Monthly Archives: January 2015

Writing Her Own Rules

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Chapter One

With a click, the front door closed, shutting out the noise and commotion that started each day at the Turner household. No matter how hard she tried, Shelagh was unable to avert the frenetic bedlam that seemed to set Patrick and Timothy on their day. A forgotten lunch or a misplaced stethoscope, every morning there was something else to create chaos. Taking a deep breath, Shelagh pushed off from the door and returned to the kitchen, intent on a fresh cup of tea.

“Well, that’s sorted, Angel Girl,” she told her daughter. “Getting those two out of the house every morning is like moving Montgomery’s army!”

Angela giggled back and raised her arms up in the air, eager to be released from her high chair and taken into her mother’s arms. Shelagh smiled and happily complied.

It was their little ritual. No matter how cranky or tired or silly or happy Angela was, the moment she was in her mother’s arms, her body relaxed, her head nuzzling into the crook of Shelagh’s neck. The two would stay that way, unaware of the world around them, content to be together. Shelagh smoothed her hand over her baby’s velvety head and bent to place a kiss on her forehead. “Sweet girl.” Her eyes closed as she breathed in the sweet smell of baby and formula and clean cotton.

The moment never lasted forever, however, and turning on a dime, Angela’s head was up and she was reaching for the floor.

“Oh, no, wee beastie,” Shelagh laughed. “Once I put you down there’ll be no stopping you.” She grasped the little hand and danced the laughing baby out of the kitchen. “We have errands to get done today if we’re to have tea with Sister Julienne later! It’s off to the cleaners and the Post Office and the butcher’s all before your nap time, so we’d best get started!”

Shelagh took a last glance at the kitchen. “Oh, well. I’ll have to do the washing later while you nap. So much for that fresh cup of tea for me!”

A few hours later, the Turner women had made short work of the to-do list and were heading home for elevenses and a nap. Shelagh pushed the pram, deftly navigating the cobbles as Angela waved to every passerby.

“Quite the little princess, aren’t you, dearest?” Shelagh teased. “It’s no wonder, really, the way your father carries you about. That man will spoil you, Angela!” The scold had little power, though, as Shelagh stopped for a moment to retrieve a toy from her purse. Watching her daughter for a moment, Shelagh was interrupted by a shy voice.

“Mrs. Turner?”

Shelagh looked up and saw a woman, large with child, looking at her with recognition in her eyes. A sudden memory of a birth, fraught with worry for a large baby, came to her and she responded, “Louisa March! Oh, it’s been a long time! How are you, my dear?” Oddly, Shelagh’s voice changed a bit, somehow becoming a bit more assertive.

“I’m well, thank you, Sis-” she stopped suddenly, embarrassed by her mistake. “Sorry, Mrs. Turner. No offense.”

Shelagh smiled warmly. There had been a time when such an error would fluster her, a time when she was still so uncertain about her new self that any reminder of her previous life would upset her. More than a year and a half had passed since her decision to leave the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus and marry Patrick, time spent learning her new path. She had no blueprint to follow and had, with Patrick’s help, created her own plan. Now she was confident in her choices, a happy wife and mother. Sister Bernadette was part of her identity, a part she did not want to forget.

“None taken, dear. It took me a bit of getting used to, as well.” A movement behind the other woman caught her eye. “And who is this? Could this be baby, oh, what was it? Edward?”

The little boy stepped forward. “I’m not a baby. That’s the baby!” He pointed to his mother’s belly.

The women laughed. “Sorry about that, young sir,” Shelagh returned. “You’re absolutely right. You are most definitely not a baby.”

Drawing courage from her friendly voice, the boy stepped out from behind his mother. “Eddie,” Louisa March told him, “this lady helped me to get you out of me tummy. Like I was tellin’ ya with the new baby. Sis-Mrs. Turner was a wonderful midwife. She knew just what to do when you got stuck and needed some coaxing out.”

The boy considered this for a moment, then asked, “Will you help Mummy with the new baby, too?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. But I’m sure whomever helps your mother will take excellent care of her.”

“But why not? If you did me, you should do the new baby, too.”

“Eddie,” his mother scolded.

“No, that’s alright,” Shelagh assured her. “I can’t come and help your mother because I have my own baby to take care of now.”

The boy stopped to consider this. “So you can’t have your own baby and take care of ladies like me mum, then?”

