Patrick, there’s an entire kitchen to clean! Where are we going?” Shelagh asked as she followed him out the doorway and down the wide stairs to the foyer.

“To find some mistletoe,” Patrick returned determinedly.

Shelagh stopped, pulling him back. “Patrick, we’re in a convent. There’s no mistletoe here.”

He stepped towards her until they stood very close and Shelagh had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. His hands slid up the length of arms, over her shoulders and to her neck, cradling her head in his hands. “We’ll just have to pretend, then.”

Making good on his promise to cherish her, he pressed his lips gently to hers. For a long, quiet moment they stood together, alone in their world. Patrick lifted his head mere inches away and whispered, “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours.”

Shelagh’s hands slid up his forearms to join his. Her thumbs stroked over the curve of his palm, nestling in the perfect fit of their hands. “We should go back, dearest,” she murmured. “It won’t do for someone to find us here in the hallway.”

Hearing the tinge of regret in her voice, Patrick smiled. He nodded his head and answered, “Then we’ll be sure not to be found.”

Their bodies nearly dancing, he led her to a corner out of sight. He met her eyes, looking for permission and was pleased with her response.

Pushing up on tiptoes, Shelagh tugged his head to hers and kissed him. Patrick groaned quietly in response, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. He pressed her tightly against his body as the kiss deepened. She tasted like Christmas, and wine, and Shelagh, and he would never have enough.

His body pressed against her, her back now against the panelled oak wall. She was soft and yielding, and as she shifted her waist, he could sense her invitation. Bloody hell, he thought, if he had taken her to a room, he could have her. His heart pounded with desire, but he forced his head to clear. This really wouldn’t do.

Breathing heavily, they pulled away from each other.

Shelagh giggled.

“I’m afraid you’re wearing my lipstick, Patrick.”

He grinned, and reached into his pocket. He rubbed his mouth clean, then gently dabbed at her smeared lips. “They’ll probably laugh at us,” Shelagh told him, still slightly flushed.

“They’ll smile because they’re glad, sweetheart. Now let’s get our family home. A man can only resist for so long.”


“This was no longer a woman eager to hide. Her hair, her dress, even her bright lipstick all spoke of a confident, certain woman. She was glorious.”

This passage was directly inspired by a comment made by @atearsarahjane on @thymefortea’s blog post. You hit the nail on the head with that one, my friend!

The Fit and Proper Use of a Swivel Chair

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With one last scratch of ink, Dr. Patrick Turner finished his patient’s notes for the day. He capped his pen and stacked the forms neatly on his desk, as per Shelagh’s instructions. It was the least he could do, he smiled. Since her return to the surgery, his days went like clockwork.

Out in the waiting room, he could hear her humming quietly as she finished her own work. Shelagh was happy to be back as well, he knew. The babysitter they hired to care for Angela was working out well, after a few early bumps in the road.

Patrick leant back in his chair, quite at peace with his world. His surgery filled him with pride. Bright and airy, it held none of the drudgery of his former office in the old maternity home; Shelagh had seen to that.

Even his chair suited him. The wooden swivel chair had been a bit of a luxury expense, but Shelagh had insisted. Truth be told, Patrick was thrilled not to be sitting in his old noisy, uncomfortable steel chair.

He glanced over at the doorway and could hear his wife opening and closing the file drawers. Gingerly, he slowly pivoted the chair, checking for squeaks. Hearing none, he rolled away from his desk, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

With the skill of long practice, Dr. Patrick Turner pushed off with his left foot and began to spin the chair around. Building momentum with each step, he picked up speed and was soon spinning like a Christmas top.

The euphoria prevented him from thinking straight, so he did not hear the click of Shelagh’s heels as she came down the hall to meet him.

“Patrick! What on earth-” her sweet Scottish burr was strong in her surprise.

Instantly, Patrick dropped both feet to the floor, halting the spin of the chair. The force carried him around away from her, and he sheepishly took little steps to face his surprised wife.

Shelagh stood disapprovingly, her hands on her hips, mouth pursed. Shaking her head, she remonstrated, “Patrick Turner, precisely how old do you think you are?”

“Shelagh-” he attempted.

“Don’t you ‘Shelagh’ me, Patrick. That’s an office chair, not a carnival ride. What if I had been a patient?” She huffed, “Patrick, I thought I could expect you to behave as an adult.”

For a moment, Patrick looked back sheepishly, but caught a tiny gleam in her eye. This was about to get interesting.

Slapping his hands down on the arms of the chair, he stood. “You’re right of course. I was being rather silly.” He schooled his features into a proper look of remorse.

Shelagh stepped closer to him, for once not catching his glint of mischief. Patrick turned to move the chair, placing it strategically near his wife.

“I don’t mean to sound so stern, dearest, but-”

Deftly, Patrick reached out, scooped his wife in his arms and placed her in the chair. He bent to bring his face close to hers and breathed, “You don’t look so very stern to me now.”

