Monthly Archives: December 2015

Christmas Trees and Mushy Stuff

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After working on some difficult writing, I needed a break and wanted to write some Turnadette fluff (although don’t get me wrong. Good fluff is hard to write-as you may soon read). Alas, I was fresh out of ideas. So I turned to my fellow Nonnatuns on Tumblr and begged for prompts (hey, I’m not proud).

One came in almost instantly from Clonethemidwife:  “Shelagh teared up, looking at the silver tree on the table, and the natural tree in the corner, both decorated with love by her family. She looked down at the sleeping girl in her arms, and knew that her daughter’s childhood would be so much better than hers…

With mushy stuff and fluff and some minor feels as Patrick learns more about his wife by what she tells him she wishes for their daughter’s future.”

I played with the prompt a bit, so it doesn’t address Shelagh’s childhood, but there are two trees, a loving family and lots of mushy stuff. Plus you may find a few lines dropped in from the series. But I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.

 

As Christmas Day eased into Christmas Night, a gentle quiet descended on the Turner family. Timothy struggled to hide his yawns while his parents sat close together, Angela sleepily finishing her last feed before bed. It was hard to imagine the chaotic scene that had been just this morning.

“Mrs. B. didn’t like it much when you caught her under the mistletoe at Nonnatus, Dad. I heard her say later that she always thought you were too charming for your own good.” Timothy’s eyes rolled Heavenwards.

“Tim,” Patrick’s smug smile belied the scold.

“She did,” Tim asserted. “I saw her wink at Mrs. Buckle when she said it though, and she always makes sure there’s Battenburg for you, so I think she rather liked it.”

“Oh, no. Do I have some competition on my hands, Patrick?” Shelagh teased.

“Not likely, sweetheart. You make a lovely Battenburg cake yourself.” He leant down and pressed a kiss to her lips.

Tim groaned. “Really? Angela’s still eating, you’ll put her off her bottle. Why was there mistletoe in a convent, anyway? Seems an odd place for it.”

“I was wondering that myself,” Patrick mused. “Weren’t you in charge of the decorating this year, Shelagh?” His grin became wolfish.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick,” his wife returned, blushing fiercely.

Tim reached into a nearby box of airplane model parts. stifling yet another yawn.

“Right, then. Bed for you, Tim. It’s been a long day, and you have the entire holiday to build airplanes and ride your new bike. No, no arguments.” Patrick stood and turned to his wife. “Shall I take her?” he asked.

“No, thank you, Patrick. I’ll let her doze just a bit before I bring her to bed.” Shelagh smiled. “I think we’ll sit here in the quiet for just a bit longer.”

Patrick nodded and followed Tim down the hall.

A small mewling sound escaped Angela’s lips as she released the bottle, then smacked her lips in her sleep. Shelagh touched a fingertip to the swollen upper lip. Was there a blister starting? No, just a drop of formula.

A sudden flood of emotions filled Shelagh’s heart. She teared up, looking at the silver tree on the table, and the natural tree in the corner, both decorated with love by her family.* How very different this Christmas was from the last. Joy replaced anguish, and with the addition of Angela, the family was complete.

She looked down at the sleeping girl in her arms.* How was it possible she was such a mix of the two of them? Barely two months old, Angela’s face revealed glimpses of both her father and mother. Would her hair stay fair, would her eyes keep their blue or turn greeny-brown like Patrick’s? Her neck was still not strong enough to show any discerning Patricky tilt, but Shelagh was certain Angela’s ears did stick out, just a wee bit.  

A tear escaped and trailed down Shelagh’s cheek. “You were ours from the start, Angel,” she whispered. The baby mewled again in response.

With Tim successfully in bed, his book a show of false staying-up-late bravado, Patrick returned to the sitting room. “Shelagh?” he asked, his voice husky. “What’s wrong?”

Her smile was wide, the tears glistening behind her glasses. “Nothing’s wrong, dearest. I’m just so very happy.”

Patrick released his breath in relief as he rejoined her on the gold sofa. “It’s been quite a time of it, hasn’t it?” he agreed. He slid his arm behind her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. “This is a much better Christmas than last year.”

Shelagh snuggled in closer. “Indeed. Timmy’s healthy, Angela’s safe with us, and I have the most wonderful husband I could ever imagine. I am a very blessed woman.”

