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Encouraged in Love

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This fic is set immediately after “Knit Together.”  It shifts in tone a bit, and may simply be kettles for the sake of kettles (not that there’s anything wrong with that!)  Actually, it’s definitely KWP (Without Purpose).

I’d say 3 1/2 kettles are on the hob for this one.

Shelagh felt a warm glow rise up through her body.  He wanted her, and the rest of the world, all her worries fell away.  She moved closer, so their bodies were almost touching and breathed his scent in deeply.  “You smell clean.”  Her finger traced the pattern on his pyjama top, then pressed against his heart.  

His hands covered hers and he looked her squarely in the eye.  “Shelagh, you don’t have to do this.  It’s only natural if you need more time.  Your body’s been through so much-”

“All is as it should be,” she answered.  “You’ve been wonderfully patient for so long, darling.  I’d started to forget how important this is.  Not simply the…the sex,” her whisper grew softer on the word,  “but being us, together.  A couple.”  She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest.  “Even if you don’t want to tonight, I’d like to be near you.”

A rumble deep in his chest made her smile.  “I think you know I want to,” he teased.  His voice grew serious again and he bent his head to meet her eyes.  “Are you certain?’

She raised her face to his.  “I am completely certain.”

Patrick stepped back and grinned appreciatively.  “I was right, you should wear my jumper.  It suits you.”  He twirled her in a tight circle before him, letting his gaze trace her form.  “You’ve got the legs for it.”

A dimple appeared.  “Ridiculous man,” she giggled.  She wove her arms around his neck and tugged his face close to hers.  They lingered for a long moment, their lips a bare inch apart.  Long dormant feelings rose to the surface and she felt a familiar ache grow within her.  Unable to wait any longer, she pushed up on her toes to kiss him.  This was no longer simply about being available to him.

His lips were warm and firm, yet she knew instantly that he was holding back.  She sighed against his mouth, excited by his restraint.  Even now he would let her take the lead, let her offer what she was ready for.  She tugged gently on his lower lip, darting her tongue against its fullness before she pulled it into her own mouth.  Their tongues met and grazed against each other, deepening the kiss.  She stretched even taller, eager for more contact, and she protested when he pulled back.

“Bloody hell, Shelagh, I’ve missed you.”  He let his gaze wander over her again, and she thrilled at the passion she saw there.  His arms pulled her tight to him and he pressed his face against her hair.  “It’s taking all I have not to push you down on our bed and ravish you,” he murmured.  

They stood together for a long moment.  Then with a deep breath, he sat back on the edge of the bed.  Catching her by the hips, he tugged her to stand before him.  

There were no words, no sounds but for the soft suss of their slow breathing.  She grazed the back of her fingers against his cheek, up along the sharp edge of his temple and into his dark hair.  Her lips followed her fingertips, lingering at his temple, her nose in his hair.    

When his hands slid in gentle circles along the backs of her thighs, she exhaled in pleasure.  They kissed, intimate and slow.  She moved again, her head lowered to his and her arms about his shoulders, and she gasped at the scratch of the coarse wool against her sensitive skin.  Her breasts tingled, and she leant lightly into him.  

He moaned softly into her mouth and slid his hands beneath the jumper, cupping her bottom and Shelagh gasped.   “Yes, Patrick, please,” she whispered.  

His hands skimmed over the smooth skin of her arched back, fingertips tracing along her spine, and she felt the heat build deep inside her.  She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him again, humming with pleasure.  Her back arched in an invitation and felt his hands slide around to cup her breasts.  

Suddenly it wasn’t enough. Breaking their kiss, she straddled him.  She pressed herself tightly against him, her arms wrapped around him, and gloried at the feel of him between her legs.  “I love you, Patrick,” she purred.  “Whatever else there is there will always be us at the center.”  She kissed his cheek and sat back.  Lifting herself up, she reached down and pulled the jumper off and tossed it to the side.

“Let me ravish you, Patrick.”

His smile was dazzling.  “That’s my girl.”

 

Later, after their hearts had returned to a steady beat, they lay facing each other in a cocoon of blankets.

“Teddy will be up soon,” Patrick whispered.  “I’m afraid we won’t get much sleep tonight.”

“Mm-hmm.”  She stretched her legs so that her toes found the tops of his feet.  “We’ll simply have to go to bed early tomorrow night, dearest.”

“I’ve got rounds, I’m afraid.”  He rolled onto his back with a sighed of regret.  

She followed him and nestled against his chest, her sigh echoing his.  “Angela has a dress rehearsal, and Timothy asked me to help him with revising for his Trigonometry exam.  Oh, and I simply must get into those patient files—they’re a mess!”

“Sometimes I wish we were workers on the clock like everyone else.”  He gently massaged her back.

“A rain check, then?”  she asked, then pressed a kiss to his chest.

“Absolutely.  Especially if you take to wearing all my jumpers.”  His shoulders shook with laughter.  “Perhaps I should get a blue one…”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick.”

 

Knit Together

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IMG-8598“Finally!” Shelagh thought to herself.  No matter how successful “fifteen minutes on each breast” was during the daytime feeds, baby Teddy did not seem to agree with the strategy in the evenings.  It was just as well, she supposed.  These longer feeds just prior to bedtime seemed to help him sleep longer spells through the night, and if Teddy slept longer spells, then so did she.  What Truby King didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

She placed the dozing infant into his cot and tiptoed from the room.  If she hurried, she could finish that last hem on Angela’s costume and still get a few hours of sleep before Teddy needed her again.  It wasn’t likely to be her best workmanship, but Madam Edith would simply have to lower her expectations.

The air got progressively cooler as she went down the staircase, and she regretted not putting on her fuzzy blue robe.  “Best finish quickly,” she told herself, “or I might freeze my toes off!”  

Patrick sat sat hunched at the kitchen table, his pose familiar from so many nights reviewing patient files at home.  She came down the last steps to stop at his side.  “I’m just being silly,” she told him.  “What’s that you’re doing?  You said you were finished with your work for the night.”  

He lifted his head from his task and stretched his neck from side to side.  “I was hoping to get this finished before you came down.   I’m afraid I’m better at suturing than needlework.”  He held up Angela’s odd little tunic for her inspection.  “Surprise!”  he whispered sheepishly.

A small gasp of surprise filled her lungs.  “Oh, Patrick! That’s lovely!”  

He grinned, an eyebrow lifting in self-mockery.  “It isn’t, really, but at least it’s one less thing for you to do.”  He knotted the last stitch carefully and clipped the thread, then with a quick movement folded it and placed it in Shelagh’s mending bag.  “That’s done and dusted.  Tim can finish the ridiculous Alice band vine for you tomorrow after school.”

Shelagh bent and kissed his cheek.  “Thank you, dear.  We’ll be sure to tell Angela her daddy helped.”  She rubbed the coarse ivory wool over his shoulders and rested her head against his.  “I think this jumper is my favourite.”

“I look like a sailor in this old thing,”  he chuckled.  “My grandad would’ve been proud.  He always wanted me to join the Royal Navy.”

“You look very handsome in this old thing.  I’m not sure why you’ve kept it in a drawer.”  Her fingers tapped the intricate knitted cables.

He leant back against her.  “It doesn’t quite fit under my suit jacket, I’m afraid.  I could use it on some of my house calls of late.  The tower blocks may look modern, but those upper storeys take the blast from the wind.”

“Remember how cold the flat could get?” Shelagh shivered at the memory.  She squeezed his hands between hers.  “Your hands are always so warm.”

Patrick’s eyebrows soared.  “And yours are always freezing!  Shelagh, where is your dressing-gown?  It’s far too chilly for you to go about in that thin nightie, you’ll catch your death.  Here, take this.”  He stood to grasp the edge of his jumper and pulled it over his head.

“Patrick, don’t be silly, it was far colder at the old Nonnatus House.  And now you’ve nearly finished Angela’s costume for me, there’s hardly anything left for me to do.  I’ll be up in bed in a jiffy.”

“Shelagh, put it on, please.  Doctor’s orders.”  

Shelagh rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.  “Not fair pulling rank, Doctor Turner.”  She pushed her arms into the sleeves, then poked her head through the neck.  The too-large jumper caught on her, and she wiggled a bit to try to make it fit.  Patrick helped her, his hands smoothing the wool over her body.  It hung large on her small frame, the arms dangling well below her fingertips.  Laughing, she looked up at him through a tangle of hair.    “I must look ridiculous.”  The light giggle brought out her dimples.  