Shelagh paused. How had this small boy found just the right question to ask? She took a small breath and demurred, “Well, we can’t do everything, can we?” She moved back to the pram’s handle. “Well, good luck, Louisa. I’m sure it will all go splendidly. And congratulations to you, too, Eddie. I’m quite sure you’ll be an excellent big brother.”

She pushed the pram to start home and met some resistance. The front wheel had caught in a rut, and she sighed, exasperated. After struggling over the street for nearly a block, Shelagh muttered, “Cobbles. Clearly the architect that designed these streets was a man. Of course he was. How on earth could a woman possibly be an architect?” Her voice had a sharp edge to it. “Don’t mind me, Angela. I’m just-oh, never mind.”

Wisely, Angela stuck her thumb in her mouth and settled to enjoy the bouncy ride.

Next Chapter

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter Two

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Previous Chapter

Two hours later, Angela was fed, bathed (there had been some disagreement over the necessity of pureed spinach for lunch) and asleep in her cot. Shelagh returned to the kitchen and faced the damage caused by feeding her family two meals. Resignedly, she pulled her apron back over her head and set to work to restore it to its preferred state.

“I used to love the kitchen, really I did,” Shelagh brooded. “Everything had its place, and I could try new recipes, I could bake to my heart’s content. Now if-Oh, really, Shelagh, you’re being ridiculous. Go put the radio on and get to work.”

The smell of the soap bubbles and the hot water in the sink helped to relax her somewhat, and Shelagh started to laugh. “Oh, what have I come to when dish soap and hot water can make me feel better?”

She shook her head and put herself to work. A clean kitchen and a cup of tea and everything would be better. There was her appointment with Sister Julienne to look forward to later at Nonnatus House, and tonight she and Patrick would watch a new episode of Television Playhouse on the telly. A nice quiet day.

The phone rang out shrilly through the flat.

“Oh!” Shelagh muttered. That infernal thing was sure to wake Angela, and a nap cut short never made for an easy afternoon.

“Hello, Turner residence,” she said sharply into the phone.

“Shelagh, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t call during nap time, but I’ve been called out and won’t be able to call later. It’s Mr. Lightman, and it looks like the cancer’s going to take him tonight. I’ll have to stay with him; I most likely won’t be home until late.”

Shelagh held in her disappointment. Patrick’s had been called out three nights in a row this week. She had been looking forward to some time alone with her husband. But, she knew it couldn’t be helped. If Patrick had been less devoted to his calling, she probably never would have fallen in love with him in the first place. The least she could do was to make things easier for him. “Of course, Patrick. Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

“Yes. I know it’s a bother, but could you ask Sister Winifred to bring the morphine supplies from my surgery? I’m sure I don’t have enough in my bag.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her through the phone line. “Alright, Patrick. I’ll call ‘round Nonnatus now.”

“Thanks, Shelagh. Oh, and Shelagh, I’ve left my overcoat at the clinic. Could you pick that up for me and bring it to the cleaners? I spilled a cup of coffee down the front this morning.”

“Yes, Patrick.” Never mind that she had already gone to the cleaners today. Patrick had a lot on his mind, she reminded herself.

“Sweetheart, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ve got to go. See you tonight.” And with that, he signed off.

Sighing, Shelagh allowed herself to feel a moment of frustration. The cleaners shop was blocks away from both Nonnatus House and the surgery. She’d have to rush out soon in order to make her meeting with Sister Julienne in time.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re up, anyway,” she informed her daughter, crying down the hall in her cot.

Sister Winifred was already waiting for Shelagh outside the surgery when Shelagh pushed the pram up to the stairs.

“Hello, Mrs. Turner,” the young nun waved cheerfully. Her wide smile turned to a surprised frown when she saw Angela’s tear-stained cheeks. “Oh, and what on earth could be making you look so blue, little one?”

“I’m afraid we’re a bit out of sorts this afternoon, Sister.” Shelagh lifted the unhappy baby from the pram to carry her inside. “We haven’t had much of a nap, and I think there may be a new tooth coming through.”

“A new tooth!” Sister Winifred cooed happily. “How lovely!”

“Yes, quite.” Shelagh pressed her lips together. The nun’s enthusiasm was not something she was prepared to humor this afternoon. She watched as Sister Winifred tried to distract Angela from her discomfort and felt a pang of guilt. Was there no one safe from her own bad mood today?

“Sister, would you mind taking Angela for a moment? I can fetch the supplies for you more quickly if you just follow me in.”

