Monthly Archives: September 2015

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Three

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Shelagh turns to an old friend for some advice.

Special thanks to Rockbird86 and Soph25388 for their help translating my American English into Cockney Fred.

Chapter One   Chapter Two

The large open space of the Poplar Community Centre was never more necessary than at the bi-weekly Mother and Baby clinic. Every chair was filled, every toy in hand. After several long, crowded hours, the roar died down, until it only remained for the exhausted staff to prepare for the next one.

Shelagh sat primly at her desk, organizing the last of the files. Despite the controlled chaos and mayhem of the crowded clinic, she seemed as serene as ever. If perhaps she was a bit quieter than usual, no one seemed to notice. She looked up as Fred Buckle, solid and sure, approached the intake desk, tool box in hand.

“Greetings, Fred, we’re so very glad you could come by and help today.” Shelagh stood and placed a long, thin box on the desk. The height charts Patrick had ordered months ago had finally arrived.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Turner. Little bit of a job’ll take me no time at all.” Huffing, he glanced about the hall. “Have a special spot in mind?” he asked.

Shelagh turned and gestured to the corner behind her. “Yes, actually, we’ll need to put them up near the weighing station, but I’m afraid Nurse Franklin is still working there for the moment. Why don’t you go fix yourself a cup of tea, and we can get to work in a few moments?”

“Right you are, Mrs. T. Back in two shakes.” He dropped the toolbox next the desk and sauntered happily to the kitchen.

Shelagh turned back to her files and closed up the typewriter. In no time, the Community Center was a blank slate, ready for Youth Club, Historical Society or even a dance.

Patrick approached Shelagh, his coat draped over his arm, medical bag in his grip. “I’m afraid there’s a backlog of paperwork at the maternity hospital. I’ll need to go back there straight away if I’m ever going to get on top of it. I can drop you at home now if you’re ready to leave, Shelagh.” His eyes darted nervously towards the nurses on their way out past the desk.

Shelagh’s face stiffened almost imperceptibly as she turned away from her husband. “Good afternoon, ladies, that was very well managed today. Fifty-seven patients in four hours. It might be a new record,” she called after the younger women. Her voice lowered, and without looking back at Patrick, she continued, “I won’t be ready to go for another while, I’m afraid. I’ve asked Fred to install the new growth charts you ordered. You go on ahead. I’ll get myself home.”

On cue, Fred wandered back out of the kitchen, a green teacup in his hand and biscuit crumbs clinging to his sweater.

Extending the white coat to his wife, Patrick responded, “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m quite sure. I’ll finish up with Fred and walk home. I can take care of myself, certainly. Will you be home for dinner?” The coat was neatly folded and placed in the bag set for the laundry.

Patrick looked away, and shrugged into his dark jacket. “I’ll be late. Just leave a plate warming for me. I’ll be fine on my own tonight.” With a quick glance at the handyman, Patrick made a quick farewell and was gone.

Shelagh seemed to deflate as she watched her husband leave the centre. Fred clapped his hands together, then rubbed them together. “Well then, Mrs. Turner, just like the good old days, innit? I await your command!”

Shelagh smiled weakly and led him to the back corner of the hall. “Right here, if you please, Fred. I’ll help you measure and you can put the growth chart in its proper place. We’ll have to be very precise. The National Health has very strict guidelines on units of measurement.”

Years of working together on odd repairs at Nonnatus had created an understanding between the two. Exchanging few words, Shelagh marked the measurements whilst Fred settled the chart in place. With his other hand he took the nail from his teeth and began to tap it into place.

“You and the doctor having a bit of a barney?” he asked, his eyes on the chart.

Shelagh’s eyes flew to him, her face pale with surprise. She sought excuses, but could think of none. Finally, she asked quietly, “Were we that obvious?”

Fred turned back, his face full of compassion. “The others, they didn’t see it,” he reassured her. “I’ve been married, remember. I know the signs. Polite enough to meet the Queen, not really looking at each other, oh, all the tell-tale hints.” He reached into his pocket for another nail. “I loved my wife, none better, but we could throw down something fierce. Stayed angry for days sometimes, not speak more than three words altogether. Then somefink’d happen and we’d remember what we were together for.”

Shelagh pressed her lips together in confusion. Part of her wanted to end this conversation quickly. She knew dear Fred meant well, but it really wasn’t anyone’s business. She was sure that Patrick would not want her discussing their private affairs with someone else.

