Monthly Archives: February 2015

His Safety Net

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Author’s note: This fic is set at the end of Series 4 Episode 5. Patrick has begun his recovery from his near-breakdown, and Shelagh has found resources within she hadn’t known existed.

I’m going to give this a Three Kettle rating, primarily because of the story’s setting (a bath). However, I think the kettles better reflect a level of intimacy rather than steam, which I think is actually kind of hot.

***   ***

It was like they were courting again. Walking together along the cobbled streets, lit only by street lamp, Shelagh couldn’t remember a time in recent months when they had walked alone together, no children in tow, no hurry to be somewhere. They walked together, happy and relaxed, as they talked about the whirlwind of events of the last few hours.

Serious conversation would come later, in private. For now, they just enjoyed each others company. Shelagh smiled softly as Patrick shifted his medical bag from his right to left hand, and edged more closely to him. A flash of memory passed before her eyes, of another time walking with Patrick, their hands so close, yet not touching. How confused she had been then, uncertain of her feelings and afraid of what her tortured thoughts might mean.

She moved an inch closer and threaded her fingers with his. Together, they took the long way home.

 

It wasn’t so terribly late when they returned to the flat. Timothy greeted them in the hallway, his sister in his arms.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick cooed as he reached out for his daughter. The bleak lines of fatigue faded from his face as he held his baby to his heart.

“It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type,” Shelagh countered. She reached over and kissed Timothy’s cheek. “Thank you for managing without us, dearest. You’ve been so completely dependable, and we’re very grateful. Your father and I have spoken about it, and we can’t ask you to do so much. We’re going to have to work out some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Penney if this is going to work for everybody.” She smoothed his shirt across his shoulders. “ Have you eaten?”

Glancing around the bounty of food left as thanks during Patrick’s illness, she asked, “Well, it looks like I won’t have to cook for quite a while, certainly. What will it be tonight? Steak and Kidney pie or pasties?”

Patrick followed her. “I’m starving, I can eat anything, even that frightening looking pan from Mrs. Everett, if no one else wants it,” he grimaced at the offending casserole. “Eating that well-meaning yet revolting mess is the least I could do after all you two have done for me. I owe you both so much.”

“It’s alright, Dad. Just remember this when it comes time for me to borrow the car.” The boy stretched.  “I’ve eaten already. Mostly Mrs. B’s cake, but I’m fairly certain neither of you will kick up a fuss about it. I’m for bed. Taking care of Angela is exhausting!”

Timothy started out the door and turned back. “I like the uniform, Mum. It suits you.”

Shelagh hummed  the gentle lullaby she used to coax her daughter to sleep each night, and began to shed her uniform. The steps were logical and short, and she found herself remembering another uniform from another time. The fine cotton replaced the worsted wool, but the starched cotton smelled just the same.  She found a home for the uniform in the wardrobe and slipped into her nightclothes.

Silently closing the door on her sleeping child, she moved to check on Timothy. His light was out, and for once he was not sitting up late with a book. The lad had surely put in his time this week. They would need to find a way to make it up to him. Perhaps a day trip to the seaside. The family would have to miss Church, but she doubted Timothy would mind.

The poor boy had been such a responsible young man these last few days. Shelagh knew she hadn’t been able to keep all of her worries to herself, and Timothy seemed to read her distress so clearly. But he trusted her, and had faith in his father. Timothy’s unwavering belief in his father had given her strength, too. She pressed a light kiss to his forehead, grateful for her son.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and she nudged it open. Patrick stood before the mirror over the sink, his shirt discarded and vest tossed in the clothes bin, braces hanging loosely at his sides. He lathered up, and looked back at his wife over his shoulder.

“I thought I’d get cleaned up. I’m not sure when I last gave myself a decent shave.”

“That’s alright. I like you a little bit bristly.” Shelagh moved to draw him a bath. “You should have a nice long soak, too. Just the thing to help you sleep.”

Patrick turned to face her. “You take the bath, sweetheart. It’s been a long few days for you, too. Or better yet…” his eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

Shelagh pressed her lips together, feigning a prim expression. “Really, Patrick. After all Timothy’s done for us, the last thing that boy needs is to be awakened by us splashing in the tub like a pair of selkies.” She ran her hand under the tap to check the temperature. Satisfied, she placed the stopper, then teasingly flicked a few drops of water in his direction.

With a grin, Patrick turned back towards the mirror. For a moment, Shelagh regarded his long back and the way his shoulders flexed as he shaved his face clean of the care of the last days. She stood and walked to him, pressing herself against his back, her arms wrapped about his waist. “I will wash your hair. though,” she murmured into his skin. “I’ll get you a towel. They’re still in the basket waiting to be folded.”

When she returned a few moments later, Patrick was in the bath, his head tilted back against the rolled edge. He looked tired, she thought, but the bone-weary exhaustion seemed to have left his face.

Opening one eye, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me? No monkey business, I promise. I’m not even sure I could, I’m so tired.” He held his hand out for her to grasp.

“We’ll make sure you get some good rest tonight. No surgery tomorrow-” she held up her hand when he began to protest. “One more day off, Patrick, There’s nothing so pressing right now, and you could use a day. We all could. Let’s get out of the city, go for a drive, have a picnic. Some time as a family.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Yes, Nurse Turner. Whatever you say.”

Their eyes held for a long moment, understanding passing between them. Shelagh stood and turned away.

“I thought you were going to wash my hair?” he complained.

“I am.” Shelagh slid the pretty blue flowered dressing gown from her shoulders. “You’ll see.”

The nightgown joined the dressing gown on the hook on the door before she motioned for him to move forward. “Make room. Just to keep my clothes dry, mind you.”

A breath of laughter escaped from his lungs. Shelagh knew she was certainly a far cry from the shy, self-conscious bride of their early months of marriage. She stood before him confident in their love and partnership, happy to revel in the closeness they had built together.

He slid forward in the tub and she slipped her slight form in the space behind him. The water was warm, but not uncomfortably so, considering the warmth of the night. She shifted, and let her body surround his.

They lay together in the soothing water, each releasing the stresses built up in their bodies. Slowly, Shelagh wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck. “Hand me the soap, if you please,” she requested politely.

A deep chuckle spread through his chest and he offered the white bar to her. “Yes, Nurse Turner,” he repeated.

Shelagh began to create a lather across his chest, but stopped to ask, “Patrick, did you mind me not telling you?”

He rested his head back, turning slightly to see her. “Mind? Why should I mind? You know my feelings about your nursing skills.”

She scooped up water to rinse his skin. “Yes, I know, but it…changes things. It makes a bit of a statement.”

