Category Archives: Call the Midwife

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Six

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Previous Chapter

The road to Hope Mission was a relic from the days of British colonialism, a wide byway meant for wagons pulling crops and lumber to the frontier outpost of Alice. Years of neglect had left it barely driveable in parts.  The twelve miles to the mission were not kind to any vehicle, and the Mission’s dusty maroon and tan bus did not make the journey gracefully.

“I never thought I’d miss the top of a double-decker barrelling down the commercial road,” Trixie complained. She gripped the seat in front of her fiercely, trying to keep from tumbling to the floor.  

“Think of it like this, Trixie,” Barbara advised. “It’s better than that old bus Tom uses for church trips!”

The two exchanged grins, ignoring the cry of protest from the vicar. The alliance between the two nurses had strengthened since the autumn, to the point where poor Tom sometimes felt like he was the third wheel.

“You two young ladies are very ungrateful,” Fred wagged a finger from his seat across the aisle. “That ol’ omnibus has a history!”

“Yes, Fred. It’s Pre-Historic!” Trixie quipped.

The bus lurched in the road and sent up a cloud of dust behind it. “Better than an English rollercoaster,” the driver called out with a cheerful laugh. Small and wiry, Jacob Arends drove with more enthusiasm than skill, but his wide grin and friendly manner had done more to settle nerves as the team completed the final leg of their journey than all the polished manners of the Mission Society escorts.

“Soon we will be at our Mission,” he assured them over his shoulder. “We are most excited to have you stay.”

“I would be most excited if he didn’t drive us into a ditch,” Patrick muttered as he swayed with the bus’s motion.

Shelagh’s lips pressed together and she smoothed Angela’s hair. The poor little girl was near the end of her tether with all the travel. “Almost there, darling, and then we’ll let you have a nice run ‘round. Patrick, you’re just nervous. Dr. Fitzsimmons wrote to you for a reason, dearest, you’re sure to help.”

“Some boxes of supplies and a few weeks service. What do I know about bush medicine? I’m a place-filler until the Mission Society can get a trained mission doctor here, that’s all.” His crossed arms and pursed lips gave him a petulant look.

“Patrick,” Shelagh soothed. Sometimes her husband was his own worst enemy. He needed to be busy, and the forced idleness of these days of travel had left him to worry more than she liked. “You’re more than trained for this. Certainly we’ll have challenges, but it’s not just your medical skills that will be of help here, dearest. You want to help people; you want to make their lives better. Dr. Fitzsimmons couldn’t have made a better choice when she sent you that letter.”

He glanced down at her bright blue eyes, full of encouragement and a reluctant grin tugged at the side of his mouth. “What would I do without you, Shelagh?”

“For one thing, you’d eat yourself sick. You certainly made a feast of the bobotie at the hotel last night!” Shelagh teased. Patrick was not the most adventurous of eaters, but their first official meal in South Africa had been a success.

His eyes lit up. “I only ate two servings last night! It’s not my fault is was so much like your shepherd’s pie.”

“Flatterer, you had three servings, and you finished Angela’s, too.”

“I was simply making sure she didn’t let the sultanas go to waste.”

“And the mince, and the crust, too, I’m certain.” A dimple peeked out from Shelagh’s suppressed grin.

Leaning in conspiratorially, Patrick whispered loudly, “Angela, I think Mummy’s asking for a kiss.”

“Dad,” groaned the boy seated behind them. “Please don’t embarrass me at the Mission with that mushy stuff. It’s bad enough I have to see it at home.”

Shelagh giggled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timothy dear.”

Timothy rolled his eyes, then sat forward. “Mr. Arends said the next time he goes into Alice, he can take me to look at the University there. It’s the only library in the whole region.”

“We’ll see, Tim,” Patrick answered. “Let’s get settled at the Mission before we make any plans. We’re here for a purpose, not a sightseeing trip.”

Jacob Arends had other ideas, it seemed, and he slowed the bus to point out features along the way.  As they drove farther from Alice, the terrain began to change. The lonely thorn trees of the veld gave way to low bushes and tufts of pale grasses that swayed in the breeze, creating hiding places for the grazing animals as they took rest from the heat. Miles ahead, the green deepened, making a gradual climb up an imposing forested ridge.

“Up ahead, you see the mountain? That is Hogsback, most beautiful mountain God made. It is three, maybe four miles from our village, and the most lovely green mountain. The rivers there, they make waterfalls and a lake so deep there is no bottom.”

The bus rumbled through a dense copse of trees, upsetting a flock of bright birds. “There!” called out Tom Hereward. “In the tree–monkeys!”

“Those are vervets, Mr. Vicar. They pose no danger to you, but they will steal the food from your hand if you are not careful,” the driver advised.

“It’ll be just like have Sister Monica Joan with us,” laughed Trixie.

“Mr. Arends, what are those funny round buildings? We’ve seen them from the train, but could not place them,” piped in Sister Winifred.  A cluster of round buildings, bright with a white stucco and thatched roofs  sat upon a swell in the plain.

“Those are rondavels. They are Xhosa homes,” his voice clicked on the name.

“But why are they round?” Sister Winifred asked. “It seems a funny sort of shape for a building.”

“Why would they not be round? A square house, it has too many corners for snakes to hide.”

A low groan came from the back of the bus. A self-appointed quartermaster, Fred kept watch over the fragile boxes of medical equipment. “Snakes? ” his voice was high. “I hate snakes!”

Jacob Arends shook his head sagely as he looked back in the rearview mirror. “Then I am very sorry for you, my new friend.”

Another turn and the road moved north from the river. The bus groaned, demanding its rest, and lumbered another hundred yards before it passed under an old iron gate. Blaring the horn, Jacob read the sign aloud, “Welcome to Hope Mission!”

A collection of one-storey buildings, the mission nestled in a large clearing guarded by two gnarled olive trees. The stucco of its white stone walls gleamed brightly in the sun, topped by a steeply sloped tin roof, and was bookended by two symmetrical additions. Tall casement windows segmented the facade, high off the ground. A set of stone steps led up to a low belfry, welcoming visitors.

