Category Archives: Tales of a Turner Man

Pitch of Dreams

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This bit of nonsense came about from an Ask on Tumblr from alice1nwond3rland.

“Here’s to the “Never Have I Ever” ask (this will be a silly one)! Well, you’ve written all sorts of CtM and Turnadette (even a bit of AU)  😍! So, have you ever written a category of AU in which Patrick gets to live out one of his childhood dreams? For instance, Patrick being the Captain of his own ship or traveling to space!”

(Any mistakes regarding the game of cricket are wholly unintentional.  While I have a vast appreciation for the traditional attire of the game, I understand few of the rules.  If you see something, say something.)

Once upon a time, Patrick Turner dreamed of such a moment.  As a young boy, the makeshift pitches on the cobbled streets of Liverpool had been his Lord’s, his dusty wool knickers and cap his whites.  The old shed in his parents’ garden wore the scars of his years of bowling practice bore witness to a young boy’s tenacity.  Those dreams faded as new ones bloomed, but never completely disappeared.

Today he stood at the edge of it all.  His eyes roamed the stands as fans poured in for the test match that could help turn everything around for England.  They had a fighting chance, he knew.  Australia was strong,  but he knew better than to underestimate an underdog.  

“Ready, then, Dad?”

He turned to look at his elder son and nodded.  “As I’ll ever be.”

Tim smiled in return.  “Imagine, Dad.  If you’d been on time to meet with my teacher, we’d never have been there when Mr. Baxter fell into that ditch, and none of this would be happening.  We’d just be home watching on the telly.”

At that moment, Ted Baxter, England team captain approached them. “We’ll be off to the toss in just a moment, Doc, then it’s all you two.  Father-and-son first bowl–God, it’s what cricket was made for.”  

“I can’t thank you enough for this, Ted–” Patrick began.

Baxter slapped Patrick’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me–you’re my good luck charm.  It was our quick thinking saved my ankle.  Why I wouldn’t be on this pitch today without you.  Must say, the whites do you credit, old man.  I’ll bet the little lady found you a treat, the ladies always do.”  

Patrick thought of the blush that flooded Shelagh’s cheeks when he came downstairs that morning.  “She’s become more of a fan than I expected.”

The team captain winked.  “Perk of the job. Now, don’t you grimace Tim.  You’ll see one day.  You can’t fight the lure of the flannels.”

Tim’s eyes rolled skyward.  “Really, Mr. Baxter, don’t encourage him. It’s bad enough Dad’ll be walking around like this for weeks.”

A voice called the teams out to the field.  “Come on, then,” Baxter whistled to his team. Patrick and Tim followed to the pitch, and shook hands with the two captains and umpires and called the toss, sending the players to their positions.

Patrick took his place and let his eyes scan the crowd.  He knew Shelagh was there, though he couldn’t see her in the stands, and tipped his cap in her direction, then turned to face his son crouching behind the wickets. The load roar faded and he could hear the shouts of children in the streets of his old neighborhood, he could feel the cobbles under his feet.  He clenched his fingers around the seam of the ball and delivered.

A/N:  Now come on. Would it be so hard to write a cricket scene or two, HTMcG?  Throw a fan a bone!

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.”

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

 

In Silence, Part One

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Here goes my first attempt at first-person PoV. I have to be very honest, Patrick Turner is not your typical 1st person character. He’d be great at describing things, and he’d be tops at making us feel compassion for those he serves.

But as far as deep introspection goes, Patrick is not your man. To make things more complicated, he’s having a bit of an emotional crisis.

Oh, well. I’m jumping in with both feet.

I watched Timothy cross the schoolyard, his back to me. I know I hadn’t given him the answers he wanted, but I didn’t know them myself. Our world was off kilter again, and just as before, I had failed him.

This time, it wasn’t a late arrival to a pageant or a forgotten lunch. I closed my eyes to shut out the image of the letter from the agency in Shelagh’s hands. Not now. There was a full day of calls and appointments ahead of me.

Instead, I concentrated on the streets in front of me. Poplar had been my home for so long that it was as much a part of me as anything. I belonged here, right now, not in any time past. I knew these people, had been there at the most important moments of their lives, and knew I was doing good work.

I pulled up to a shabby red brick building alongside the railyards, a regular weekly stop for years now. I reached into the backseat for my medical case and saw a bright blue piece of silk peeping out from underneath the seat.