“I’ll say. If I hadn’t had a desperately ill patient waiting when I saw you in uniform, I would have taken you into my office to make that statement. In fact, I’m fairly certain that several of the patients in the waiting room had a pretty good idea what was in my head at that moment.”

She blushed. Turning his head away, she poured a dram of shampoo in her hand and began to lather his head. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Wearing that uniform says something about my identity, who I am in the community.” Her fingers began to rub his scalp, finding the spot, just behind his ears, that he always responded to.

“I know. It says ‘Nurse Turner is here to take care of you,’” He groaned slightly as her fingers rubbed a bit harder. “Shelagh, if you want to go back to nursing, we can find a way. We’ll solve the childcare issue, and make a place for you wherever you want to be. We can do this.”

Her hands slid over his soapy head. “Rinse,” she ordered. He slid even farther front and lowered his head in the water before her. For a quick moment, their eyes met before he closed his eyes and she pushed water over his hair, rinsing away the last remains of sweat and Brylcreem and exhaustion.

“All done,” she tapped his shoulder. Rising to the surface like the selkie he had promised not to become, he shook the water out of his eyes. Automatically, he reached out and she placed a fresh washcloth into his hand. He dried his face, and then returned to his relaxed position against her.

“I’m not crushing you, am I?” he asked, He sighed deeply and ran his hand over her knee.

“I’m fine. I like you pressing against me.”

Shelagh’s hand moved up to his hair, and her fingertips began to comb through his unruly locks. She preferred his hair a bit longer, his fringe askew across his forehead, though she knew he struggled to control it. Now, with his hair smoothed back from his forehead like that, he looked different. No one else saw him like that, she thought possessively. He was hers.

She knew she belonged to him completely, as well. Her fears for him had waned, but she knew that even if he had not emerged from his…depression, she would have been just as tightly tied to him as she was at this moment.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders again and pressed her face into his neck. She couldn’t say the words in her heart, but he must have sensed them. He turned his head towards her, “Shelagh,” he whispered.

She looked up, then took his lips with hers. They kissed slowly, tender kisses that spoke more of devotion than passion. Her hands slid over his chest, stopping to rest over his heart. He shifted on his side slightly, his own hand cradling her head. As they pulled apart, he whispered, “I’m so very lucky to have you.”

She pressed her forehead to his cheek. “We’re lucky to have each other, dearest.”

He let out a small breath, a crooked smile crossing his face. “I don’t know what I would have done if not for you, sweetheart. I’m certain I wouldn’t have taken a break when I should have done,”  His face grew very serious. “It would have been so  much worse without you. You understood what I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit. Shelagh, without you I could have lost everything.”

“Pish,” Shelagh scoffed. “All you needed was a good rest.”

“No.”  He lifted her chin, meeting her eyes. “I needed more than a rest. I needed a safety net. I have that now, because of you.” His fingers tangled in the hair pushed behind her ear. “I’m better now.” He stopped abruptly, some old memory flitting across his face. He shook his head ruefully.

“I think I’ve said that before.” His eyebrows climbed up his forehead, wrinkling his brow. “I should say, I’m getting better. It’ll take more than just a few days off,  I’m afraid. I’ll need to make some changes. I’ve got to learn to say no sometimes.”

Shelagh smiled. “One day at a time, then?”

He nodded. “Yes. We’ll start with tomorrow. A trip to the seaside, perhaps?  A nice family day.” he settled back against her. “I think I’m going to like taking it easy.”

“Yes, well don’t take it too easy, if you please. You’re starting to get heavy, and it’s getting late. Time for you to get some sleep.” She pushed at his shoulders. “Bath time is over.”

Later, after Shelagh cleared the mess, she slipped into their bedroom. Patrick, full of hopes for the evening only minutes ago, lay sprawled on his back, asleep and already snoring. A quick look at the baby assured her that she, too, was in the land of nod.

Shelagh slid under the covers next to her husband and wrapped herself around him. He was still cool from the bath, and his scent filled her head. Patrick had once again returned from that grey place of isolation and fear, and once again, he was stronger for it. Their marriage would be stronger, too. Trust had taken its place beside their love.

 

 

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 4

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Previous Chapter

Hours later in the quiet flat, Shelagh put the last of the dishes away. With a tired sigh, she looked around the pristine kitchen, then took off her apron. She could hear the bathtub drain as Timothy finished in the bath, his night nearly over.

Patrick would come home after a difficult night and would need something in his stomach to help him sleep. She set the tea try, leaving a slice of her ham and egg pie under a dampened serviette to prevent it from drying, and left the kitchen.

The sight of Timothy, fresh-faced and pink under the blankets on his bed, made her smile tenderly. His hair was still plastered wetly to his head, and his pyjama top was misbuttoned. It was at times like this it was easy to see the young boy he was so rapidly leaving behind.

Picking up the towel  left on the lid of his clothes bin, she chuckled. “There now, you’ll catch your death going to bed with a wet head like that. Sit up, I’ll dry it for you.” Settling on the side of his bed, she waited as he shifted into position.

“There’s some doubt now that being cold actually causes a cold, you know. A cold is caused by a virus, Mum, and a virus isn’t looking for a cold spot. Going to bed with wet hair is highly unlikely to give me a head cold.” In one sentence, the emerging adolescent reappeared.

“Well, it will certainly give you a wet pillow, young man,” Shelagh laughed as she vigorously rubbed at his head. “Be still for two minutes and make your mother happy.”

She finished with a flourish, and reached for the comb on his bedside table.

“Mum,” Timothy complained. “I can do that.”

“If you’re sure,” she teased. She ran her fingers through the lightly damp hair falling over his forehead. “Don’t stay up too late tonight. The medical world needs your insight.”

The flat was quiet again, and Shelagh returned to the sitting room. No matter how hard she tried, she didn’t seem able to keep ahead of the mess in there. Laundry spilled over from its basket, a pile of school books scattered across the table, and Angela’s toys were simply everywhere.

Starting her clockwise turn around the room, Shelagh organized books into Tim’s school bag and signed a forgotten permission slip. The laundry was next, a never-ending task that made Shelagh long for the new-fangled machines they were seeing in the paper.

“I doubt those machines will fold and put away,” she muttered. “But if a man were in charge of … Oh, for goodness’ sake, Shelagh! Will you stop with that today?” She sat down on the sofa in frustration and rested her chin in her hands. Why was she in such a mood? she wondered.

Today wasn’t so different from most days. She spent her time caring for her family, and she loved it. She relished in the fact that Patrick needed her so, and her family was everything to her. Daily life certainly wasn’t glamorous, or even exciting sometimes, but there were moments of such joy.