“I wouldn’t say very blessed,” Patrick denied, his mood darkening. “I almost ruined everything. What if the Agency hadn’t approved us? I kept such secrets, Shelagh. It was you–you were the one that kept us together. I can’t imagine what would have become of us all if it hadn’t been for you.”

Shelagh reached up carefully and turned his face to hers with her free hand. “Listen to me, Patrick. That most certainly is not true. So much happened this year, and yes, there was sadness. I thought my heart would break in two when I learned of my diagnosis, and we did have our own struggles together. But this is important. I wouldn’t change a single moment of it. Not one. God put us on this road together for a reason. If we changed even one thing, we wouldn’t be here today.”

“Shelagh-”

She pulled his face to hers and pressed her lips to his, her thumb caressing his lined cheek. The kiss deepened and Patrick released some of his guilt.

“It wasn’t me, Patrick. It was both of us. It was hard, but you came back to me. I made mistakes, too, don’t forget. We learned to trust each other in ways we never could have if we hadn’t gone through all that.”

Patrick nuzzled his nose against her temple. “I’m not certain you’ll convince me of that entirely, sweetheart, but I do know I would have done anything to make things better. You’ve given me so much.” He pressed a light kiss to her cheek. “I thank God for you.”

The moment was broken by the sudden squall from the infant between them, then the abrupt burst of wind. Almost instantly, Angela settled back down to sleep. Laughing, Patrick reached for his daughter. “You, little girl, are very lucky you’re about to go into your cot. I am about to do all sorts of mushy things to your mother, and you most certainly would not approve.”

Fortunately for the infant girl, she had no idea what her father was talking about.

*italicized lines taken from Clonethemidwife’s prompt.

 

In Silence, Part Four

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Poor Patrick has been suffering long enough, don’t you think? Maybe it’s time for him to have the think session needed to get him back to his happy life.

Thank you all for your support of this fic. It was a real challenge to write Patrick in the first person without becoming too self-indulgent.  I thought it was fitting to use the patient list to highlight the journey he has to take to get to a place of trust. Who knew Lady Browne would come in so handy?

I hope you enjoy this conclusion.

Here’s a link to Part Three

 

I needed space. I drove without thinking, passing through the darkening streets. The stonework of the city slowly began to give way to greener spaces, and soon I found myself on a long, quiet stretch of road.  

The steady hum of the engine eased my mind into a blank space. All thoughts from the long day receded and I focussed on the grey asphalt before me, the harvested fields along the road. The tight coil of tension I felt in my entire body began to ease into a dull ache. After a few more miles, I pulled over to the side of the road. I inhaled one last drag from my cigarette before I climbed from the car and began to walk.

Exercise. That’s what I needed. I’d been too cooped up on the narrow confines of the city for too long. I needed to fill my lungs with the sharp cool air of the countryside; to stretch my legs and feel my heart pump firmly in my chest. I needed time to be away from all the demands.

Long strides took me down the road, the sound of my shoes clicking on the hard surface a sort of white noise that filled my head. Before long, I came to a crossroads. I turned and looked back. The car was too far back for me to see in the gloaming, even along the straight road. I knew it was there, waiting for me. But if I kept walking on, would I lose it?

I hesitated. The road sign indicated villages in either direction, not so very far off. I wasn’t likely to entirely lose my way. I lit another cigarette and pulled the smoke deep into my lungs.

Deliberately, I reached into my pocket and pulled out Shelagh’s scarf. The smooth silk seemed almost fluid in my hand; solid, but almost intangible at the same time. I loved Shelagh in blue. Not for the first time, I chuckled to myself about that. Would I feel the same about the color if the habits worn by the Nonnatuns were another color?

An image came to my mind, blocking the ardent feelings the scarf conjured:  Shelagh’s face, stunned into a sharp anger as she rounded on me after that horrible interview. I could hear her voice, accusing me, blaming me for destroying her dreams.

But we’d been approved, after all. Why, then, had she looked at me with such pained confusion this morning? She was getting what she wanted. My mind turned away from the thought, only to hear her words again.

“How can you treat others when you so clearly cannot treat yourself.”*

My eyes closed tightly to block the image. Where had that come from? Shelagh knew me, better than anyone. Did she now doubt even my medical abilities?

She was wrong. I was a good doctor. I wasn’t perfect, but I knew that much. I hadn’t fallen into the traps so many other medical men had succumbed to. I wasn’t arrogant, or cynical, or indifferent. I could care for my patients without regard to my own troubles.