To the left of the main building, a long dormitory stretched to the back of the clearing, a row of windows chasing down its length.  On the other side of the main building stood several smaller, squat buildings, each with a clear purpose. Located closest to the well-pump, these buildings housed the kitchens, a laundry, and a generator room.

Eleven sets of anxious eyes peered out the bus windows. Six weeks of preparation suddenly did not seem like such a long time.  “It’s square,” gulped Sister Winifred.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick stood and approached the front of the bus.  “Thank you, Mr. Arendt. You’ve been most kind.” He turned to the team before him. “I want to thank you all, as well. I couldn’t possibly here manage without you.”

“We are all behind you, Doctor Turner,” Sister Julienne assured him. “If I might say a small prayer?”

He nodded. “Of course, Sister.”

Sister Julienne stood at her place and began, “Oh. Lord, guide us as we strive to carry out your work. Help us to bring healing and mercy to those in need, and give us the wisdom to learn more than we can teach. Amen.”

Jacob hopped down the bus steps and called out to the people that had begun to gather outside the bus, his voice clicking with sounds still strange to those used to the pattern of English, and a young boy ran to ring the mission bell.

One by one, the weary team stepped down from the bus into the bright sunlight, nervous smiles answering the dark cheerful faces before them.

Jacob turned his attention back to the group. “I am told Dr. Fitzsimmons is in the ward, she will be here quite soon, doctor,” Jacob announced. “Please, you must all follow me.” He stepped toward the main building, but before he could lead the group in, a woman rushed down the front steps.

“Patrick Turner!” she called. “I knew you were the man to count on!”

Next Chapter

A/N: The image I’ve used to base my Mission is that of a missionary school for Bantus near Middelburg, Transvaal, taken in September of 1964. You can find it here.

Xhosa (pronounced Kosa in English) in a South African language that features clicks as part of its phonetics. This video will give you an idea of how the sounds are made. Careful, though. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself practicing for hours!

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Five

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BBN9PKA/N:  I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible with this chapter in order to explain some of the questions I have about how a team of nuns and medics from the poorest part of London could get to South Africa. (Hint: it involves a great deal of suspension of disbelief, a generous benefactor, two planes, a train and a bus, and two nights in hotels–What? you don’t think that’s realistic?? It’s AU, baby!!).

Also, I’ve introduced apartheid and Homelands in this chapter and have tried to do so in a correct historical context of early 1962. Any errors are innocently meant. There are links below that will offer clarity.

One last thing. Did you know that a group of giraffes has two different collective nouns? A group of standing giraffes is called a “tower,” while a group of running giraffes is called a “jenny.”

Sometimes I really love English.

Previous Chapter

 

A battered train chugged through the pale yellow bushveld, lacking any of the urgency and determination of its European brethren. Miles distant, the blue shadows of the Great Escarpment jutted out from the veld, sequestering the Eastern Cape from the world. The sky glowed with a bright blue never seen in London, an enormous dome that refused admittance to any clouds.

It was as if God had used an entirely different palette of colors when He created this part of the world. Yellow and blue shimmered here in a way never seen on the sunniest day in England, challenging the eye to see more than it could. Green was deeper, darker and more mysterious than the pale greens of the English oak.  Even the greys were different from London greys.  

Within the first class carriage, Shelagh watched the scenery pass unchanged for miles. The pale gold of the mid-summer grasses was dotted with clumps of bushes and the occasional sinewy tree. The heat of the midday sun forced animals into shady spots, unseen from the train. In all, the effect was hypnotizing.

Shelagh shook herself from her quiet and stretched lightly. In the bench across from her, Angela lay curled up on Patrick’s lap, the two lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the train. Shelagh smiled as she watched them breathe in tandem, Angela gently sucking her thumb as her father snored.

Not all of the passengers slept in the compartment. Sisters Julienne and Winifred both read from their Bibles. A catch-as-catch-can sort of schedule had been adopted for their daily offices, but both nuns were used to irregular schedules. Fred sat at an end of the car, a game of Solitaire spread out on the seat next to him. Trixie and Barbara sat across from Tom Hereward, a curious sort of trio. Timothy and Phyllis Crane sat in the first row of seats, eyes out the window as they catalogued everything they could see.

Shelagh rose and began to pace along the length of the car.  No other passengers had joined them in this car since they had left the port city of East London, despite the activity at each stop. She paused for a moment to observe Fred’s game, then tapped a card. He glanced up, then sheepishly shifted a stack. A moment with the sisters, another quiet conversation with the nurses, and she took a seat with her son.

“It’s hard to believe we were having tea in Nonnatus house only three days ago,” remarked Nurse Crane over the sound of the engine.

“It would have been much longer if we didn’t have the Missionary Society escorting us everywhere,” Timothy replied. Indeed, John Taylor had pulled enough strings to make the team from Poplar feel more like dignitaries than a travelling medical team. Missionary agents met the party each step of the way, paving over the arduous task of international travel.  Acclimating new missionaries was a top priority of the Christian Missionary Society. There were struggles enough ahead that could cause attrition, getting the help to Africa was the very least that could be done.

Connecting flights had been arranged between Heathrow, Nairobi and East London, South Africa, effectively  minimizing delays.  At each stop along the way, a different Society representative greeted them and handled arrangements for nightly accommodations, as evening travel was unreliable. After an early flight to East London, they were escorted to a small hotel near the sea for the night. Worn out from the travel, they were grateful for a day of rest before boarding a train to Alice, situated twelve miles south of the Hope Mission.

Shelagh stretched her back and looked at the stack of books between her son and the no-nonsense nurse. Over the past weeks, Timothy and Phyllis Crane had formed an unexpected bond. While the others spent the last month of preparation in accumulating and packing supplies for the mission, they gathered every book, travel brochure and periodical they could, resulting in a collection of knowledge fit for the British High Commission in Pretoria.  Timothy focussed on the flora and fauna of the region. Phyllis Crane was an expert in the unusual laws of the South African people.

“Though I suppose we’ll be spending most of our time in Ciskei, what they call a ‘homeland,’ and not ‘South Africa,’ to be precise,” Phyllis had informed the group at one of the gatherings before the departure. There was so much to organize in such a short time that semi-weekly meetings had been deemed necessary. Nonnatus House became a sort of home base for these meetings and  a temporary center for the donations and medical supplies they would bring to Africa.