My hands clenched around the bag’s handle. I didn’t have to press the scarf to my face to feel the softness of the skin it caressed or to breathe in her scent. Blood pounded in my ears and I closed my eyes, trying to regain my composure.

“You okay, then, Doc?” a voice called to me.

I turned to the entrance and saw the weather-worn face of my patient. John Hawkins had spent a lifetime moving the engines that transported goods off the docks and had little to show for his years of service but a mangy flat and a sparse pension. I was never quite sure how he and his wife managed, but there was never a complaint from either of them.

“I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. Hawkins.” I turned from the car and followed him into the building.

“I reckon by the way ya slammed yer door maybe not as well as all that.”

I gestured to the stairs. “Shall we go up to your room?”

“Nah, no secrets here. It’s just me angina, nothin’ the missus ain’t seen before.”

“Nothin’ the missus wants to see again, neither!” called out his wife. I smiled at that. Mrs. Hawkins joined us, slowly moving from the kitchen, her hands wrapped in a hot tea towel for relief from her arthritis. I’d try to take a look at that before I left.

Mr. Hawkins opened his shirt and waited patiently for me to get my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff in place.

“How are you feeling?” I asked. His arm was thick and covered with tattoos, the type Tim would stare at for hours if I let him. “Any new troubles?”

“Oh, well enough,” the old man answered. Judging by the pressure I was hearing, I had my doubts about that. It never failed to surprise me which of my patients complained the least.

“Your pressure’s a bit higher than I’d like, Mr. Hawkins. Have you been taking those walks like I suggested?” I removed the cuff and moved to his back. “Your heart rate’s a bit fast, as well.”

“John an’ me go up and down the lines every day together, don’t we love?” Mrs. Hawkins answered.

“Best part of the afternoon, innit?” The old couple shared a smile. “Together over sixty years now, Doc.”

“Ever since you started following me around the shop I used to work in. Wouldn’t leave me be from the very start,” Mrs. Hawkins confided, her cheeks a bit rosy. Shelagh’s cheeks pinkened like that.

“That’s right. Chased you ‘til I let ya catch me, dinn’t I?”

I laughed as I stowed my gear into the bag. “Right. Everything sounds as it should, all things considered. I’d like to take a look at your hands if I may, Mrs. Hawkins.”

She backed away a bit. “Oh, no, Doctor. It’s just a bit o’ the same. Nothing a warm towel won’t take care of. Oh, that’s the kettle. You have a good day today, Dr. Turner.” She very deliberately caught her husband’s eye, gave him a look, and turned into the kitchen.

Curious, I peered at her husband. The old man suddenly seemed a bit awkward. “Is there something you wanted to tell me, Mr. Hawkins?”

He turned away from me and began to stuff his pipe. “There was one thing. Me and the missus, we–we were wondering…You said I had to take things easy-like, no strenuous activity.”

“Yes. It won’t do to put too much pressure on your heart, Mr. Hawkins.”

I watched him fidget with his pipe and attempted to understand what he was trying to say. “Is there something you’re concerned about?” I asked.

“Well, we were thinking, maybe it would be alright if we…” His eyes glanced nervously towards the back of the flat. Swallowing loudly, he blurted out, “We was wonderin’ about marital activity if you see what I mean.”

In twenty-five years of medical practice, I had heard more about the human experience than most people could ever imagine. After a moment of surprise, I cleared my throat.  “You’re concerned it might cause an attack?”

“Yes. But Hildy and me, we ain’t–you know–in quite a while, and I have to tell ya doc, it ain’t good for married folk to completely cut off the supply lines. So we wanted to ask ya if maybe, if we were all kinds of careful, we might give it a go.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable fear. Mr. Hawkins was eighty-seven, and his wife wasn’t too far behind. “Have you discussed the possible consequences?” I asked.

“If ya mean, have I made sure my pension’ll go to Hildy if I kick off, then yes. We’re no fools, Doc. We know we’ve been lucky to ‘ve lasted this long. We’d just like to spend our last times as close as we always was.”

I considered for a moment, then stepped closer to the old husband. “As long as you’re both aware, I’d have to say-” I lowered my voice- “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

He looked up at me then, a spark in his eye. “That’s right, Doc. I knew you was a right ‘un. An old romantic, just like me!” He laughed as he clapped my shoulder, not so eager for my company now that medical permission had been granted. In a moment, I was on the other side of his front door.