“Of course. Here we go, Miss Angela. Do you know, I knew a kitten named Angela once,” she prattled on as Angela reached for her mother. The nun pranced along behind Shelagh, trying to help change the mood. “Oh, Angela was the sweetest puss I ever knew. That is until I met you, of course.”

Shelagh went to the top left drawer in Patrick’s desk and took out a biscuit from his secret stash. Shaking her head, she “You’re lucky this isn’t empty, Patrick Turner.” She turned and offered the biscuit to her daughter.

A moment later, the room was quiet as Angela gnawed wetly on her treat.

“Well, that’s done it!” cheered Sister Winifred. “I suppose you know all sorts of tricks to keep her happy, Mrs. Turner.”

Shelagh sighed. “You do what you must to survive,” she joked. She turned and went to the supply locker.

Nervous that Angela would start up again if she lost sight of her mother, Sister Winifred followed.

“You’re so very efficient, Mrs. Turner. The nurses all go on about how you were the backbone of the midwifery practice. Just yesterday, Trixie was telling us of a thrilling birth she attended with you where you used Eve’s Rocking to save the baby.” She turned her face back to Angela’s. “You know exactly how to take care of everyone. It’s no wonder you have such a happy family.”

Shelagh stopped for a moment. “Why, thank you Sister. Though I’m not so certain I am that efficient. I’m two days behind on the washing, and the kitchen floor hasn’t been the same since my little Angel decided she wanted jam for lunch last week.”

“Oh, well, those things will sort themselves out, won’t they? The important thing is how much you’re able to do for your family.” If Sister Winifred had seen Shelagh’s face at that moment, she might not have been so certain.

Reaching for the morphine, Shelagh stopped for a moment, her forehead creasing over her nose. Pressing her lips together, she thought of all the things she had done for her family just today. She always seemed to be doing something for someone. She turned back, a box of the needed medication in her hand.

“Dr. Turner didn’t say how much he thought he’d need, but given the circumstances, I think it would be best if you took at least a half dozen ampules. That, combined with what he already has, should be enough.” She passed a clipboard to Sister Winifred. “If you’ll sign here, please, for the records.”

Suddenly reminded of her official role, Sister Winifred’s eyes widened. “Of course. If you…if you would,” she stumbled a bit for words.

Shelagh reached out and took Angela, complete with hands a bit gooey with wet biscuit, back in her arms.

(A/N: Regarding the morphine: Have I sent too much, or not enough? Oh well, good thing it’s fiction!)

Next Chapter

An Unexpected Benefit

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Quiet came over the flat suddenly, as it did each night. Baths and homework, all the final preparations for the coming day created a such a flurry each night that Shelagh thought would the family would never settle. Then she would turn around and Timothy would be in bed reading, Angela asleep in her cot, and Patrick would be settled in his chair reading.

Once the quiet came, Shelagh slid into her own routine. Lunches were made, laundry sorted for the next day, and baby bottles were sterilized. By nearly nine, she was finally finished.

Patrick came into the kitchen. “You’re always so busy in here in the evenings now. Come sit with me.” He held out a hand to her.

“I will, Patrick, just one more thing. Let me get a bottle ready for Angela’s two a.m. feeding, and then I’ll join you.”

Patrick leant against the door jamb and watched her as she reached up to the cupboard for the formula.

“You don’t have to watch me, Patrick,” Shelagh told him.

His eyes laughed as his eyebrows twitched. “Maybe I like watching you,” he teased.

She glanced back, rolling her eyes. She reached from the collection of perfectly sterilized and stacked bottles. She always hated this part. It was rather like finishing the washing and having to use something right away. Measuring the powder, she grew a bit self-conscious.

“Patrick, stop. You’re making me nervous.”

Pushing off against the door frame, he  moved beside her.

“I know what you’re thinking, Shelagh. Don’t.”

Shelagh shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Patrick reached around and took the formula can from her hands. “This can wait.” He slid his hands up her arms and looked down into her eyes. “What you feed Angela doesn’t make a difference. Shelagh, you could feed that child Horlicks and she’d thrive. In fact, I think Sister Monica Joan would prefer it.”

Shelagh wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I know, Patrick, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m letting her down. I want to give her everything.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you can’t give her everything. No parent can. I can’t give Timothy everything he needs, even though he’s my biological son. But we can give our little girl all we have.” He pulled her close. “And you give her so much, sweetheart. Angela is the sweet, lovely baby she is because of you. Not breast milk, not genetics, Shelagh. You.”

