Category Archives: Call the Midwife

The Wardrobe

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Patrick stood in front of the large wardrobe, hands on his hips, a determined look on his face. It was time. Marianne was a part of his past, and it was time to move on. Keeping her things alongside his own would keep him trapped in the past. Unsure what the future held, he had to step into it.

Opening the wardrobe door, he was overwhelmed by her scent still lingering on her clothes. His throat tightened as he fought to control his breathing. Strange how scent could do that, his logical brain reasoned. He could look at photographs now and not feel the lurch of pain behind his ribs, could see her handwriting and not feel the sting of loss. His mind could see these and shield itself from the memories, but his body had no such defenses.

He clenched his fists and fought for control. He would do this. He would reclaim his life. Marianne was a good wife and friend and would have wanted him to move on. If she could have, he knew she would have packed up her dresses herself at the end;  closed so many doors left open.

A mere half hour later, the wardrobe hung empty, boxes stacked at the door. Patrick looked at the collection of barren hangers, lonely in the space. He turned to the piles of his own clothes, scattered on the sole chair, the dresser, some hanging off the doors and curtain rods. What a mess he had made in his sadness. It was time to take charge again. Methodically, he began to fill the wardrobe with his own clothes. As much of a mess they made scattered around the room, they didn’t take up much space. Determinedly, he created his own place.

It wouldn’t do for Timothy to see the boxes go out. His young mind would assuredly misunderstand, and they had only just begun to heal their own relationship. He had Sister Bernadette to thank for that. The nun had encouraged them to forgive each other for the selfishness of grief. They were resilient, she reminded them, and would survive this.

The last box carried down to the car, Patrick took a last look around the room.His eye caught the glitter of trinkets on her nightstand. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he considered donating her jewelry as well. Nodding, he took her jewelry box from the dresser and ran his fingers across its lid. A small smile graced his face as he placed those last few items inside.

This wouldn’t go. He would save this for Timothy. One day, the boy would want to have pieces of his mother to remember.

Patrick opened the wardrobe again, smiling this time. He placed the jewelry box on the upper shelf, out of the way. He doubted Timothy would see it, but he knew it was there, safe. Marianne did not need to disappear from their lives. She would always be there, over their shoulders, watching.

Trying to Hear God: Chapter 2, Confusion

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Previous Chapter

Her body ached with exhaustion. The long night had required all her stamina, and at its end she felt as if layers had been stripped away. There had been difficult births over the years, too many to count, and she had experienced such joy at the display of love and human perseverance each time. For too long now she left the birthing room feeling empty, with less and less desire to ever return.

Kneeling at her bedside in her narrow cell, she sighed deeply and clenched her hands together. Focus, she needed to focus. But the deep breath did not help to clear her mind, it did not soothe her body. The prayers would not come. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the edge of the bed and struggled to keep from vocalizing the pain she felt. She was broken, lost and forgotten, and it was her own doing.

A sob shook through her small body, stifled in the covers of the hard mattress. Even after her mother’s death she had never felt so abandoned. The long, terrible illness had given them time to prepare, if one could in fact prepare for the death of a beloved mother. While devastated and stunned when the inevitable finally happened, there were loved ones to share her pain. There had been no reason to hide.

There was no one now. Even God seemed to have forsaken her. Desperate for the comfort the love of God had afforded her, she recited the prayers, recalled the Bible passages that had always refreshed her faith. She worked harder, longer hours than ever and made every offer of help possible. Through service she had hoped she could return to her previous state of serenity, but somehow, she still felt empty. Purple-gray shadows appeared beneath her eyes and she began to fade from view.

There was no one to listen, no one to understand. If she spoke, there would only be condemnation and abandonment. She had tried to reach out, but each time was prevented by circumstance. Perhaps that was for the best. How could another understand when she could not understand herself? Even more, would her confusion be seen as a rejection of all the promises she had vowed to honor?

Shaking, she rose from her knees and slid into bed, hiding her face in her pillow. Why had this happened? She wasn’t even sure what this was, she simply knew there was something there. She had been solitary for so much of her life; it had been many years since she had felt the need to connect with another. Her sisters afforded her the love and quiet companionship she thought was enough. Even Sister Julienne, her mentor and guide, did not arouse a need for more.

