Monthly Archives: March 2016

A Small Price to Pay

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“It was the last sunny day of that fateful fall.” A prompt from Like-An-Officer-and-a-Seargent helped get this little fic off the ground.

The air was crisp and clear as Timothy Turner ran through the streets towards home. His violin case banged against his knee in a way that would displease his music instructor, but the boy was undeterred. He wasn’t going to waste one more minute of this day away from home.

Dad would be waiting, Saturday surgery was surely over by now, and Shelagh would be there, too. They had promised him. Nothing would get in the way of their day together, Dad had promised. They would have lunch together, and then take the afternoon to explore the Cutty Sark. An entire day, just the three of them. Timothy picked up his pace.

He tore past Dad’s car, up the stone steps that led to the courtyard outside their flat, and came to a sudden halt outside the oversized door. He dropped the case on the ground and patted his pockets in search of his key. Finally, he was in and made his way through the maze of hallways to the flat, home in record time.

“Hello!” He called out as he hung his jacket up on the lowest hook. Shelagh’s coat was there next to his, her small green hat resting next to the phone.

Dad’s head poked around the corner from the kitchen, his eyes surprised. “Tim! You’re home early!” He disappeared for a moment, then stepped into the hall. “How was your lesson?”

Suspicious, Tim stepped around his father and searching for the source of the strangeness. Entering the kitchen, he saw Shelagh by the stove, her back to him. When she turned to greet him,  her cheeks were a bright pink.

“Shelagh? Are you ill?” He knew Shelagh’s health was still delicate, and while part of him was concerned, another more boyish part was disappointed. What if she had to go home? Their day would be ruined.

“No,” she answered. “Do I look ill?” Her voice was cheery, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Not precisely, but you do look rather flushed.” He glanced at his father. “Doesn’t she look flushed, Dad?”

“Shelagh’s fine, Tim. Now go and put your violin away and clean up for lunch. We want to leave soon, don’t we?”

Distracted by the thought of the day trip, Tim grinned and turned back to his violin. As he passed back by the kitchen door, he heard Shelagh’s soft voice.  “Patrick, not now,” she giggled.

Timothy paused in the hallway, his eyes wide. He shook his head as if to clear an unwelcome thought, and entered his room. No, he thought to himself. It couldn’t be.  All week, Jack had teased him about his father getting engaged. Jack had older sisters, one already married with a baby on the way, so he thought himself quite the expert on “the birds and the bees,” as the older boy called it. Worried, Timothy reminded himself that for all his friend’s bravado, he usually knew as little as everyone else in the play yard. Whatever Jack said, his father and Shelagh would not do any “mushy stuff.” The thought was ridiculous.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, lunch was laid out, and Dad and Shelagh sat across from each other at the small table. The alarming shade of pink had faded from her cheeks, too, thank goodness. They would have their day, after all.

 

“It’s such a lovely day, I thought we’d walk to the ferry today,” Patrick announced as he helped Shelagh on with her coat.

Tim agreed readily. If they didn’t have the car, Dad wouldn’t have his medical bag with him.  No medical bag meant Dad was Dad, and not Dr. Turner.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Dad said, pulling a slip of fabric from his pocket. He unfolded it and held out a bright blue scarf for Shelagh’s inspection. “It’ll be chilly out there today, you should have this.”

Again, Shelagh’s cheeks bloomed a pale pink, sending off a bell in Timothy’s head. “Patrick, you shouldn’t. I’m quite fine as I am.”

“No,” Dad’s voice was gentle. “I should, Shelagh. I like buying you pretty things, Shelagh. I found it in the stalls near the market square this morning, and you do need a scarf. Please?”

For a fleeting moment, Timothy got the sense that neither knew he was there. It was strange, really, and he was reminded of that day they found Shelagh on the misty road. Was this what Jack meant?

Before he could consider that thought further, his Dad looked over at him. “Ready, Tim?”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “I’ve been ready, Dad. I was waiting for you two to stop staring at each other.” He led the way down the hall. “Really, you two do that a lot. It’s a bit weird.”

 

The ferry crossing was chilly, Tim admitted, but not so cold Dad needed to stand so close to Shelagh the whole ride.

“I’m blocking the wind, Tim,” his dad explained.

Later, as they strolled along the quay, Dad tucked Shelagh’s hand into the crook of his elbow. “The quay could be slippery.”