His fingers gently brushed the hair from her face but his eyes did not meet hers. Shelagh watched as a look flickered across his face, then disappeared.  He swallowed thickly, then passed his hand over the back of his head before turning away.  “Right, then,” he proclaimed in a too-cheery voice.  “I’m for bed.  Don’t be long.”

She gazed after his retreating form, the crease appearing above her nose.  That was the first time she had seen such a…hopeful look on her husband’s face in quite some time.  It had passed so quickly, she wasn’t completely certain she had even seen it.  

With a shrug of her shoulders and shake of her head, she turned to the kitchen.  The poor man was tired, that was all.  She fussed for a few moments, recreating her evening routine.  She’d never sleep if she knew the teapot hadn’t been rinsed and the breakfast dishes were not set out.  Bedtime was the only chance she got to see the house in any sense of order.

As she worked, niggling worries began to distract her.  Surely it wasn’t so very long?  Of course, it had to be that long since they’d been intimate–Teddy was already a month and a half old, and those final weeks of her pregnancy had been so tiring–but thinking about it in terms of months just made it seem all the more astounding.

Had they become that couple? she wondered.  After Angela came to them, she and Patrick hadn’t had such a dry spell, as tired as she was with night time feeds and helping Timothy.  They would sit close enough together for Timothy to complain about “mushy stuff,”  and she often caught her husband glancing at her in ways that made her warm.  Intimacy may have been less frequent, but they still had found time for one another.

It couldn’t be helped, she sniffed as she set the table for breakfast.  They were busy now, and getting busier.  What did it matter that she’d been given the go-ahead from an unflappable Nurse Crane only last week?  She knew well enough a healthy postnatal check-up wasn’t an automatic return ticket to marital intimacies.  

Patrick  knew all this, of course.  He hadn’t once brought up the subject since her appointment at the clinic.  He probably hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.  Except…there was that moment.  

Her chilled feet brought her attention back to the cooling room.  Rubbing her arms briskly, she finished her tasks and followed Patrick’s path up to their bedroom.  She peeked in the children’s rooms, smiling over Timothy’s long frame dangling over the edge of his bed and Angela curled up like a kitten in her own “big girl” bed, and she wondered how long until they would bring Teddy in to share with his sister.  Careful to leave Angela’s door ajar, Shelagh padded past the bathroom door just as the tap began to fill the bath.  She’d be asleep by the time Patrick came to bed tonight.

Their room was dimly lit by the light from the cupboard.  She glanced about the space, no longer the chic master bedroom haven she had once dreamt of.  Teddy’s cot stood in the corner near her side of the bed, and a low dresser for baby items stood beside it.  In just six weeks, Teddy had taken over the space.  

With a sigh, she pulled Patrick’s jumper over her head and folded it neatly on the chair.   The cold was still expected to linger for another few weeks; it was likely he would need it again. He did look very attractive wearing it tonight–bulky, and safe, and strong.  It would be lovely to be held close in his arms, warm wool and Patrick.   A blush crept across her cheeks, stirring something she was afraid to name.   

The mirror reflected her form in the dim light and she peered at her image.  Her body had certainly changed since they had married.  She still carried some of her pregnancy weight, and her skin hung loosely around her middle.  She was certain her hips were wider.  The lines on her face weren’t exactly deeper, but at times she wondered if she was showing her age.  Doubt flickered across her face. She wasn’t her most alluring, and certainly not in her tent-like flannel nightie.  She must have imagined the gleam.  

“You’re just being silly, Shelagh,” she muttered to herself.  “It’s perfectly normal, the children simply take up too much of our attention.  It’ll happen when things are easier.”  She turned back to the bed and climbed under the covers.  She should get to sleep as soon as possible.  Teddy would need her soon enough.  Restlessly, she turned to her side.

Their new bed was bigger than the old one in the flat.  They liked the extra space, but Patrick’s pillow seemed so far away tonight.  She ran her hand over the linen, remembering how close his head would be to hers when they slept in their old bed.  They would lie close together in their private world, sharing secrets and dreams and each other, but it felt like such a long time ago now.  It hurt to suddenly realize how she missed that closeness.  

Teddy snuffled, and she rose immediately to check on him.  Taking no notice of his bewildered mother, he rubbed at his nose and settled back to slumber.  Shelagh pressed her lips together and shook her head.  Teddy had been able to settle to sleep for weeks now, all her fussing would set him back.   She didn’t need to continually mother him–or the rest of the family, for that matter.

Understanding struck her, and she took in a sharp breath.  They hadn’t been drifting apart, rather she had been holding him at arms length.  There had been time for the children, time for the surgery, even for Nonnatus, but she never seemed to make time for Patrick.  She had dismissed the notion of his interest because she herself hadn’t considered sex.     

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Enough is enough.”  Shelagh threw the covers back and crossed to her dressing table.  She would make time for him tonight.  

She glanced down at her practical nightgown.  She’d chosen it more for its warmth than its glamour.  It was hardly an invitation.  Her mind went to the boxes in the back corner of their cupboard, forgotten since the move.  Is that were her pretty nightgowns were?  Would they even fit her?  She sighed.  The Bri-nylon would fit, certainly, but she hadn’t seen it since long before the move.  Even if she did find it, would she look silly?  A tired mother masquerading as a bride?

“You’re not helping,” she muttered to herself.  She glanced at her warm blue dressing-gown, but rejected it as well.  She wanted to look sexy, not like matron on Women’s Surgical.  Patrick’s jumper caught her eye.  Shelagh lifted the heavy wool fabric and pressed it to her face.  It did smell of him, and she imagined could still feel the warmth of his body in its fibres.  

The bathroom door clicked open, pushing her into action.  Moving quickly, she pulled her nightie off and slipped into Patrick’s jumper.  Goose flesh rose, making her more sensitive to the coarse wool against her skin.  She felt the chill against her bare legs and stretched up on her toes nervously.  Patrick liked her legs.  Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.  She fluffed her hair and waited.

Patrick entered the room, his hair still damp from his bath.  Closing the door behind him, he stepped around the wall and saw their empty bed.  “Shelagh?”  He twisted his head to search her out.

“Hello, Patrick,” she answered nervously, then in a rush, “I thought perhaps you might be interested, but I…I quite understand if you’re not, of course, I didn’t want you to think that it would be unwelcome, or-” her voice trailed off.

He stood still, his face stunned.  Shelagh clasped her hands in front of her, then resolutely stepped out of the shadow towards him.  Her confidence grew as she saw his eyes glitter with desire.   “I’d like to borrow your jumper tonight, if you don’t mind.”

He shook his head.  “I…I don’t mind.”  His voice was husky.

Shelagh felt a warm glow rise up through her body.  He wanted her, and the rest of the world, all her worries fell away.  She moved closer, so their bodies were almost touching and breathed his scent in deeply.  “You smell clean.”  Her finger traced the pattern on his pyjama top, then pressed against his heart.  

His hands covered hers and he looked her squarely in the eye.  “Shelagh, you don’t have to do this.  It’s only natural if you need more time.  Your body’s been through so much-”

“All is as it should be,” she answered.  “You’ve been wonderfully patient for so long, darling.  I’d started to forget how important this is.  Not simply the…the sex,” her whisper grew softer on the word,  “but being us, together.  A couple.”  She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest.  “Even if you don’t want to tonight, I’d like to be near you tonight.”

A rumble deep in his chest made her smile.  “I think you know I want to,” he teased.  His voice grew serious again and he bent his head to meet her eyes.  “Are you certain?’

She raised her face to his.  “I am completely certain.”

 

In Favor of a Date

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A/N:  A special thanks to ThatGinchyGirl for her work beta-ing this fic.  Her insight was they key to getting a little bit of nonsense make sense.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the cinema on a Thursday night, Patrick!”  Shelagh could barely contain a giggle.  

Patrick smiled back and squeezed her hand.  “I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?  Now that Tim’s on the mend, we should take a moment to let off some steam.  Before we know it, he’ll be coming home, and a weeknight out will be impossible.”

“He’s so much better now, I can hardly believe it.  All that hard work–I’ve never met a boy with such determination.  To think he’ll be on his feet in a month!”  Her hand slid up around his forearm and she pressed just a bit closer.  

Patrick’s eyes were warm, causing Shelagh to blush ever so little.  “I think he’s nearly as eager for us to get married as I am.”  