I had to laugh as I walked back to my car. The old couple’s enthusiasm for each other was an inspiration. I couldn’t wait to share this tale with Shelagh tonight, after Tim had gone to bed and it was just us two. Her cheeks would slowly flush as she struggled to master her initial embarrassment, and then her eyes would grow big, a bold spark shining out.

The door creaked slightly as I stowed my medical case in the backseat. Again, the bright silk scarf caught my eye. A flood of images passed suddenly before my eyes and I remembered. I wouldn’t tell Shelagh this tale tonight.

I couldn’t tell her of this old pair, content with what they had, happy to spend their remaining time sharing all they could. I couldn’t tell her how, after nearly sixty years together, they still longed for the other’s touch. Since our dreadful hour, there had been no more than duty kisses between us.

It was temporary, I knew. Eventually, Shelagh and I would begin to talk around our silence, and then one night would again live as husband and wife. Shelagh was a good wife, and would be sure to accept my occasional attentions.

Suddenly angry, I reached for the scarf and shoved it in my pocket, out of sight. My next call was waiting.

 

Part Two

Courting Shelagh, Chapter 4

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Previous Chapter

Chapter 1     Chapter 2     Chapter 3

Footsteps echoed in the dim hallway as Patrick climbed the last of the stairs to the flat. Unable to stop himself, he glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. Nearly nine. Too late for dinner, certainly, and more than likely not enough time for even a brief visit with Shelagh before the door to the boarding house was locked for the night. This was definitely not the evening he planned.

He rolled his shoulders to try to ease some of the tension stored up, and turned the key in its lock. As he pushed the door open, he was surprised by the warm light that flooded the hallway. Had he forgotten to turn off the lights when he left?

Patrick shook his head. His head had been in the clouds this morning, full of plans now unfulfilled. Eager to find a florist so early, he must have forgotten to close up the flat properly.

He reached to hang his battered coat on its hook and paused. Was that music? He was certain he hadn’t had the radio on this morning.

At that moment, Shelagh stepped from the sitting room. “Hello, Patrick,” she welcomed.

“Shelagh!” He exclaimed. “How on earth…”

She smiled shyly. “I thought we might have a better chance of seeing each other tonight if I met you here. I’ve brought some dinner, you must be famished.”

Patrick stood staring down, his face frozen in surprise. Shelagh had been at the forefront of his thoughts for so much of the day, he wasn’t sure she wasn’t a figment of his tired and lonely imagination.

The woman before him was different somehow, and finally, Patrick’s brain registered the change. Shelagh’s typical subdued attire was left behind, her dark neutral dresses and cardigan replaced by an eye-catching navy blue velvet dress and new black pumps a bit higher than her usual fashion. He swallowed thickly.

“You walked all the way from Mrs. Trevell’s dressed like this?” If Patrick had been distracted this morning by the unexpected sight of her collarbone, there was little hope of concentration now. The supple fabric dipped into a demure portrait collar, somehow all the more alluring for its reserve. Again,  Patrick could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He shook his head to clear it. It wouldn’t do to startle her with his thoughts.

Shelagh glanced down and ran her hands over the folds of the skirt. She blushed. “This? My coat covered it up. I know the shoes must look a bit silly, but they’re quite comfortable really. I let Trixie talk me into them, and I bought this dress back before…when I first came back from St. Anne’s. It was silly to spend my money on something so frivolous, but I couldn’t resist. I was already dressed when you called, so I thought I should at least get some wear out of it.” She looked up, her smile wide. “Besides, it’s not such a very far walk, Patrick. You used to walk me home each night before Christmas, remember?”

He closed his eyes at the memory and took a deep breath.  He left the coat on its hook and turned to her with a gentle nod. “I remember.” In control, he moved closer and said, “I’d like to greet your properly, but I’m a mess. I’ve got grease everywhere, and I’ve probably ruined this coat. Let me go wash up and I’ll be with you in two shakes.”

“Your coat?” Shelagh asked, a crease appearing over her nose.

“Yes, it got caught in the door of Fred’s van. There’s a tear right down the back. I’m fairly certain it’s irreparable.” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

A quick trip to wash the remnants of the evening’s detour away, and then a change of clothes was in order. As he closed the door to his bedroom, he smiled widely. His plans had certainly fallen apart: no dinner and dancing tonight, perhaps, but Shelagh was here. All the rest didn’t matter. The night was perfect.