Patrick had looked up from the large box of medical syringes on the dining room table. “What do you mean, not ‘South Africa’?”

“Just, that, doctor. Officially, we are not going to be working in South Africa. Last year, the government of South Africa created specific areas within the nation with the express purpose of settling blacks within those borders. They’re technically independent.” She walked over to the map she had requisitioned from the Mission Society. “Hope Mission is located here,” using her pen she pointed to a small area of the canvas. A rough outline had been marked in ink on the outdated map. “Just within the eastern border of Ciskei.”

“The government forced people to leave their homes and settle somewhere else?” Trixie’s voice showed her outrage.

“Yes.” Phyllis capped her pen and faced the group.

“But why would they move people in the first place?” Patrick abandoned the syringes. “Why would they go to the effort of moving such a large number of people from their homes? It doesn’t make sense.”

Phyllis sighed, and folded her glasses back up, slipping them into her uniform pocket. “It seems the official stance on the subject is to grant a sort of autonomy for the Blacks. The argument is that by keeping language groups together, with similar traditions, they will be able to govern themselves.  However, from what I can determine, there’s a much darker reason, I’m afraid.”

“How do you mean?” Patrick questioned. By now, the attention of everyone in the room had shifted to Phyllis.

“South Africa has a rather difficult history, as you know. The apartheid system,” she glanced around the room and saw the nods of understanding–everyone had done their homework it seemed— “has been in effect in fact if not official doctrine for a very long time. From what I can gather, the resettlement has more to do with sequestering the Blacks away from the Whites than granting independence. Technically, these four regions are independent, and not the responsibility of the South African government. By pretending these regions are no longer part of the official nation, the government can justify eliminating the few remaining political rights Blacks have within South Africa. Not to mention, if they can claim the homelands are not South African territory, the government has no reason to financially support the regions whatsoever.”

“That would explain why Dr. Fitzsimmons sent out the call for help,” mused Patrick. “A growing population and diminishing resources. We’re all too familiar with that set of problems.”

Phyllis looked about the room once more. “Doctor Turner is correct, I’m afraid. The problems of the Hope Mission are likely to be similar to problems we have encountered in Poplar, but I’m afraid that the scale will be on a level none of us have ever seen.”

Less than a day after their arrival in South Africa, the rightness of Nurse Crane’s words was becoming apparent. Signs hung above doors to businesses, hotels and even train carriages directing people along racial lines. Their train compartment was empty but for their party, as few whites were travelling, but the three cars in the rear were near overflowing. And while the medical team from Poplar enjoyed comfortable cushions and a clean car, the cars set aside for the Non-Whites were crowded and uncomfortable. Segregated by the invisible fence of custom and law, the tension here was certainly greater than back home.

Timothy glanced back at his sleeping father and sister. “Dad’s snoring.” he mocked. “He always snores when he sleeps sitting up. I don’t know how Angela can always nap on his lap with that noise.”

Shelagh grimaced. “Timothy, be nice. Your father works very hard. And I think your sister is delighted to spend time with him any way she can.” She poked his shoulder and teased, “Just for that, Mr. Always, you’re on Angela duty when she wakes.”

“I’d mind your mother, Timothy,” Phyllis nudged. “I recall you were none to happy to be following your sister up and down the aisle on that aeroplane to Nairobi. My, that girl does have energy!”

Shelagh stood. “I’d better get back in case she does wake. Timothy, I have the last few biscuits if you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” he quipped.

The scenery outside her window had not varied since her walk, so Shelagh turned her attention to the sleeping pair before her. Angela’s skin was already pink from her afternoon at the ocean yesterday. Hopefully, she would be more willing to keep her dress on when there were no ocean waves to tempt her. One day in the surf and sand had convinced the little girl she should be a mermaid, and they were still finding contraband seashells in her pockets.

Patrick’s face had some color too, and in his sleep, the stress of the last months eased. The new  lightweight linen clothes suited him, his lean figure cool and elegant in the pale tan material. Of all the tasks she had completed in preparation for the journey, shopping for a warm weather wardrobe for her family had been her favorite. Shelagh sighed lightly, and her eyes traveled back up to her husband’s face.

His eyes were open, bright with a gleam meant for her alone. The slow smirk that crossed his face showed her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he winked. In an instant, Shelagh’s dimple appeared and she shook her head at him coyly. She glanced about the carriage nervously, then seemed to make a decision. Her eyes on his, she slowly stretched across the space dividing them and skimmed his shin with her foot.

His eyes widened in surprise as he considered a response, but a snuffle from Angela broke the mood. “I’ll remember that later, my love” Patrick whispered.

“Angela,” Tim cried from his bench at the front of the car.

“Timothy,” Shelagh shushed him. She turned to see the members of their group standing to look out the train windows on one side of the carriage. “What on earth?”

“Giraffes! Wake Angela! She’ll want to see them!” Tim called over his shoulder.

Patrick carried his slowly rousing daughter to the wide window across the train. In the distance, marula trees bowed over the bush, their wide crowns of leaves creating pools of shade on the sun-baked land.

“Look, Angela! What do you see?” Like the others, Patrick’s voice was child-like with excitement.

“Raffe!” the little girl shouted. “Raffe!” She began to look about her frantically.

“Here you go, darling,” Shelagh cooed, holding out a small wooden giraffe in her palm.

Angela clutched the figurine in her chubby hand and gave it a noisy kiss. “Raffe, Dada. See?” She pointed her hand at the tower of giraffes lazily nibbling on the bulbous fruit hanging from the branches. Patrick lowered her to stand on the seat next to her brother. “Raffes eating!” Her happy squeal was infectious.

“Yes, Angel girl, the giraffes are eating. And do you know who knows more about giraffes than anyone on this train, sweetheart?” Patrick’s eyes widened in encouragement.

“Timofee!” Angela cheered. None but Timothy would do, now, and the boy pretended a groan.

Fred hunkered down on the next bench and adjusted the window to keep the excited two-year old within the train. “Well, little miss, I gotta tell ya. This sure ain’t Poplar.”