The blush deepened.  “There’s plenty of time, Patrick.”

The theatre was quickly filling up with people.  “Where would you like to sit?” Patrick asked as he scanned the large open space.

“Oh, I don’t mind, Patrick.  I’ve not been to enough films these last years to really have much of a preference.  Why not there?” She pointed up the staircase towards the last row, empty of any theatergoers but a couple at the far end.  “Right on the aisle?”  Her question was more a statement of fact.

She climbed the steps, fully expecting Patrick to follow, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he did.  At top row, Shelagh turned to let him help her with her coat.

“I’m starting to notice a bit of a pattern, my love.  You ask me to decide and somehow I end up following you.”

A dimple appeared.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick.”  She smiled archly and settled into her seat.  

He shook his head in resignation.  “I’d like to point out from the very start that you chose these seats.  I had nothing to do with it.”  He shrugged his own coat off and sat beside her.

Two lines of confusion appeared between her eyes.  “Is there anything wrong with these seats, Patrick?  I’m sure we can find something else just as suitable if you like.”

He leaned in, his face close to hers.  “I’m not so sure, my love.”  His voice grew husky.  “You may not realize it my dear, but we’re in the snogging section.”

“The sno–Oh, Patrick you’re teasing me!”  She swatted at his arm playfully.

“I most assuredly am not teasing you, Shelagh.  We are in fact right dab in the center of it.”  His eyes smiled as she blushed fiercely.  “Don’t worry, Shelagh.  Nothing’s going to happen up here.”  He leaned in even closer, and she could feel his breath against her ear.  “I can’t say as much for when we’re alone, however.”

The blush raged to a bright red.  “Patrick!”  She squeezed her hands together tightly in her lap.  

He pulled away and patted her hand.  “I know, I shouldn’t tease, but when you pink up so prettily, I can’t help myself.  I promise.  I’ll behave.”

The lights dimmed and the newsreel started.  News of Cyprus’s Independence flashed by unnoticed as Shelagh tried to regain control of her breathing.  She knew Patrick enjoyed making her blush in the rare moments they were alone, but he would never embarrass her.  Besides, she assured herself, there really weren’t many people this far back in the theater, anyway.

She turned her attention to the screen but was distracted by the pairs of silhouetted couples in the rows before her.  For years, all ideas of courtship had been far from her mind but as the detachment required by the Order began to wane, thoughts of nights just like this one began to sneak into her dreams.  A tingle of awareness ran through her.  This wish had come true.  Tonight, she sat in a darkened theater, not with some man, but with Patrick, the man she loved.    

Shelagh felt her body flush with the thrill.  She twisted her hands together as she tried to concentrate on the screen.  Images reflected off the lenses of her glasses, and she found her focus drifting to Patrick’s hand on the armrest, so close to her.  She knew its touch, loved the feel of his smooth dry palm against her softer hand.  Her eyelids fluttered closed as she remembered the first time he cradled her hand in his, her own pain forgotten even before he pressed his lips to her palm.  That gentle touch felt so right in that moment in the kitchen, even as she fought against it.

Patrick’s hand stretched over and clasped her clenched hands.  He seemed to understand her confusion.  She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.  Their hands seemed to fit just so.  Hers was so much smaller, and yet it didn’t feel swamped in his.  No longer even trying to watch the film, she studied his long fingers with their neatly trimmed nails and large knuckles, the short hairs on his fingers and along the back of his hand leading up under his sleeve.  His wrists were fine, elegant even, and she wished for a moment that she could roll his sleeves up and gaze at his forearms.

A hot blush flooded her cheeks.  What was she thinking?  Roll up his sleeves!!  A crowded movie house was certainly not the place to indulge in such thoughts.  She sat up straight in her seat and felt the tug of his hand as he refused to relinquish hers.  

“It’s alright, Shelagh,” he assured her, his voice a husky whisper.  “We’re only holding hands.”

She resisted the urge to meet his eyes and instead kept hers locked on their entwined fingers.  How could “only holding hands” feel like so much more?  

The warm stillness of his hand soothed her, and in the flickering darkness she gave in.  She spread her fingers wide and delighted when he mimicked the movement.  Her palm shifted against his and she grazed the tips of her fingers against his palm, brushing its coarse surface.  Her hand turned in his and they began an intimate dance, hands stroking, nestling, seeking closeness.

Her breath shuddered again.  Her body felt tense, every nerve ending focussed on their joined hands.  She swallowed thickly, trying to gain control of herself.  For the first time since the picture started, she let herself look at him.  He was nearer than she realized, his face close enough to block out all other images.  His eyes glittered brightly with something she recognized but could not name, and she felt her heart race.  Blood rushed in her ears and all sound was blocked but the quiet sussing of her own breath.  Her gaze travelled lower and came to rest on his mouth.  

Oh! She wanted to kiss him.  She wanted to press her mouth to his, breathe him, taste him.  But they couldn’t, a voice whispered.  Patrick had only been teasing.  Snogging in the cinema was for young lovers, not two mature, reasonable adults.  Even when she had been a teenager herself, she hadn’t done such things.  School had been her single-minded focus in those years, keeping company with the boys from the local school not a priority.

He moved his face closer, not more than an inch, and in that moment, Shelagh forgot she was a mature, reasonable adult.  Their surroundings faded from her attention.   Her free hand slid around his neck and pulled him closer, her fingers lingering against the warm skin above his collar.   For a moment they hesitated, their faces a scant inch apart as their breath mingled.  Unable to resist any longer, Shelagh kissed him.

His lips were soft and gentle, but she felt something in his response that emboldened her.  Her fingers slipped into the short hair at the back of his neck as she deepened the kiss.  His scent filled her head, the roughness of his evening stubble teased her to a state of heightened awareness.  

Gently, Patrick broke the kiss.  With a sigh, he rested his forehead against hers. She had not noticed how his arms wrapped around her as they embraced, but she felt their lack when he withdrew them.  

“I’d like to kiss you all night,” he whispered.  She could hear the regret in his voice.   

Her fingers shifted around to trace his jawline, and she whispered, “I think perhaps it’s time for us to set a date, dearest.”

 

Losing Her Breath

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2016-07-02

The crisp efficiency of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic began to lag as the Parish Hall began to empty.  Sister Bernadette glanced about the room and wondered how they would ever manage to have the place set to rights in time for Madame Rocco’s dance class.  She noted with approval that Nurse Miller seemed to have the screens on hand, and Nurses Franklin and Lee were nearly finished storing the baby scales.  Stacks of chairs stood like soldiers awaiting an order, quickly arranged before Sister Evangelina left with Sister Julienne for chapel.  Even Sister Monica Joan played her part, amusing–and being amused by– the little ones.  

Her eyes drifted to the kitchen, where a lone figure leaned against the hatch, weary head resting upon his hand.  Her breath hitched and she turned away.  It was no business of hers if Doctor Turner looked so dreadfully tired.  Briskly, she walked to the play area on the far side of the hall.

“I’m sorry, Sister, do you mind if I sit here for just a moment longer?  My back is that tired.” Margie Peterson asked from a chair beside the dollhouse.  Her son, barely more than a baby himself, chattered at her feet.  “Of course, Mrs. Peterson, we’ll put your chair away last.”  She smiled at the tow-headed boy.  “Little Gregory has certainly grown these last few months.  Has he started walking yet?”

“Hasn’t he just!  Not a step for fourteen months, and last week he up and runs across the flat.  I can’t keep up with him.  I’m not sure what I’ll do once the baby comes.”

“You’ll manage, I’m sure, but if you have any trouble, please be sure to come to us at Nonnatus.  You can count on us to help.”  With her hip, she shifted the toy chest away from the small boys reach and began to pile toys away.  

Single-minded as only a child can be, the tot struggled to his feet and waddled over to investigate.  He reached in and pulled out a block then handed it to the nun with a grunt.  

“Why thank you, Gregory.”  Her soft burr grew a bit more pronounced in its tenderness.  “You’re a good wee boy. Can you help me put the toys back into the box?”

With a gurgling laugh, the boy shook his head. “Da!” he waved the doll in her face. “Da!”

“Is that your dolly, then?  He’s very nice. May I see him?”  

He looked up at her, a coy expression coming over his face.  He held the doll out just a bit, then tapped her palm.  His eyes widened with mischief, and he swerved out of reach, then made a break for it.  His mother pushed against the toy chest, valiantly trying to go after him.  “Listen to ‘im, his feet are like thunder when he takes off like that!”