He pulled his tie loose and went to the wardrobe for a clean shirt. There he found more evidence of Shelagh’s presence, for she had begun to collect his shirts each week from the cleaners, leaving them neatly folded for him in his room. The thought of her in this place stirred him again, and he sighed.  They might not be often at the flat together, but in her small ways, Shelagh was making it a home. Soon, it would be their home.

He tossed his soiled shirt in the washing bin and shrugged a clean one over his shoulders. As he buttoned it up, his eyes wandered, then caught a slip of paper left on his pillow. His eyebrows creased in question as he unfolded the sheet.

Dearest Patrick,

Thank you so very much for the lovely flowers this morning. Their scent has traveled with me all day.

As I’ve gone about my day today, people have commented again and again that I look very happy. I’m not surprised they can see it. I feel as if I’m fit to bursting with it.

I look forward to our date this evening (I still blush when I think of it), and know I am the luckiest woman alive.

Your

Shelagh

 

The bed creaked under his weight as he sank down upon it, struggling with himself. He thought he had gained a certain mastery of himself. Tonight should be about making Shelagh feel special. He intended to court her tonight, not ease his own desires, but this note brought his passion back up.  It was all he could do to stop himself from thrusting the door open and in several strides taking her in his arms. Determined to master himself, he stood. Shelagh deserved a gentle courtship, so he tamped down his desire and finished dressing.

A few minutes later, dressed in his best suit, hair smooth, he joined her in the sitting room. Tonight wouldn’t be the Ritz, but he would woo her as she deserved. He closed the door to the private part of the flat, expecting to find her waiting in the sitting room. Instead, Shelagh was just as he had left her, standing at the coatrack. Her hand held a sleeve as her fingers caressed the old wool.

She glanced up as she heard his step, and her cheeks flooded with color.

“My love?” He asked, his head tilted in a question.

Shelagh dropped the sleeve and turned to him. “It’s silly. Promise you won’t make fun.”

He couldn’t help as a smiled tugged at his mouth crookedly. “I’ll try.” His eyes wandered over the coat in question.

“You’ll definitely need a new coat. The tear isn’t on the seam, and the fabric’s too worn to mend.”

He nodded. “I thought so.”

Her eyes shifted away from his face. She bit her lip, and he waited for her to find the words she needed.

Finally, she looked back up at him, her clear eyes meeting his squarely. “Don’t throw it away, Patrick.”

This was not what Patrick was expecting. He shook his head slightly. “I don’t follow. I can’t donate it, no one will want it.”

She reached out again and stroked the fabric. “I want it.”

A memory crossed her face, and Patrick began to understand. He reached behind her, taking the coat from its hook. Gently, he wrapped it around her, his hands holding it closed at her neck.

“It’s not so very misty, here, is it?” He asked quietly.

She shook her head. “No,” she answered.

They stood together, a mirror of themselves that fateful day. So much had happened since then, his life turned right-side-up. All the emotion of that day came back, and yet there was more.

“I held you like this that day,” he whispered.

Beyond words, Shelagh nodded.

“I didn’t kiss you, then.” His voice grew husky. “I didn’t, but I wanted to. I was so afraid that if I moved, you would disappear.”

A quiet breath shuddered from her lungs. “I was afraid, too.”

His thumb caressed the old coat at her chin, then slowly, his hands turned and held her face.

“And now?” He whispered.

Her voice came to him quiet, but clear. “I’m not going away, Patrick.”

The words were barely across her lips before he pressed his mouth to hers, tender and gentle. For weeks-no, months- he had kept his passion for her under a tight leash. After so long, the feel of her soft mouth beneath his broke that restraint. His arms wrapped around her tightly, and he pulled her close. Shelagh relaxed against him and he felt her lips move under his. A small sound came from her throat and he felt his remaining control slip. Gently nipping at her lips, he felt her mouth soften even more and he deepened the kiss.

Her acceptance of him, the shift in her breathing, made him desperate to know more of her. As her arms slid up around his shoulders, he groaned and pulled her impossibly close. The taste of her, the scent of her, consumed his senses.

The coat fell from her shoulders, pooling at their feet and the moment was broken. Patrick slowly lifted his head from hers, ending the kiss slowly. He rested his lips against her forehead as they struggled to regain their breath.