So what if I preferred to keep parts of my life in separate little compartments? Bringing up the pain from the past would do no good, and would indeed keep me from doing good. We had been happy until this matter. During the trials of Timothy’s polio and Shelagh’s own struggles, I was there, strong and supportive, and I had helped.

Even now, in the midst of this mess, I worked to improve lives, to lessen pain. How could Shelagh expect me to care for my patients if I were focussed on our problems? My mind filtered through the people I had helped through the years of pain. For God’s sake, hadn’t I found a way through the agonies of the war to help the people of Poplar? How did Shelagh think I managed to get through the pain of Marianne’s death?

But her words kept going through my head. “Treat yourself.” No. Shelagh was wrong. The past was best left just there. Dwelling on it would only make things worse. My way was better. My way was the only way.

I rolled my shoulders, set on my course. I would continue as I was. Shelagh would grow to understand, and our life together could resume its course. I turned back towards the car.

There was still work to be done before I went home. My notes for Lady Browne were yet to be completed, and the list for tomorrow’s nursing calls needed adjusting. I didn’t envy the workload the Nonnatuns would face with the added burden of the loss of Chummy.

My feet halted in their progress. Nonnatus would send a rotation of nurses for the woman’s care. Would Nurse Noakes remain with her mother or would she go out on her own calls? Was I wrong to assume Chummy would remain home to assist in her mother’s care?  

My throat tightened. During Marianne’s illness, I worked long hours away from home. Poplar’s population was booming, and fewer doctors were coming to the area. My practice consumed nearly as much of my attention as it had in those early days of the National Health Service. 

Just as in the early days of our marriage, when the scars from the war were still fresh, Marianne and I tacitly agreed to concentrate on the present during her illness. We were of a like mind that way. Neither of us wanted to allow the pain to surface. Marianne filled her last days with time with Timothy, whilst I centered my attention on my patients.

“Hell’s teeth.” The quiet exclamation escaped my lips as the full impact of the thought hit me. Every time life became unbearable, I used work as an escape. I wondered now if perhaps I chose to start my post-war practice in Poplar for this very reason. In the East End, I could keep my secrets in the dark. In the East End, I could pretend my past did not exist.

My hands opened, and the silk began to slip through my fingers. With a convulsive clench, I caught the scarf and brought it to my face. “Shelagh,” I whispered.

From the moment Shelagh picked up the telephone and called me from the Sanatorium, she had been brave, honest and completely committed to our life together. There was a fierceness to her love, a depth I never knew in my partitioned life. Perhaps it was her faith, perhaps her own openness, but Shelagh had brought such wonder to my life. Was I willing to let that disappear?  At the very least, I owed her my complete trust.

Shelagh’s  love had opened up parts of my heart I had never known existed, and I rejoiced in it. I was a fool to think I could be content with anything less.

I felt the burden lift from my shoulders as I accepted my course. Shelagh knew me, flaws and all, and loved me still. She would help me tear down the walls I had built up separating myself, and we would be stronger for it. My steps quickened as I grew more impatient to get back to my wife.

We had work to do.

 

*Line taken from dialogue in Call the Midwife, S3E8.

 

In Silence, Part Three

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Here’s a link to Part Two

 

My calls were finished well before tea time, but rather than heading home, I returned to the surgery to complete my notes. Reverting to old habits this week, I claimed it made more sense to keep all the files in the surgery, but even to my own ears the argument sounded feeble.

Excuses depleted, it was time to head home. I shrugged my shoulders into my coat and patted my pockets for my keys. My hand found its way to my breast pocket again, and I felt the silk of Shelagh’s scarf cool against my fingers.

Her face appeared before me as it was this morning before I left, the same combination of anguish and bitterness that made me turn away; that very same combination I had seen after that disastrous interview. It hurt to breathe suddenly.

Shelagh had what she wanted now, the Agency’s approval assured that. From the very start, there was a baby between us, and today’s letter would finally make that dream a reality. Despite my blunders, the adoption agency approved us as parents. I wanted to feel relief, but couldn’t.

The shrill ring of the telephone brought me back to the present and I picked up the receiver.

Peter Noakes was never one for hyperbole, but his strained response to my questions over the phone made it plain the situation was urgent. Guilty in my eagerness to avoid home, I rushed to the aid of Lady Browne.