 

Next Chapter

Here are some links to sites that may make this all make a bit more sense:

Photo: The Great Escarpment and the Bushveld

Map: South Africa

East London beach

South African Homelands

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Four

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A/N: Four chapters in and no one’s as much as packed a bag. This might take a while.

Previous Chapter

The last Sunday of Advent marked a change in Nonnatus House every year, a shift from contemplation to anticipation. For the faithful, the celebration of the birth of Christ served to renew the spirit. For the others, the sense of tradition and custom helped to ease the stress and pain of life and gave the energy to push forward. After a particularly difficult autumn, the community of Nonnatus needed a new beginning more than ever.

To that end, a gathering had been called after Church services to present the planned mission. In quiet words, Patrick, Shelagh and Sister Julienne put forth the details and goals to a surprised room. By the time they were finished, the faraway world of the Eastern Cape of South Africa had replaced any thoughts of tree trimming and holiday baking. 

“I would like to thank you all for your attention,” Sister Julienne’s restrained voice cloaked the room in calm. “The Order has committed to sending two nuns along with Dr. and Mrs. Turner, and Mr. Hereward has agreed to go to serve as a liaison with the local church authorities. Beyond that, everyone is free to decide for themselves.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Patrick joined. He spread his arms out, his hands wide open. “We realize this is unexpected, that we’re asking for something quite extraordinary. But we are certain that if any group can help Hope Mission survive, it is this one.”

Twelve people sat around the long table of the Nonnatus dining room considering the proposition before them. A six-week long mission to the South African bush was hardly what anyone expected when this meeting was called. Indeed, until an hour ago, the only thing on most minds was the enormous Christmas tree in the sitting room.

“Doctor, may I ask a question,” Nurse Phyllis Crane’s voice broke the silence.

“Of course.”

Phyllis looked around the table, then turned her focus back on Patrick. “This all seems very much a rush job. Even if we were to bring in reinforcements for the community which we now serve, how could we possibly be expected to complete preparations in such a short time?”

Shelagh stood. “Nurse Crane, the Mission Society would make our efforts a priority. They are prepared to meet all of our needs, be it one nurse or ten.” 

Phyllis leaned forward, her chin against her fist. “This does require some thought.”

“Yes, of course,” Shelagh responded. She glanced around the table.  “However, and I do see the difficulty here, we will need a decision from you as soon as possible if we are to assemble the team from other sources. There will, of course, be no expectation that any of you participates. We simply felt that the project should be presented to you before anyone else.”

Phyllis nodded, then continued. “Mrs. Turner, I don’t mean to be intrusive, but is it practical to consider bringing children on such a mission?”

Shelagh’s lips pressed together and Patrick’s hand reached for hers in support. She turned squarely to Nurse Crane and answered, “The Mission assures us that the children will be perfectly safe the entire time. Timothy may continue his studies whilst there, and a local woman will be found to assist in Angela’s care.” She met Phyllis’ eyes determinedly. “As to whether or not it’s practical, no, it probably isn’t the most practical decision we’ve ever made. However, Dr. Turner and I feel there’s much for Timothy to gain from this experience… and I couldn’t bear to leave Angela behind, even for only six weeks.”

Phyllis nodded in understanding. “Of course.” She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Alright then, I suppose I’ll have to start learning Afrikaans now. Or perhaps Xhosa! I’ve heard the clicking sounds are remarkably difficult to reproduce for the European tongue!” She looked around the table, her face eager for the adventure.

“Hear, hear, Nurse Crane,” came Tom Hereward’s voice from the far end of the table. He studiously avoided Barbara Gilbert’s eyes.

“I can go, if the Mother House would like me to,” volunteered Sister Mary Cynthia.

“As can I,” added Sister Winifred.

Sister Julienne nodded in their direction. “Thank you both. I think it best if we sit together and decide amongst ourselves who should join the mission. There is also Sister Monica Joan to consider. We must not make the change too difficult for our sister. She has taken…” she paused to take a deep breath, “She has taken Sister Evangelina’s death very hard and will require extra care.”

“Well, I don’t need to think about it,” Trixie’s voice came forcefully through the room. “I’ve always wanted to travel beyond France. This doesn’t sound like The Grand Tour, but I’d love to see Africa.” she looked at Sister Julienne. “Sister, if you’re quite certain things will be managed without us, I would very much like to go.”

The nun nodded. “Of course, but you might want to consider for a day or so?’

“No,” Trixie smiled bravely. “I’m definitely on board. Who knows? This could be exactly the change I’ve wanted.”

Patsy looked around the table. “I’m afraid I’m out. I can’t speak for Delia, of course, but we’ve already booked our trip to Paris this spring. I’m not sure we could–” She met Delia’s eyes across the table, and a moment of agreement passed between them.

“Of course not,” Shelagh answered. “We’re not looking for sacrifices from any of you. We hope that anyone who joins us will do so happily. Things will be difficult enough without anyone feeling uncomfortable with their decision.”

“Then you can be sure to count on us to hold down the fort here, Shelagh.” Patsy’s confident smile was meant to reassure, and it did.

“Mrs. T, I’m not so sure why I’m here? There’s not much I can do on the medical front, and no one’s ever asked me to serve in the manner of a religious.” Fred sat perched on a stool at the end of the table.

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged glances. “Fred, we were hoping you might consider coming along to provide some of your…special skills,” Patrick told him.  “From what we’ve been told, there’s more than a bit of corruption in the local government, and we’ll need someone who can act as a scrounger.”

“Plus,” Shelagh added, a sly smile lighting her face, “there’s none better to play the Pied Piper when it comes time to dig the new wells. You could be a big help to us, Fred, but I know you may not want to leave Violet. There’ll be no hard feelings if you decide to stay home.”

He nodded. “I’ll have to give it a good think. Plus, the Mrs. won’t be none too happy if I don’t discuss it wif her first.”

“I suppose that leaves just me, then,” Barbara Gilbert’s voice piped up. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to her, and color came to her cheeks. “I’m not certain that my parents would approve of me going. They were unhappy enough when I told them I was coming to London if I’m honest.” She looked about the room smiled her most “grown-up” smile. “Well hopefully that’s worn them down a bit. I’d hate for them to be disappointed when I tell them I’m going to Africa.”