Shelagh stood and rolled her shoulders back. Just under the curio cabinet she could spy that giraffe they’d been searching for since dinner.

Finally finished for the evening, Shelagh sat at her vanity brushing her hair. Her thoughts travelled back to her conversation with Trixie. She would have to check back to see if she had been correct in her diagnosis of Mrs. Young. Humility aside, she was certain she had not been mistaken.

For years, she had been the midwife called in for the rare and difficult cases, and she felt the glory of God through her work. Now, her life in midwifery seemed so far away, and so intrinsically tied to her former life as a nun. Perhaps that was why she had never considered continuing her work once she left the order.

She shook her head. No, she thought. When she chose her new life, she was deciding not just to marry, but to be a mother to Tim, and any other babies God would give them. Her heart tugged for a moment for that lost chance. She had been so hopeful.

God had found another way to answer her prayers, and she was truly grateful. Angela filled in her heart, just as Timothy and Patrick did. Placing her hairbrush on the table, she moved to the cot next to her bed.

No matter how many times she put Angela on her back, her daughter always found her way into her favorite position. Shelagh ever-so-lightly ran her hand down the length of the little back, coming to rest on the little bottom jutting up in the air.

“Precious Angel Girl,” Shelagh whispered. The baby sighed and found her thumb, settling back to sleep. Shelagh sat on the edge of the bed, her head resting on the cot’s rail. “How could I ever consider leaving you, even for a little while?” Her hand caressed the downy pale hair that covered the baby’s head. Just two short months ago, there was so little, the baby still appeared bald, and in another few months, it would be long enough to curl about her ears.

There were so many changes ahead. Baby to toddler, toddler to child; Shelagh didn’t want to miss a moment. She was completely certain that nothing could bring her the joy that her family did. But there was still that nagging feeling, just in the back of her mind. Not quite a thought, just…a feeling. A feeling that there was something else to consider.

Shelagh smiled knowingly. Life had taught her that she would need to heed the call of her subconscious. Ignoring her feelings before had only led to heartache. As in the past when she had denied her growing need for a family and Patrick to share it with, or buried her fears that Patrick was holding himself  back from her, her problems would not disappear because she pretended they did not exist.

Only by facing these questions had she found peace. For now, she would love her family and focus her energies on them. But these questions would need answers.

It was time to decide exactly what the questions were.

Epilogue

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 3

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A/N: There’s a moment at the wedding (oh, you know what wedding I mean), when Chummy hands baby Freddy over to Peter and there is such a look of relief on her face. She loves that baby, but oh, sometimes, you just need someone to take that baby, just for one moment. Of course, two moments later, you’re aching to hold your baby again.)

Previous Chapter

It was a quarter past four when Shelagh finally pushed the pram up to the large door at Nonnatus House. Shelagh hated to be late, and prided herself on not only her own promptness, but in having improved Patrick’s.

With a still cranky Angela in her arms, she started up the stone steps, only to be met by a bustling Sister Evangelina on her way out.

“We could certainly use you today, Mrs. Turner,” the cantankerous nun huffed. “Three of the six midwives all out on a delivery this afternoon, and the rest behind on calls. Can’t be helped, I suppose, but an extra set of hands would not go amiss.” Before Shelagh could respond, the nun was off on her way.

Shelagh sighed, and made her way through the opened door.

“My dear, I’m so glad you’re able to join me this afternoon!” Sister Julienne called in greeting. The nun reached out for her little pet, and Shelagh felt a sigh of relief as she passed her daughter over.

“Good afternoon, Sister. I see you’re having a busy day,” Shelagh glanced after Sister Evangelina.

“Indeed.” Calmly the nun allowed Angela to tug on her wimple. Shelagh resisted the urge to correct her daughter. Sister Julienne would have none of that, she knew. Whilst at Nonnatus, Angela was to be coddled.

Sister Julienne continued, “I do hope our visit isn’t interrupted, but I’m afraid it is a possibility. Mrs. Pound has called to say she’s starting to feel some twinges.”

Following her dear friend to the sitting room, Shelagh responded, “Oh, dear. She’s still got another three weeks, surely?”

“Yes, but it is her first, and as we know, a new mother is bound to be a bit nervous.” Sister Julienne turned her attention back to Angela. “Perhaps we should settle down to tea, just in case.”

As usual, Mrs. B.’s tea was worth the difficulties getting to Nonnatus House. A strong Darjeeling scented the air, and the lightest of almond sponges graced the best cake plate. As Nonnatus had become frequent host to infants of late, a sturdy high chair stood to the side of Sister Julienne’s favored seat, a collection of old wooden spoons for Angela’s amusement on the tray.

Glancing over the rim of her teacup, Sister Julienne remarked, “You seem a bit distracted today, my dear. Would you like to tell me about it?”

Shelagh looked up from the spoon she was retrieving from the floor for the fifth time. She could deny it, pretend that all was as usual, but she knew better. Her old friend would see through her denials, and though she would not comment further, would be concerned.

“Its just been a rather frustrating day, that’s all. I shouldn’t complain really. It’s all just a bit of nonsense.” She did not meet the nun’s eyes, and kept her own on her daughter.

“Shelagh, we all have those days where nothing seems to go right. But simply because we all have them doesn’t mean our own are not important.”

Shelagh glanced up. “I suppose you’re right, Sister, but I feel as if I’m complaining about what I wanted more than anything else.” She stood and moved to retreive Angela’s bottle from her bag.

“Let me feed her,” Sister Julienne requested. “Your tea will cool and you look like you need it.” Her gentle smile took any edge of from her words. She lifted her god-daughter from the chair and settled in comfortably on the worn sofa. “I’ll feed her, and you enjoy your tea as you tell me about your day.”

Knowing she would be better for talking about it, Shelagh agreed. “It was just an ordinary day. Lots of little things, none all that important, but I’ve just got myself in such a mood today. Strange, actually the day started off so well.” She thought back to her morning. “I had to leave the kitchen a mess when we went out to do errands, and Angela didn’t get a very good nap because Patrick needed…Oh, just nonsense, really. I suppose I need a nap myself,” she smiled ruefully. For some reason, an image of the heavily pregnant Louisa March flashed before her eyes.

“It’s never nonsense, my dear. Aristotle never raised a family. Sometimes, the the sum of its parts is greater than the whole!

“When I was at Nonnatus, there were so many days that were filled with tiny little problems, and it never seemed to bother me. Today couldn’t possibly compare, and it’s completely set me off.” Her fingers worried at a stray string on the sofa pillows. “I have everything I ever dreamed of, there’s no reason for feeling this way.”