Finally, she was able to meet his eyes. “I suppose you’re right, Patrick.” She stepped closer into his arms. “You always make me feel better.”
“Do I?” he asked, his voice deepening. He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes teasing. “Then I suppose you’d better make it up to me.”

The unfinished bottle forgotten, Patrick led his wife to their bedroom.

Some time later, deep in the dark, quiet night, Angela’s cries came through the flat. Shelagh groaned and lifted her head from Patrick’s chest. “Patrick?” she whispered.

“Hmmm?” came the muffled reply.

“Do you know what the best part about bottle feeding is?”

Patrick groaned. He had been out-manuevered.

Shelagh turned to her side, wrapping the blankets tightly around herself. “You get to to take the midnight feedings sometimes, dearest!”

My Little Yellowbird

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Photo credit: Messer-Turner-Bates (look at her great work on Tumblr!)

(Go ahead and yell at me. I realize how self-serving this is. Grandma made me do it.)

The Poplar Community Center hummed with activity as nurses and nuns transformed it into it’s Tuesday purpose: Mother and Baby Clinic.  Angela Turner was in her usual place, right in the middle of things, just the way she liked it. Her pram, in its place next to the in-take desk, gave her a clear view of all the activity in the room while allowing her to keep her eye on her mother at all times.

“It’s quite sweet, really,” Sister Winifred said. The young nun turned to Shelagh Turner, busy organizing the patient files into proper order. “I can tell exactly where you are, just by watching her eyes!”

Shelagh laughed, and stepped over to her daughter’s side. “We always know where the other is, don’t we, Angel Girl?” She ran her hand gently over the silky hair. “We keep an eye out for each other.”

A loud rumbling came from the entrance, and the doors to the community room burst open.

“That Fred Buckle had better make sure he steers clear of me for the rest of the week, that’s all I have to say,” huffed Sister Evangelina, her arms swinging briskly back and forth as she made her way into the room.

“Yes, Sister,” appeased Sister Julienne. “But even you must concede that Fred certainly had little to do with the state of the roads.”

“That’s as may be, but he is responsible for the state of my tires. My bones will never forgive him for the shake up I’ve suffered today.” Despite her words, the crotchety nun’s mood was softening. “Angela Turner!” she cooed, walking gingerly over to the pram. “Mrs. Turner, you’ve brought exactly the right cure for my lumbago!”

Reaching for the smiling infant, she was interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Sister. But I’m afraid I must pull rank.” Sister Julienne, usually the epitome of harmony and peace, edged in front of Sister Evangelina. Her reward for such surprisingly rude behavior  was a delighted giggle as Angela turned and reached for her favorite person outside of the family.

“Yes, Angel Girl,” Sister Julienne murmured. Lifting the clinic’s darling up from her pram, the nun held her in a close cuddle. Angela laughed again, her little hand patting at the starched white cloth covering the Sister’s head.

Shelagh chuckled, “You’ll spoil her, Sister. You shouldn’t let her manhandle your wimple.”

“That’s not possible, Shelagh. You can never spoil a child with love.” Angela’s attention turned to the long cord holding the nun’s plain wooden cross. “Do you like my cross, little girl?”

Angela gurgled, tugging at the cord.

“And look at you, so pretty in your yellow dress. You know, Shelagh, I think I like her best in yellow. With those lovely big eyes, it suits her perfectly.”

Angela laughed again, her arms bouncing with delight. “You like yellow, too, my dear? Well, why wouldn’t you? Yes, yes, my dear, flap your little wings. Flap them, yes, there you go.” Sister Julienne laughed, not caring if she looked the least bit silly.

Shelagh smiled proudly as she watched the two play. Angela was such a happy baby, and never more than when she was the certain of someone’s attention.

Sister Evangelina, however, had had enough. “Really, Sister. You can’t spoil a child with love, but you can certainly monopolize her. How on earth is the poor little thing ever going to get to know anyone else with you around?”

An expression that can only be referred to as slightly smug crossed Sister Julienne’s features. “I am so very sorry, Sister. I know it must seem so to you, but how can I possibly be held responsible if the child prefers me?” Sister Evangelina now forgotten, she continued, “Yes, little one, flap your arms. Aren’t you just the prettiest little bird? Aren’t you just the prettiest little yellow bird?”

Back On Their Feet

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Inspired by this pic, posted by dome-of-silence on her Tumblr blog.