A brief examination confirmed my suspicions. The only remaining care we could offer was palliative. Morphine would help ease my patient through the worst of the pain, but I could offer no relief for the uneasiness and tension that filled the room.

Nurse Noakes was never one to fade into the background. Her personality, even more than her size, made others notice her. Curiously, in her own sitting room, she seemed to shrink. Aside from an overly-cheerful greeting, she had little to say as I examined her mother.

Lady Browne’s illness did nothing to diminish the force of her own personality, however. She reminded me of some career officers from my Medical Corp days, autocratic and cold,  but there was an added layer of bitterness that hinted at deep discontent. She would hold the ramparts against her disease, but at great cost.

As Nurse Noakes fled the sitting room to see to the routine tasks of preparing the sickroom, it seemed obvious that she felt the cause of her mother’s disappointments. I knew enough of the family’s past to be concerned that these last days could be more than they could handle.

Peter Noakes stood in the doorway, his face lined with concern. He turned to Nurse Lee and opened his arms to his son. “I’ll have him, then.” The toddler quickly settled in his father’s arms.  “Cup of tea, Doctor?” He gestured towards the kitchen.

I nodded back. “Yes. Thank you.” I lifted my case and followed him to the back of the house.

The police sergeant moved about the warm room, the child in the playpen never far from his attention. He had an ease with the child I admired. Peter Noakes was no stranger to the day-to-day care of his son.

I wondered if I felt a bit of envy, as well. Timothy was born almost precisely the same time as the NHS, and while I had Marianne to tend to my family at home, I was on my own with the new healthcare system. Rather than witness my son’s milestones, I learned of them late at night, or sometimes over the telephone lines. Another regret.

I cleared my throat. “I’d have thought your mother-in-law would be in private hospital. Are there any circumstances I should be aware of concerning Lady Browne’s care?”

Steam rose from the kettle as Sgt Noakes filled the teapot. He sighed heavily, as if he were choosing his words carefully. Finally, he answered. “Lady Browne and Sir Arthur have…gone their separate ways, and I’m afraid it’s left her a bit skint at the moment.” He carried the teatray to the table. “She was on her way to leaving our home when she had this attack. If she’d been anywhere else, I’m sure she’d have kept it from us.”

Freddie pulled himself up to stand in his playpen and squawked in time to his bounce. His father smiled at him, and passed a biscuit to the outstretched hand. “Don’t tell Camilla,” he confided. “She doesn’t like him to have sweets, but the poor little man can’t help it. He’s got his dad’s sweet tooth.”

A smile tugged at my mouth. “With Timothy and me it’s cheese. Shelagh says we should have been mice.”

Sergeant Noakes chuckled.“Nice to be taken care of though, isn’t it?” His face grew grave. “To tell you the truth, Doctor, it’s Camilla I’m most worried about. She and her mother have never been close–well, that’s an understatement. Boarding schools and yearly visits–my wife’s got a tender heart, Doctor Turner. She pretends it doesn’t bother her, but it does. And now Lady Browne’s so ill, I’m afraid Camilla’s heart will break.”

My eyes stayed on my teacup. Peter Noakes needed a listener right now, not my advice.

“Lady Browne is so committed to her own dignity, she won’t even discuss what’s right in front of her. A good row, that’s what they need. Instead, Camilla’s family let it all fester. And now it’s too late to fix it. Camilla will watch her mother die and never be able to say the things she needs to, or hear the things she needs to hear.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Such a waste. I know they love each other, but the walls are too thick.”

Young Freddie tossed a cloth lion from his playpen and his father stooped to pick it up. His hand caressed the fine dark hair on the boy’s head. “I can’t imagine turning away from this little fellow, not in a million lifetimes. He’s brought us more joy than we ever imagined.”

At that moment the man turned his face away from me. Perhaps to disguise his emotions, he reached down to his son and lifted him into his arms. “How ‘bout a hug for your old man, then, hey?”

I was suddenly desperate to get away. I stood and announced, “I’m off then, Sergeant. Nurse Lee will know exactly what to do, but if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call me.” I made for the kitchen doorway and turned back. “I’m really very sorry, Peter. Shelagh and I…”
I couldn’t finish, but he understood. He reached out and clasped my outstretched hand.

 

*”From the very start, there was a baby between us”–this line is taken from a quote by Stephen McGann in series 3 promotional materials.  Here’s a link to @bannatnd.tumblr.com’s post back from December 2013.

 

Part Four