A smile crossed his face. He knew Shelagh loved him. Every day she showed her love in the little things she did for him. The passion was there, he felt it in her body still, yet he also knew this passion would confuse her. He would slow things down, he would court her. Tonight, Shelagh would know just how special she was.

“Shelagh,” he whispered against her hair, “shall we begin our date?”

Next Chapter

Courting Shelagh, Chapter 3

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Previous Chapter

A/N: I’m going to have to stick by my decision in earlier fics. I simply cannot use the label “Aunty Shelagh.” It’s a deliberate break from canon, I know, and generally I stick pretty close to the dogma.

In this, however, I must rebel.

Chapter 1     Chapter 2

Whistling as he sauntered down the hospital corridor, Patrick felt quite pleased with himself. Since rising, the day had gone precisely according to plan. Mr. Stone, the neighborhood florist and chief died-in-the-wool romantic, had been happy to open his shop to Patrick for his early morning floral surprise. A quick stop at Nonnatus had yielded both the promise of a visit to the hospital by Fred, and also a few pointers regarding the fine art of twirling a lady in just the proper manner to ensure maximum closeness during a foxtrot. Now for a quick visit with Tim, then home to shave, wash and dress before meeting Shelagh with plenty of time.

Timothy sat up in his bed, already well into his copy of Captains Courageous. He smiled smugly at his father. “So, Dad, any special plans tonight?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yes, Tim, full marks to you. Shelagh’s been and told you, I assume?”

“Not that much, really, just that after her morning visit she wouldn’t be back with you in the evening as you were taking her out.” A little embarrassed, eye glanced sideways at his father. “She got all flustered, actually. She must have apologized ten times for not coming tonight.” A sudden cough broke from him, shaking his thin shoulders. Patrick stood, and automatically reached for the missing stethoscope ordinarily draped over his shoulders. When the coughing fit ended, he asked, concerned, “How long have you had that cough, Tim?”

Tim’s color returned. “It’s nothing, Dad.”

“No cough is nothing in a polio patient, son. How long?”

“Just an hour or two,” the boy responded begrudgingly.

Patrick beckoned to the nurse. “Where’s Dr. Carson?” He demanded. The pulmonologist was known to be frequently at hand.

“Likely on the Men’s Ward right now. He’ll be down to look at the children in an hour or so, Dr. Turner.”

Patrick decided now was the time to cash in on some of the good will Shelagh had built up on the ward. “Call him down, please. It’s urgent.”

“Dad-” Timothy began, interrupted by another fit.

As expected, Dr. Carson arrived at Tim’s bedside shortly thereafter, and after a quick listen to the young boy’s lungs, called for an x-ray. “There’s no fever, and the lungs sound clear, but you’re right, Dr. Turner. I don’t like the sound of that cough. Does it hurt, Tim?”

“No, it’s just a little cough.” Timothy refused to look at the two men at his bedside.

Patrick sensed something beyond the cough was troubling his son. “Tim, you have to tell us. You know as well as we do that even a cold could be a setback.”

Tim scowled. “It doesn’t hurt, Dad, honest. It’s just a cough. But now you’re going to stay here all night. You’ll cancel your date with Shelagh and she’ll be so dreadfully disappointed. Again.”

Dr. Carson hid a smile. “Let me see about moving that x-ray along, then. Nobody wants a disappointed Miss Mannion.”

An hour later, the men consulted over the x-ray.

“It all looks clear, Tim. And the cough has settled. We’ll keep an eye on you tonight, though, to be safe,” Dr. Cardon advised.

“You keep an eye on me every night,” Tim answered grumpily. “Privacy is not exactly growing on trees here. Even during my physical therapy this afternoon, after Shelagh left the nurses kept forgetting to close my curtain.”

Patrick’s eyebrows drew into a look of concentration. “Physical therapy? What did you do today?”

“A bunch of really annoying arm exercises. Up and down, stretching wide-I hate those. They make it hard to catch my breath.”

Understanding the problem now, Patrick nodded his head. “That’s it. Your therapy today irritated your lungs a bit. That accounts for the coughing, and it also explains the decrease in the cough’s strength and frequency in the last hour as you’ve recovered.”

Tim dropped his head back on his pillow. “I told you it was nothing, Dad. I’m fine. Now could you please leave? Shelagh’s waiting for you!”