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Source: Dome-of-silence.tumblr.com

It was a clumsy embrace, the family clinging together in their moment of pure joy. Each had such high hopes for this moment, such fears that it might not come to be. Hours of exercises, hard work, and prayer had all centered on the moment Timothy could someday step forward on his own, the despised calipers left behind.

Of course Dad was late. Timothy knew not to expect his father to be on time; rounds could not be cancelled that day. Still, the empty seat left beside Mum spoke of her wish that his father would be there.

Timothy was glad Dad didn’t arrive on time. His father would insist on taking off the calipers himself, and Timothy worried that the sight of his father at his feet at just that moment would be too upsetting. He wasn’t a little boy any more. He would have to gather all his courage to do this. Dad didn’t have to see his attempts. Timothy wanted his father to see his success.

Mum would do it efficiently, her years of training as a nurse helping to keep the moment light. She would remove the polished leather and metal matter-of-factly, a supportive smile on her face. They understood one another, needed each other. Timothy knew how much she loved him, and felt lucky that she loved him by choice.

He stood on his weakened legs, supporting himself with his two canes. Step by step he struggled towards the carpet, his determination growing.

“You’re all right, dearest,” he heard his mother whisper, her voice completely certain. With a deep breath, he pushed off. He could feel the carpet tug against his shoe for a moment, and felt irritation rise in his throat. If he were to stumble because of some stupid green carpet…

But he didn’t stumble. He moved the cane forward and continued. With each step he could feel his confidence grow, his legs grow stronger. He looked up, smiling widely, and saw his father enter the hall. Yes, he thought. I can do it.

He dropped a cane and felt his back strengthen. Blood pumped in his ears as he took another step, never noticing the second cane fall away. It felt as if he was running, his heart pounding with pride as he made to meet his father.

Then somehow they were in a huddle, the three of them, stunned, and happy, and together.

“I did it, Dad,” he exclaimed.

“Well done, son,” came his choked reply.

Timothy heard the relief in his father’s voice and his mother’s laugh. His arms clutched at them, overwhelmed for just a moment, and together, Patrick and Shelagh helped their son get back to his feet. Patrick kept his arm around to offer support, but Timothy smiled up at him confidently.

“I can do this, Dad. I can finish.”

Patrick nodded his head quickly, and reached his hand out to his wife. Shelagh moved closer to take it, and the two followed their son back down the carpet.

“Well done, young man,” the cheerful nurse applauded. “That was quick work!”

Timothy grinned. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the way we do things in this family. Once we Turners put our minds to something, it’s done.”

The room broke out in laughter, and Patrick ran his head over his son’s hair. Timothy welcomed the affectionate gesture and grinned wider. He could see tears glistening in Dad’s eyes, his face beaming.

“Well done, son,” Patrick repeated. He ran his hand through his hair, and started to laugh. He turned to his wife, and shook his head. “Shelagh,” he breathed, dazed. Suddenly he reached out, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her.

Now, if poor Timothy Turner had not had such an astonishing day, he might have been embarrassed. He certainly would have complained loudly. And without a doubt he would have berated his father for such an awkward public display of affection.

As it was, when Patrick Turner finally released his startled wife from his kiss, all his son could say was,

“Well done, Dad.”

The Heart Wants What the Heart wants

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My inspiration is from the trailer and some press-kit talk about a subject Call the Midwife will deal with this season. I’ve used a snippet of Peter Noakes dealing with a case concerning homosexuality, and built on that. In this story, Patrick was somehow involved in the reporting of the case.

***   ***

The scratch of the phonograph player drew Shelagh’s attention away from her novel and she glanced over at her husband. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the music had ended. With a curious look, she closed her book and got up to turn the player off, then moved and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Alerted by her gentle touch, he looked up at her.

“Everything all right, Patrick? You look very serious.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I was just thinking.” He took her hand in his and placed a kiss on her fingers.

Smiling in response, Shelagh teased, “Well, then. That’s where the trouble begins!” With a caress of his cheek she sat down next to him on the sofa.

“Doesn’t it just?” Patrick lifted his arm to draw her in closer. They sat together in companionable silence, their fingers playing together.

Shelagh knew enough to be patient. There was clearly something Patrick needed to ponder through, and pushing too hard would lead to nothing. She knew he was thinking, and he knew she knew. Soon enough he would open up.

“Shall I make some tea?” she asked.

With another deep breath, he answered. “No, thanks. No tea. Just sit with me.” His thumb began to rub at his forefinger, a sure sign that Patrick was ready to speak.