Shelagh squeezed Patrick’s hand, her lips pressed together to hold back her excitement. “Well done. We couldn’t have asked for more support. Thank you all so very much!” Unable to contain her joy, her smile burst forth and filled the room with brightness.

 

Next Chapter

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Three

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Previous Chapter

“A missionary? Shelagh, I’m as far as you can get from a missionary.” Patrick sat at his desk, a pile of files in front of him. Surgery was about to open, and after a morning of calls to head cold after head cold, he was not prepared to process Shelagh’s news. In her excitement since the morning’s interview, she had forgotten to plan a strategy. She would have to let him work through this on his own.

With a little help, of course.

“Actually, Patrick, that’s not quite true. Even if you leave God out of it, you’re as much a missionary as any religious evangelist. You do God’s work every day, dearest.”

Patrick leaned on the desk, his fingers twitching, pressed to his lips. Shelagh smiled. In the months since Patrick had “given up” cigarettes (not always successfully, she knew), his normal tics had shifted to mimic the old habit. She could see that he craved one now, and felt for him.

“It’s too much, Shelagh. We’re strapped here as it is. It’s simply not possible.”

Shelagh walked around the desk and took his face in her hands. “Anything’s possible, Patrick. If I know anything, I know that.”

They smiled, their own past a testament to that. Shelagh pressed a light kiss to his mouth. “Just think about it, dearest.”

 

Surgery finished, Patrick held out his wife’s coat. “What about Nonnatus? They’re understaffed, too. They couldn’t possibly afford to lose nurses for so long.”

“Mr. Taylor assured me that the Society has enough nurses and doctors here in England that could come and carry the load.” She turned to face him. “And it’s only for six weeks, Patrick. It’s not forever.”

He rolled his eyes. “I had a hard enough time leaving Poplar for a week camping, Shelagh. Imagine six weeks!”

She smiled and led the way out the Maternity Home.

 

“We could all go? There’d be a place for the children?” Patrick rolled up the remaining Christmas wrap. Perhaps his distracted mind explained the two gifts he had wrapped this evening to Shelagh’s dozen.

Shelagh finished tying a bow to the festively wrapped gift before her. “Yes. Mr. Taylor said he could accommodate the children, if we like. Many of their missionaries have families that join them.”

“I couldn’t leave you and the children, Shelagh. Not that I’m considering it, mind you.”

Shelagh chuckled and placed the gift on top of the pile. “There, that’s done. I’m glad I learned to get ahead of schedule after things were so busy last Christmas. Shopping’s completed and everything’s wrapped. All that’s left to do is enjoy the peace of the last week of Advent.”

She stood and stretched her back. “I’m for bed, Patrick. Could you put the gifts in the cupboard for me? Behind the old coats like before.” She kissed the top of his head. “Come to bed soon, dearest.”

 

“Timothy would never want to go.” Patrick closed the bedroom door behind him.

“It’s not for very long, Patrick. I’m sure Timothy would be able to manage to keep up with his studies, and I’ve never known a boy more interested in the outside world.”

“But travelling with Angela would be impossible. She’s never even been on a train.”

“You keep using that word, Patrick. It’s not impossible. It’s hugely challenging, and we’ll need to convince an awful lot of people to support the idea. But this mission is going to happen. The only remaining question is who will go?”

 

“Let’s do it,” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s go to Africa.”

Shelagh rolled over to face him. In the morning light, he always looked boyish, the glint of eagerness for the day and its challenges keen in his eyes. She had missed that of late.

His hands came to rest at her hips and he kissed her. “If you’re completely certain,” he said.

She smiled. “I couldn’t be more certain.”

 

Next Chapter

Author’s Note: Yes, I agree. They’re not likely to bring Timothy and Angela along, both for story reasons and practical filming purposes. And there’s no evidence that either child actor is filming.

But this is alternate universe stuff. I’m just here for the ride.

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Two

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BBN9PK

Previous Chapter

The high street teemed with shoppers, mostly women trying to get Christmas shopping done in the few hours left before school let out that day. They moved with the efficiency of a person with too much to do and too little time to do it. Shelagh nodded her head in greeting as she passed friendly faces, grateful no one seemed set on little visits. She had two hours to complete her task and get Angela back to Mrs. Penney before clinic began.

They crossed the street when the scent of baked goods made Shelagh stop. “Oh, Angela!” she cried, “I’ve forgotten the biscuits I meant to bring today.” It was no wonder. Things were already busy at it was. She was mad to even try this.

Angela’s ears perked up at her favorite word. “Bizkit!” She cheered. Shelagh’s brow wrinkled in frustration and she scanned the area. “Oh, alright, we’ll stop and bring some apple fritters with us to Freddy’s house, shall we?” Angela clapped her hands in excitement.

“Got some luvley fritters here, Missus, fresh from me oven,” a voice called. Shelagh turned to see an apron-clad man beside a heavy cart laden with baked goods. He snapped a brown paper bag open. From the look of him, he clearly appreciated the quality of his baked goods. “How many’ll do ya?”

“Half a dozen, please.” Peter Noakes might like one or two as well.

“How ‘bout one fer the li’l princess? This itty bitty one’s not so hot.” The vendor took one from the tray and handed it to Angela. “Sweet fer the sweet, I always say.” He grinned at Shelagh, an appreciative glint in his eye. “One fer her mother, too, eh?”

Shelagh shot a look at the hefty man. “Cheek!” She paid for the pastries and turned the push chair in the direction of the Noakes family’s home.

“Yer husband’s a lucky man, Missus!”

Ordinarily, the baker’s innocent flirting would have cheered her, but for days the letter from South Africa weighed on her mind. Patrick was oddly disinterested, and their discussion that night left Shelagh feeling that there was a larger problem at hand.

“I haven’t heard from Myra in years,” he had said after she finished reading the long letter. “I wonder why she thought to reach out to me? It’s not as if I have the power or connections she needs–or even the skills, for that matter! She’d be better off contacting Jim Pearson, he’s chief of staff at the Liverpool now, or Herbert Crenshaw even. He’s still teaching at St. Thomas’s.” He got up from the sofa and paced the room, his hands threading through his hair. “They’re more likely to be able to send aid.”