Half an hour later, Patrick was starting to think there was something deliberately trying to ruin the evening. Even with Tim’s coughing scare, there had still been time to make it home, change and meet Shelagh in time to make their reservation. This latest hiccup, however, seemed to make it unlikely.

Standing before the MG with its bonnet up, he shone his torch on the engine. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. The carburetor. Again.

“Evening, Doc,” came a friendly voice.

Patrick turned and met the grinning face of Fred Buckle.

“I was just on me way to visit the young nipper.” The large man clucked his tongue. “The bonnet in such a position does not bode well for the evening’s festivities, if I may say so m’self.”

Patrick exhaled sharply. “No, it does not. It’s the carburetor, I’m afraid. I’ve been meaning to have it replaced, but…”

“Much prettier things to concentrate yer time on, eh?” Fred winked.

“Yes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel my date with Shelagh after all. I’ll never get home for my tools, back to repair it and in time to take her out tonight.” He rubbed his hand over his weary face.

“I’ve me tools in the back of me van, just ’round the corner. You wait right here, and we’ll have this beauty up and running in no time, Doc!”

“Fred, you are a life saver! I’ll run in the hospital to call Shelagh and let her know I’ll be a bit late, and meet you right back here.”

As the two men parted ways, Patrick glanced one more time at his watch. Half six. They’d likely have to give up their dinner reservations, but they could find a quiet cafe somewhere still open. This date would still happen. He’d just have to be more creative.

Next Chapter

Courting Shelagh, Chapter 2

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Previous Chapter

A/N: No more chess, I’m afraid, but a clever Nonnatun will spy a version of one of Shelagh’s most frequently spoken lines from Series 3.

Oh, sorry about the hand kiss. It seemed “entirely appropriate.”

Chapter 1

The following morning, Patrick stood in the foyer of Shelagh’s boarding house, full of plans. Despite a night spent more in plans than in sleep, he was brimming with energy.

As he waited for Shelagh to come down, he glanced about the entranceway to the ladies’ boarding home. The strict rules of the house demanded he go no farther than this, and after over three months of residence here, Patrick had yet to see any of Shelagh’s temporary home. If he had his way, Patrick thought, this wouldn’t be her home for much longer.

“Patrick!” Shelagh called as she came down the final flight of stairs. “I never expected to see you here this morning. Last night, you didn’t say…” A little flustered, Shelagh’s hair was pulled back in a hasty knot, a few damp tendrils escaping around her neck.

She’s just had a bath, Patrick thought. He could feel his own pulse begin to race as he fought the urge to step closer to better breathe her in. He cleared his throat and straightened. A warm, fresh-from-the-bath Shelagh was a new experience, and a man could only withstand so much.

“I thought I’d surprise you.” Bringing his hand from behind his back, he presented her with a bouquet of freesias. Fortunately, he had been able to convince the neighborhood florist to open early.

Shelagh made a small sound of surprise in her throat. “Patrick, how lovely.” She hid her blushing  face in the sweet-smelling blooms. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Smiling, he tilted his head as he gazed down at his fiance. “I wanted to. You do so much for me, and I wanted to thank you.”

Shelagh’s eyes met his. “Please don’t think you have to thank me, Patrick. I want to be there for both you and Timothy. You’ve given me so much.”

“We’re the grateful ones, my love.” He took a step closer. “Before you came, Tim and I were afraid to be happy. I’m sure we would have never managed this last month without you.”

A brief shadow of guilt crossed Shelagh’s face, chased away by his next words. “We both love you so very much, Shelagh.”

For a moment, they stood facing each other in silence, happy just to be near each other. Patrick’s lips lifted in a crooked smile. “Don’t go back to the hospital this afternoon. I want to take you out tonight. A proper date.”

The blush returned to Shelagh’s cheeks. “I’m very happy as we are, Patrick. There’s no need to take me out.”

He stepped closer to her so she had to crane her neck up to see his face. With a slight movement, his hand reached towards hers, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly against hers. “I want to spend time alone with you, Shelagh;  treat you as you deserve to be treated.”

He watched as the blush travelled down her neck, past her collarbone. Was this a new dress? He wasn’t sure he had ever seen her collarbone before. If he had, he knew he would have felt this strong compulsion to press his lips against the fine bone, to caress her silky skin and fill his head with her scent.