“That case today? With Sergeant Noakes?” He paused, and Shelagh turned her eyes towards him. He released a breath and continued. “We didn’t make mention of the man’s …homosexuality… in the documents we had to file regarding the accident. We didn’t exactly falsify the record, we just…kept that part out.”

“Oh,” came her reply. “Will that be a problem? I mean, if it comes out in court that you hid-”

“Likely not. We were able to find a way to present the information without making reference to it.” He turned to face her. “If we hadn’t, he would have gone to prison, most certainly. Are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed? Why on earth would I be disappointed?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “The Church hasn’t had a particularly…understanding point of view on the subject.”

Shelagh sat up straight. “Patrick Turner, the Church is run by humans, and humans haven’t always been as compassionate towards one another as we should. I should hope that the Church will realize this one day and make amends.”

Patrick stared at his wife for a long moment, then laughed quietly. “The women of Nonnatus always surprise me. Such deep faith, yet so understanding,” he admitted.

“Good,” Shelagh retorted. She turned to nestle in again. “I like to keep you on your toes. Besides, Patrick, I should know better than anyone that you can’t help where you love. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Yes, love,” he responded, and proceeded to show her exactly what his heart wanted.

Timothy’s Kaleidoscope

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The front door slammed as Timothy rushed in after school.

“Sorry, Mum. The wind took the door,” he whispered from the hallway. He tiptoed through the hall and peered around the sitting room door to see his new baby sister cuddled in his father’s arms. “Did I wake her?”

“No, good thing for you. She’s been awake and talking for my whole visit,” Patrick spoke in a sing-song voice.

“Why are you home now, anyway?” Timothy asked. “Don’t you have calls today? It’s Monday.” Timothy began to rummage through the pantry, in search of food. “Where’s Mum?” he asked through a mouthful of biscuits.

“Here I am,” Shelagh answered, coming down the hall with yet another basket of laundry. “I thought I’d take advantage of your dad’s drop-in to get ahead of this.” She held out the basket filled with the smocked cotton dresses that dominated Angela’s wardrobe.

“You should be resting, sweetheart,” Patrick admonished. “You’re not getting enough sleep.That last thing we need is for you to get ill.”

“Oh, pish. I can get by on just a little sleep as you, Patrick Turner. Less, probably. Timmy, what would you like for a snack? Dinner will be a bit later than usual, I’m afraid. Angela’s bottles are sterilizing, so I’ll have to wait to use the stove.”

“I’m fine. Just stopping, I’m on my way out, anyway. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Oh,” Shelagh answered, “I suppose that’s fine.”

“Hold on, young man, what about your schoolwork?” Patrick looked up from the game of peek-a-boo.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I stayed in during recess to do some. And Mr. Feeney let me work on my theme while the rest of the class was still finishing maths. He said since I probably wasn’t getting any sleep at night, he should give me a hand and let me get work done at school.” He bounced Angela’s foot in his hand. “He never lets pupils do that, so that’s something Angela’s good for,” he finished, a smirk gracing his face.

“I’m sure your sister’s thrilled to hear that she gets you out of work, son. Don’t be late.” Angela’s coo redirected his attention back to her and Patrick resumed their game.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Shelagh put the laundry down.

“Patrick,” she asked, in the way she had that made a statement a question, “Timothy’s gone out after school every day this week. And he goes right up to his room after dinner.”

Patrick looked up. Shelagh was gripping her hands, and the crease on her forehead was starting to show, but he had no idea what could be bothering her. “And?” he asked.

“He doesn’t seem to want to spend any time with us. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” The crease was getting deeper.

Patrick stood and placed the baby in her moses basket. “Shelagh, he’s about to turn twelve. It would be strange if he did want to spend time with his parents.” Even so, he pulled her into his arms.

Shelagh nestled her head under his chin. “I know, it’s just that…well, he used to sit with me after school, and tell me about his day, or what ridiculous thing happened on the way home. Every day. Until…”

Patrick tilted his head to better see her face. “Until?”

Shelagh sighed. “Well, until Angela came home. Do you think, perhaps…could he be jealous?” She looked up into her husband’s eyes. “Before, I was able to give him all of my attention, and now, I never seem to have any time for him. Even dinner will have to be late tonight because of Angela’s needs.” She hid her face in his chest. “Do you think he feels as if I don’t love him anymore?”

Patrick laughed softly. “Shelagh, love, that is most definitely not how he feels. Timothy knows how much you love him. And he is thrilled about Angela, too.”