“You stay there, Margie, I’ll get the little scamp!” Light on her feet, Sister Bernadette was up and after the child.  

Her eyes fixated on the bright head before her, running around in wide circles about the Hall.  She saw him zip by the kitchen, but would not let her eyes glance to see if the doctor was still there.  She darted about after him, conscious of a trill of laughter from her elderly sister.  She knew she must look ridiculous, running after the child in her habit.  Frustrated, Sister Bernadette pulled up short.  She would keep her dignity, even if she could not catch her breath.

Blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sounds in the room for a moment.  She watched the boy complete another circle about the room and felt her embarrassment grow.  

“Hello, Gregory,” Doctor Turner’s husky voice called across the room.  He kept his eyes on the boy.  “What have you got there?”

With a crow of laughter, the boy held out his doll and thumped towards the doctor.  He stopped short at the kitchen hatch and gazed up at the tall man, then pushed his doll forward.  

Sister Bernadette took the moment to move quickly and scooped the boy up into her arms.  Her firm voice belied the breathlessness she felt.  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, Gregory, it’s time you went back to your mother.”

Gregory cried out, “No!’ and shook his head vehemently.  “Da!”  He pointed to the doctor.  “Da!”

Sister Bernadette pressed her lips together.  All she wanted at that moment was to be somewhere–preferably a very far somewhere–away from this scene, away from him, but to resist the child would only make the scene more humiliating.  She drew in a deep breath and waited for the boy to calm himself before returning to his mother.

Young Gregory Peterson had little empathy for her predicament.  Sure of his victory, he again pushed the doll towards Doctor Turner and asserted, “Da!”

“I think he’s talking about his doll,” Sister Bernadette told him, her voice clipped.

“Is that right?” the Doctor asked, his eyes fixed on the boy.  “Well, I’ve learned never to negotiate with a toddler.  Come show me your doll, Gregory, I’d like to see him.”

With little choice but to move closer, Sister Bernadette shifted the toddler on her hip and approached the hatch.  Gregory stretched out an arm and passed the doll over the opening.  Doctor Turner accepted the offering, careful not to touch the sticky parts.  

She tried hard not to notice the softening lines in his face as he examined the toy.  “He’s quite nice, old chap.  I reckon he’s one of your favourites.  My Timothy had a doll much like this one when he was your age.”  He glanced up, a crooked smile lighting up his face.

Thoughts of Timothy, and three-legged races, and kitchen hatches, flooded her mind and she sent a small prayer up for strength.  It was so confusing to be near him and hear his voice rasp quietly as if there was no one else in the Hall.  She grew agitated and tried to make her escape.

Again, Gregory would have none of it.  He twisted back to the doctor, his empty hand extended expectantly.  He shook his head vehemently as the doctor made to return the toy.  “No!”

“He wants your cigarette case, I’m afraid.  For a trade.  All the children play that way, he must have picked it up from them.”

Turner picked up the gold case.  “This?” His brows climbed up in surprise.  “I’m afraid you’re a bit too young for these nasty things, Gregory.  Here,” he opened the case and removed the sole remaining cigarette, tucking it into his shirt pocket.  A red brace peeked out for just a moment, and Sister Bernadette was grateful that the distraction caused by the child hid her blush.

“I only had one left, that’s why I was standing here moping,” he confided, his voice a bit over-cheery.  “The shops’ll be closed, and I didn’t think to get more.  I seem to let things slip through the cracks these days, I’m afraid.”  He nodded quickly.  “Let him have the case for a few moments.  It’ll give you some peace, and I’ll get it back just as his mother’s ready to leave.”  His hazel-green eyes tried to meet her blue ones.

“Thank you, Doctor.  Your help is much appreciated, as always.”  Resisting the urge to meet his look, she walked the little boy back to his mother.  Was he watching her go?  No, she would not look back to see.  

The young mother stood waiting with Sister Monica Joan.  “Here you go, Mrs. Peterson.  Doctor Turner will meet you at the entrance.  Gregory can return the case then.”  She brushed down her habit smoothing it into order.   

“You two make a good team, Sister.  Thanks for the help with my boy.  Come on, then, Greggie.”  She reached her hand down and took the tiny one in hers.  Gregory looked back and waved as his newest conquest watched him leave.

“He’s quite a lovely child, isn’t he?” Sister Monica Joan’s voice came from over her shoulder.  “I never felt the desire to have my own.  That was no sacrifice in my vow of chastity.”

Sister Bernadette glanced up in surprise, uncertain of her response.  “I’m sure we must all determine our own sacrifice, Sister.”  

The elderly nun moved to the door.  “Ours is a life of spiritual fulfillment, my dear sister.  We have chosen a larger family, and it is time for us to rejoin our sisters in prayer.”

Sister Bernadette watched as Sister Monica Joan glided to the doors, past the last of the mothers and children, past the busy nurses and the arriving dancers.   A breath fluttered past her lips and she bent her head in a moment of prayer then followed her sister from the Hall.

 

A/N:  Special thanks to @thatginchygal.tumblr.com for her help as my beta for this.  She really helped me reconsider some things, and the title is all her.

The Call the Midwife characters do not belong to me, alas.  However, any mistakes, writing flaws, etc you find are purely mine.

Pitch of Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, then, Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Secret Anymore

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In s6e8, Shelagh and Patrick sing “Secret Love,” which got me thinking. How and when did this become a special song? 

Patrick looked up from the files before him and sighed.  He’d have to stay up for hours if he was ever going to catch up with the diabetes clinic notes, and he simply did not have the concentration he needed.  For years this quiet time in the evening had been his most productive, and efficient use of it kept paperwork from overwhelming him.

In the last few weeks, however, he hadn’t made much headway in the bureaucracy of his practice. Tim needed more attention since coming home from the hospital, and time for exercises and practicing with his calipers kept them occupied.  If it weren’t for Shelagh, Patrick was sure they’d fall behind in that area, as well.

The quiet hum of her voice passed over the hatch from the kitchen as she set about making their last cup of tea for the night.  A smile lifted the corner of his mouth and he leaned back in his chair.  If he were completely honest with himself, Shelagh was the biggest distraction of all.  What power did a sheaf of paper have compared to the feel of her cuddled next to him on the sofa?  Or the sound of her sigh in his ear as he nuzzled her neck?   He couldn’t possibly be expected to slave over ink and paper so soon after their honeymoon.

He clicked the cover back on his pen and stretched.  He’d get to the diabetes clinic in due time. Resting his forearms on the hatch, he watched his wife spoon sugar into his tea cup, just the way he liked it. Her eyes glanced up at him, and a faint pink color stole across her cheeks.  He supposed he wasn’t hiding his thoughts well.

“What’s that song you’re humming?” he asked.

A secret thought crossed her face, and the pink deepened to rose.  Shelagh bent to fuss with the tea tray. “Just a silly thing I heard on the radio this morning. I–I’m not certain what it’s called.”

He shifted his body away from the wall and approached her at the kitchen table. “It sounds pretty, whatever it is.  I’ve always thought you have a lovely voice.” He stroked his finger over the curve of her ear and then reached for her hand.  “Sing it for me?”

“Pish, Patrick, don’t be silly.” She pulled at her hand, but he only tightened his grip and pulled her close.  

“I’m not being silly.  I want to dance with you.  We haven’t danced together since our wedding.”  

In her effort to conquer her embarrassment, Shelagh’s voice became prissy.  “We both have too much to do, Patrick.  We’ll have some tea and get to those insulin charts.”  She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back.

He laughed softly. Despite her words, the flush continued to travel down the length of her throat.  Shelagh was not in as much control as she was pretending.  He placed his palm to hers,  flesh to flesh, and entwined their fingers.  A shuddering breath escaped her lips as he gave a light kiss to her fingers, then he pressed their hands to his heart.   Her eyes flashed up at him, startled by the intensity that came over her so quickly, and she hid her face in the lee of his shoulder.  

His other hand snaked around her waist and he murmured,

“I don’t want any tea.”

Over the course of the next week, the little tune ran through Patrick’s head, but he could not place it.  He’d hum a few bars and stop, his mind on Shelagh’s blushing cheeks.  On the few occasions that Shelagh caught him humming the tune, she’d bustle away in search of a task.