His own pulse sounded loud in his ears and he tried to resist the urge to pull her close to him. Shelagh was still shy, he knew. He had hoped that by now she would be more comfortable with physical affection. Perhaps Timothy’s time in the hospital had affected them more than he thought.

Time together was becoming more of a necessity with each moment.

“Shelagh,” he whispered, his voice husky.

Her eyes met his, and he was stunned by the emotion pouring from them. Her pupils dilated widely in her pale eyes, and he could sense her own breathing quicken.

Softly, his fingers moved to entwine with hers. “I miss you, Shelagh. Tim will be fine tonight. Fred can visit him, or I can call Jack’s mother. Whichever, he’ll be fine. But I’m desperate to spend time with you.”

In that moment, understanding crossed her face, and Patrick knew she felt the same. His head lowered slowly, and both forgot the dim foyer, the sounds coming from the kitchen fading quickly.

“Oh, Doctor Turner, are you still ‘ere?” The omnipresent landlady tromped through the front door, the scrub brush and pail testament to a front step scrubbed spotless.

The two lovers moved apart quickly, slightly embarrassed and rather a bit more frustrated by the interruption.

Clearing his throat, Patrick answered, “Yes, Mrs. Trevell. I’m off in just a moment.”

The bustling landlady, whose skills of romantic observation had been honed by years of watching residents with their beaus, grinned knowingly. “Well, don’t keep Miss Mannion from ‘er breakfast, then. Ask her what you want, and be off with ya.” She turned and sloshed the bucket back to the kitchen.

The intensity eased for the moment, Patrick and Shelagh grew comfortable again.

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up tonight by seven, I promise. I’ve cancelled all my calls for the late afternoon, and I’ll get Greenwood or Hammond to back up. God knows they both owe me enough favors.” He took her hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers. “I am determined that nothing will get in the way of our date.”

Next Chapter

Courting Shelagh

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A/N: I haven’t played chess in years, and even then was never very good at it. So, if you know chess, and my strategies are all wrong, let’s just chuck it up to alternate universe stuff.

A children’s ward in a large hospital can be an unusual place. In one corner, a young girl lay quietly, asleep, but not asleep, her nurse anxiously watching. In another, a small play area was set up, a trio of boys dressed in a uniform of illness collectively try to solve a puzzle while another girl wheeled a tricycle in widening circles.

Timothy Turner, a resident of this ward for well over a month, watched as the nurses tried to corral their patients for the evening medication round. Soon, it would be bath time for those mobile enough for such ablutions, and then lights out for the entire floor.

Tim knew he was luckier than most of the other patients on the ward. Visiting hours were long over, but his father and Shelagh were permitted to stay beyond the assigned hours. Shelagh said it was because of his father’s position in the community. She was always saying things like that, Tim thought. It was lovely to see how proud she was of Dad, but Tim knew the extra privileges had more to do with Shelagh’s own helpful nature. Right now, in fact, she was assisting in Teddy Hardstrom’s final physical therapy for the day.

“I wish the nurses would let me have my own lamp,” he groused. A copy of Captains Courageous idly rested on his bedside table, its binding likely to remain unbroken until the morning.

“Sorry, Tim,” his father commiserated. “If Shelagh couldn’t convince them, no one can.” He winked at his son and moved his knight. “Knight fork, Tim. I’m afraid that’s check.”

Tim groaned and rolled his head back. “I liked it better when you let me win.”

Chuckling, Patrick answered, “I liked it better when it was easy to beat you. You’re getting quite good, Tim. I can tell you’ve been practicing, who’s your partner?” He idly placed the black bishop and rook with their fallen brethren.

“Why, Shelagh of course. Who else?” Timothy’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

“Shelagh?” Patrick’s face was a near mirror image of his son’s surprise.

“Of course. Didn’t you know? Shelagh’s brilliant at chess. Her father taught her.” The young boy considered his next move. Save the Queen, but the knight, oh, he hated to lose his final knight. The Queen was strong. He was pretty sure she could defend herself against his dad’s last remaining Bishop. That would leave his King unprotected, though, and Tim was pretty sure the King depended a bit too strongly on the Queen. “She even beat him the last time they played.” There, he’d give up his Knight to save the Queen.

“Shelagh plays chess? I had no idea,” Patrick admitted, looking up from the board.

“Shelagh does lots of things you wouldn’t guess. Did you know she can dance a reel?”