Effectively trapped by his arms on the chair, his body blocking any route to escape, Shelagh tried valiantly to maintain her dignity, despite the desire to break out in giggles. Really, she thought. This man!

“Very funny, Patrick. Now let me back up, please.”

Squinting his eyes, her peered at her face closely. “No dice, I’m afraid. You have to pay the fee first.”

“Patrick, I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight.” By now, she couldn’t smother her smile any longer, and a charming dimple appeared.

“Five spins. Five spins and then I’ll let you up,” Patrick teased her.

“Patrick…”

His eyebrows climbed up his own forehead. “Five spins, sweetheart. Unless you’re afraid…”

Shelagh rolled her eyes at him, pressed her lips together primly and agreed. “Ridiculous man. All right. Five spins. Do I have your promise?” She held out her hand to be shaken.

“If you want me to stop, I promise I’ll stop.”

Patrick released her hand and placed his own on the arms of the chair. “Lift your feet.”

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh complied, and soon felt herself spinning slowly.

“Now that’s not so bad, is it?” Patrick said as he began to push the chair more quickly. By the third time around, Shelagh’s head was thrown back, a joyful smile on her face. Four spins, then five, and Patrick slowed the chair until she faced him again.

For the first time ever, Patrick could see the child she had been. Her face glowed with happiness, her hair, loosened from its pins, fell in locks about her face. She looked like a five-year-old girl on Christmas morning.

His grin smoothed into a lopsided smile as his eyes glittered with love. He lifted his hand to her face, pushed a dark blond tress behind her ear.

“Do you want me to stop,” he whispered, his face very close to hers.

“Never stop, dearest,” she murmured in return, her own hands sliding up around his neck.

Moving heart-stoppingly slowly, their lips met, the exhilaration of the last moments replaced by a quick passion.

“Dad, I hope you’re ready to get home. If I don’t have something to eat soon-”

Poor Timothy, tired and hungry after a long day of school and cricket practice, turned the corner of the doorway and stopped short. Patrick stood straight up quickly as Shelagh slowly turned the chair to face their son.

“Hello, Timothy,” she said with a false calm, “Your father was just showing me-”

“I don’t want to know. I’m going out to the car. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep me waiting, thank you.”

He turned, and rolled his eyes Heavenward. “Parents!” He muttered.

Snow Globe

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2017-12-17

The snow crunched loudly underfoot as the solitary man made his way home. Under the dim light of the street lamps, snowflakes swirled in the air around him, buffeted by the light breeze. The pavement was blanketed with snow, its hard cobbles disguised and tree branches swayed heavily as if wrapped with layers of cotton wool.

Dr. Patrick Turner looked up at the sky and smiled. He loved the snow. They didn’t see it often in London, but for a short time, it changed everything. The worn edges of battered buildings were softened and the last of wartime rubble was disguised. In the snowy moonlight, even Poplar became a winter wonderland.

Patrick laughed to himself and shook his head. “Better not let Tim hear me say that, or I’ll be making a battalion of snowmen!”

He wondered if a year or two ago he would have felt the same about the cold stuff.

Probably not, he admitted. Inclement weather would have been one more inconvenience to deal with; misplaced gloves and forgotten boots certainly would have made for a more uncomfortable experience.

He had Shelagh this year though, and the boots were remembered, the gloves found. He was certainly grateful for the extra clothing now. Baby Hayes had decided to take his time tonight, despite all of Sister Winifred’s efforts to coax him along. By the time they were all done and dusted, nearly three inches of the white stuff had settled on Poplar.

Having made sure of the young nun’s safe arrival home, Patrick had made his careful way back to his family. Hopefully, there would be no more calls tonight, and then two days at home to enjoy.

He glanced down at his watch, knowing what he would see. Just past midnight. He grinned. It was Christmas Eve.

Shelagh Turner, surrounded by the detritus of an evening spent wrapping Christmas gifts, cast a satisfied look upon the results. She couldn’t remember ever taking part in such a generous display. A childhood spent with a detached father, followed by years in the Order had accustomed her to a far more Spartan holiday.

Last year had been…She paused for a moment, remembering the hectic preparations for both the holiday and her marriage to Patrick. But last year, Christmas had not gone according to plan and was doled out slowly over weeks as Timothy recovered.

This time, Shelagh was determined to make Christmas a time to remember for happier reasons. Every possible tradition was to be honored: a lovely Christmas tree, paper chains, baking, singing, to say nothing of the shopping!

The children were long in bed, Angela settled after her last bottle and Tim feigning exhaustion for fear that his mother would put him to work. Shelagh half-suspected that Patrick had arranged to be called out in order to avoid the gift wrapping they had left for tonight.

