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…”