Patrick laughed at the image. “No, I can’t say I did know that. What other dark secrets do you know?”

Patrick was grateful that Shelagh devoted her time to Timothy, and was convinced his son’s rapid recovery was in large part due to her attention. She spent every afternoon on the ward, and had even convinced the Sister that her help was necessary on the ward off of visiting hours.

His own busy schedule kept him away from the ward more often than he liked, but he was usually able to stop in every day to spend some time with his son and fiance. He had to admit, he was a bit lonely. Prior to Christmas, home had become such a welcoming place, Shelagh finishing the dinner as Tim did schoolwork, the two happy to see him complete the family when he returned. And later, all-too-brief time alone with his fiance, time when they were learning the details that would soon fill their life together.

“Nothing too dastardly, unfortunately.” Tim sighed as he studied his next move.

“You sound disappointed. Were you expecting tales of Scottish Highwaymen?” Patrick flushed a bit, remembering a story of a surprisingly bold young Shelagh, and the dreams that story began.

Timothy shrugged. “I reckon not. You know, I’ll bet I know more about Shelagh than you do, Dad. I spend more time with her,” he added a little bit smugly.

Patrick sat back in his chair, his eyes alert. His first instinct was to deny such a thing, but the boy was right.

Concentrating on the board before him, Timothy continued. “Since the nurses won’t let me read at night, I have to listen to them chat before I fall asleep. There’s this one nurse, she’s new, she talks about her boyfriend all the time. How he brings her flowers, takes her on these fancy dates,” he glanced up, “you know, mushy stuff like that. All the other nurses love it. They practically drool over her stories. It’s really quite revolting.”

Patrick laughed. “Women!” he huffed semi-mockingly.

“Absolutely,” agreed his son. “But I was thinking Dad, you might want to try that with Shelagh. I think she’d like it.”

Startled, Patrick looked at his son’s innocent face. What exactly was Tim trying to say? “I see Shelagh nearly every day, son.” His fingers touched his knight, then moved away.

“Here at the hospital, or when you drive her home, maybe.” Timothy’s eyes watched nervously as his father considered his next move. “But maybe you should take her out alone sometimes. You can miss a night here, I won’t mind.”

Patrick’s hand lay in his lap, his eyes on his son as he considered his words. Tim was right, he had never really courted Shelagh. Suddenly, they just were. Months of desperate loneliness and silence miraculously resolved in a moment on a misty road. Afterwards, the weeks leading up to the original wedding date were filled with becoming acquainted with each other, finding ways to fit together as a couple and a family. Nearly all their time had been spent at the flat, quiet and isolated from the world.

Patrick was certain Shelagh had wanted it that way. Her new life needed some getting used to, and prying eyes had made her wary. To find her new self, Shelagh left her old life behind only to realize that she could find a way to unite her old life with her new one.

Since the polio, they spent nearly all their time with Timothy in hospital. Shelagh had found her feet, but had not had the chance to try them out. Tim was right. Shelagh deserved a proper courtship. Patrick grinned, his face relaxing. They deserved a proper courtship.

Absently, he moved his knight across the board and was startled by his son’s shout.

“Checkmate!” Tim cried. “I won!” Ignoring the hushes from the nurse at the nearby desk, Tim crowed, “I beat you, Dad. Fair and square. You moved your Bishop to protect your King, but you left my Queen, and she took down your King! I finally beat you!”

Leaning back in his chair, Patrick mused, “So you did, son. So you did.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Timothy consoled. “I was trying to distract you. I knew you’d break concentration if I talked about Shelagh. You always do.”

Patrick shook his head and rubbed his hand across his tired face. “All’s fair, Tim.” He leant in and whispered conspiratorially, “You’ll have to find someone else to beat tomorrow, Tim, my boy. Shelagh and I are going out.”

Beaming, Timothy advised, “Not fish and chips, though, Dad. From what the nurses say, chip shops are definitely not romantic.”

“Don’t you worry, Tim. The old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve. Shelagh will-”

Timothy’s hand shot up in the air, his face desperate. “Dad, no. Please. It’s bad enough I have to hear about the mushy stuff from the nurses. No boy should have to put up with it from his own parents.”

Patrick laughed and tousled his son’s hair. “Sorry, Tim. I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“Ugh,” Timothy groaned as he threw himself against his pillow, outmaneuvered. “Strategy in chess is much easier than love.”

Next Chapter

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.