Now her heart ached for it. The warm friendship enjoyed by the nurses evoked a slash of envy. They were not much younger than she, confident in their belief that the world was their oyster, while she could have been an old woman, separate as she was.

She tossed in her bed, attempting  to stop her thoughts from taking what was becoming a well-worn path. In the religious life, she told herself, she would move beyond friendship; the spiritual state she could find by devoting her life to God would supercede ordinary relationships. By not singling out a few, she could devote herself to all. She reminded herself of this again and again, and understood the truth of it. Yet she still could not deny her loneliness.

“You don’t always feel lonely,” a voice beckoned in her heart. A tear slipped out of eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders spasmed. In recent weeks, the whispers that spoke more loudly than her prayers threatened to overtake her. If she could stop their echoes, she could return to the way things were before.

These whispers had changed of late, confusing her even more. While still longing to join in with the others, there was another whose company she preferred, one whose nearness alerted every nerve ending, one who roused an interest she could not ignore.

She knew when he entered a room before she saw him, or even heard him. His weary voice tempted her to soothe his worries. Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to mend his lab coat? To help his lonely son? It was not purely her own empathy for the boy’s motherlessness that pushed her to befriend him and give the comfort of a womanly voice.

She had always respected and admired the devoted doctor who gave so much to the community they both served. Attending so many births together over the years, they had developed an understanding of each other, an ability to anticipate the other’s moves and needs: a connection that made many of the positive outcomes possible.

Last night had been such a delivery. The strange nature of the Carter family, their resistance to medical intervention, and the intensity of the delivery of the twins had required all the resources they could muster to save mother and child. She still trembled at the memory of the lifeless form of the infant in her arms, unable to takes its first breath. Knowing he was there with her gave her strength, and she tried a technique that surprised even her. When the infant’s lungs filled the room with the shrill cry, she lifted her eyes to him in shared joy.

Afterwards, she felt an exhilaration she hadn’t felt from a delivery in some months. Perhaps that was the source of her unexplained, bold behavior later as they prepared to leave. She cringed at the memory. To some, the sharing of a cigarette was simply a result of a professional camaraderie, a normal denouement to a harrowing experience, and she had pretended to herself at the time that it meant nothing. But she knew otherwise. They had shared more than a cigarette. She revealed a private memory, wanting to forge a deeper connection with him, and found she needed to know more of him.

With him, she longed to be herself, someone she hadn’t been in many years. She wanted to talk about the world, her life, learn about him. The hodgepodge she knew of his life was not enough and she felt a pull towards him that was becoming difficult to ignore. With him, in those moments they were alone together, she did not feel alone.

The last rays of light streamed through the tiny window of her cell as finally the demands of her weary body took over and gratefully, she slept.

Next Chapter

Hundred Word Challenge: Trials of a Bridesmaid

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“All right, then, Trixie. Confess.”

Trixie Franklin was acting very strangely, and Jenny would have none of it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jenny Lee,” came back the sharp retort.

“Sorry, Trixie, I think Jenny’s right. I should think you’d be over the moon.” Cynthia’s confused face spoke greater volumes than her soft voice.

Irritated, Trixie rolled her eyes.“I know. Practically the center of attention and all that. Maid of Honor should be a dream come true!”

“So?”

She huffed. “You do realize my dance partner won’t be able to buy me a drink until 1966?”A Hundred Word Challenge

The Hundred Word Challenge: Laundry

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A fun response to a Tumblr challenge to write a fic in 100 words exactly. It was much harder than I thought!

“Oh, will he never pick up his clothes?” Shelagh complained, bending for a rogue sock.

Patrick appeared in the doorway of their room and smiled at the sight of her awkward yet flattering position. “Shelagh, what -”

He stopped himself from finishing as she rose and held out the offending laundry.

Thinking quickly, he apologized. “I know. I’m as bad as Timothy. Worse, probably. I don’t deserve you.” He took the washing from her, dropping it in the waiting basket, then pulled her close. “How can I make it up to you?”

His solution: dropping her clothes on the floor.