She stretched, then began to clear up. The click of the front door alerted her to her husband’s return, and she rose to meet him in the hall. Unbuttoning his coat, Patrick smiled as he stood under his own favorite tradition, and waited for her mistletoe kiss.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you look like a snowman, Patrick! Is it snowing so very hard? I had no idea!” Shelagh laughed. The draperies, drawn to keep out the cold, had revealed nothing.

Patrick placed his medical bag next to the hat rack. “There must be three inches already. You should see it, Shelagh. It’s wonderful!”

“I’ll take a peek out the window. Now let’s get these things off you before you melt all over the carpet.”

He stepped closer, pressing his cold cheek to her warm, soft one. “Come outside with me, Shelagh. Just for a moment,” he whispered in her ear. “The children will be fine. We’ll just be downstairs.”

Shelagh looked up, skeptical. “Patrick, it’s late. It’s just a little snow.”

Patrick pulled her gently along the hallway. “Come on, sweetheart. We’ve never seen snow together. Last year was so mild. Please?” He smiled the lopsided grin he knew she found difficult to resist. “Put Tim’s boots on, they’re right here.” He tilted his head to the side, cajoling, “Just a quick dash.”

There was a childish joy in his eyes she found contagious. Rolling her eyes Heavenward, Shelagh decided to humor him. “All right, then. Just a quick moment.”

Quickly wrapped in her coat and wearing Timothy’s already too-large boots, she took her husband’s extended hand and followed him down the stairs. At the door, Patrick leaned in close and whispered, “Close your eyes.”

“Patrick, it’s late-”

“Shelagh, close your eyes.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to hide her smile as her eyelids fluttered shut. Patrick squeezed her hand, guiding her out and down the step. A few paces more and he turned her around. “Now open them.”

Shelagh did not expect the scene before her eyes. Her breath caught and she turned to seek his eyes. “Patrick,” she whispered in amazement. “It’s wonderful!”

Her look swept the courtyard, glistening in the layers of snow. Standing now at the center of the courtyard, they were surrounded by castles of snow, windows winking with frosty glass. The midnight sky, flecked by pinpoints of starlight, created a dome above them. “It’s like we’re in a snow globe of our very own,” she said in an awed whisper.

She turned back to her husband, and he took in the snowflakes in her hair, her cheeks glowing pink. His cold hands slipped up to her warm neck and he bent to kiss her forehead.

“It’s Christmas Eve, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” Tiny clouds of breath mingled.

“Last year, we should have…So much has happened, Shelagh, since last Christmas Eve. I’m the luckiest man on earth.” His nose nudged hers and his lips moved to caress her cheek.

A laugh escaped her throat. “Then we certainly belong together, dearest, because I must be the luckiest woman on earth.” His open jacket was an invitation for her to slide her hands around his back and press herself against him. Their lips found each other, and the snow, the starlight, everything was forgotten as they shared their love.

“Happy Christmas, Patrick,” she murmured, her smile content.

“Happy Christmas, darling.”

For precious moments they stood there, two lovers in a special world of their own, certain in the joy of Christmas.

The Paper Anniversary, Epilogue

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Previous Chapter

For a week, Patrick was a cheerful non-smoker, perhaps even a bit smug. The family was amazed at his determination and positive attitude. He would pontificate largely on the wonders of his sharpened sense of smell and  taste, how he felt free from the tyranny of the cigarette.

“Since medical school, Tim. Over thirty years,” he reminded his son more than once. “I was a smoker for over thirty years. Kicked it straight off.”

Even a supportive son has his limits, though, and Timothy started spending a bit more time outside.

Shelagh was made of sterner stuff, and was happy to hear Patrick’s tales of conversion. His cough hadn’t stopped completely, but was improving enough to ease her worries.

However, the sense of triumph may have blinded her to what was to come.

The eighth day cigarette-free, Patrick seemed distracted. During clinic he was subjected to a stern lecture from Sister Evangelina on the merits of paying attention to a patient. On his calls, old Mr. Talbot had to remind him twice that it was his leg the good doctor was there to see, and not his ear.

By the time he arrived home for dinner, even later than usual, Patrick was a bit irritable.

The tenth day, Patrick woke late, forgot he was to make calls at the London Hospital, and picked a fight with Timothy about the length of his pants.

Shelagh reminded Timothy that the road ahead would be a bit rocky, and his father deserved their patience.

Even Angela was not immune to his irritation. After a week and a half of no cigarettes, Patrick became less understanding of the infant’s night time waking habits.

Through all this, Shelagh was the soul of patience. She had asked a great deal of him, the very least she could do was fulfill her promise to stand by his side.

So, how to help? Obviously, Patrick needed some distractions. She brought him some gum to chew. She encouraged walks. She thought of projects to keep him busy. Patrick would succeed, she was determined.

By the second Saturday, it seemed as if nothing would help. Home early from a slow day at the surgery, Patrick was tired, bored and cranky. And apparently, looking for a fight.

Shelagh knew better than to rise to the bait, but Timothy…Well, Timothy was a growing boy, after all, eager to prove himself a man.