“Dad, you’ve got to stop humming. It’s the same four bars over and over.  It’s really quite irritating,” Timothy scolded on the drive to school.

“Sorry, son,” Patrick responded, his hands gesturing in defeat.  “It’s stuck in my head, no matter what I do.  I don’t even know its name.”

“Ask one of the nurses, they’re sure to know.”

Shelagh’s embarrassment was a bit of a puzzle. Despite her previous life of celibacy, his wife was no prude. In the private darkness of their room, she welcomed the new intimacies of marriage. She was still a bit shy about more public displays, but with each week grew more secure in her new role as a wife.  Still, there was something intriguing about her response to that song, and Patrick had a feeling that she wasn’t ready to share with others.  He’d have to discover the name of the song another way.

The green car pulled up before the school gates. “You’ll be late if you don’t hurry, Tim. I promise I won’t keep humming. I’ve got an idea.”

The record shop door bell tinkled as Patrick made his way into the bright room.  He couldn’t recall how many years had passed since he’d purchased a record. Marianne had been the real music lover, and he had been content to listen to whatever she put on the record player. He didn’t listen to much music in the car, either.  Sometimes it seemed driving was the only quiet time he could snatch during the day.

Mr. Graham came out from behind his counter. “Doctor Turner!  I never thought to see you in me shop. I ‘ope you’re not here to bring me some bad news, eh?”  

“No, Mr. Graham, no news. Possibly because you haven’t been to see me for a physical in a few years?” Patrick teased.

“Ah, well, you know how it is, Doc, busy, busy! What with this Elvis Presley bloke I can’t keep the records on them shelves! You should see this place of an afternoon– full o’ teenagers it is! I just turn down me hearing aid, though, and all’s well.  So what can I do for you today?”

Patrick cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak and then cleared his throat again. Taking a deep breath, he forced the words out. “I’ve come to find the name of a song. It’s been tickling in the back of my head all week and I thought that perhaps if I heard the song, it’d leave me be.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place then, haven’t you?  The wife says I know every song there is, just you ask her. So, er…  Where did you hear this song, then?  The radio? The pub?  Though what with you being newly married and all, I don’t doubt you’ve not had time for the pubs of late, ” he asked in a conspiratorial tone.

“My wife was humming it earlier this week. She said she’d heard it somewhere but couldn’t place it.”  Patrick’s fingers drummed on the counter’s edge.

“Well, I never was one to turn down a challenge. You’ll have to hum a bit for me.”

If Patrick was nervous to bring up the subject, the idea of humming out in the middle of a Poplar shoppe, when anyone could walk in, was daunting. Yet, he had to know the song Shelagh was humming if he would solve the secret of her blushes.

“It’s a bit like this:

Dum dah dum dee dum dee dum

Dah dum dee dah dee dum dee dum…”  

Heavens, please let that have been enough of the song, Patrick thought.  He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could withstand. The image of Shelagh’s pink cheeks appeared before his eyes and strengthened his resolve.

Mr. Graham leaned his elbow on the counter and rubbed his chin in concentration. For a long moment, he hummed the tune to himself, working out its origin.  He glanced up suddenly.  “Can you hum it one more time, Doctor?  I have an idea, but–it can’t be…”

With a sigh, Patrick rushed through the tune one more time. Really, this was the silliest thing he’d done in a very long time.

Patrick watched the other man stare at him for another moment, and then a deep laugh rolled up from the shopkeeper’s belly.  For long moments he struggled to stop, but the chuckles grew into guffaws, and finally slid into wheezing roar.  His hands flew about his face as he strained to get control of himself until finally, the old man started to regain his breath. Still chortling, he held his hand up asking for a moment and walked between the aisles of records. He stopped in front of one section, thumbed through the record sleeves and pulled one out. A quick nod of his head and walked back behind the counter.

Mystified, Patrick watched as the man slipped the album into a paper bag and folded over the edges. He shook his head to gather himself and said, “Here you go, Doctor Turner. A belated wedding gift, as it were. You bring this home to the missus and you enjoy it.  Song number four.”

Outside in the car, Patrick slipped his purchase from the paper sack. His eyebrows scrunched over his nose in consternation as he flipped the album jacket from front to back.

At that moment, he was more than grateful he had waited to open the bag.  He could feel his face flood with color and he began to at last understand his wife’s embarrassment. The song was appropriate, certainly.  A slow grin crossed his face as the implications become apparent.  He’d have to trade on-call duty with Greenwood.  

Tonight, he was dancing with his wife.

“It’s a good thing for us Dr. Greenwood needed to switch his on-call with you tonight, Patrick,” Shelagh announced as she carried Timothy’s calipers into the sitting room. “There’s still so many files to be gone through before we open the new maternity home, and Timothy spilt some milk on his calipers today.  I’m afraid they’re going to need a polishing.”

Patrick took the metal and leather straps from her hands and placed them on the table. “I’ll get to them in the morning.  I have something I want to show you.” He handed her the paper sack. “Go ahead, open it.”

Shelagh looked up at him, curious.  “Patrick, there’s no need–” Her breath caught in her lungs as the record slid out. The telltale flush flooded her pale skin and her shoulders tensed.

“My love–Shelagh, look at me.”

Shelagh shook her head and placed the record on the table face down.

Patrick considered how far he should push his point.  In the early weeks of their engagement, Shelagh had struggled to face the eyes of the community, and he didn’t want any old awkwardness to resurface.  His instinct told him this was different, however,  that there was something new about her blushes of late that spoke more of awareness than shame.  

“Shelagh, it’s just a song.” He cupped her face in his hands. “We’ve nothing to be ashamed of, my love, I hope you know that.”

Her eyes darted to his in surprise.  “I’m not ashamed, Patrick.   Never that.”  Keeping her eyes downcast, Shelagh struggled to find words.

Perhaps he should change tacks.  “Shelagh? Will you dance with me?”

Her tiny nod was enough for him.  Taking her hand, he drew her to the record player.  She stood passively by as he gently lowered the needle to the spinning disc, his touch light.  The silence of anticipation enveloped them, and Patrick turned to her.  Not shy, but somehow tentative, Shelagh moved into his arms.  

He could feel the restraint in her. No, restraint wasn’t the right word, yet he knew she was holding something back.  He could push for more and she would give herself to him, she would allow him to lead her to their bedroom and would give herself to him.  Why was he hesitating, he wondered? He could feel the desire hum between them.  Yet he waited.

Her soft voice stole his heart.  “I love you so, Patrick.”

His nose brushed lazy curves against her forehead.  He forced himself to wait another moment. This was about her confusion, not his; it was not his place to lead her to her own conclusion.  He would trust that Shelagh loved him and would find her own answer.

“There’ve been so many changes these last six months–my whole life is different.”  Her thumb caressed the palm he held to his heart.   “It’s more than leaving the Order to marry you.  I always had to be the stoic one, growing up– I think it’s part of what drew me to the religious life in the first place.  I was able to channel my emotions to God, and they became so much less troublesome. But now–”

“Now?” he breathed.

She moved closer and rested her head against his chest.  He held her close, not really dancing but simply swaying to the music. “I’m not afraid to feel anymore.”

“That’s good, then?”

She lifted her face to his and smiled. “That’s lovely.”  In a slow movement, she slid her hands around his shoulders and threaded her fingers through his hair.  With a gentle tug, she pulled his face to hers.  Happy to comply, Patrick met her lips in a soft kiss.  The swayed together, the song winding through an instrumental section.  Shelagh broke the pressure of her mouth under his to glide her mouth across his lined cheek and whispered, “This song makes me want to be in your arms.”  She returned her mouth to his, her lips eager to show him her pleasure.  The tip of her tongue flicked against his lips, coaxing them to part.  She tugged his lower lip between hers and sucked gently.

A deep groan rose up from Patrick’s chest as he let her take the lead.  Her boldness aroused him and he delighted in the feel of her body pressed tightly to his.  How far would she take this?  His hands twitched as e tried to hold himself back.  His patience was beginning to fade.

It seemed Shelagh was more in control than he.  She pulled away, her hands against his chest to put some air between them.  Her cheeks were flushed with desire, but her eyes were clear, and he began to understand. Shelagh loved him, she loved being a wife in every way.  There had been so many changes for her, more than he realized.  As a nun, she had harnessed her womanhood in service to others and found the solidarity she sought in prayer and community.  By her own choice, Shelagh had turned that fierce devotion towards her husband and stepson and made her own happiness.