Shelagh watched as he opened the case of files he had taken to bringing home each evening. He was nearly finished with a second review, each night searching for connections between patients that had been prescribed Distaval. The late nights were beginning to show on his face.

“Perhaps she thought a general practitioner in the poorest district in London might have some understanding of how to manage in less than ideal surroundings.” Shelagh tried to keep the worry from her voice. While Patrick’s self-confidence had suffered, she was most concerned that he found less fulfillment in his work of late, and less a sense of his own worth.  “Really, Patrick, I should think you’re much more qualified than most. Your ambitions run to helping those most in need of help, not your own advancement.”

He hadn’t turned back to her then, as she had expected. They had a way of accepting compliments from each other, usually with a smile and a wink, but Patrick had ignored her. “I’ll have to answer her of course,” he said, “but I can’t see how we can help. We’ve got enough on our plate here as it is.”

The conversation ended with that, but for the last two days, Shelagh had not been able to forget it. Patrick was right. Things here in Poplar were busy enough as it is, they couldn’t possibly find a way to help, and the thought of Patrick going away for a so long was too much to bear.

Yet the idea kept niggling at the back of her mind. What if, by some miracle, they could do something? What if all the bureaucratic potholes and ordinary realities were all taken care of? There was something in his eyes when he read the letter to her, a gleam of hope she hadn’t seen for weeks.

The effects of the thalidomide scandal weighed heavily upon Patrick’s shoulders, she knew, and he felt the blame sorely. Patrick was more than a doctor. He was a healer and felt a deep connection and responsibility for his patients. It was one of the things she loved the most about him.

It was also the thing that worried her most. Baby Susan Mullucks was always there in his mind, a permanent reminder of his unintentional mistake. While he was able to push through the anguish that caused and continue with his practice, Patrick’s conviction was shaken. Perhaps a trip to Dr. Fitzsimmons’ mission what just what he needed to get it back.

They stopped at the Noakes’ door and Shelagh took a deep breath. “Well, Angela, nothing ever started by staying.” She knocked on the door.

 

The reception room of the Christian Missionary Society was as dark and imposing as any building Shelagh had ever been in. Walnut paneling covered the walls, rich with the patina of years, it had the imposing effect of making her feel quite insignificant. If it weren’t for the tall woman beside her, she wasn’t completely certain she wouldn’t turn tail and head back to Poplar.

“No need to be nervous, Shelagh. Johnny’s quite a grand chap, really.” Chummy assured her.

“Yes, but Chummy, when you said you had a friend here at the Society that could help, I had no idea you meant the Africa Secretary! He must be dreadfully busy. I hate to waste his time.” Shelagh fretted with the handle of her handbag. 

“Oh, Johnny’s never too busy, you’ll see. My brother used to say he’s never known a fellow to be more energetic about more things!”

The large door opened, and a tall, thin man came out. His eyes immediately fell on the two women.
“Chummy! It’s been too long! You told me you’d bring that boy of yours by again. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him he must be ready for Trinity by now!” The stern words were countered by a twinkle in his eye.

“Not quite, though I will say for a three-year-old boy, he’s quite advanced. We have hopes he’ll be Prime Minister one day!”

Mr. Taylor leaned in conspiratorially. “As long as he sends funds to the Mission Society, he’ll get my vote. Least I could do for the nephew of the man that dived into a rugger scrum to save me from the Oxford Huns.”

Shelagh watched the two with guarded eyes. The two obviously had a long history together and spoke a sort of upper-class parlance that set them apart. This man, as much of the ruling class as Lady Browne, seemed to be more comfortable in it, and less concerned with the dignity of station. Perhaps Chummy was right to bring her here.

“Oh,” Chummy cried. “Where on earth are my manners? Mr. John Taylor, may I present Mrs. Patrick Turner.”

With two sets of eyes turned on her, Shelagh felt her confidence falter. What had started out as a simple inquiry was quickly getting out of hand. She reached deep and put on her best Sister Bernadette face.

“How do you do, Mr. Taylor. I’m very grateful you’ve agreed to meet with us. I hope we’re not interrupting your busy schedule.”

“No, no. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Turner. Indeed, I am thrilled! Chummy’s told me about your request, and I must say, it’s gotten my mind in a whirl!”He gestured towards his office. “Come, let’s sit and have a bit of a chat, shall we? Mrs. Mugworth, if you could call down for a tea tray, please?”

Seeing them settled on the leather sofa, he took a seat in a wing chair.

“Your request couldn’t come at a better time, Mrs. Turner. Things have changed a great deal in South Africa in the last year, and the Christian Mission Society no longer has a presence in the area. This could be precisely the opportunity we’ve been looking for.”

He leaned forward. “I’ve taken the opportunity to look into this Hope Mission, and it does seem to be on the brink of closure. Independent missions are shutting down all over Africa, I’m afraid, and without any assistance from the South African government, I’m afraid your friend’s hospital won’t survive beyond the summer.

“Here’s where we can come in. Thanks to a rather large donation year, we have the funds to keep Hope Mission running. The trouble is, we’re strapped for manpower. There’s no way we can get our people out there in time to make a difference. What we need is an advance team that can go out there and do the dirty work, as it were. A group of about a dozen or so people that can bring in supplies, start an education program, perhaps even do something about the water problem. You have no idea how difficult the water problem can be in these places.”

“I can assure you, Johnny, we’re quite aware of the dilemma caused by poor water and sewage in Poplar,” Chummy interrupted. “Even with the new council flats, we still have people living without running water in some quarters!”

The excitement dimmed from his eyes for a moment. “Yes, you’re quite right, Chummy. Our own government has been moving a bit too slowly to care for British poor. There are problems enough no matter where you go, I suppose.”

“Mr. Taylor, might I ask how likely any of this is to happen?” Shelagh could feel a spark of an idea start to form in her mind.

“Oh, I’d say if we could get a team formed quickly, we could have the team out there before February.”

“February!”