After a lunch featuring sniping and passive-aggressive arguments, the poor woman had had enough. She dressed Angela in her warmest sweater, wrapped her in the favorite pink blanket and announced, “Timothy, it’s time for you to take your sister for a very long walk.”

Normally, Tim would balk at such a task on a Saturday afternoon, but the idea of spending the day working on his history theme as his father prowled about the flat was enough to make the boy jump at the chance to get out.

“Can I go to Nonnatus? See if anyone’s there?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. Here’s a bottle just in case. She’s changed and fed, so you should be fine for at least an hour.” Shelagh glanced back down the hall. “Yes. I’ll need at least an hour. Maybe two. Trust me, Tim. I have a plan.”

She returned to find Patrick still at the table, drumming his fingers on its surface. “Don’t start, Shelagh. He was just as difficult as-”

“Yes, dear,” Shelagh interrupted. “I know. You’re a wee bit out of sorts today.” She smiled brightly at him. “You just need a distraction, that’s all.”

Patrick’s head craned to the ceiling, his eyes rolling in disgust. “Shelagh, I am not fixing another squeaky hinge or helping you transpose another tenor part for the choir. If you think-”

“Shh. I know,” Shelagh stepped closer to him and cradled his cheek. She bent down and placed a warm kiss on his unresponsive lips.

“Shelagh,” he complained. “I will not be manipulated like this. If you think you can…what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Patrick. Certainly not manipulating you.” Her dress fell to the floor.

“Shelagh!”

“I promised I would help, Patrick. So I’m helping.” Placing one foot on the chair across from him, she unsnapped the suspenders to her left stocking and slid it down her leg. “Don’t you want my help, dearest?” she asked innocently.

For a long moment Patrick stared at his wife. Then he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, releasing the bad mood with it. His hand reached over and glided up the length of her calf.

“So everytime I want a cigarette you’re going to seduce me?”

“Is there a problem with that?” Standing before him, Shelagh’s innocent smile became rather saucy.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He swiftly flicked the suspenders on the other leg and tossed the stocking on the floor with its mate. “I smoked for a very long time, Shelagh. I think I’m going to need a lot of distractions.”

Pulling him to his feet, Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck to bring his face to hers. “Whatever it takes, Patrick. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

The Paper Anniversary , Chapter 7

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Previous Chapter

Over the next week, the family saw little of  Patrick. The demands of his practice seemed quite high, and even Tuesday, his one night a week guaranteed to be off, he had to go to the London.  Shelagh was growing concerned that the plans for their first wedding anniversary would have to be postponed.

“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Patrick promised when she told him of her fears. He pulled her away from the sink and whispered in her ear, “I have every intention of celebrating our anniversary. I’m looking forward to unwrapping my present tomorrow night. After the children go to bed.”

“Patrick,” Shelagh flirted. “You’re very greedy. How do you know I’ve gotten you anything at all?”

Nuzzling her neck, her answered, “Hmm, I’ve got my present right here in my arms. It’s my favorite gift ever.” His fingers trailed along her back, making her knees weak. “I particularly enjoy unwrapping it again and again.”

“Dad,” Timothy’s voice interrupted them as he entered the kitchen. “Please let Mum go. You’ll put me off my breakfast.”

Patrick’s head came around. “Sorry, son. I should think you’d have developed a stronger stomach by now.” Reluctantly, he released his wife and picked up his case. “I’m off. Late again tonight, I’m afraid. But tomorrow, it’s family time at the Observatory, then Tim, you’re off to a night at Colin’s and my little Angel will spend the night with Nonnatus.” With a quick tickle of the baby’s tummy, he was gone.

“Dad sure is chipper today,” Timothy grumbled.

Shelagh’s eyes danced as she tried to hide a dimple.

“Don’t you start, too,” the poor boy groused.

 

Fortunately, by the big day Patrick’s schedule settled back to normal, and after a chilly picnic at the observatory as a family, the no-longer-newlyweds were able to enjoy their dinner out. By nine o’clock that night, Patrick unlocked the door and ushered his wife into their home. The scent from the large bouquet of hyacinths and stephanotis wafted through the flat, welcoming them.

“I think it’s lovely you brought me the same flowers as our wedding, Patrick. You’re very romantic,” Shelagh confessed. She turned her back to him and let him slide her coat from her shoulders, and then reached up to remove her new pretty blue cap.

“Oh!” she cried as Patrick shifted from chivalrous to libidinous and pressed her body up against the wall. Not one to complain about her husband’s attentions, Shelagh happily responded.

Long moments later, Patrick rubbed his nose to hers. “As I recall, you didn’t give me a chance to make the first move a year ago.”

Shelagh couldn’t stop the blush that spread across her cheeks. “I was so nervous, dearest. I thought if I didn’t do something, I wouldn’t be able to do anything!”