Sister Julienne reached out and covered the younger woman’s hand with her own. “Simply because you feel frustration does not mean you are unhappy, my dear,  or even ungrateful. I remember my mother used to say, ‘A single day with a child can go on forever, but the years will fly by.’”

Shelagh gave her a watery smile. “That’s it exactly. I look at Timothy, and sometimes all I can see is the small boy he was just a short while ago, and others, he’s a young man, ready to take on the world.” Finished with her bottle, Angela popped up her head up and reached for her mother. Shelagh held out her arms and relaxed visibly as they fit themselves together.  “And this little angel changes nearly every day.

“I really am very happy, Sister, but it helps to talk it over with you.”

Sister Julienne nodded widely, her shoulders leaning in. “I’m so very glad, my dear.”

The loud thud of the heavy front door closing caught their attention. A quick clatter of shoes through the hall followed, and in a moment they were joined by a frazzled Trixie Franklin.

“Good afternoon, Shelagh, Sister Julienne,” the typically perky nurse collapsed into the nearby chair. “What a day. Ten calls just this afternoon! Four first-time mothers, two newborns and another four home checks. Honestly, Sister, this community is running us off our feet!

The two older women exchanged knowing glances. “I’m quite certain after a cup of tea, you’ll feel much more yourself. Please, help yourself,” Sister Julienne gestured towards the teapot.

Trixie sat up, suddenly realizing she was intruding. “Thank you, Sister, but I’ll leave you both to your visit.” She stood, eyeing the almond sponge. “But if you wouldn’t mind?” she questioned.

Shelagh smiled. She had talked about her own confusion enough for today. “Trixie, please sit down and take tea. Sister Julienne and I have had our nice, cozy chat. I’m sure we’d both like to hear about your rounds today.”

Grateful, Trixie began to make a plate for herself as Sister Julienne prepared her tea. “Thank you, Shelagh. I did have a question I wanted to review with Sister Julienne, if you don’t mind?”

Shelagh felt another twinge of annoyance, but hid it well. “Of course,” she replied. “Don’t mind us.” She fussed with Angela’s yellow jumper.

Trixie swallowed a gulp of her tea. “Sister, I had the strangest home visit today. Mrs. Young is very nearly thirty-six weeks along with her first, and she’s complaining of the strangest symptoms. Her hands and feet are terribly itchy! It’s quite maddening, really. The poor thing is hardly getting any sleep at all! I’ve never come across anything like it, Sister. I’m not sure if it’s simply a sign of her stress, or something more serious.”

“Itchy hands and feet?” The nun wondered. “How strange. Are there any other symptoms?”

“Everything else seems perfectly normal. I’m quite puzzled.” Trixie sipped her tea. “The poor thing has been a bit nauseous, but that’s nothing unusual.”

“I am sorry to interrupt, but did you notice if perhaps Mrs. Young is looking a bit jaundiced?” Shelagh asked quietly.

“Jaundiced? No, I didn’t notice-but she is a bit more of an olive complexion, perhaps I didn’t look? Why? Could that mean something?” Trixie asked.

“Well, as I haven’t seen Mrs. Young myself, I really couldn’t say. But it could be Cholestasis of pregnancy. It’s possible that the increase in pregnancy hormones — such as occurs in the third trimester — may slow the normal flow of bile out of the liver. Eventually, the buildup of bile in the liver allows bile acids to enter the bloodstream. Bile acids deposited in the mother’s tissues can lead to itching.” Unconsciously, Shelagh had assumed a more precise way of speaking, and would have been surprised to know how closely she resembled Sister Bernadette at that moment. The similarity was not lost on her companions.

“Oh, dear,” Trixie worried. “Should I alert Doctor Turner at once?”

Shelagh shook her head. “No, it’s not an emergency situation. Simply include a note in your write up today, and schedule a follow-up consultation with the doctor. Mrs. Young is in no real danger, but her baby should be monitored. The most likely outcome is that her labor will be induced a bit early to prevent any possible harm to the baby.”

Trixie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness I mentioned it! What would we do without you, Shelagh? We should all be taking classes with you again!”

Next Chapter

Wise Words

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Watching Parks and Recreation with Eagle last week, I heard a line that just seemed to fit Call the Midwife (yes, I know I may be too involved). I foolishly posted something about it on Tumblr, and it got a little crazy.

I’ve used a few lines from P&R, and they appear in bold. 

None of my friends from Poplar nor Pawnee belong to me, I’m sorry to say.

***   ***

In the busy late afternoon, a tall young man walked along the pavement outside the Poplar Community Center. Buses drove by, children ran and shouted as their mothers called to them. The young man smiled crookedly as he took the steps up to the door. Times changed, he thought, but Poplar stayed the same.

He pushed open the doors to the wide, bright room, longing for the old pinks and oranges of the room. In the latest reno, the Council had opted for a more durable beige and blue color scheme. Durable, yes. Appealing, no.

“Timothy!” he heard a woman call. Turning, he saw his mother trotting across the room to greet him.

“Timothy! It’s lovely to see you, dearest,” she turned her cheek up for his kiss. “but we weren’t expecting you until Saturday dinner!” She smiled at her son widely. Still on the greener side of fifty, Shelagh Turner was one of those fortunate women who had kept her figure, and her bright hair bore little evidence of dulling.

“I know. I had a few hours today and I thought I’d pop by for a chat with Dad. I’m off-duty at the hospital until tomorrow.”

His mother’s eyes grew shrewd, searching for something wrong. “Well, your father’s knee deep in inoculations today, I’m afraid.” If she noticed anything, she was keeping her own counsel. She glanced over towards the far cubicle. “No doubt he can’t hear anything after the din made by the newest Dixon baby. Why don’t you wait in the kitchen, have a cup of tea? I think Angela may be finished taking inventory, she could join you.”

Tim laughed. “Aren’t there laws against child labor? You had me stocking the bandages every Tuesday for as long as I can remember.”

“We started you at sixteen, Timmy; Angela’s nearly that. Besides, she loves it. I can’t keep her away.”

“Still wants to go into the family business, then?”

“Yes, and why not? If her brother can do it, I’m sure Angela can.” her eyes winked behind her frames.

A loud wail came up from beyond the far curtain, and Shelagh pursed her lips. “On second thought, why don’t you go and give your father a hand in there? No one should have to take on that whole crew without assistance. Here’s a tin of humbugs. Bribe them if you must. It’s getting late!”