The handyman reached into his toolbox for a small spirit guide. Shelagh knew he would put no pressure on her to continue. Patrick might not want her to talk with Fred, but she needed to speak with someone. This rift with her husband had her thoughts in a tangle. In a quiet voice, Shelagh confided, “We’ve never fought before; we don’t even bicker.” The crease between her eyebrows deepened.

“‘Course you don’t. You’re newlyweds. On yer best behavior, ain’t ya?” He turned around, giving his attention to the wall chart. “You and the doc, yer still gettin’ to know each other. A year ago, where were you? Still Sister Bernadette, in that sanatorium, and now look at ya. A wife and mother, livin’ a whole new life. That’s a long way to come in a twelvemonth.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t know him at all, Fred. I thought…” She breathed heavily, a catch in her voice. “He knows all there is to me, and  there’s still so much he’s never told me.”

Fred scratched the back of his head, a look of concentration on his face. “Is there? I reckon there are plenty of things you haven’t said, neither. It’s alright. Things take time. Yer still gettin’ to know each other.”

The anger she had quelled throughout the day with busy activity began to grow again. “But he should have told me. That’s what hurts so, Fred. He didn’t care enough or-or trust me enough to share something with me, something that really matters, something that could change everything we ever wanted. And now he wants me to pretend it never happened.”

Finished with the wall chart, the large man turned his attention to his toolbox. After a few moments, he began, “I want you to consider this. It took a rare courage to leave your old life behind, start fresh with Dr. Turner. You think he doesn’t trust you? Fiddle. That man knows your worth more’n anyone.

“There’s a reason he didn’t tell you somefink. I’m not sayin’ he was right, but I know, and you know that your husband is the best of men. And men want to be the hero, even if it’s just for their lady. Especially for their lady.”

“I didn’t marry Patrick because I needed him to be my hero, Fred.” Frustrated by the tears that began to fall, she pulled a handkerchief from her bag.

He smiled wisely. “No, it’s been my experience few ladies do. That doesn’t stop us from wantin’ to be one, though, does it? The important thing is to let the bad feelings go. Me and the missus never had a fight where we both weren’t to blame.”

Shelagh glanced away, ashamed. She had pushed all responsibility for this mess in Patrick’s corner. Patrick had not spoken, true. But had she listened?

“You just bide yer time, madam. You’ll soon remember what you’re together for.” The toolbox snapped closed loudly. “And then you’ll be stronger for it. Mark my words.”

On the steps outside the entrance, Shelagh thanked her old friend for his help.

Fred shook off the gratitude. “My pleasure. Always like to help things measure up.” He started down the steps, then turned back.

“One more thing, Mrs Turner. If you don’t ever fight, you don’t get to make up. And I have to tell ya, the makin’ up’s the best part.” With a tip of his hat, Fred the Handyman went on his way.

 

Chapter 4

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Two

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When the hot blaze of anger goes, it becomes a cold ache.

Shelagh’s probably never had a fight before, don’t you think? Not a real drag-out, emotional battlefield kind of fight, anyway. Love is a risk. Marriage is hard.

It’s a good thing she’s brave.

Here’s a link to Chapter One, ICYMI.

Chapter Two

Shelagh returned from her outing worn and exhausted. For the first time since her days at the sanatorium, she collapsed on the bed in the middle of the day and slept. It was only the sound of Timothy at the door of the flat that finally woke her.

Timothy stood at the sitting room table as she entered the kitchen, her fingers tucking in a stray lock of hair.

“Did you take a nap?” he asked, confused.

She kept her face from him as she went to the sink. “Yes. It’s been a demanding week. I thought a quick doze might prepare me for when you need help with your maths.” Her joke was meant to distract him. Timothy was quite proud of his quick maths skills. She lifted the kettle, eager to avoid his curious eyes. “I’ll start the tea.”

“But you never nap. You like to brag that even when you were a midwife, you could stay all night at a delivery and last the whole day through.” He began to pile his school books on the table.

“Books after tea, Timothy. And I hope I never brag.” She came around the side door. “Here,” she handed him the brown paper sack.

Peering into it, Timothy wondered, “Chocolate? What’s this for?”