He laughed and bent to lift her in his arms, heading to the bedroom door. “Oh, we would’ve figured something out, sweetheart. If I am certain of only one thing, that’s it.”

Sometime later, light filtered in through the open door, revealing a tangle of sheets and limbs. The passion that had raged only moments ago satisfied, their bodies slowly calming. Gingerly,  Shelagh moved her weight from above her husband and slid down alongside him. Patrick shifted to face her, propped up on his elbow.

He watched as her breathing slowed, and the flush faded from her cheeks. A year, he thought. One year ago tonight they had been so new to each other. He had known that being her husband was all he could hope for, that simply sharing his life with her would make him the happiest of men.

He never guessed that his prim wife, so long apart from the corporeal world, would be so ardent, so enthusiastic in their bedroom. Then again, he chuckled to himself, his Shelagh never did anything by halves. The joy of loving brought them even closer.

He kissed her lightly, and she smiled against his mouth. They lingered; glancing touches of lips and tongues fired more by intimacy than passion. Shelagh stretched contentedly and nuzzled her head against his shoulder.

Suddenly, Patrick sat up, sending Shelagh to the edge of the bed.

“I nearly forgot! Wait here,” he climbed out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown.

“No, Patrick. Stay,” his soft wife tempted.

He grinned wickedly. “I’ll just be a moment, love. Stay exactly as you are,” he told her as he headed out the door.

Shelagh sat up, pulling the sheets up as high as she could for modesty and reached for her glasses. The noises coming from the sitting room were strange, indeed. “Patrick, are you in the piano?” she laughed. He was definitely up to something, she thought. Spying his abandoned shirt on the floor, she scooped it up and slipped it on.

Practically dancing as he returned, Patrick sat on the bed beside his wife. “I’ll have to find a new hiding place. Tim wanted to know why the piano sounded so strange.” He stopped and took in the sight of his wife, hair tousled, lips swollen. “I like you in my shirt, my bold girl.” He held out his surprise.

“You already gave me a present, Patrick. The flowers are lovely.” Her eyes were on the inexpertly wrapped packages Patrick had set before her.

“That was for in front of the children.” With a lopsided grin, he reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear.

They had exchanged gifts at breakfast, Patrick receiving a formal portrait of Shelagh and the children; one copy for home, another for his surgery.

“I thought photographs, Patrick, for paper,” Shelagh had told him as she poured out more tea.

He had looked at her quizzically, seeming to not understand her meaning. Shelagh had continued, “Gifts are supposed to follow a theme. The first anniversary is paper. You know, like silver for twenty-five…”

“I reckon you’ll have to count the paper the flowers are wrapped in, Dad,” Timothy had teased.

Now, settling next to her on the bed, Patrick confided, “This is private, just between us. Open the little one first.”

Shelagh smiled, puzzled by his nervous state. The first package was small enough to fit in her hand and very light. She turned it over and untied the green ribbon, then began to peel the paper away.

Her breath caught in her throat, closing her lungs. The paper fell to the bed, revealing a new packet of cigarettes. Stunned, she looked up at him. “Patrick?”

His words rushed out. “Paper. I knew it was paper, Shelagh. The cigarettes, the packet, they’re paper.”

“But I don’t understand.” Surely Patrick wasn’t giving her cigarettes, not after Sunday’s talk?

“I’ve given them up, Shelagh. Cigarettes. I’m quitting for good this time.” His eyes glittered, anxiously searching her face. “I’ll need your help, Shelagh. I can’t do this without you.”

Shelagh stared at him; her pale eyes huge as the meaning of his words sank in, then let out a cry of joy. She sat up and wrapped her arms about his neck and clung tightly to him.

“Yes, Patrick. Oh, yes. Dearest, of course I’ll help. Anything.” She covered his face with kisses, laughing and crying all at once.

Laughing with her, Patrick held her away. “That’s not all. There’s one more present.”

Shelagh placed her hands on his cheeks. “I don’t need anything else, dearest. You’ve given me so much already.” She pressed her lips to his in a slow kiss.

Her body was warm pressed against his, and his hands slid under his shirt along her bare back, holding her tightly to him. His body stirred with his need for her again, but that would wait until after she opened the second gift. Coming to his senses, he returned his hands to her arms, making space between them. “Shelagh, open it.”

Wiping the tears from her face, Shelagh picked up the last gift. An extra large envelope tied with another bow, it gave no hint as to its contents. She slid her hand under the flap and pulled out its contents.

Few women are ever given an x-ray as a gift, and even Shelagh, with her own unusual history with the films, was confused.

Patrick waved a long finger in the air. “More light. You need to see it properly.”

He reached past her and flicked on the overhead fixture. Light flooded the room, and Shelagh took a moment to let her eyes adapt. Was this her x-ray from her time away, she wondered. She peered at the page and saw Patricks name, not hers across the top. Blood pounded in her ears as she felt a slow wave of panic come over her.