She rested her palm against his cheek.  “I’m learning to let myself show what I feel.  I can watch you–or Timothy–and not concern myself with what others will think. But–oh, I was silly, Patrick.  The song is lovely, truly it is, and I could never be ashamed of loving you.”

His eyebrows lowered in confusion. “Then why the pink cheeks?”

“Promise not to tease?”

He chuckled.  “I can try. You know how I love watching you blush.”

Shelagh rolled her eyes, trying to appear stern, then gave up.  “The song makes me forget everything else but you, and then I catch myself being romantic.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “See? I told you my little secret was silly.”

The song faded into the soft hiss of the needle spinning in the record’s final groove.  Patrick’s hands pulled her close as she tilted her lips to his.  “Never silly, my love…and no secret anymore.”

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Five

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Previous Chapter

In the morning, bags would be packed up onto the old Mission bus. In the morning, handkerchiefs would wipe away tears. In the morning, promises would be made that might one day be fulfilled.

But that was in the morning. Now, as the sun began to drop in the sky, preparations for a small farewell celebration was underway at the Mission. Fred and Jacob piled wood high for a bonfire, while the nuns and nurses set the long tables for a feast. Food had come from all ends of the region, as well as small gifts and tokens of thanks. The sadness to come at tomorrow’s parting was forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Patrick stepped out of the clinic office and took it all in, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The permanent medical team had arrived only that morning, a feat of timing he hadn’t expected of the Mission Society, and he had spent the better part of the last day helping Myra prepare the young doctor and nurses for the task ahead. The new team was more than qualified, and Hope Mission had a bright future.

He scanned the yard for his wife. While he knew he wouldn’t have been much help packing today, he wanted to make it up to her. He slipped the key to the truck into his jacket pocket and went in search of Shelagh.

He found her sitting on the steps to the dormitory, watching Timothy teach Angela how to play mancala.

“You’re just in time, Dad,” Tim informed him. “We just finished packing.”

“Sorry, Tim. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll do all the unpacking when we get back in Poplar.”

“You most certainly will not,” Shelagh chortled. “I’ll never find my new dresses.”

Patrick reached down and scooped Angela into his arms. “And what about you, little girl? Did you help Mummy pack?”

“I packed Bizkit baby, Daddy.” She held up the homespun monkey doll Kholeka had presented her with that morning. “Bizkit baby come with Angela.”

“He certainly will, sweetheart. Tim, keep an eye on your sister for a little while, would you? I want to show Mum something. Then the night’s yours. I promise when Steven comes you won’t have to do a single thing.”

Patrick reached for Shelagh’s hand. “Come along. Mrs. Turner.”

The ride wasn’t long, and soon Patrick pulled the truck to the side of the road. Miles ahead, the Great Escarpment rose blue and grey out of the flat yellow veldt. A small herd of zebras grazed in the grasses before turning away to a hidden place to sleep.

Patrick reached again for his wife’s hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Close your eyes,” his voice grew husky. “Wait for me.”

He ran around the truck’s bonnet and helped her down, then led her towards the back of the truck. “You’re always busy with Angela this time of day, but you can’t leave without seeing this. Open your eyes.”

Shelagh looked up at his smiling face. He shook his head and placed a light kiss to her lips. “No, look up, Shelagh.”

Shelagh lifted her eyes to the sky and a short breath caught in her throat. Reaching past the edge of the world, the diluted blue of the western sky gave way to a cotton wool of mottled pale pink and yellow and purple.  She spun in place, her hand tight in his, “Patrick, it’s–I don’t have the words for it. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sky.”

He pulled her close up against him, her back warming his chest as the temperature began to drop. “I have the word for it, Shelagh,” he whispered, her name a sigh on his lips. “Inspirational. It’s like this whole place–the opposites of the grey mountains and the yellow plain, white and black, both kept so distinct, and yet, somehow, there’s this incredible beauty right above them.”

They swayed together in silence as they watched the colors shift, yellow dissolving into orange, purple finally deepening until the first star appeared. Shelagh turned to face him and lifted her face to his. Their lips met in a long, slow kiss, intimate and secret. After long moments, they parted, their breath still mingling as they hovered close.

“Thank you, Shelagh,” he whispered before he kissed her lower lip lightly. Unable to stop, he deepened the kiss again, and the passion rose between them. They could have each other, here in the gloaming, far from the others, and for a wild moment, they might have done. But reason returned, and Patrick put his hands on her waist to allow for some air between them.

“I’m not naive, Shelagh. Six weeks here hasn’t made all the darkness go away. We’ll leave, and our friends will still have to face this awful system. Back in Poplar, Susie Mullocks will still have those terrible deformities, and God knows what else we might see.” He paused, and Shelagh stroked his cheek and slid into the hair at the back of his head.

“The world can be so very hard, Shelagh, but there’s always hope. You’ve helped me remember that, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Shelagh tucked her head under his chin. “There’s always a place for hope, dearest.”

The End

Thank you all for supporting me as I worked through this piece. As we all wait for the Christmas Special to be aired, I hope this has helped pass the time.

Please forgive any cultural or historical errors. They are unintentional.

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-four

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Creating a mobile clinic with one old truck and a bus necessitated optimism and strong backs. Fortunately, both were in good supply at Hope Mission. Timothy and Steven joined the team and the next morning, a large canvas tent was set up near the well site. Trixie and Barbara took two horses out and travelled through the community to spread the plan, while Phyllis joined Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred in the relocation efforts.Fred proved his worth yet again and was able to lay his hands on enough horns to create a network of timekeepers that would make Greenwich jealous.

Within days, rotating teams of men began to break through the shale. For three hours, the men would hammer away at the stone, then transport the rubble to a nearby pile to be used later. As Zakhele promised, a few men from the settlement came to help, but never spoke with the other teams, nor even with the clinic staff. The would work silently, then leave.

Fred’s vuvuzela system kept a slow stream of patients at the clinic, each getting far more attention than any patient in busy Poplar ever received or indeed wanted.  One at a time, patients would step under the tent awning and have the combined efforts of at least one doctor and several nurses.

For three days, the system seemed to hold up well. The slow train of patients meandered through the off-site clinic, and the well grew deeper. Each day, Zakhele Obi would make the journey out to the site and nod his grizzled head. Not tomorrow, he promised, but soon, they would see water.

By the third tomorrow, however, enthusiasm began to wane, and not simply for the men digging. The medical staff began to get bored, restricted to the small space with little to occupy themselves but the guilt they felt watching the men work in the blazing sun.

Patrick and Shelagh sat at the makeshift examination table tending to a young woman with a severe cut on her hand. It was the first near-emergency the clinic had seen for days, and the nurses had drawn straws to see who could clean away the blood. Disappointed, the others turned back to sorting patient cards and re-boiling water.

Trixie walked over to the edge of the tent and watched the stone dust and rubble fly in the air above the well hole. “It must be dreadfully hot working there, but the men never ask for a break. I’m dying to get away for a breather and all I’m doing is busy work. It makes a girl feel quite useless.”

“Never useless, Nurse Franklin.” Ever industrious, Sister Winifred sat by peeling the potatoes for the evening meal. “We all have our roles in this plan.”

Trixie sighed. “I know. But I feel like I need to be doing something.” Pushing away from the pole, she determined, “At the very least, I can bring them some fresh water.”

As Trixie lifted a bucket to fill, Henry Makepeace entered the tent. “Good afternoon, all!” He looked about the tent and grinned. “I wondered how long it would take for you to get bored. It’s not much fun being the smokescreen, is it? Here’s hoping today is the tomorrow Mr. Obi has been talking about!”

As he turned to visit the well site, Trixie called, “Just a moment, Mr. Makepeace. I’m on my way over as well. I’m sure they could all use a break.” She lifted the heavy water bucket and made to follow.

Henry stopped in his tracks. “You can’t do that, Nurse Franklin. What if the police came by? Imagine what they would say at the sight of a white woman serving water to the black laborers?” His face was stern. “We’ve talked about this, Trixie. The rules are different here. We can only push them so far. It’s one thing for you to speak with the women and children, it’s quite another for a white woman to be seen spending time with black men.”

Trixie’s eyes grew round. “I was only going to give them some water, Henry, not the plans to take down the government.”

His face softened. “I know that. But it could get you into trouble, and it certainly would not be good for the men. We have to work from within this system if we’re going to get anywhere.”