And when they climbed the ladders to visit the ship, Dad put his hands around her waist and lifted her down. “Always help a lady down the steps, Tim,” his father instructed. “It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”

Timothy wasn’t so sure so much chivalry was in order, especially when he came around a masthead to find them standing side by side, Dad’s arm around Shelagh’s shoulder. They were talking quietly as they looked out over the river, oblivious to the crowds.

He was willing to let such odd behavior slide, however. Dad answered all of his questions and seemed to have a boundless patience for all the exploring Timothy wanted to do. Shelagh laughed at his jokes and knew exactly when to offer him a few biscuits from her handbag  later in the day. Sitting in the Lyons tea house that evening, his belly full but willing to try one more cream cake, he couldn’t remember a better day. Not in a long, long time.

 

The trio strolled through the streets on the way home, happy and tired. Unsurprisingly, Dad and Shelagh walked arm in arm again, and Timothy wished for just a moment that he was small enough to fit between them, his hands in each of theirs. But he wasn’t little anymore.

They came to Shelagh’s corner first. Tim tried to keep the disapppointment from his voice.  “You’re going home now?”

Shelagh looked shyly at him, but before she could speak, Dad interrupted. “Come home with us, Shelagh, just a little longer. I’ll drive you home before the door gets locked.”

“Please, Shelagh?” Timothy added. “I could show you how to make those paper boats I was talking about.”

“If you’re certain,” she faltered.

“I am completely certain,” the boy asserted. Her eyes lit up with a secret thought, then met Dad’s for a moment.

“Well, then,”she tucked her arm in Dad’s elbow and reached out her hand. Timothy took it, and hand in hand, the three continued home.

 

Much past his bedtime, Timothy lay awake in his bed, happy with his thoughts. He glanced at the proud paper boat on his desk, ready for its maiden launch if the weather held. A good part of the evening had been spent trying to perfect the craft, with Shelagh tending to two papercuts on his fingers and Dad helping him learn to perfect the crease. All in all, a fine end to a fine day.

He grimaced. At least, it was mostly a fine evening. Now he had cause to worry that perhaps Jack was right after all. Saturday night was bath night, and though he tried to finish as quickly as possible, it seemed to take ages of time. Finally clean, combed and clothed, he returned to the sitting room, eager to spend a bit more time together before Dad took Shelagh back to the boarding house.

What he saw when he entered the room, however, made him stop in his tracks. He had left them straightening up the clutter of paper and tea cups and expected the room to be back in order when he returned. To the poor boy’s disgust, however, he found half-folded boats and crumpled paper scattered on the floor and worse yet, Dad and Shelagh…

They jumped apart, but there was no denying the fact that

They

Were

Kissing.

And not just a peck on the cheek, like he gave Granny Parker when they went for a visit. Dad– his father–was caught in a clinch with Shelagh that would make Jack’s sister blush. A full-on, arms hugging, head tilting, really-lasting-far-too-long kiss.

And Timothy was glad.

There, he had to admit it. He was glad his Dad was kissing Shelagh. Oh, he didn’t want to see it–that was revolting–but he knew that when Dad kissed Shelagh, they were happy. The kind of happy that Timothy had felt all day today.

Dad and Shelagh were going to get married, and everything would be different. Sure, there might be some of the beastly “mushy stuff” to deal with, but it seemed a small price to pay for having a happy family. And to be completely honest, Timothy admitted, it wasn’t so terrible.  Just as long as he didn’t have to see any of it. There were limits, after all.

 

Beyond the Grief

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Before the great romance, there was a nun looking to heal her own spirit and a doctor and son who needed to rebuild their family.

 

She loved clinic days. She loved watching the mothers with their babies, catching up and comparing notes, the older children playing. The noise and barely controlled chaos of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic was the beating heart of the world of Nonnatus. The drama of midwifery, with its tests of mothers’ courage and her own skills, fueled her mind, but it was here that she felt she made the most difference.   

For a few hours, women would come to her to soothe their fears and anxieties. They would share intimate pieces of their own lives, revealing the power of love in the ordinary life that she had renounced. Life in the Order had provided her with a community when she needed one, had provided a place to worship and serve her God apart from the world, but of late she had become aware of a need to be part of a larger world. At the Clinic, she could pretend for a short while that she was part of their world.

From her corner in the back of the Parish Hall, Sister Bernadette scanned the room for a particular face. She told herself it was merely concern for a lost soul, nothing more, but she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She felt a sense of connection with him that should not have surprised her.  The sadness she saw in his eyes touched a past sadness of her own.