Patrick’s voice came from around the corner. “Shelagh, do you have any more of those sweets? If I don’t get these children-Tim!”

“Hello, Dad,” Timothy reached out his hand for his father’s firm grip. A good, strong handshake between two fellows well met, that’s what Dad taught him, he thought. Dad’s handshake was as strong as ever, despite the other signs of aging that were making themselves apparent. His hair more salt than pepper these days, Patrick Turner had finally accepted the pot belly years of living with a good cook had led to. “Can I help with the monkeys?”

“Definitely. You’d think I was leading them to the chopping block, the way Mrs. Mitchell goes on. It’s like Sister Evangelina used to say-”

“You’ve had yer sweets now it’s time for yer sours!” returned his son. “Sister Evangelina was never one for letting a little stick keep her from getting the job done.”

Directing her boys back to the inoculation table, Shelagh suggested, “Patrick, why don’t you and Timothy stop for dinner after clinic? Angela and I could use some girl time tonight. I need to hem that dress for school, and the two of you would just get in the way.” Her eyes met her husband’s and something quick communicated between them. Patrick nodded in agreement. “If you won’t miss us too much, dear. What do you say, Tim? Capriano’s?”
Shelagh sighed. “I should have known you’d go straight for a fry-up.”

 

 

***   ***

The sight of the cafe somehow calmed Timothy’s nerves. Capriano’s was nearly as familiar as home, in its way. The site of many man-to-man talks, it seemed entirely appropriate they should come here tonight.

The bell on the door tinkled as it always did when they entered.

“A bit Pavlovian, that sound,” he commented. “Now I’m starving! Why would anybody eat anything besides breakfast food, Dad?”

His father smiled and nodded his head as he made for their favorite table: far away from the window like always, and Dad with his back to the entrance. Too often a meal out was interrupted by a worried patient eager to get a quick bit of advice. Near the kitchen door, Doctor Turner was sure to eat in the shelter of the proprietor’s defense.

No menus were handed out at Capriani’s. The owner didn’t believe in them, he said. His customers knew what he had, and didn’t need a fancy piece of paper to order a good old-fashioned fry-up.

Capriani’s was a funny place that way. Established after the war by a returning soldier, the cafe was named for the owner’s Italian war bride but never served so much as a plate of spaghetti. Requests for Italian food by unwitting new customers were roundly denied. It was a firmly held belief that a man could call his cafe what he liked and serve what he liked.

Their host approached from the kitchen. Burly and easily recognized for his prominent facial hair, Mr. Swanson greeted them cordially, though it was difficult to tell. With a square face segmented by heavy brows and a full mustache, the man seemed to wear a perpetual scowl. Long immune to those false signs of displeasure, the Turner men were not concerned.

“Good evening, Doctor Turner, Young Mister Turner. It is good to see you both.”

Timothy smiled at the man’s stiff and formal manner. “Hello, Mr. Swanson.”

“Good evening, Mr. Swanson,” Patrick answered. “I’m afraid we’re on the early side for your dinner crowd tonight.”

“Of course not. I’m always happy to serve a fellow hungry man. I’ve some most excellent tomatoes today. Might I interest you gentlemen in some with your meal?”

Tim teased, “I’m always surprised you leave a place on the plate for tomatoes, Mr. Swanson. I thought you didn’t hold with vegetables!”

A serious frown pulled the broad mustache down. “I’m surprised at you, young Turner. A tomato is a fruit, and most certainly not a vegetable. One would think they would teach you that in medical school.” Abruptly he turned back to the kitchen.

“It’s nice to know some things never change,” Tim remarked. He looked around the small room, their table mere feet from the open kitchen hatch. Mr. Swanson worked in silence, his head coming in to view then and again as he sorted out their meal.

Tucking his serviette into his shirtfront, Patrick settled in for his favorite meal. “Tim, there’s obviously something on your mind. We can talk about it now, or you can wait until Saturday dinner. Your mother won’t let whatever it is go beyond then.” Patrick grinned, his head tilted as it did when he was trying to figure a person out. “Shall we do what we did in the old days? I won’t look at you, I promise.”

Tim slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong, Dad. My registrar is a bit demanding, but nothing I didn’t expect. He’s actually quite fair, just a bit…unfriendly.”

Patrick laughed. “You didn’t expect to become mates with him, I’m sure.”

“Hardly,” Tim’s eyes went wide. “I’m not sure he recognizes me as one of the same species!”

“So if it isn’t the hospital, what is it? You’re alright for rent and such?” Patrick reached into his jacket pocket.

“No, no, Dad, money’s fine. Not pouring out of my pockets, but I’m quite flush at the moment. I’ve been saving, actually. Have to if I want to ever-
A large teapot appeared before them. “Nothing like strong tea to get a meal started,” Mr. Swanson’s voice rumbled. “Plates will be up in just a few moments.”

The interruption seemed to change Timothy’s direction. He swallowed nervously as if making a decision. Finally, he asked, “Dad, how did you do it? One day we were just us two, and the next we were chasing after Mum. I know the story, the letters and all that, but how did it even happen in the first place?”

Patrick Turner sat back in his seat, surprised. After a moment he answered, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, son. How did what happen? Mum called me from the sanitorium, and we went to go get her.”

“I know, but what made her call? The letters? Why did you write her to begin with?”

Patrick stared at his son, his discomposure showing in his face. “I wrote to her because I had to, I suppose.”

“But she was a nun. How did you dare?”

A small smile lifted one corner of his father’s mouth. “I’m not sure I was as daring as you think, Tim. I wrote to her first to apologize for something I’d done, something I shouldn’t have. I was afraid that in my foolishness I had given her more to worry about, that I had done something that could get in the way of her recovery. I wanted to try to be her friend.” His smile widened. “I never expected my letters to have the effect they did.”

Sounds from the kitchen filled the room as Tim absorbed his father’s words. “You’d done something that might have upset her?” He hadn’t considered that possibility.

“Yes.” Patrick’s face grew serious again. “I did something I had no right to do, and I…I wanted to make it right. It was supposed to be only one letter, you know. I was going to apologize, and leave it at that.”

“But Mum never answered your letters. Why did you keep writing?” Timothy leaned over the table.

“I was lonely, and it helped, I think. It was like I was talking to her. We’d never talked much, mostly over patients, but a few times…” Patrick sighed, fidgeting with the handle of his mug. “Writing to her helped me to understand how I felt, what I wanted.”

Timothy’s face flushed. “That’s the thing, Dad. You kept writing all those months, even when you didn’t think Mum was even reading your letters.”