“No reason. I thought perhaps you might like a treat, to say thank you for all you’ve done for us these last weeks.” As soon as she said the words, Shelagh felt a stirring in the back of her mind. Clamping it down, she went back to put the kettle on. “Your father’s on call at the maternity hospital, so it’ll be just us two tonight. I thought maybe we’d go and try that new restaurant over near the tube station.”

“The Indian place? I’m not sure. I’ve never tried it. None of my friends have tried it.”

“Neither have I, but it’s always a good idea to keep your mind open to new things. If you really don’t like it we’ll stop and get you some fish and chips after.”

“We wouldn’t try it if Dad were at home,” Timothy said with a smirk.

Shelagh was glad her back was to the boy. “Well, you’re father is perfectly able to get himself his own dinner tonight.” The sharpness had returned to her voice, and she could feel the acrimony return. Timothy was always quick to pick up on her feelings. It wouldn’t do for him to suspect there was something wrong. Shelagh brightened. “If we really like it, then we can try and convince him to join us next time.”

“Not much chance of that. In case you haven’t noticed, Dad’s a bit of a stodgy old man. He doesn’t like change much.”

Before Shelagh could respond, Tim interrupted. “I know, don’t say it. You’re sure you don’t know what I’m talking about

“One last one, I promise. What’s the longest word in the alphabet?”

Shelagh pretended an exasperation she didn’t feel. For a few hours, she had been able to lock away any unsettling thoughts.  “Oh, alright. I don’t know. What is the longest word in the alphabet?”

“Smiles.”

Shelagh stared blankly at the boy. “ I don’t get it, Timothy. How-”

“Because there’s a mile between each ‘S!”

Shelagh groaned. “For that one, you’ll have to do the washing up tonight.”

Timothy grinned widely. “I wish it were as easy every night!” The greasy newspaper wrappings crackled loudly as he crumbled them into a ball then threw them onto the bin. “Even the tea things?” he asked, keeping up the pretense of frustration.

“Oh, your poor thing. Go on with you. I’ll do the washing up. Be sure to put your jumper out for me to wash. I’m not sure if curry stains, so I’d better get to that tonight. I’ll come to say good night in a bit.”

Without Timothy’s cheery voice, the kitchen became quiet very quickly. Ordinary sounds were magnified. The screech of the ironing board’s legs, the thud of the heavy cord as it fell to the floor seemed to echo in the empty sitting room.  Shelagh could feel her discomfort start to grow again. But the hours spent with her son had changed things.

The alarming resentment she carried throughout the day had dissipated. leaving a dull tension in her middle. She still couldn’t understand why Patrick had kept such a thing from her. He had kept a big part of himself from her, carried a secret that must have been separating them all this time.

She wasn’t as naive as he thought. She’d worked closely enough alongside the families of Poplar this last ten years to know that married couples fought. She’d always been surprised by the animosity that could spring up between two people that loved each other, then ease away back into marital harmony.

Whatever was happening between her and Patrick, it barely resembled those loud arguments. A flash of an unexpected temper had burst from her, met only by his withdrawal, both physical and emotional. Could they even call this a fight?  

Timothy’s door stood ajar, his sign that he was ready for bed. The boy was beginning to become a young man, and she was careful of his privacy. A gentle rap on the door jamb was answered by his call to enter.

“I don’t think it’s such a stain, you’re a whiz at laundry.” Timothy gestured to the soiled jumper. He climbed into his bed, adjusting the pillow into the funny lump he preferred. “Colin says his mother can never get the collars right, says his parents argue about it all the time.”

She drew a finger down his cheek, then tweaked his ear. “No telling tales, Timothy dear. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Monk wouldn’t want to hear their business gossiped about in the play yard. Married people are bound to argue over something sometime. You and Colin have arguments, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. But they never last long.”

“There, you see? Things blow over.” She smoothed the blanket over him. “Now get some sleep. And dream of maharaji and the Taj Mahal.”

The door clicked quietly behind her, and she wondered about their chat. Childhood spats with friends seemed to be quite ordinary, but she couldn’t remember having many. Even at Nonnatus she had avoided getting involved in petty arguments. For years she had put it down to strong diplomatic skills. They had unquestionably come in handy living with Sister Monica Joan.

The iron hot, Shelagh reached into the laundry basket for the first of the ironing and stretched out one of Patrick’s shirts on the board. She dampened the fabric and began to press it smooth. A cloud of starchy steam puffed up, filling her nose with its scent. Tears welled up as she was flooded with memories of Patrick’s arms about her, her face pressed to this same shirt.