He nodded. “Yes, if this is to work, it needs to happen immediately. Hope Mission is barely hanging on as it is. Much more strain and it will go under completely. And let me say, Mrs. Turner, it’s much simpler to improve something we already have than to start from scratch.”

Author Notes

John Vernon Taylor, Bishop of Winchester, served as the Africa Secretary for the Christian Mission Society in the 1960’s. He was a Cambridge Man, and could very possibly have gone to school with Chummy’s older brother. His obituary is here. I’ve tried to fit my John Taylor into this mold.

Next Chapter

A Mission of Hope, Chapter One

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I’ve decided to jump into the world of AU, and write about something that’s not canon. This fic has nothing to do with what’s likely to happen in Series 6 of Call the Midwife, and is more an exercise in combining my love of the characters, history and movies.

I will play with timelines, use some dramatic license with locations, and test the laws of physics. Well, I’ll avoid physics, but I might test your sense of disbelief. My main goal is to explore and understand some well-loved characters. As always, these characters do not belong to me, but I am grateful for all they have taught me.

Forgive me my self -indulgence.

BBN9PK

Chapter One

In the weeks since the thalidomide scandal broke out, a strange melancholy had come over the Kenilworth Row Maternity Home and its staff. While no new babies had been born afflicted by the ravages of the cruel drug, every day brought with it the worry that today, another would appear. Even the start of the holiday season did little to dissipate the grim mood.

The drug had been officially banned in the United Kingdom, and calls came up through the medical profession demanding new standards in pharmaceutical testing. If there was any good that could come from this terrible chapter, it would be stronger regulations to prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. But that was little comfort to mothers like Rhoda Mullocks.

Patrick Turner stepped from his car, turning the key to lock the door and headed up the stone steps from street level to the flat’s entrance. To keep the spirit of Christmas up for the children, Shelagh had insisted they decorate for the holiday. Today, she had hung a wreath on the door. He did appreciate all Shelagh was doing to maintain some sense of normal, even if he found it hard to assist. He would have to make a greater effort. He swallowed heavily and entered the flat.

The sounds of carols on the radio greeted him as he hung his coat in the hall, the scent of mince pies filling the air. He suspected the early baking was more to keep his wife’s mind occupied that a desire to stock up on holiday pastry. More than anyone else, Shelagh understood his sense of guilt and even felt a sense of her own culpability. Both knew they had acted in the best interests of their patients, that there had been no malpractice, but the knowledge that is was their misplaced trust in modern medicine made it all the harder to continue caring for the poor of Poplar. He pushed forward and went to meet his family.

Timothy sat in an armchair, his Biology text balanced on his knees as he copied a diagram. He didn’t look completely happy about his position, having been ejected from his preferred spot at the table. The boy had a desk in his room but preferred to sit with his mother and sister as he worked on his studies. Patrick wondered how the boy could get anything done now that Angela refused to stay within the confines of her play yard. She seemed to take great delight from piling her toys on her brother as he worked.

Shelagh looked up from the washing she was folding. “Hello, dear,” she greeted him, raising her cheek for his light kiss.

“Dad, there’s a letter for you postmarked from South Africa!” Tim announced.

“South Africa?” he wondered, his brow furrowing.

Before he could give the letter any more attention, he felt a tug on his trouser leg and looked down to see two-year-old Angela’s  bright eyes and saucy smile. Pushing aside the sting of guilt he felt each time he pushed away his burdens, he crouched down to her level. “Hello, Miss Angela. It’s a pleasure to see you.” He picked up her soft hand, lifted it to his lips and was rewarded with the same shy smile of delight he so often saw play across his wife’s face.

Wrapping his daughter in his arms, he stood. “What’s that about a letter, Tim?’ he asked. His eyes squinted as Angela patted his cheeks.

“It’s got a stamp from South Africa. Who do you know from there?” Tim asked. He handed the letter up, avoiding his sister’s inquisitive fingers.

Patrick turned the letter over in his hands. “Hope Mission,” he read aloud. “M. Fitzsimmons.” He thought for a moment, remembering. “We went to medical school together. She went down there sometime after the war, I think. I wonder what she has to say to me?”

“There was a woman in your medical school class, Dad?” Tim was amazed.

“Women can become doctors, Timothy,” Shelagh admonished from beyond the kitchen hatch.

“They can now, Mum. But Dad went to school so long ago, I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Mind your cheek, Tim, “ Patrick warned, his grin hidden by Angela’s hands. “There were three in my class when we started, I’ll have you know.” He caught his son’s eyes, halting any further response. “And no, it wasn’t so long ago that one of them was named ‘Eve.’”

“Can the letter wait a bit longer, dearest? Dinner’s just ready.” Shelagh carried in a bowl of roasted sprouts.

Patrick placed the letter on the mantle. “I suppose it won’t hurt to wait until later. I’m famished.”

 

Evenings were the easiest time to forget about the troubles within the practice, when self-reproach gave way to love. There was a tacit agreement to put the focus on family for the few hours they had before the children went to bed. The lively chatter of a bright young man and the happy little girl kept the mood light and made preparations for the holiday possible.

Patrick stood in doorway of the bath and watched as Shelagh gave Angela’s hair a final rinse. The little girl sputtered and squealed with laughter.

“She’ll turn into a mermaid one day,” he laughed. He opened the towel and put out his arms, scooping up the slippery child. “I’ll dress her tonight.”

He passed by Tim’s room on the way to the nursery. “Ready for the Biology exam tomorrow, Tim?”

“I think so. I’m fairly certain I know my all the enzymes.”

Patrick shifted the wiggly girl on his hip. “Enzymes aren’t all that hard, Tim. Just remember to break it down.”

Timothy rolled his eyes at the terrible pun. “Can I have the stamp when you’ve finished your letter?”

“Right. I nearly forgot.”

Shelagh joined them in the hallway. “You go read your letter, Patrick. I’ll get Angela to sleep tonight,” she suggested.

With a kiss on Angela’s little nose and a quick one on his wife’s cheek, Patrick left his family to settle in for the night.

 

He sat staring into space, absently tapping the letter against his chin when Shelagh returned.

“Good news, I hope,” she said as she settled on the couch next to him. Her hand slid around his arm, finding his hand. They’d have one last cup of tea and set to wrapping gifts.