“I had to, son. I needed to say how I felt, even if nothing ever came of it.”

A long moment of silence built up between them, broken only by the clatter of plates and cutlery. Father and son sat quietly as the import of this conversation made itself understood.

“I knew I loved her, and though I didn’t think she could return my feelings, I had to tell her.”

“But if you thought nothing could come of it, why do it? Why make yourself…vulnerable like that?” Tim shook his head. “I…I just don’t think I could do that, Dad.”

The two men sat at the table, neither speaking, each considering Tim’s words.

Mr. Swanson appeared at their table and set two platefuls designed to make an Englishman proud before them. In silence, he pulled bottles of brown sauce and ketchup from his apron pocket and placed them on the table, then turned away.

With quick strides, Mr. Swanson returned to their table, his brows low in his face. “Under normal circumstances, I would never meddle in a person’s private life. The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. But I must say this: there is no shame in declaring how you feel to a person you cherish, young sir. Real love is never an embarrassment; it is an honor and a privilege to be loved by someone. Forgive me for intervening. I only did so because I feared your meal would grow cold, and it would be a terrible thing to waste such an opportunity for culinary satisfaction.

“Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have thirty pounds of bacon that requires smoking.”

And with that sudden pronouncement, he returned to his kitchen.

Father and son stared at each other, eyebrows to the sky.

“Eat!” came a shout from behind the hatch.

It was better to follow his order, and both tucked into their mammoth piles of food. Perhaps it was the bacon, or maybe it was just the time they let their thoughts percolate through their brains, but soon both men were at ease again. Patrick took a piece of his fried bread and sopped up gravy from his plate.

“Remember, don’t tell your mother I do this,” he winked.

“Do what?” Tim asked, mirroring his father’s actions.

Full and content, Patrick sat back in his chair and glanced around the now crowded room. “He’s right, you know, Tim. Even if your mother hadn’t returned my feelings, I still would have been glad I told her. Loving her has made me a better man.”

Timothy’s face was serious. “I always though unrequited love was supposed to be so miserable. I never thought just to love someone might be enough. I’m glad, Dad. I’m more glad she said yes, of course.” For just a moment, he looked eleven again.

Patrick grinned back at his son, holding his mug up in a toast. “Me, too, son. Me too.”

***   ***

The walk back to the car passed in companionable silence. The riverfront was quiet now, all the dock workers gone home, and they stopped along the embankment to enjoy the relative quiet.

Breathing deeply, Patrick turned away from his son. “You didn’t come by in the middle of the week just to talk about old times, Tim. You’ve been distracted for weeks now. What’s on your mind, son?”

Timothy rolled his eyes. Dad’s tricks were never subtle. He shifted nervously, his knee against the railing. “I’m not sure…I just needed some advice, that’s all. You and mum are so right for each other, but it amazes me you ended up together at all. There were so many obstacles. For Pete’s sake, she was a nun, Dad!”

Patrick crossed his arms and leant back, looking up at the early stars. “It was just meant to be, I suppose. We had a chance, and we took it.” He pushed off the railing and turned to the river. “I thank God every day we did.”

“And you weren’t scared? Putting it all on the line like that?” Timothy’s face was tight.

“Terrified. That drive in the mist was the longest trip I’ve ever taken. What if I’d misunderstood?” He glanced over at his son. “I had to do it, Tim. I couldn’t not do it.

Is it a girl, Tim? Someone you care about?” Patrick held his breath.

Long moments went by before Timothy nodded. “Yes. She’s a nurse, Children’s Ward. We’ve worked several cases together, but I…”

“You don’t know how she feels.”

Timothy sighed heavily, nodding his head. “I’ve never really liked anyone like this, Dad. All the girls I’ve dated have been friends, really. Nothing really special.” He paused for a moment. “This one’s different. I don’t know how. I don’t know what even makes her different. I just know she is.”

Patrick looked across the river thoughtfully. “Here’s what I know, Tim. Don’t look for the girl you want to be with; look for the one you can’t bear to be without. That’s the one. That’s the girl for you.”

Tim let out a rueful laugh. “I’m probably just wasting my time. She probably doesn’t think about me that way at all.”

It was time to lighten the mood. Patrick reached out and tousled his son’s hair. “I’m not so sure about that, son. You’re a pretty good catch, I’d say. Your mum says so all the time.”

“Dad!” Timothy groused, embarrassed.

Patrick laughed. His head tilted to the side as he advised, “You’ll never know unless you try. It’s like Mr. Swanson said. There’s no shame in telling someone you care. Wise words, son.”

Four days later, Patrick sat at the kitchen table, crossword in hand, his forehead was furrowed in concentration. One more clue and he’d beat Shelagh to the finish.

“Patrick,” she said as she returned from the hallway. “That was Timothy on the telephone. He called to say he was bringing someone to dinner tonight, and that he was sorry for the short notice.” She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. “He told me to blame you.”

Her husband’s eyes grew wide and his eyebrows climbed to his hairline. Then he started to laugh. Standing, he reached for his wife. “Sweetheart, you should sit down. I’ve got something to tell you…”

 

 

Alarm Clocks

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7

Author’s Note: According to the International Kettle Scale, where one kettle means Turnadette Canon Series 1-3, and five means “No, there’s no reason for why I’m flushed, why do you ask?”, I would place this at a four, largely because of what I haven’t written.

I’m not tagging this is any way, and the post itself may disappear.

***   ***

Shelagh could feel herself slowly wake. She liked a slow wake-up; alarm clocks were dreadful things. Each morning at Nonnatus, there had been a low, slow chime from an old clock on the hall to wake the nuns for Lauds. She remembered how she could count the low chimes each morning, slowly waking by the fifth and final bong.

The sound of bells was long gone, however, replaced by the low rumble of Patrick’s breath. Not quite a snore-fortunately that happened only when he was exhausted-but more than the quiet sussing she expected.

A smile spread slowly across her face as she listened. By the sound of it, Patrick was still deeply asleep.

Content, she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of fresh cotton sheets, feather pillows, and her husband. She turned to her side and pressed her body along his length ever so slightly. Left on his own, Patrick would not wake soon, but perhaps she could coax him along.

How far she’d come, she thought. Just over a year ago she’d been so reticent. But Patrick had been patient and gentle with her as she learned to relax and helped her to freely enjoy the love between a husband and wife.

In the early days, Shelagh was shy, happy to give her husband her body, and indeed feel the pleasures he showed her. He touched her in ways that coaxed stirrings from her she had never expected. She had followed, naïve and unaware. She hadn’t known that there were things she could do, ways to give Patrick pleasure as well.