Trying to Hear God: Chapter 1, Doubt

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For the first time in her life, she couldn’t hear God. She knew He was there, she felt His presence as she went about her duties. Babies were born, the ill were cared for, and God was there for it all. God was there when a neighbor reached across the fence to help an old woman hang out her laundry. He was there when a police constable comforted a boy after his dog had been crushed by a passing lorry. She could see God in the faces of Poplar, ordinary people living ordinary lives.

She had felt His comfort so many times in her own life. As a child, she had turned to God for solace, needing to fill the gaping wound left by her mother’s death. That early lesson had taught her not to expect God to solve her problems, but to look for her own solutions and to find contentment despite the sadness. Her faith had given her serenity and at each crossroad in her life, she could feel God guiding her. Yet now when she prayed, there was only silence.

For months now she felt this void. She recited the prayers, followed the services, but there was no comfort, no connection. Even the music would not soothe. Day after day as she knelt in supplication, she searched for His voice.

Doubt is a part of faith. She knew that raising questions helped to bring beliefs into sharper focus, that blindly accepting the path forged by others would not bring one to understanding. A regular and thorough examination of conscience was necessary to building a healthy and strong relationship with God, for without it, one became a zealot. Now doubt consumed her. It did not clarify, it did not strengthen. She could feel His presence, but not His grace.

She knelt in her cell in the cold night of early spring, evening prayers long over. The Great Silence hung over the convent, taunting her, when before it had calmed her. She tried to open her mind, to allow God to soothe her, but felt only frustration. Where was He? In her weakness had He forsaken her?

When had it begun? For months she had experienced a dissatisfaction she could not name. The death of a young mother and child had rattled her that past autumn. Sent to assist at the Mother House for a week, she had inwardly rebelled at the officiousness of others. At Christmas she had felt the grief of her mother’s death as if it were new. Pain and discontent began to grow in her heart, and she felt the discord deepen through the winter.

Why had these doubts begun to take hold? she grieved. Each day she saw God in the life around her. Why did she not feel his presence in her own life? Shame began to grow in her heart as she examined her sins of vanity and disobedience.

She had found herself too often peering in the small mirror of her cell, its intended use only to ensure that she had properly covered herself, hiding all clues to her individuality. Was she pretty still, she asked as she stole long looks. She had been told, long ago, that young men would not be immune to her physical charms, but had turned from such base feelings, sure in her path of service and chastity. What would have happened if she had listened then, just once? Had she hidden in fear from her womanhood rather than walking beyond such feelings, as the Order taught?

Too often and too eagerly she joined in the chatter of the young nurses these last months, and their talk of romance and evenings out made her long for an unknown. It was exciting, listening to stories of handsome escorts and evenings spent dancing under dim lights.  Never before had these diversions held any appeal for her, but last night she had found herself powerless over dreams of being held by a man, tall and sure, as the music swirled around her. She flushed at the memory of how she woke in the night breathless, her body tense with feelings she could not name.

She could not ignore the irony of the choices of her life; how the vow of chastity required by the Order juxtaposed with the work of a midwife. Those vows which denied the needs of the flesh placed side by side with the everyday evidence of those very same physical demands. Her devotion to God required she accept all His children, and the service of a midwife in such a community gave her more opportunities to challenge and strengthen her faith. As a young woman, she had been proud of this. Naive and untried, her passion for God had superseded the first early stirrings of awareness, leaving her ignorant of its power. Irony no longer offered self-protection, however, and if she found that her frequent presence at the start of life touched parts of her heart she did not know existed, she was not ready to admit it.

There was no one to whom she could turn with these feelings. Her shame kept her from it. Sister Julienne had such worries of her own, and depended upon the younger nun to help keep Nonnatus House running smoothly.

Sister Bernadette bowed her head and began to pray again.

 

Next Chapter

A Man and His Car

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This is a thank you for Rockbird86 for helping us all out with our big NZ  problem today. Oh, the agony of the Nonnatun. I’ve dropped in a reference to her Bare Arms and Engine Oil, too.

Everyone can see that Patrick’s beloved car is ready to go off to that old junkyard in the sky. Everyone except Patrick.

***   ***

“He’s late. Again,” Sister Evangelina harumphed. Standing on the steps to the Community Center, she placed her hands on her hips and assumed a belligerent stance.