He sat up a bit and put the letter on her lap. “Interesting news, anyway. Myra Fitzsimmons was always…she’s an unusual person. She wasn’t the only woman in our class, but she was the most ambitious, maybe more ambitious than any of us. She was older and had years of medical training before she came to school–she lied about her age to be accepted as a nurse in the First World War, then went on to serve in Liverpool Hospital for another ten years or so.” He laughed softly. “I don’t suppose she relished the idea of listening to anyone, much less a man, so she left nursing and joined our class. Some of the old instructors were pretty rough on her, but she held firm. I think she was the only one to never faint in anatomy class!”

Shelagh lifted the letter to exaine it more closely. “It must have been difficult for her. In my experience, most doctors can be …condescending… when treating women as patients. In the classroom, they must’ve been insufferable!”

Patrick turned to her in mock outrage.

“Present company excepted, dearest.” She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “Were you friends?”

“Not friends, exactly. Myra Fitzsimmons didn’t make friends easily, but she was an excellent lab partner. No nonsense, and the quickest diagnostician I ever knew. She signed up with the RAMC during the World War II and got stationed in Cape Town, and decided to stay.”

“So why did she write you? Is she coming back to England? We could use someone like her here in Poplar.” Shelagh stifled a yawn.

“Actually, no. She runs a mission on the East Cape, and it looks like they’re in trouble.” He turned to face Shelagh. “She wants us to go down there.”

Next Chapter

 

First Words

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tumblr_nib2uu829A1sjv7x9o1_1280Another response to a prompt suggestion by Like-an-Officer-and-a-Sergeant over on Tumblr. I think the title speaks for itself.

 

Propped up against the pillows of the family’s gold sofa, Angela Turner was the center of attention. She was quite used to such treatment, for she was, after all, the most beautiful baby ever born (her father often told her so), not to mention brilliantly clever (big brother Timothy’s decree) and undeniably charming and captivating (that’s what Mummy said, anyway). Today, however, there was a new reason for her admirers to kneel at her feet.

Angela Turner, at the advanced age of five-and-a-half months, was learning to speak.

“Say ‘Mama,’ Angela darling,” her mother coaxed. Shelagh’s voice was gentle, and Angela turned towards it naturally. “Mama,” Shelagh repeated.

Angela’s eyes were enormous in her sweet face, and her smile revealed two tiny little white tooth buds in her bottom gum. She must have known its effect, for she brandished that smile at all and sundry. She watched her mother’s face, rapt with attention.

“Honestly, Patrick, she said it this very afternoon. It was as clear as a bell.” Shelagh bit her lip in bewilderment.

“She might have done, Shelagh, but you know as well as I that a child of this age isn’t really speaking. They’re simply practicing sounds. ‘Mama’ is an easy one to say. She could just as well be saying ‘dada.’”

Shelagh glanced up from under her lowered brow. “She did not simply repeat a sound, Patrick. Angela’s been babbling for weeks now, I know the difference. Today she looked at me and said “Mama.” Our daughter has said her first word.”Determined, Shelagh reached for the satin-bound baby book by her side and opened it.  

“What are you doing?’ Patrick demanded.

“I’m filling in her first word, of course.”

“Shelagh, you can’t. Angela hasn’t repeated it once this evening.”

With a sigh, Shelagh capped her pen and put the book down. “Very well, then. We’ll just have to show Daddy, won’t we Angel Girl?” She smiled softly at the child and began to repeat the word.

With a quick squeal, Angela began to laugh. Her lips opened and closed, mimicking the face her mother made, and then, it happened. “Mama!” the genius child cried.

Both parents laughed with her. “Patrick, she said it again!”

“Mama. Mama.Mama.” The word filled the sitting room.

After a few moments, Patrick glanced at Shelagh. “I’m still not convinced she’s saying this as a word, Shelagh. Try and see if she can use the word to identify you.”

“Patrick, she’s said my name a thousand times already. Of course, she knows.”

But Patrick would not give up. “Just a small experiment. To prove me wrong.”

That was a wise tactic. He knew no wife could resist the chance to prove her husband wrong.

“Alright, then.” Shelagh rolled her eyes and then knelt down in front of their daughter. “You’ll have to come kneel here as well, Patrick. No complaining. This is your experiment, not mine. Now Angela, darling where is Mama?”

The baby squealed, and cried, “Mama!” Her chubby arm reached for Shelagh’s face.

Trying unsuccessfully to hide the triumph on her face, Shelagh kissed the little hand  and moved to the table with the baby book.

Patrick, a bit crestfallen, decided that while ‘Dada’ may not have been the first word his daughter ever said, he was certain that it would be the second. And immediately.

“Angela sweetheart, say Dada. Dada.” The baby turned her curious eyes to his face and answered, “Mama.”

Now, if  Poor Patrick were in doctor-mode, he would have pointed out to his wife that the certainty of Mama being an actual word had just come under some doubt. But Patrick was not in doctor-mode, he was in full-fledged father-mode. Rather than listen to the sound of reason, he spent the better part of the next half hour repeating himself.

Shelagh watched from the kitchen as she finished the dinner preparations, and was the only one to greet Timothy when he returned from school.

“What’s that all about?” The boy asked, gesturing to his father and sister.

“Your father is upset Angela said her first word today, and he’s trying to make her say ‘Dada’ now.”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure either of you should be rushing to get her to talk, you know. All Angela has to do is look at either of you and she already has you both wrapped around her finger. Besides, once she starts talking, we’ll probably never get her to stop.”

Shelagh smiled sheepishly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timmy. Now go and get cleaned up, dinner will be ready in just two ticks.”

A cheer came from the sitting room.

“‘Dada!’ She said ‘Dada!’” Patrick exhaled, delighted.*

Timothy’s eyes rolled up to his eyebrows.”You two. When she learns to walk you’re going to be unbearable.”

 

*From a prompt by Like-an-Officer-and-a-Sergeant

 

A Small Price to Pay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

“If you’re certain,” she faltered.

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

They

Were

Kissing.

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

And Timothy was glad.

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

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

 

Beyond the Grief

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8

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pink Cheeks and Pyjamas

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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