That understanding had come slowly, and, if she was honest with herself, might never have come at all if they hadn’t suffered that lonely estrangement. Those painful days when she worried that she had misunderstood so much, that perhaps her dreams were built upon sand. Truth be told, their unhappy time showed them that while they loved each other, they had to learn to trust in each other fully to let that love grow.

Her smiled changed, and took on a knowing look. A year ago Shelagh would have been afraid to reach out for Patrick as he slept, afraid to initiate the contact her body craved.

For she did crave her husband’s touch. In the short minutes she’d been awake, Shelagh wanted her husband.

Gently, she pressed her nose against his back and nuzzled the area between his shoulder blades. He smelled good, a combination of soap from his bath the night before and something particularly Patrick.

Careful not to wake him yet, she very slowly slid her hands under his shirt, barely skimming the smooth plane of his back. She felt her passion for him bloom and stretched her legs to reach down as far along his as she could reach and pressed her hips against him.

His male body felt so very different from hers. His skin was rough where hers was smooth, his limbs longer and heavier than hers. Even the coarse hairs on his forearms and legs thrilled her. They were different as a wheel and cog, but fit just as perfectly together.

Her one hand pressed to his back, she slid the other around to caress his waist, then his abdomen. She loved how his flesh was soft there, just a bit; an unfortunate visual sign, he complained, of his contentment. But she loved that she was the only one that knew of it, another sign of their intimacy, and she glided her fingertips across its surface.

Patrick stirred in his sleep, and she could feel his body start to respond to her touch before his mind did. Should she feel guilty, touching him without his participation? To be fair to him she would delay her ultimate goal until he was fully aware, but she could speed up the wakening process.

Finding a gap between his legs just below his knees, she used her toes to make a space for her foot and was rewarded by a change in his breathing. Soon he would be fully awake. Her hand pressed into his skin, moving up to his heart.

“Patrick?” She whispered as she pressed a kiss to his back. She could feel his lungs fill with air, and after a gentle press to his chest, slid her hands lower.

“Should I stop?” She murmured, certain of her answer.

Still only half awake, Patrick groaned as his body tightened in response.

“Should I stop?” She whispered again, this time letting her hand slip just beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

“Shelagh,” he responded, his voice husky.

This was theirs, this giving and taking. No one else would know the secrets of their marriage bed, the joy they shared there.

“I’ll assume that means permission granted,” she teased.

Later, when other senses began to reawaken, Shelagh could hear her husband’s heart pound beneath her ear, its gradual return to normal. She could taste the salt on her lips as she pressed them above that heart as it slowed to its normal rhythm.

Patrick’s hand caressed her shoulder, his thumb making slow circles against her soft skin.

“I certainly like you better than my old alarm clock,” he told her.

“Alarm clock?” Shelagh wondered aloud. “Dreadful things.”

 

The Tale of the Guard’s Armour, or Patrick Tells a Story

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12

By the look of things, an outside viewer would never have guessed that it was nearly bedtime at the Turner home. Every lamp was lit and music blared from the phonograph player. The supper dishes sat piled in the sink, greasy newspapers from the chip shop covered the table, and a basket of laundry sat in the hallway. Perhaps most extraordinary of all was the winding row of dominos that snaked through the entire sitting room.

While this same observer might not recognize the evening routine, they could be certain of one thing: Mrs. Turner was not at home.

“Please, Daddy, please let me put the last one down,” cajoled the junior member of the construction crew. “I’ve been so patient. Please?”

Patrick Turner lay on the floor, his legs at awkward angles so as to not disturb the tiled masterpiece. His chin was pressed to the floor, and one eye was squinted shut. “I’ll tell you what, sweetheart. Let me set the last one, and when we’ve both moved you can start the show. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Patrick finished placing the tile and gingerly rose to his feet with a groan. “I might pay for that tomorrow,” he muttered. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the serpentine that had taken over the room. With a satisfied smile, he clapped his hands together enthusiastically and announced, “Ready, Angela?”

“Ready, Dad!”Angela deftly tiptoed over to her father. She held out her hand.

“Good luck, Dad,” she smiled.

“Good luck, Angela,” and they dramatically shook hands.

“Drum roll, please, Dad.”

And with the roll of an imaginary snare drum, she sent the first tile down.

All sounds in the house muted but for the click of tiles hitting each other as the line collapsed in slow-motion. The two engineers held their breath, silent prayers going up that the line would collapse uninterrupted.

A mere ten seconds later, every tile was down, and Angela and her father could breathe once more.

“We did it!” the excited six year old cried. “It worked! Just like when Timmy did it! Every tile!”

Patrick grinned, shaking his head. “Every tile! Angela Turner, you may be a domino genius! Wait until we tell Mummy!”

“Oh, poor Mummy. She didn’t get to see. Should we set them up for when she gets home from her class tonight?”

Patrick squinted his eyes as he shook his head with certainty. “No, not tonight, sweetie. In fact, we’d better get these cleaned up right now. It’s nearly bedtime.” Patrick knelt to begin the clean-up. Angela watched, her mouth screwed up in disinterest. “Come on, you,” her father ordered. “You promised, and I’ve got a lot to do before Mummy gets home and sees this disaster. So if you want to read a story tonight…”

Angela sighed heavily, but she knew he was right. If Mummy were to come home to this mess, she might start bringing her to class to be used as a model. “Alright. But its always more fun to make the mess than clean up.”

Half an hour later, the dominos were put away, chip wrappers cleaned up and dishes were washed.

“Not quite up to Mummy’s standards, but it’ll do,” Patrick said. “Now go get ready for bed while I finish up. And pick out a short story tonight. It’s late.”

“Daddy,” Angela pleaded. Her eyes were round as she looked up at her beloved playmate.

Out of necessity Patrick had built up some defenses against his daughter’s wiles. “Don’t even try the big eyes and pout with me, Miss. Short story or no story. Now, get!”

When Patrick came to the doorway of her room, Angela was still in front of her bookshelf, an intent expression that called to mind his wife.“I can’t decide. We’ve read all the storybooks.”

Pushing off from the doorjamb, Patrick asked, “How about we read another chapter from “The Wind in the Willows?” He picked up the tattered copy. Tim had loved that one as a young boy.

“No, not in the mood.” She twisted her hips, making her pink nightie swing.

“So what are you in the mood for, then?”

Angela’s eyes lit up. “You tell me a story, Daddy. Tell me the misty road story.” She climbed up on her bed and slipped under the yellow butterfly quilt.