Shelagh glanced sideways at the irritable nun, and sighed. “Sister, you know he doesn’t do it on purpose. The demands of the community are only getting greater and-”

Sister Evangelina thrust her hand in between them. “Listen. You can hear that car of his from the other side of the river.” A few moments later, the tardy Dr. Turner turned the corner in his adored MG Magnette, its engine no longer the quiet purr of years past but the roar of a cranky old lion.

Struggling with the door, Patrick Turner finally climbed out to the street. “Apologies, ladies. I had to stop at the petro station to put some oil into the engine.” Swinging his medical bag from the trunk, he trotted up the steps to greet his wife, adeptly ignoring the expression on the Sister’s face.

Shelagh turned her cheek up to accept his kiss and worried, “Again? You just changed the oil this weekend.” She blushed, trying not to recall just how an afternoon of automotive maintenance usually turned out at the Turner home. Mrs. Turner did appreciate her husband’s forearms, after all, but it just wouldn’t do to allow those thoughts to wander in present company.

Patrick grinned knowingly and winked at his wife. Spreading his arms wide, he benevolently attempted to escort the two ladies into the clinic, but Sister Evangelina would have none of it. “Doctor Turner, that old jalopy has got to go.”

If she had slapped him standing in the middle of the High Street, Patrick could not have been more stunned.

“You already have an issue with timeliness, Doctor. Breaking down on the side of the road will not get you to your appointments. Mark my words, if that beast survives the spring I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

***   ***

By the beginning of April, the old Magnette had gone through a muffler, a new radiator, twice, and new brakes installed. Yet Patrick was unmoved.

“A few maintenance issues, Tim, that’s all. She’s fine. I’ll be driving that car to Angela’s wedding.” Patrick tweaked the girl’s ponytail.

“No, you most certainly will not,” asserted Shelagh from the stove. “Patrick, Tim’s right. I’m afraid it’s time to replace that car. The transmission is on it’s last legs. Only yesterday it stalled on me three times.” Turning on him, she added, “Don’t even try to say I don’t know how to properly drive that car. A person should not have to pump the clutch three and a half times and lean to the right before switching gears. It’s ridiculous!”

“See, Dad? Mum says it too. Even Sister-”

“Tim, go play outside with Angela. We’ll call you down when tea is ready.” Patrick was feeling cornered.

Picking up on this, Shelagh changed tactics as the children left the house. She turned the heat off under the stew, and turned it up elsewhere. Slowly walking over to her husband, she lowered her voice. “Patrick, I know you love that car. I love that car, but-”

“You should love that car,” he told her. “I found you on that misty road in that car. I taught Tim to drive in her. And we took Angela home from the hospital in that old ‘jalopy,’ you might remember.” His hands moved to rest on his wife’s hips. Patrick was standing firm, but there was no reason why he couldn’t make his point and hold his wife closer at the same time.

“Hmmm,” Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck. “It does have some happy memories.”

Nose to nose, he continued, “We’ve had some good times in that car, sweetheart. That first night I picked you up for a date? Or when we went to the movies to see Dr. Zhivago?”

Shelagh’s fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him down closer to her lips. “I remember. We certainly steamed up those windows, didn’t we? It’s a shame you don’t want to buy a new car, though. I was rather looking forward to making some new memories in the next one.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. Shelagh had played her trump card and won.

***   ***

Two days later, Patrick walked into the sitting room with a gleeful expression on his face.

“Tim, you’ll need to mind your sister tonight.Your mother and I are going out.”

Three sets of eyes turned to him, stunned. Radio 5 was re-broadcasting the afternoon’s game between Liverpool and Sheffield, and the idea of him missing a game this late in the season was inconceivable.

“But Dad,” Tim finally got out, “tonight’s Liverpool-”

“Tim, my boy, not even the league title would keep me in tonight. Come on! Outside everyone. I’ve got something to show you.”

Still speechless with surprise, the Turners filed outside. Parked regally at the front door was a gleaming bright blue Vauxhall Viva.

“Daddy!” cried Angela. “You bought a car!”

Tim shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d ever do it, Dad. But well done.” Dating would be much less embarrassing in this car.

“And what about the Magnette?” Tim asked. “Did they let you trade it in?”