“I just don’t want them all to think we believe in any of this apartheid nonsense.” She blinked hard.

“You’re here, helping. They know that.” Henry glanced about, noting the eyes upon them, then reached out for her hand. “Little steps, Trixie.”

 

Zakhele was right, and tomorrow did finally arrive. Five days into the project, the teams broke through the bedrock and into the aquifer. With the water supply secured, it was time for the clinic to begin its slow crawl back to the Mission.

Each evening the team would move the tented clinic twenty-five yards closer to their goal, and finally a sense of success began to build. The mood lightened, and the clinic took on the anticipatory feeling of the last week of Advent. The patient train was still managed to a trickle, but rather than fill the hours with busy work, the medics cautiously joined in.

As Umakhulu’s favorite, Shelagh was often coaxed to join in with the young mothers as they bonded over the joys and fears of motherhood. Watching them balance the two, Shelagh finally relaxed and allowed Angela to rejoin her new playmates.

Heeding Henry Makepeace’s warnings, Trixie and Barbara cautiously began to interact as well. Music needed no interpreter, and the two young women found that the traditional dances were an easy way to pass the time spent waiting. Phyllis Crane, always game for a new experience, may have provided more amusement than she intended when she learned some of the new steps.

After school, Timothy and several older children would start up a game of football, and each day, Patrick would watch as the old ball would fly down the small field. On one such day, Steven Obi came to meet his father for the long walk home.

“Doctor Turner, you should join the game. You must grow tired of always watching.”

Patrick laughed. “Oh, no, thanks. My days as a footballer are long gone, I’m afraid.”

Timothy ran over to join them. “Dad’s really a cricket player, Steven. If we had a cricket pitch, he’d be out every day with us!”

“Cricket?” Steven buzzed with excitement. “I have always wanted to learn to play. Perhaps you could teach me, Doctor?”

“You could, Dad. We’ve got a ball similar to a cricket ball back at the schoolhouse. And we could use a branch for a bat.” When Patrick made to demur, Timothy pushed him. “Come on, Dad, you know you want to. I’ll send–”

“Joseph has already run to get the ball, Doctor Turner, and Timothy is right. We can make do with one of the old boards the crew is using. One day, I should like to say I was a cricket player. You will not take that chance from me, will you, Doctor?”

With a chuckle, Patrick shed his lab coat and rolled up his sleeves. “You’ve quite a career in diplomacy ahead of you, Steven. Well, then, come on, lads!”

For a time, Patrick used his bowls to instruct Stephen and the other village boys on the skills needed to successfully bat in cricket. Soon, each striker was successfully making contact with the ball.

Shelagh returned from a call and stopped to watch. She waved over to her husband, and he stopped to lift his sunglasses and wave back.

“Tim, your turn,” Patrick announced. “Let’s show the lads a little more steam.”

Timothy left the wicket and took the bat from Steven.

“You are a good cricket player like your father, Timothy?” Steven asked.

A grimace crossed Timothy’s face and he didn’t answer the question. He took position and waited for his father to bowl. Four pitches went by, each one an over, each one far faster and better placed than the bowls thrown earlier. With each pitch, Tim grew more irritated.

“Dad, you know no one can hit those bowls with a cricket bat like this. Stop showing off for Mum!”

As laughter rose up from the small crowd, the poor boy muttered, “Sometimes parents can be so embarrassing!”

Next (and final) Chapter

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Three

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The clinic office was dim and cool when Patrick entered moments later. Zakhele Obi and Myra Fitzsimmons sat across from each other, the scene more closely resembling a negotiation than a medical examination.

“You must excuse the secrecy, Doctor Turner. I thought it best that people think Zakhele needed medical attention. The fewer people that know we’re talking to him at all, the better.”

Patrick’s eyes glittered. “I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Obi. I–I don’t have the words, sir. You saved my daughter’s life today; I will always be in your debt.” Patrick reached out his hand, glad the firm grasp he had kept on his control as he stood by his wife had not slipped.

“You save lives every day, Doctor. We do what we must to work together. That is why I have come today.” He unfolded a large piece of paper upon the desk. “I have been trying to think of a way to come here since you arrived, and the old lion gave me the excuse.

“You have seen first-hand that my friends do not trust you. For so long we have been tricked and by the white man, yet perhaps the worst of all is that we have come to believe the government’s lies. We have come to believe that we are less than the white man, that our black brothers and sisters are our enemy.

“Many of my friends would stay away from the clinic and the school at Hope Mission rather than accept your help, but my Steven has helped me to understand that we must find trust, that we must work together with the Xhosa and people like Doctor Fitzsimmons if we are ever to regain our dignity and rights. The Zulu are a warrior people, it will not be easy for us to work for peace.”

He paused for a moment. “When I was a young man I was an engineer, Doctor. You may be surprised to learn that several of my brothers were skilled men, learned men before the government took that from us. It is why so many from the settlement will not send their children to school.”

He smoothed his hands over the diagram before him. “I have drawn a plan for a well that will supply both the mission hospital and the school. Your plans have not worked because they do not take into account the rock bed just beneath the surface. With dynamite, we could break through in one day, but you see the problem with that.” He glanced up at Patrick.

“DuPlessis would never allow its use.”

“Yes, and if we were to try it, you would be sent to prison for arming the natives.” Zakhele sat back in his chair.

“So then how can we possibly break through the rock to water?” Patrick leant over the drawing.

“It is all about knowing which rock to break. Forgive me for saying so, but the Missionary Society is run by clerics, not scientists.”

Patrick rubbed his face briskly. “We’ve been digging in the wrong places.”

“Yes. You came to tell us how you could help us. You forgot to ask how we can help you.”

Myra shook her head. “Why now, Zakhele? Why do you come to help us now?”

“The Xhosa have tried to speak to the government, to use reason. The Zulus have used resistance and violence. Neither has worked. Our only way to freedom is by combining the two. Steven will soon be a man. He has been accepted to the college, he can be a great man. Steven Obi is my great hope.”

“I must go, before people begin to ask questions. Give these plans to Mr. Makepeace, he will know what to do. If we do this right, we will begin to make change.” The man stood to go.

Patrick stretched out his hand once more. “It’s a privilege, sir. I hope that one day I can be of service to you.” A look of understanding passed between the two fathers, and the kernel of an idea began to form.

 

“I can’t believe we never thought of it before.” Myra Fitzsimmons considered. “If it works, we could do so much.”

“That’s the question,” Henry Makepeace rubbed his forehead. “As arrogant and blind DuPlessis is, he’s no fool. If he gets so much as a whiff of this, he’ll see right through it.”

“It’s a chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Makepeace. The old well could fail any day now, and without a ready water supply, the Mission cannot possibly survive. We have to try.”

After dinner, the table was cleared and Zakhele’s plans spread out. The site chosen for the new well was two hundred yards from the Mission, a high shale rock surrounded by low green bushes and grass. According to the plan, teams of men would use the few pick axes allowed the Mission for the project to break beneath the surface. Once beyond, the augur provided by the Mission Society would drill down to the aquifer and create a space for the new well pump.

If, as Zakhele promised, men from the settlement would assist in the project,  the clinic would be used to shield the working crews from police attention. As men dug the well, and later the ditches for the pipeline, the clinic would be mobile, offering an excuse for people to congregate. DuPlessis would tolerate only so much, they could not give him any reason to shut the project down.

“We never considered a spot so far from the Mission,” Tom Hereward explained. “Between our manpower and the hard earth, it would take us months to lay pipe to the cistern. But if this plan works, we could finish in two weeks. We’d have time to ensure the pump was running before we have to leave.”

“You’re sure we can use this dodge, Myra? Du Plessis seems to be searching for a reason to shut us down.” Patrick dropped into a chair.

“We can try, Patrick. As long as we keep the men separate, we can claim there’s no congregating. It’ll be difficult, but the men will know the risk. The hard part will be to spread the clinic schedule out. People here are not ruled by the clock as you are in England. Few people wear watches–or even have clocks in their homes–and the school bell only travels so far. If there’s even the slightest gap between patients, DuPlessis will shut us down.”

Fred spoke up. “Pardon me, Doctor Fitzsimmons, but what ‘bout that voozievela thing I seen at the football match Jacob and me went to a few weeks back? Right train horn that thing was.”

“A vuvuzela? Yes, that could work, Fred. We’ll need several, and put them at intervals. You’ll need to use your best scrounging powers to find enough.”