“I know you think I worry too much, Patrick, but it doesn’t feel right to me. Something’s different.”

His arms tightened around her and he rubbed his chin against her hair. “All right, my love. I’ll keep an eye out, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s more likely that we have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

Shelagh looked up, alarmed.

Patrick kissed her “worry crease.” “I’m afraid Timothy is starting to show signs of…adolescence!”

 

The next morning was a particular rush. Both Patrick and Timothy needed to leave early, and Angela’s nocturnal fussing put them all on edge. Timothy rushed about, packing his school bag.

“Mum, where’s my gym kit? You promised to wash it. The hockey tournament begins today. I have to have it!”

Shelagh grimaced. “I’m sure I washed it, Timothy. Did you look in the pile of laundry I left for you to put away yesterday?”

“Yes. It is definitely not there. Mr. Pigeon said no one can play without it.”

Patrick came around the corner, the half-finished basket of Angela’s dresses and soiled clothes in his arms. “It’s in here, Tim. You can just wear it today, and Mum will wash it this weekend. Problem solved.” The days of being a single father had given Patrick a laissez-faire attitude towards the wearability of soiled clothes.

Timothy growled and took the offending gym kit from his father, stuffing them into his bag.

“I’m sorry, Timothy, dear. I must have forgotten all about it. I promise to clean them first thing when you get home today.” Shelagh gave him a weak smile.

Timothy shook his head. “I’m not coming home after school, didn’t I tell you? I have to go to… the library. There’s a new project coming up. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Oh, alright, then. And I’m sorry about your clothes.”

“S’alright. Gotta run.” Timothy made for the door.

“Timothy,” his father called him back. “Say goodbye to your mother.”

“Bye!” his son shouted back and let the front door slam behind him.

Quiet descended over the little kitchen. “I really must take a look at that door,” Patrick joked, trying to lighten the mood. “That boy will knock it off its hinges one of these days.”

Shelagh turned away to the sink.

“Shelagh, you’re thinking too hard about this. He’s just being a boy. There’s no need to worry.”

She shook her head, but her answer was cut off by the baby’s cries.

 

By the end of the week, even Patrick was starting to think there was something amiss. He and Shelagh agreed that for dinner that night, he would take Timothy to Capriani’s Cafe for a Friday night fry-up, just the boys. It was time for a talk.

As he had all week, Tim ran out right after school, and with the dinner hour fast approaching, still had not returned home. Patrick and Shelagh grew anxious. Patrick sat with the baby, her bottle almost finished, and said, “He’s just lost track of time. It’s all right, Shelagh.” His words showed little of his growing anger, however. Shelagh was miserable, and Tim would have a much sterner talking-to than Patrick had originally planned.

The front door slammed again, followed by the sound of Timothy’s feet bounding to his room. Patrick stood angrily and handed the baby off to Shelagh. “That’s it. We’ll have it out here and now.”

“Patrick, don’t be angry with him. It’s my fault. I haven’t been able to pay enough attention to him. If we just explain to him that we’d like to know more about his whereabouts…”

“No, Shelagh. This is about him being selfish. He has to learn he’s not always going to be the center of attention.” With Angela in her arms, Shelagh followed as Patrick strode towards his son’s room. A knock at the front door stopped them in their tracks. Throwing a frustrated glance up the steps, he opened it to reveal Sister Julienne.

“Sister!”

“Hello, Dr. Turner, Shelagh. Please forgive my intrusion so close to dinner.”

Shelagh stepped up, “Sister, come in, please.”

“No, thank you, Shelagh. I can only stop for a moment. I just wanted to help Timothy with his parcels.” Smiling, the nun held out a square box. “He’ll need this for his project.”

Stunned, Patrick asked, “His project?”

“Yes, well, it was to be a surprise, but we were forced to take a rather long way round. The construction work on the Chrisp Street Market has closed several of the quicker routes to Stepney from Nonnatus House, I’m afraid. Timothy had hoped to get this home before you returned from your calls, which is why he ran on ahead with the ‘bones’ of the project.”

“Sister, we had no idea Timothy was bothering you. I’m so very sorry-” Patrick apologized.

“He was no bother, I was delighted to help. You have a very lovely young man, both of you. You should be very proud. And now, I’m afraid, I must continue my journey. Mrs. Flint’s incision is causing her considerable pain, and as Mrs. B has left a cold repast this evening, I thought to get the visit in sooner rather than later. Enjoy your evening,” she farewelled and climbed back on her bicycle.