“Well, not exactly. They would have, I’m sure of it, but it was a bit dodgy on the start. But it’s better this way. Now you can share it with your mother.”

“Oh, thank you,” Timothy said sarcastically. “I’ve been given so much.”

“Yes. Well, then. Here’s some cash, take Angela for dinner. Homework done and bed early, I haven’t forgotten about your chemistry test tomorrow. Shelagh, no need to change. There’s no dress code where we’re going tonight.”

***   ***

Much later that night, the new car glided quietly to its new parking space.

Patrick turned to his wife and pulled her close. “So, do you like the new car?”

“Mm-hmm,” Shelagh returned, her hands toying with his poorly buttoned waistcoat. “It’s very comfortable, dearest.” She looked up and smiled contentedly. “And the back seat is so roomy. Not cramped at all.”

Several minutes of blissful quiet passed when they were startled by a knock at the window. Unable to see through the steamed windows, Patrick rolled one down to see the source of their interruption.

“Oh, sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know it was you. New car, sir? Very nice.” Officer Brogan was new to the beat, but had quickly learned the doctor kept odd hours. “Defogger not working? Been a bit misty out-Oh, Mrs. Turner. Didn’t see you there. Evening ma’am. Oh.” The young constable eyes roamed  anywhere but the interior of the car. But he had to be wrong. He couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was. Could he? No, it wasn’t possible.

It simply was not possible that the respected Doctor Turner and his widely admired wife were snogging in the backseat of a car now, was it?

Shelagh Goes to the Ball, Part One

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Artwork by GreetingsDr. as published on her Tumblr blog

Artwork by GreetingsDr. as published on her Tumblr blog

 

Impatiently, Timothy Turner stood before his father as his formal bow tie was finished. “Timothy, stop fidgeting. Mum will be down in just a moment. There’s plenty of time,” Patrick told his son. They stood almost eye-to-eye now, and Timothy’s feet were already larger than his dad’s.

“You always say that, and then we’re always late,” Tim complained. The poor boy’s nerves were already strained without his father’s teasing. When the invitation to  Great Ormond Street Hospital’s Annual Ball arrived a month ago, he had been stunned to see he was among the honored guests.  Since his bout with polio seven years ago, he had spent many hours volunteering with the children on his old ward. Now, to celebrate the opening of the new Children’s Ward, his former doctor Jim Carson had made sure that Timothy and his parents were included in the celebration.

“That’s only when you’re waiting for me. Mum won’t make us late, don’t worry.” The door upstairs opened and he gloated, ”See?”

But if Timothy was expecting to see his mother ready to leave for the dance, he was to be disappointed. His little sister appeared at the top of the stairs, a look of amazement on her face.

Bouncing down the stairs, she came to a stop when she met her father.

“Daddy, Mummy looks like a princess!” Her blue eyes, eerily like her mother’s, were huge and round.

“Cinderella?” he asked. Each family member had taken Angela to the pictures at least twice to see that film down at the Royale, even poor Tim. Angela had taken to walking around in her mother’s heels in the kitchen, pretending she was at the Ball.

“Yes,” she breathed, “just like her.” Angela grinned. “Are you ready to see her, Daddy?” she asked as she scurried down the last steps to take his hand.

“I hope so. Tim’s about to bolt out the door any minute.”

Angela called up the stairs. “Mummy, they’re ready!”

Patrick grinned back at his son, and turned to look at his wife gliding down the stairs. Shelagh smiled as she saw his jaw drop, the air knocked from his lungs. This was her very first Ball, even if only as a chaperone, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it. She knew Patrick favored her in blue, so she had searched the boutiques in Oxford Street for just the right frock. Sapphire taffeta with cap sleeves, it fit close to her waist, narrowly flaring out over her hips as it reached the floor. The decolletage was a little lower than she was used to, but just modest enough for the mother of a young man. She had smoothed her hair into a chignon low on her neck, the long white gloves and the pearls Patrick had given her for their fifth wedding anniversary completing her look.

Coming level with her husband, she smiled shyly at him. “You like it?” Her eyes took on a knowing look.