“Never fear, Doctor,” Fred puffed out his chest. “You may know your medicine, but when it comes to scrounging, Fred Buckle is your man.”

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty Two

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In the next several weeks, a new pattern began to emerge at Hope Mission. While the Zulu people of Zakhele Obi’s settlement continued to reject any and all invitations to attend clinic, word of the clinic began to spread through the region. Each morning soon after the sun rose, the doors would already be opened to those trying to make the long walk before the heat of the day. All the medics were now on the home visit rotation, including Patrick, and there was a growing sense that when they left, Hope Mission would thrive.

As in Poplar, the clinics became a social gathering place. Women clustered in groups for a good gossip while children ran about– the toys different, but the play the same.

Shelagh placed her handful of patient cards in the wooden box file and turned to see what was next. Sister Julienne sat in one corner attending to a very pregnant young woman flanked by several children, the oldest barely seven. Trixie tended the broken arm of a boy who, like all other boys, thought he was bigger than he really was and had tried to climb the wrong tree, and Nurse Crane, Sister Winifred, and Barbara were deep in a line of people anxiously awaiting their polio inoculations.

“Just like home,” Shelagh marveled. The waiting list seemed to have died down for the moment, and she decided it was time for a break. Jacob Arends learned early on that the key to the nurses’ hearts was a ready pot of tea, so she poured two mugs and sugared one well. Since Patrick had given up cigarettes, Shelagh was more inclined to indulge him with his sweet hot tea.

Patrick knelt on the ground, listening to the lungs of a patient. Satisfied, he sat back and reassured the small man, and patted him on the shoulder. As the man turned away, he thanked Patrick in Xhosa, and Patrick gamely responded. Good humored laughs rose up around them as he butchered the language.

“It’s brave of you to keep trying, dear.” Shelagh teased.

He grinned crookedly and accepted the cup of tea she offered.  “I just can’t seem to manage it. The words always come out with extra syllables. Are we finished for the day?”

“We may be. Twenty-three more polio vaccinations today!” She sipped her tea.

“Good. My worst fear is that those vaccines would go to waste. Myra had a patient this morning that’s presenting with what may be appendicitis, she’s checking him into the hospital ward now. Can you make sure–”

“I’ve already sent Fred in to help get the operating room ready. Imagine ever seeing Fred in scrubs back in Poplar–what would Sister Evangelina have said!”

“Poor Fred. I’m sure he’d much rather be out digging for that well. Tom said they’ve made no progress whatsoever, and Henry Makepeace is concerned enough to make another trip out again today to discuss it.” He gulped his tea down.

Shelagh grimaced at his bad habit, then glanced at Trixie. “I’m not quite so  sure the well is his only reason for coming out here so often, Patrick.”

His eyes followed hers, his eyes squinting with uncertainty. “Do you really think so? She’ll be returning to England soon.”

“There’s always letters, Patrick. I’m told they can be a very effective method of courtship.” Her eyes gleamed.

His face softened, and she felt as if he touched her with his look. “I’m a big believer in letter writing myself,” he said.

Shelagh blushed, then deliberately changed the subject. “Angela has made new friends.”

They both turned to the table set up under the tree. Clusters of children played with the box of toys the team had brought along on their journey. Angela and a small boy sat beneath the table building a tall tower of blocks that never seemed to grow as high as they wanted. Above them, Biscuit hovered on a low branch of the tree, idly chewing on a leaf.

“How are we going to leave here without bringing that monkey home with us?” Patrick wondered aloud yet again.

Suddenly the little vervet sat up very still, then let out a screech. In an instant, worried mothers called out in Xhosa and children moved with the practiced movements of experience. All children but Angela, that is.

Before Shelagh and Patrick could understand what was going on, an old lion appeared at the Mission gates. Mangy and thin, he had none of the supple grace they had seen in other animals out on the veldt. His mane was patchy, and an old battle had left him with only one eye. Long past his prime and rejected by the pride, the beast had an air of unpredictability about him.  

Patrick moved towards Angela, but a hand reached out to stop him.

“Wait, Patrick,” Myra’s voice was low behind him. “He hasn’t seen her. If you move, it could be disastrous.  Jacob’s gone for the gun–”

He jerked his arm away but the woman wouldn’t free him.

“Patrick, don’t. He’ll make it to her before you do. Only a moment, I promise you.”

“Don’t move Angela, darling,” Shelagh whispered. “Please God, don’t move.” Time stopped as the little girl stacked block upon block, oblivious to her friend’s departure and the strange silence.

Hearts pounded as the old lion stretched and slowly shifted his head to see more of the yard. In one instant, Angela’s tower of blocks came down, but just as the old lion’s head began to turn towards her, there was a loud screech and a blur of grey fur flew in front of his face. The lion shifted his body and lurched for the animal, and Patrick threw off Myra’s restraining hand. In the space of four heartbeats he had his daughter in his arms and inside the mission.

A loud crack echoed in the trees and the old lion dropped to the ground. Zakhele Obi lowered a gun nearly as long as he was. The only sound each person could hear in the silence that followed was the pounding of blood in their own ears.  

Finally, Zakhele called out in Xhosa, then in English, “Keep away from the body. He is as much a danger now as he was before.” Even the intense curiosity of the children, brave now the danger had passed, was not enough to make them defy his order.

Angela struggled from the tight clasp of her parents. “Too tight, Daddy. Down now, play time.”

Shelagh choked a laugh through her tears. “Mummy needs hugs, Angel Girl. Stay with Mummy a while longer.” Her legs could no longer support her, and she dropped into a chair.

The small grey blur wound about their legs and Patrick looked down at the monkey. “Well done, Biscuit. Very well done.”

Jacob Arends came from the mission holding a rifle of his own, but took one look at the scene before him and muttered, “I’ll get my shovel.”

Zakhele Obi put the safety on his gun and came forward, his hand outstretched in a gesture of peace.

“This old beast found his way to our settlement last night and got into our chickens. I had a feeling he would make his way to you.” His limp was more pronounced than ever.

“You walked all that way?” Myra Fitzsimmons demanded.

“My son does it every day. Do you think I am such an old man that I cannot walk a few miles myself?” He laughed, the adrenaline of the moments before lightening his tone.

“You’ll feel it tomorrow,” Myra assured him, her tone sardonic. “There are others that could make this trip easier than you, Zakhele. Why did you not send one of your young men?”

Conscious of the many eyes upon him, Zakhele hesitated. Myra considered him for a long moment, then decided. “I insist upon examining you. Jacob–”

The small man didn’t pause in his path. “I know, take Master Obi’s gun and put it somewhere safe.”

As the clinic began to return to normal, mothers passed by Shelagh, each aware of the terrible fear she still struggled to control. Hands squeezed her shaking shoulders, fingers stroked the soft cheek of the little girl that had finally relented to her mother’s embrace. Murmurs in melodic Xhosa drifted about the space, finally overtaken by the shouts of children returning to normal chaos.

Umakhulu stopped before Shelagh and lifted her hands to her heart. “Do not worry about what might have been, Nurse Uhmlobo. Your girl was meant to stay with you, but you will not have to hold her so tight. You chose your man well, he will help you keep her safe.” She leaned in and whispered something in Shelagh’s ear, causing a blush of deepest pink to flood her cheeks. With a laugh, the old woman called to her grandchildren and began the slow walk home.

“Nurse Uhmlobo? Doctor Turner, you are the husband of Nurse Uhmlobo?” Zekhele paused as he entered the Mission.

Patrick reluctantly turned his attention away from his wife and daughter. He tilted his head in confusion.

Zakhele laughed. “Even in our settlement, we have heard this tale. The women, they talk of the little nurse that saved Umakhulu’s granddaughter with her magic hands that can turn a baby inside its mother. Now they will speak of the Monkey Girl, who can send the beasts to her bidding. Perhaps we have underestimated the English, Doctor Fitzsimmons.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years, Mr. Obi.” Myra gestured to the clinic office. “Doctor Turner, I could use your help.” Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the building.

Patrick knelt down to meet Shelagh’s eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked. He grasped her hand in his while he checked for signs of shock.

“Go, Patrick. I’ll let go of her soon, I promise, just not for a little while yet.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Take care of Mummy for me, Angela.” He stood, and smothered a groan as his knees creaked. “And remind Mummy I’ll want to know what Umakhulu said to her that made her cheeks so pink.”

 

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