Twenty years and more had passed since her own sadness, and at times, the sting was just as fresh as the day her mother died. She pressed her lips together in concentration and pushed her own pain to the side. Today he would need some help, and if he would accept it, she would offer it.

There, she saw him. He stood just inside the doors to the Hall, his face nearly expressionless. She sighed. His was a face that should smile, she thought. He had such a clever smile and his eyes would light up with humor if he let them, but he was working so hard to be brave that she rarely saw his face light up.

For a year now, Timothy Turner would come to the Tuesday clinic straight from school. He would spend the housekeeper’s day off tucked in a back corner, his nose in his schoolbooks, trying so hard to seem indifferent to the commotion before him. Perhaps because she saw so much of herself in him, Sister Bernadette saw beyond the facade. She could see his eyes follow children as they sought out their mothers to settle squabbles or ease childish indignities, and her own heart clenched in pain.

She glanced at the charts before her, trying to determine when she would be able to appear at his side to offer a bit of cheer. He would smile at her, and for a moment, they would each find solace with the other. Perhaps a shared joke about one of the boys, or a math test score shyly presented for the hoped-for accolades. A small moment between them to fill a tiny bit of the hole in his heart. If it meant more than that to her, she was unwilling to admit it.

“Sister, Mrs. Peters will need a special visit later today. I’m not happy about her blood pressure. Could you place her on the evening calls list, please?” Doctor Turner’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Quickly, she turned her face to the chart in his hands, anxious not to be caught watching his son. “Certainly, Doctor. Nurse Lee will be able to see her this evening. Shall I put her down for tomorrow as well?”

When there was no response, she glanced up and saw his eyes on his son. The poor man, she thought.

“It’s a year today,” his voice was quiet, only for her ears.

“Yes,” she answered. Marianne Turner had been remembered by the Sisters during morning Lauds.

Doctor Turner stood quietly for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. She thought he would turn from her, his thoughts kept to himself, when he confessed, “He hasn’t said anything. I wonder if he even remembers the day?”

She wanted to reach out and place her hand on his but held back. “I’m certain he does. He–It’s quite possible he’s afraid to mention it for fear of upsetting you. He’s always been such a sensitive child.”

Dr. Turner sighed heavily. “He’s only a boy. He shouldn’t be worrying about me.” He paused, “Was it like that for you, too, Sister? Forgive me, I shouldn’t pry…”

A compassionate smile crossed her face. “No, please ask me, I’d like to help. Yes, I think I was rather a lot like Timothy. But my father was quite different from you, Doctor. It was too difficult for him, and I was sent away to school.” Unable to help herself, her hand gently pressed his coat sleeve. “I know it must be so very difficult, but you will get through this.”

He rubbed his thumb nervously. “Thank you, Sister. It’s been a hard year, but I’ve been managing. Marianne wasn’t one to dwell on the past, she wouldn’t have wanted us to get stuck, but I am worried about Timothy. I was so wrapped up in my own pain for so long that I’m afraid I’ve done damage.” His eyes met hers. “Is it too late?”

The young nun felt a flood of tenderness for this man and his son, and she understood in that moment that it was more than grief that made them suffer. Their love for one another had made them afraid to touch wounds and in their pain, they had turned away from their own best source of comfort.

“It’s never too late where there is love. Doctor. Forgiveness is the greatest gift God has given us, but we must find a way to it ourselves.” Her eyes were soft as she looked over to the boy in the corner. “Pain doesn’t disappear, but if we learn to accept it, it becomes another layer in our love for one another. Don’t be afraid of it. Timothy needs you more than ever. I’m quite certain there’s no permanent damage. He’ll follow your lead in all things, Doctor, you’ll see.”

The lines on his face softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Sister. We’ll try.”

Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. Sister Bernadette felt her heart lighten and a smile lifted her face. She could feel God’s grace in that moment of comfort, and sent up a prayer of thanks.

Doctor Turner seemed a bit taller as he rolled his shoulders back in determination. “Ask Mrs. Peters to wait a moment, would you? I have something to do.”

She watched him cross the Hall to meet his son, and was pleased to see him take the chair beside him. Timothy looked, up, his face guarded as he listened to his father’s words, and a crease formed between her eyebrows in worry. It wouldn’t be an easy path back to each other, she knew. Grief could prove to be a formidable barrier.

In that moment, however, the boy’s face lit up with a smile.

“There,” she whispered to herself. “They’ve made a start.”