Roughly, she rubbed the tears away. She was tired of these unsettling feelings. Patrick had lied to her, and their chance for a new baby seemed but a pipe dream. She wouldn’t back down in a wave of sentiment. She was a full partner in this marriage, for better or worse, and would not shrink away to be considered anything else. Perhaps there was something else to consider. For so much of her life she had lived vicariously through the community she served, always on the periphery, never in the middle of things. She was certainly in the thick of things now.

Diplomacy would not be the solution.

 

Chapter 3

The Thing That Matters, Chapter One

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As usual, we have to imagine for ourselves how Patrick and Shelagh find their way. Between that awful interview with Mrs. Litchcroft and their reconciliation, we’re given only a handful of short scenes with very little dialogue. Here’s my take on that difficult time.

Chapter One

Shelagh pulled the last of the laundered shirts from the wash tub, her morning following its usual pattern. Routine centered her. As a nun, the repeated daily ritual of prayer and service had for a very long time provided tranquility and peace of mind. Then, after she emerged from her wilderness of the soul, ready to enter a new life, she discovered that a new routine could be just as much a part of that serenity.

This morning, she found no such harmony in her daily chores. Despite all her efforts, Shelagh could not force the memory of last night’s interview to the back of her brain. Still stunned by its disastrous outcome, she found it difficult to remember exactly what had happened. Only impressions of moments came to her mind, disconnected images and words that jeopardized the life she thought she was living.

Last night, her dreams came tumbling down around her ears. The adoption interview quickly shifted from a pleasant formality to a devastating revelation of secrets. Shelagh’s heart clenched as the terrible words came back to her: Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital.

She snapped a shirt in the air, uncaring of the droplets that sprayed her clean walls. Had Patrick ever intended to tell her of his time there? What other secrets was he keeping from her?

Anger rose in Shelagh’s heart. After she had confronted him, Patrick had fled the flat, not to return until late in the evening, long after his wife and son had retired. This morning, few words were exchanged, no real attempts at communication were made.

“He think’s I’m a child,” Shelagh told herself angrily as she hung her husband’s shirts to dry. “Not a partner, not an equal.” She roughly shaped the collar. “He doesn’t trust me!” Bitter tears stung her eyes, refusing to be shed.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, building up an energy that needed to be released. The washing was done quickly, too quickly, and Shelagh searched for something to occupy her hands, and by extension, her thoughts. The preparations for the interview left little to be done, and she glared at the pristine flat.

She had to get out. She glanced down at her comfortable dress and apron and made a decision. She would get out of the house, even if just to do the shopping. If Patrick could avoid their home, then so could she.

In their bedroom, her eyes avoided his side of the bed. She hadn’t needed to do much to make the bed this morning. Anger had kept her still in her sleepless state, and Patrick must have found his rest on the sofa.

Her grey suit would do. She felt very in control in the grey suit. Dressed, her hair in its controlled updo, she automatically reached for her jewelry box for a brooch. Her fingers stopped, and she snapped it closed. There would be no need for jewelry today.

 

Polished heels clicked sharply against the pavement as Shelagh briskly walked to the shops. Timothy needed some more pencils, and the boy seemed to lose at least a pair of socks a week. He was so very helpful, perhaps she would surprise him with a chocolate bar when he returned from school.

Part of her mind reviewed Patrick’s requests in the past few days. No, there was nothing pressing he needed, and she tried to dismiss him from her mind. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she decided. She was not an errand-girl, there to fetch and care for him. Let him get his own things.

The bell tinkled as she stepped into the corner shop. The early morning rush was over, and the proprietor, always an admirer of the lovely Mrs. Turner, had a moment to spend.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Turner! Always a pleasure to see you. How may I be of assistance today?” His eyes were clever and used the moment she turned to the news racks to admire her figure.

“I’ll need some pencils and a bar of that chocolate. The big one, if you please.” Her purse clicked open.

“As you wish, Mrs. Turner. I saw that Timothy of yours the other day. He’ll be startin’ to sprout any day now.” The newsagent leaned over the counter. “I must say, Mrs. Turner, that boy’s lucky to have you. All that nasty stuff in the past, he’s as right as rain now. Well done.”

Shelagh blushed. “Why…thank you, Mr. Morris. We’re very proud of Timothy, he’s worked so terribly hard.”