Patrick swallowed hard, nodding. Speechlessly, he watched his wife come down the rest of the stairs. Shelagh stood before Timothy and reached up to straighten his tie. “You look very handsome, Timothy dear. Susan will be very impressed. Do you have the corsage?”

“Right here,” he answered, shaking the small square box. “You look nice, Mum. Really,” he blushed.

Shelagh beamed. “Well, I won’t kiss you for that right now, so as not to get lipstick on your cheek. But you won’t get off so easily tomorrow, young man.”

“You can get lipstick on my cheek, Mummy,” Angela slipped in. “I wish I was going, too,” she sighed sadly.

“Don’t worry Cinderella, you’ll have a wonderful time at Charlotte’s house. You won’t even miss not having a fairy godmother.” She bent down and pressed her lips to her daughter’s. “There, now you have lipstick, too. Go get your bag so we can drop you off, Angel Girl.”

“I’ve already got it!” Angela proudly showed her mother.

“So in the car then, everybody,” cajoled Timothy. “We really will be late if we don’t shove off.”

Shelagh turned to her husband, looking for his arm. His face still stunned, he hadn’t moved. Tim rolled his eyes. “Please pick your chin off the floor, Dad. If you’re going to look like that all night, I’d rather you stayed at home.”

Running his finger under his collar, Patrick looked more like his son than ever.

Having dropped Angela at her friend’s house, Patrick handed the keys to his son. “You drive, son. Pretend we’re not even here in the back seat.”

Thrilled with the rare opportunity to drive his father’s beloved new Vauxhall, Tim ran around the bonnet of the car. Shelagh looked sidelong at her husband. “What are you up to?” she asked coyly.

“Can’t a man help his son out on his first formal date?” Patrick answered innocently. But he had moved a bit nearer than necessary, his fingers only just brushing against her gloved ones. Shelagh smiled to herself as they made their way through town, Slowly, Patrick’s hand slipped closer until it slid itself under her palm to clasp her hand. No change in expression accompanied the gesture, but Shelagh felt a strong sense that he was planning something.

She was right. The moment Timothy stepped from the car to pick up his date, Patrick slid the rest of the way across the seat, pressing his wife into the corner. “You’re stunning, my love.” His hand caressed her cheek, his thumb lightly playing along her lips. “Did you bring your lipstick?” he whispered.

Shelagh’s eyes danced. “Yes. Did you want to borrow it?”

“Not exactly. But you’ll need to refresh it before Tim comes back.” He swiftly lowered his head to hers, capturing her lips with his. Shelagh felt a flush of desire as his mouth teased hers open, the tip of his tongue tracing and retracing the paths he knew would stir her. Trying very hard to control her response, Shelagh placed her hands on his chest pushing away to allow just enough air between them to restrain their passion. His lips slid along the column of her neck, and for a moment, she let herself get swept away. Soon, however, she forced herself back to sanity. Timothy would return any moment, and would not appreciate his parent’s shenanigans.

“Patrick, dearest,” she whispered. “You have to stop.”

“Mmmm..,” he responded, his hand dangerously close to her perfectly coifed hair.

“Patrick,” Shelagh commanded.

It never paid to fail to heed that tone, as he had learned over the years. Grinning wolfishly, Patrick pulled away. “Is my tie all right?” he asked.

“Your tie is fine. But you’d better scrub your mouth. You were particularly effective in taking off my lipstick,” she noted, checking her face in her compact. “Oh, Patrick,” her voice carried feigned annoyance. “When will you grow up?”

The wolfish grin became a leer. “Never, if I’m lucky. And speaking of getting lucky-” he slid back to her side of the car seat. Shelagh was saved by Tim, not for the first time, as he opened the car door and ushered his date to her seat.

Settling himself in the driver’s seat, Tim muttered, “Why’s the window so-”

Blushing fiercely, poor Tim turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear.

Next Chapter

 

Baby Talk

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A response to a Tumblr prompt from Thymefortea:  How Patrick or Shelagh brings up the subject of wanting to have a baby soon after the wedding. Bonus points if their discussion turns into a more intimate “discussion” while on honeymoon.


* * * Continue reading →

An Inquiring Mind

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One evening, Shelagh asks for clarification from Patrick. Who knew Fred could cause such consternation?

Just a wee bit on the steamy side…

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