Patrick’s brows drew together in confusion. “The misty road story? How do you know that story?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Mummy tells me that story all the time. It’s my favorite.” This time, her big eyes did their magic. “Please, Daddy, tell me the misty road story. You remember it, I know you do.”

Patrick rubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath. “Yes, I remember it.” His face softened as the images of that long ago day came to mind.

“See, Daddy, you know it. Just tell me the parts you remember. I’ll fill in everything you forget.”

A laugh burst from his chest. “Oh, you will, will you? Alright, then, scoot over. Make room.”

He sat his length along the bed and Angela snuggled her way under his arm, her head resting against his chest. “I’m ready.”

“Well, then, where does Mummy begin?”

“Mummy begins with Mummy’s story. About how she got sick and decided to change her life so she could be happy. You know, Daddy. I’m sure she’s told you. But you should tell me your story”

Patrick kissed her hair. “Yes, she’s told me. So I just tell you my story?”

“Yes. And don’t forget the part where Timmy was hanging out the car window.” Angela was not going to let any detail slip.

“Noted.” He paused, thinking of where to start. “Alright. Tim and I were in the car, driving to bring Mummy home from the-”

Angela sat up and looked her father in the eye. “Daddy, you have to start at the beginning. That’s nearly the end.”

Patrick’s eyebrows came down in confusion. “I’m not sure how to do this, sweetheart.”

“Daddy, it’s easy. Just think for minute. I can wait.”

Patrick considered. He’d never really told this story to another person. In the beginning, when he had to share the change in his life to family and friends, he kept to the basic facts. The details of the story were too precious to broadcast to the world. But this wasn’t the world he would share his tale with, this was his daughter, who apparently already knew more than he thought.

He glanced around the room, hoping to either find inspiration, or to delay long enough for Angela to fall asleep. Truth to tell, he was a little uncomfortable sharing these emotions aloud. His eyes fell upon the stack of Angela’s favorite fairy tales, and he smiled as an idea started to form in his head. He wondered if Angela would let him get away with this.

“Once upon a time-” he began.

“In a kingdom called Poplar,” Angela chimed in.

“Angel Girl, who is supposed to be telling this story?”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Angela replied, stifling a yawn.

“Well then,” Patrick continued,

Once upon a time, in a land called Poplar, there lived a man and his son. The man was a special guard for the kingdom. It was his job to protect the people from enchantments.

“Oh, evil enchantments!”

“No, not evil enchantments,” Patrick contradicted. “Just…sad.”

He would cross the kingdom each day, giving out potions that would help to bring gladness to the land.

This was a very difficult job, but the King’s Guard was fortunate that there were others to help. In a hidden corner of the kingdom, there lived a family of Fairies. These Fairies were kind and good and beautiful, and they would fly from home to home offering peace and compassion to all those who needed it.

“Did they have wings?” Angela asked.

“Yes. Pretty wings, like a butterfly. They wore blue dresses and had wings of pink and gold.”

“I think I know who the fairies are. Daddy.”

“Well, don’t spoil it for me. May I continue, Miss?

The Guard was very grateful for their help, because each day, the sadness seemed to spread through the kingdom. Each day he saw sickness and pain and wondered if the enchantments would one day take over the entire land. Each day the Guard grew sadder and sadder.

Little did the Guard know, but a sad enchantment was taking hold of him. First, he lost the ability to laugh, and soon he could not smile. The kingdom became darker and greyer. One day, the Guard noticed something strange. Instead of his ordinary robes, he was wearing a suit of armour.

He tried to remove the armour, it would not release. The enchantment was complete.

For a long time, the Guard continued his duties, and felt grateful for the armour. No longer did the sadness of the land touch him. He was safe from the gloom.

But the Guard had a son, a young boy who loved to laugh and play. The boy watched his father lock himself away in his suit of armour, and the boy grew sad, too.

The Fairies saw this, and they worried. The Guard would disappear behind the armour one day they feared, and the gloom would rule the land. The fairies conferred about their fears, but could not solve the problem.

There was one fairy that watched most closely. The smallest of the Fairies, she was gentle and lovely and kindest of them all. She watched the Guard and set out to help.

The littlest Fairy began to follow the Guard on his visits. Together, they worked to ease the suffering they saw. Over time, they grew to be friends.

The Guard began to notice how very heavy his armour was. It grew more and more difficult to lift his arms to hold his son, or to help an old woman or do a kindness. Worst of all, the Guard realized that while the armour could keep the sadness from the world out, it was no protection from the pain in his own heart.

The Guard had grown to love the Littlest Fairy, and knew the armour would keep her away from him. Time passed, and the Guard continued to help the kingdom, and was grateful just to be near the Littlest Fairy.  Then one day, when he was busy helping another, an enchantment took the littlest Fairy away.

“Oh, Daddy, this is sad.”

“Yes, it is sad. But let’s wait for the ending to see.”

The Guard was beside himself with worry. As he travelled about the kingdom, he called for her, but had no response. If the littlest Fairy wanted him to save her, she would answer. His armour grew heavier He went home to find his son waiting for him.

“Father,” the boy called. “I’ve heard the littlest Fairy calling. I know where she is.”

“My boy, the Fairy does not want us to find her. I have frightened her with my suit of armour.”

But the boy was determined. “Father, you must listen again.”

The Guard closed his eyes and listened with all his heart. He stopped listening to the creaks and groans of the armour, to the sounds of others seeking his aid. He listened only for the littlest Fairy.

Slowly, he could hear the littlest Fairy calling his name, and his armour was pierced.

The Guard and his boy climbed upon the horse and rode for days to the farthest reaches of the kingdom, through the misty fields and forests, as her voice grew stronger. The boy stood behind his father, urging him on, shouting for her, when suddenly, the mist cleared, and standing before them was the littlest Fairy.

The Guard jumped down from his horse and stumbled towards her. With each step he grew more sure, as pieces of his armour fell to the ground, until finally, the Guard stood before the littlest fairy.

The littlest fairy nodded. “There. We’ve made a start.”

The end.

“I knew Mummy was the little Fairy, Daddy, “ Angela assured him as she tried to stifle a yawn.

“Yes, you’re very smart, Angel Girl.” He shifted from the bed and reached over her to tuck her in. “Did you like my story? Enough mist for you?” He bent to press a kiss to her forehead as he pulled the covers up tight.

“Yes.” the little girl rolled to her side, settling in with her cuddly. Sighing, she said as she drifted off, “I think Mummy liked it, too.”

Surprised, Patrick looked up and saw his wife in the doorway. “Shelagh. How long have you been there?”

Shelagh smiled and wrapped her arms around his waist. “From the very start, dearest.”