“And he couldn’t have done it without you. Dr. Turner, neither. Never saw a man so changed for the better in so little time.”

At the sound of Patrick’s name, Shelagh felt herself stiffen again and the sense of dread in her gut re-awakened.

“Would you be wantin’ a packet of cigarettes for Dr. Turner, then ma’am?” Mr. Morris snapped open a paper sack.

“No.” Shelagh heard the sharpness to her voice. This wouldn’t do, she thought. She mustn’t behave as if she weren’t in control of her feelings. “No, thank you, Mr. Morris. No cigarettes today.”

The sky was too bright when she stepped from the dim shop, forcing Shelagh to squint to see. She turned away from home and walked towards the river. The news agent’s words rang in her ears. No. She didn’t want to think of how Patrick needed her.

Indeed.

Of course he needed her. She ran his home, she supported him, she took care of him so that he could focus on his own concerns.

She was the perfect footrest. And then, at the end of the day, if he cared to show her some attention, she was content to give him what he wanted.

It was her job to make sure Patrick was happy and she was very good at her job.

She pressed her lips together in frustration. She didn’t ask for much. She certainly didn’t ask for the trinkets and gewgaws he bought for her. A sunflower brooch, how ridiculous! She was from Scotland, not Spain, for heaven’s sake. A thistle would’ve been a better choice. At the time, she’d been touched by his words of explanation: “You’re like the sun to me, my love.”

He was just giving her a treat, a shiny object to keep her happy. How had she been so wrong?

The pavement took her to the quay’s edge and she leant against the rails. The closeness she thought they shared now seemed so very shallow. Clearly, Patrick did not have faith in her. He cared for her, he even loved her, but he was not prepared to share himself with her. To have left such a thing untold, to have kept such a part of him from her, he must not have cared. Not for her as a partner, not for the baby they might have raised.

Shelagh felt the ball of dread burst into a hot anger. There it was. Patrick had kept secrets, and his lack of trust had robbed her of her last chance to have a child. For the first time since that dreadful moment, Shelagh felt tears on her cheeks.

Her hands clenched tightly around the railing, searching for purchase. She had left everything behind, abandoned her whole life for this man. Had she been blind the whole time? Why on earth would he, at fifty, with a son nearly grown, want to start again? He must have thought he had dodged a bullet when her diagnosis came through.

She could picture it. Mr. Horringer’s news must have come as a relief, which Patrick was quick to hide during her convalescence. But soon, much sooner than she had expected, he had moved on. “Put it away, Shelagh,” he said of the nightdress. “Put it away, out of sight.”

Her heart ached to think how he must have recoiled from the subject of adoption. How he must have lied again when he encouraged her to pursue the idea.

“How could he not have told me?” Hours later, she was still stunned. Could he think she would possibly let this rest? Did he know her so little?

Shelagh stopped and turned away from the river. She wiped the angry tears from her face, glad she had used only a minimum of mascara that morning. It wouldn’t do to be seen with a smudged face. She took a deep breath and headed home.

 

 Chapter 2

Hundred Word Challenge, 2015 edition

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To mark the hundred-days-to-go point until the 2015 Call the Midwife Christmas special, the fandom on Tumblr got together with this eponymous challenge. The word limit is constricting at first, but it’s a great opportunity to play with words until it’s just so.

Big shout-out to Superfluous Bananas, as she got us started with this last year.

(If you’re reading this and you’re not on Tumblr, you should come by and say  “Hi!”)

Making a Connection

She stood alone at the end of the hallway, oblivious to the morning light streaming through the high windows, the muffled sounds from the dining room. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood rushed in her ears. Was this a mistake? What if she’d misunderstood? She hovered in that place of knowing everything and knowing nothing.  

She’d come this far. A few more steps couldn’t be that difficult. A deep breath shuddered through her chest as she made her way to the telephone and with trembling fingers she dialed. Ages passed, and then came his voice:

“Morning!”

“I’ve been discharged.”

A Particular Blessing

Timothy loved how the photograph felt in his hands. His eyes traced a well-worn path, taking in the bright candles, the party scene, and came to rest on his mother’s face.

She smiled back at him, and he could see her heart in her eyes. He could feel his mother’s love surround him even now.

His throat tightened as the face of another woman came to mind. For two long, childish years he had gone without that particular sheltering love. Then she came, and she helped fill his lonely heart.

He had been blessed by the love of two mothers.