“Tuesday, when I said I was seeing a patient at the London? I was having this done. I’ve been to pulmonology this week.” He slid the film from her fingers, noticing how cold they had become.

“My lungs are clear, Shelagh. Between these and the tests done on the TB van, Dr. Parton is convinced there is no sign of any abnormalities in either lung, not even a shadow of an anything. Though he did give me a thorough lecture in the ‘Physician, Heal thyself” model.” He stopped speaking. Shelagh had gone very quiet.“Sweetheart?” He tucked his forefinger under her chin, coaxing her face to meet his.

Patrick knew Shelagh was a beautiful woman. It was a fact that his wife was empirically a truly beautiful woman. This knowledge wasn’t simply biased on his own observation; others were aware of it as well. The rest of the world could see her beauty: the glowing eyes and clear skin, her warm smile  and perfect form and more all added up to a loveliness unmatched.

He knew he was particularly attuned to her beauty because he loved her. He had known she was beautiful even when so little of her was exposed to him. When she became his Shelagh, he was astounded by her loveliness. She took his breath away when she smiled her answer to his proposal. She stunned him when he had turned to see her approaching him in the church.

He knew, more than anyone, how very lovely she truly was. He saw her beauty in her smiles at their children, as she lay asleep in their bed. The lovely serenity that crossed her face as she made their home, the winsome grace of her form as she walked, or did even the most mundane of tasks. And he alone had the privilege of seeing the beauty of her face when he loved her, sharing the joy of her body.

He knew right then that he had never seen her so glorious as at that moment, when she lifted her eyes to him, shining with love.

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The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 6

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A/N: The direct connection between lung cancer and cigarette smoking was proven in 1957 by the Medical Research Council, near the time of the terminal diagnosis (as per my head canon) of Patrick’s first wife. We now know that lung cancer can be the actual source of several other cancers, including brain, liver, and bone. For the purpose of my story, I have made medical understanding of the nature of lung cancer metastasis unclear at the time.

True to her word, Shelagh had not mentioned the subject of cigarettes since their last discussion. She knew she he needed time and could be patient, for now there was a sense of inevitability regarding the topic. Her concerns were out in the open, and as much as Patrick preferred to bury his own problems; he wouldn’t ignore her fears. Shelagh was willing to wait, and in the meantime, if the air was a bit awkward each time he lit up, neither mentioned it.

Settling on the sofa, she wrapped her cardigan closer and watched as Patrick paced in front of the mantle. Shelagh tried to tamp down a feeling of unease. Patrick was not comfortable with uncertainty, she knew, but she had only recently discovered her own dependence on his confidence.

He turned away, pacing to the window. “Marianne was a smoker, did you know?”

She nodded. “I remember.” While not a regular fixture at clinics, there had been occasions when the vibrant and healthy Marianne crossed her path. To the shy young nun, Marianne Turner had seemed confident and sure of her place in the world. Even as the cancer withered her, she was brave and strong for her family. Shelagh thought it had been no wonder Patrick and Timothy had been devastated by her loss.

He drew a shallow breath. “I think that’s what caused her illness.”

“Patrick, I helped nurse Marianne a few times. Her doctors diagnosed bone can-” Shelagh stopped, stunned. “It metastasized,” she whispered, the realization making her pale.

“Yes. We didn’t know then. All her symptoms were related to her back, so that was her doctor’s focus. The pain, the weakness in her spine; her symptoms all pointed toward bone cancer. We didn’t know then that it likely spread from the lungs first.

“After she…died…I needed to do something. I felt so useless.” He moved to the sofa, taking his place next to her. His eyes glittered as he met hers; the lines on his face had somehow deeper. She reached out and gripped his big hand in her small one.

Patrick’s lips twisted in a sad smile. “I convinced the doctors to let me see her files. I poured over them every night, trying to figure out what had happened, what we missed. She was so healthy, Shelagh. She never got sick. We used to joke that she couldn’t, that I had too many patients already.

“One night, I was reviewing her first set of x-rays again when I…I noticed something different. There was one film of her upper spine where a bit more of the lungs showed. I’m not sure why I even looked there.

“I could make out, just barely, a lesion on the lower left lobe. God, Shelagh,” he rasped. “I’d never thought-even after the MRC report. We never suspected that the cancer started in her lungs.”

His hand turned in hers, squeezing it, holding on tight. “I never saw it. Who knows how long the tumors were growing inside her before we noticed anything? Even the back pain, we just thought…her grandmother had a bad back. We thought, maybe it was just that. She didn’t tell me, but she must have had pain for months and never said.”

Gathering herself, Shelagh spoke gently. “She didn’t want you to worry, dearest. You, yourself said Marianne thought the pain was nothing out of the ordinary.” Her free hand slipped up to caress his cheek. “Patrick, you know lung cancer can go undetected for a very long time. Marianne had no symptoms; I remember. No cough, no breathing difficulties, nothing. There was nothing to point you in that direction. Even if you had guessed when the back pain started, it’s likely it would have been too late.”