Stunned, Patrick and Shelagh watched as the nun made her way back into the streets of Poplar. They turned to each other, then looked down the hall.

“I think I may have jumped to conclusions,” Patrick admitted. He followed his wife back into the flat.

“I think perhaps we both have,” Shelagh agreed. Together they followed after their son. Surprised to see his bedroom empty, a sound from their own bedroom guided them to him and Patrick pushed the door open. Timothy stood over Angela’s cot at the foot of their bed, attaching some sort of mechanism above it.

“Tim,” his father called.

Timothy dropped his arms, and looked across the room at his parents. He let out a deep sigh of resignation. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but the stupid roadwork made me late.” He stepped over and took the box from Patrick. “You may as well open the box. It’s spoiled, now.”

Shelagh smiled. “No, Timothy. Patrick, leave the box. We’ll be in the sitting room.  Call us when you want us.” Patrick returned her smile, and grinned at his son. “After you, Mrs. Turner.” With his hand at her back, he escorted his wife and daughter out to the landing.

Closing the door behind him, he raised his hands to her face. “I think we’ll be fine.” Patrick lowered his head and kissed her gently, careful of the now sleeping baby in her arms. His fingers moved to her hair and caressed her just behind her ears. Shelagh pushed up on her tippy toes to kiss him back. Relief had made her giddy, and she was happy to show Patrick.

Sooner than they thought possible, Timothy interrupted them.

“Really? I ask for five minutes?” Tim complained, unable to hide his grin. “If you’re finished, you can come in now.”

Patrick and Shelagh stepped in to the room, their eyes drawn to the cot and they both gasped. Fluttering above was a cluster of butterflies, each one a kaleidoscope of color. Shelagh slowly made her way toward the flight of color, her eyes filled with wonder. “Oh, Timothy!” she whispered. “You made this?” She looked to her son. “It’s beautiful.” Her eyes gleamed with tears.

“Well done, son,” admired Patrick, who would later claim that the room had been dusty, and his eyes were reacting to the motes.

“I didn’t do it all by myself,” Tim told them and the story rushed out of him. “I had lots of help. It was Nurse Franklin’s idea at first. She knew how much you liked that butterfly I sent you when you were in sanatorium. Bagheera helped me make the dangly-frame thing, and Sister Julienne and I made the butterflies. See? They’re watercolor paper. We experimented with all sorts of designs. I liked this one. We dripped color on to the damp paper and let it all blend together, sort of. Then I cut out the shapes-Dad, that’s how I got that blister the other day-and today Nurse Noakes and Nurse Miller and Sister Winifred helped me tie them on. Sister Monica Joan helped by finding the fishing line we used-how does she know how to get fishing line, Mum?-and Sister Evangelina hid everything in her room. She said you’d never go in there, no matter what. She was right, wasn’t she? You had no idea?” Tim stopped to catch his breath.

His mother sighed quietly. “No, Timothy, dearest, I had absolutely no idea.”  She tapped a bright blue and purple butterfly, sending the whole flight in motion.

“You’ve been doing this all week?” Patrick asked.

Timothy nodded. “I started planning it last week, at Nurse Lee’s party, but I’ve been going to Nonnatus everyday this week. That’s why I was skipping recess, too.” He looked nervous. “Do you like it? The nurses all told me it’d be safe. Angela can’t get hurt by it. It’s really secure, Fred and I tested it out on Freddie’s cot.”

Shelagh placed the sleeping Angela into her cot, again gently tapping a butterfly. “It’s perfect,” she breathed. “Angela’s very lucky to have a brother like you. I’m afraid I have a confession to make,” Shelagh said, turning to face the young boy. “I thought you were staying away from the house because you were unhappy about the baby.”

Tim stared in amazement. “Unhappy? Angela’s brilliant! It’d be nice if she didn’t make so much noise at night, and sometimes she does smell pretty bad, but that stuff doesn’t last too long, and before you know it she’ll be a real person.”

“So you’re sure we’re paying enough attention to you? We’re not spending too much time with Angela?” Shelah wondered.

“Of course you are. She’s a baby, after all. She can’t do anything yet. Besides,” he winked, “before she came, I couldn’t get away with anything. Now, I have all sorts of plans.”

“What sort of plans?” his father asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing really-”

He was interrupted when Angela startled and let out a sharp cry, and in that moment, Timothy knew he was no longer an only child. An alliance had been forged that would be the only force capable of facing their parents.

The power had shifted.