Pink Cheeks and Pyjamas

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Fun fluff to keep my mind off the catastrophe to come on Sunday with the final episode of Series 5 of Call the Midwife.  This bit of fluff occurs in that rather nice hotel Patrick spotted on the way to the campground from Atlantis.

 

“Your turn, Timothy!” Shelagh emerged from the bathroom bearing a wiggly, towel-wrapped toddler.

Fresh from his own bath, Patrick looked up from the artful arrangement of damp clothes he was creating around the hotel room. “I’m glad we kept our suitcases in the car at Sunny Vista, or we wouldn’t have a single dry thing to wear. As it is, my socks may be ruined.” He looked down at the offending items, then sniffed  in disgust.

“Yes. That would be a shame,” Shelagh teased. Rubbing Angela dry she asked, “Please pass me Angela’s nightgown, dear?”

Patrick grinned and tossed the pink pyjamas. “You said you liked my outfit.”

“I most certainly did not. The shorts I could bear if they fit properly, but I do wish you’d let me buy you a pair of trainers.” Angela’s head popped through the neck hole of her nightgown and she laughed sleepily.

Patrick moved to sit next to the little girl. “Here, I’ll finish with Angela. Go get a quick bath in our room–you look like you could use it. We’ll read a quick story and this little angel will be asleep in no time.”

“I do admire your optimism, Patrick. Don’t forget–”

“Her bear, yes, I know. I have done this before, Shelagh.”

Shelagh chuckled. “I’ll see you in a little while then. Night-night kisses, Angela!” Mother and daughter exchanged a loud kiss. “Good night, Timothy,” Shelagh called through the bathroom door.

She paused at the hotel room door. “Thank you, Patrick. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

 

Over half an hour, four stories and three songs later, Patrick slipped into their room. Steam wafted from the open bathroom door, and he could hear the water splashing. Grateful for the chance to relax, he sat to remove his socks and sandals. His jacket and shirt followed, and he hung them over the last remaining chair in the room.

“This place looks like a laundry,” he muttered. The hotel clerk said he would call a local woman to take their camp-weary clothes in the morning. If they were lucky, the weather would brighten and they could unfurl the tents to dry as well.

He wondered, was the surgery in a similar state of upheaval, too? He trusted Sister Julienne’s judgment, certainly, but Dr. Godfrey did seem a bit off to him. With a deep breath, Patrick rubbed his face. “Let it go, Turner,” he said to himself. “You’re on holiday.”

“Did you say something, Patrick?” Shelagh stood in the doorway, wrapped in a large towel and her hair pulled up high. There were damp tendrils of hair clinging to her neck, and her skin glowed pink from the heat of the bath.

All thought of the surgery flew from his mind. He loved camping–really, he did–especially when the weather was a bit more favorable. But there was definitely something to be said for private hotel rooms with locks on the door.

He stood up and walked slowly towards his wife. Shelagh’s eyes grew round. “Oh, no, Patrick. The children might come in at any moment,” she protested.

He reached up and pulled the few pins holding up her hair. “No, they won’t. Angela’s out like a light and Tim has his book. We won’t hear from them until morning.” His hands came to rest on her shoulders. “There’s something to be said for the creature comforts.”

Shelagh’s hands slipped under his vest, her fingers gliding over his skin. “You promise no talk about ulcer clinics?’

A low groan escaped him. His arms pulled her close and his lips found the warm smooth skin of her shoulders. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Much later, sated and very grateful for the luxuries of a soft bed, they lay wrapped around each other. Patrick’s voice broke the silence. “Thank you, Shelagh.”

“Don’t thank me, you did most of the work this time,” she purred.

“Minx.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers. “All this rain and that dreadful tent. You’ve done all you can to keep up our spirits. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“It’s alright, dear. I know you worry, and you’ve been wet from the moment we got here. I’m simply glad we’ve had time together. Before you know it, Timothy will be too big to want to go away with us.” With one last squeeze, she sat up from the bed. She found her nightie and slipped it over her head, then tossed him his striped pyjamas. “We won’t have time to scramble for these when the children come in the morning. Oh, and these sheets are a tangle! Get up, Patrick, please, and help me set things to right.”

Patrick shuddered from the chill on his exposed body. With a resigned sigh, he scrambled into his night clothes and straightened his side of the bed. “At least, your cheeks are still flushed. You can act all bossy and efficient, Shelagh Turner, but I know the real you.”

Shelagh pulled the covers to her shoulders and turned to face her husband. “And I couldn’t be happier.”