Patrick pulled his hand away and rubbed at his forehead, struggling for words. He dropped his head in his hands, and silence grew loud in the room. Then his voice came to her, muffled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not what I wanted to say. I don’t want you to think-” he stopped abruptly.

The sting of a hidden fear spread through Shelagh’s heart. She knew she wasn’t his first love. He had loved and lived with another before her, made a child with her. She feared Marianne would somehow always be between them.

Uncertainty froze her mind. She wanted to soothe him, to offer words of comfort, but couldn’t. Patrick was opening a part of his heart, but she wasn’t sure she was welcome there. Would his life with Marianne always be behind another barrier? Had she found the limits of his love? An unwilling tear slipped down her cheek.

He stood again, moving to the table as if this were a typical Sunday tea. She watched as he carried out the ordinary steps to pouring out. His back still towards her, he continued, “I didn’t tell you this. After I learned of the lung cancer, I tried to quit again. I did, actually, for three days. But there was Timothy to raise, and work, of course, was so… I had to smoke. It was the only thing that would help.

“Maybe I felt guilty. I was the one that survived. I was the one that would go on, watch Timothy grow up; I would continue my work. It didn’t seem fair that I could use her second chances, that I was given the opportunity to learn from our mistakes.” His shoulders slumped, weary from carrying so much.

“Shelagh, when you became ill… that whole terrible time when I thought I would lose you-” he turned finally, and she was devastated by the agony in his eyes. He crossed to her in two swift strides and knelt before her. “Marianne let me go. Before the end, when she was conscious so little of the time, she told me to keep living, not just for Timothy, but for me. She made me promise to join the world.

“It was hard, but I let her go, too. I didn’t set out to find someone else. When I finally realized what my feelings for you were, I let myself fall in love with you.” He smiled ruefully, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “I don’t think I could have stopped it. I…I just surrendered to it. I never imagined we would be together, not then. It was enough to know that even if I could never be with you, I could love you.” His hands gripped hers even tighter.

Shelagh felt a twinge of shame. She had no idea he had wrestled with his feelings for her. His letters, his confessions since that misty road, had described his acceptance of it, and his concern for her difficulties. She never thought that perhaps Patrick had fears of his own. How selfish she had been from the very start.

His grip tightened convulsively. “When you went to the sanitorium, your lungs could have… You came back to me, healthy; I had a fresh start. But then Timothy…” he stopped, remembering that unbearable pain, and his voice became derisive. “I kept smoking through it all. Oh, God, Shelagh, I kept lying to myself. How many signs will I ignore before I finally face the truth?”

Shelagh’s heart softened. This man had taught her so much of herself. His heart had such deep capacity for love. He was a brilliant doctor, with a great depth of medical knowledge, but it was his compassionate heart that made him a healer. She had to show him the way to accept his flaws and love himself. And love would give them strength to move forward.

She cradled his cheek, her fingers running through the black strands more silver than the year before. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Patrick. You feel things so deeply, you know of pain, yet you push on. I’m so very proud to be your wife. You’ve supported me through so many trials, and you never ask for anything. But I mustn’t be selfish anymore, Patrick. It can’t be all about me. You have to trust me, and I have to open my eyes to you.”

Patrick looked up at her shining face, stunned. This glorious creature accepted him, despite his weaknesses, perhaps in part because of them. He watched as her cheeks flushed with emotion. Her freshness of character and form reminded him that he was too old already. They already had too little time. There would never be enough time. How could he shorten their years together?

“Shelagh, what if I can’t? I’ve failed before.”

“You were alone before, dearest.” Her eyes gleamed with happiness.

He smiled as he felt fear lift from his heart. “Now I’m never alone. I’m married to you.”

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The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 5

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The late winter sun washed over the steps of All Saints Church, warding off the chill as Sunday services let out. Somehow, Timothy was very nearly the first one out, despite playing the piano as the choir sang the recessional hymn. He sat down on the bottom stair, next to his sister’s pram and waited as his father joined him.

“Mum lets you run out like that? You don’t need to stay for the talk afterwards?” Patrick shifted the blanket before lowering Angela into the pram.

“No. She said it’s the least she could do after ‘convincing’” -his fingers went up in a simulation of quotation marks- “me to stay with the choir until after the summer. Besides, she’ll have plenty to tell me at home.”

“Poor man. A small price to pay for her cooking, though, isn’t it?” Patrick smirked.

That smirk came back at him. “Not to mention always having clean clothes, Dad.”

“You wound me, son.”

From behind, a voice called out. “Doctor Turner! Always a pleasure to see you here!”

The Turner men turned to see Old Mr. Gipper climbing down the steps one at a time towards them.

“Mr. Gipper!” Patrick answered, swiftly meeting the man and offering his arm. “You should be using your cane when you walk out. We’ve discussed this before.”

The old man waved the arm away. “When I can’t get meself to Church on my own two feet, I’ll be needin’ more’n a cane.”

Arriving at the bottom, he peered into the baby carriage. “That is surely one beautiful baby you’ve got there, Doc. As pretty as yer wife.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to tell Shelagh you said so.” He glanced over to his son, gesturing with his eyebrows.

Quickly, Tim stood up. “Hello, Mr. Gipper. Would you like me to walk you home?” Patrick smiled proudly.

“Morning, Tim. Lovely job with the choir today. Though I’d reckon not your favorite thing, eh?”

“It’s not so bad, sir. Better than sitting with Dad and Angela. She always fusses for Mum when she hears her sing.”

A wheezy laugh passed through the old man’s dentures. “Can’t say as I blame ‘er, young Tim. Yer mum has the voice of an angel. Funny, that.”

“What’s funny, sir?”

“Yer mum. She’s got a way of healing about ‘er, no matter what she does, doesn’t she? Back when she was a midwife, me grand-daughter used to say she always felt safe when Sister Bernadette was near. Now, she’s a nun no more, but she still finds a way to heal us all. I hear her lead the choir and me own troubles go away for a bit.” He placed his cap back on his grizzled head. “Must do you fellas a world o’ good, too. Well, I’m off. Thanks fer the offer, Timothy Turner, but you’d just slow me down.”

They watched as the elderly man made his way up the street, jaunty despite his slow pace. His words echoed in Patrick’s head. He could never measure the amount of good Shelagh had done for them.

“Hello,” Shelagh surprised them. “How is Mr. Gipper?”

“Quite an admirer of yours, I must say.” Patrick placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Tim, push your sister, please.”

Timothy must have been as affected by the old man as his father, for he gave no argument and turned the carriage towards Nonnatus House.

Patrick and Shelagh slowly strolled towards the weekly luncheon, as Timothy avoided the ruts in the old cobblestones.

Quietly, Patrick confided,”You were right, you know. About the other night.”

Shelagh smiled up at him, teasing. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that, dearest. I’m right so often.”

Patrick exhaled a quiet laugh; his smile crooked. “That does seem to be the case, love.” Noticing Timothy was getting farther ahead of them he called, “Not so fast, Tim. It’s a pram, not a Jaguar!”

Timothy turned back with a look of impatience. “Well, come on, then. I’m hungry. If we don’t get to Nonnatus soon, Sister Monica Joan will eat all the pastries!”

Shelagh giggled. “You’ll have to tell me later how I was right, Patrick. It won’t do to let Timothy get the hungry grumpies.”

Quickening his pace, Patrick laughed. “Heaven forbid!”

“Angela always naps so well after a day at Nonnatus,” Shelagh announced as she returned from the nursery. Looking around, she asked, “Where’s Timmy?”

Patrick glanced up from the files he was reviewing. “Something about a big game of Sardines. We won’t see him ’til dark.”

“Well, then, how about some tea?” Shelagh twitched the tablecloth straight.

“Just a cup. Mrs. B’s cake filled me up.”

“You mean two pieces of Mrs. B’s cake filled you up, Patrick.”

Relieved she hadn’t noticed the third slice, he agreed. He followed her into the kitchen, watching as she set about the homey chore.

“I don’t know how you stayed so slim, living there,” he noted.

“Probably because I never let myself have the third piece, dearest.” She placed the kettle on to boil and turned to wink at him.

“Caught!” he laughed and pulled her into his arms. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

Shelagh’s hands played with the buttons of his waistcoat. “I notice everything about you, dearest.” She slid her arms up around his neck. “Now, what to do while the kettle boils?”

His warm lips answered her question, pressing softly against hers. Time stopped for a few moments before they were interrupted by one steamy whistle.

Grudgingly releasing her, Patrick moved to the cupboard for cups and saucers.

“What were you going to say earlier?” Shelagh asked over her shoulder.

Distracted by the sight of his wife’s dress clinging to her hips as she reached up for the tea tin, Patrick had to be asked twice before his mind came back to the kitchen. His face grew serious.

“Patrick? Is something wrong?” Her forehead creased in concern.

“No, nothing’s wrong.” His thumb caressed her “worry crinkles” and he smiled ruefully. “I have a mea culpa; that’s all.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds ominous.” Shelagh’s voice was light. “More serious than the cake?”

Patrick’s finger rubbed against his thumb nervously. “Yes. Shelagh, the other night, when I got so angry with Tim, it wasn’t because he got caught in mischief with Gary and Jack.”

Shelagh turned back to the teapot. She hadn’t expected Patrick to be the one to broach this subject at all, especially so soon. She spooned the tea leaves in, making the tea strong to his taste. “No?”

“No. Tim’s got a good sense for trouble. He knows better than to make such an obvious mistake.” He noticed his twitching fingers and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Let’s bring the tea into the sitting room. Then we can have a chat.”

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