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The Thing That Matters, Chapter Three

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Shelagh turns to an old friend for some advice.

Special thanks to Rockbird86 and Soph25388 for their help translating my American English into Cockney Fred.

Chapter One   Chapter Two

The large open space of the Poplar Community Centre was never more necessary than at the bi-weekly Mother and Baby clinic. Every chair was filled, every toy in hand. After several long, crowded hours, the roar died down, until it only remained for the exhausted staff to prepare for the next one.

Shelagh sat primly at her desk, organizing the last of the files. Despite the controlled chaos and mayhem of the crowded clinic, she seemed as serene as ever. If perhaps she was a bit quieter than usual, no one seemed to notice. She looked up as Fred Buckle, solid and sure, approached the intake desk, tool box in hand.

“Greetings, Fred, we’re so very glad you could come by and help today.” Shelagh stood and placed a long, thin box on the desk. The height charts Patrick had ordered months ago had finally arrived.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Turner. Little bit of a job’ll take me no time at all.” Huffing, he glanced about the hall. “Have a special spot in mind?” he asked.

Shelagh turned and gestured to the corner behind her. “Yes, actually, we’ll need to put them up near the weighing station, but I’m afraid Nurse Franklin is still working there for the moment. Why don’t you go fix yourself a cup of tea, and we can get to work in a few moments?”

“Right you are, Mrs. T. Back in two shakes.” He dropped the toolbox next the desk and sauntered happily to the kitchen.

Shelagh turned back to her files and closed up the typewriter. In no time, the Community Center was a blank slate, ready for Youth Club, Historical Society or even a dance.

Patrick approached Shelagh, his coat draped over his arm, medical bag in his grip. “I’m afraid there’s a backlog of paperwork at the maternity hospital. I’ll need to go back there straight away if I’m ever going to get on top of it. I can drop you at home now if you’re ready to leave, Shelagh.” His eyes darted nervously towards the nurses on their way out past the desk.

Shelagh’s face stiffened almost imperceptibly as she turned away from her husband. “Good afternoon, ladies, that was very well managed today. Fifty-seven patients in four hours. It might be a new record,” she called after the younger women. Her voice lowered, and without looking back at Patrick, she continued, “I won’t be ready to go for another while, I’m afraid. I’ve asked Fred to install the new growth charts you ordered. You go on ahead. I’ll get myself home.”

On cue, Fred wandered back out of the kitchen, a green teacup in his hand and biscuit crumbs clinging to his sweater.

Extending the white coat to his wife, Patrick responded, “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m quite sure. I’ll finish up with Fred and walk home. I can take care of myself, certainly. Will you be home for dinner?” The coat was neatly folded and placed in the bag set for the laundry.

Patrick looked away, and shrugged into his dark jacket. “I’ll be late. Just leave a plate warming for me. I’ll be fine on my own tonight.” With a quick glance at the handyman, Patrick made a quick farewell and was gone.

Shelagh seemed to deflate as she watched her husband leave the centre. Fred clapped his hands together, then rubbed them together. “Well then, Mrs. Turner, just like the good old days, innit? I await your command!”

Shelagh smiled weakly and led him to the back corner of the hall. “Right here, if you please, Fred. I’ll help you measure and you can put the growth chart in its proper place. We’ll have to be very precise. The National Health has very strict guidelines on units of measurement.”

Years of working together on odd repairs at Nonnatus had created an understanding between the two. Exchanging few words, Shelagh marked the measurements whilst Fred settled the chart in place. With his other hand he took the nail from his teeth and began to tap it into place.

“You and the doctor having a bit of a barney?” he asked, his eyes on the chart.

Shelagh’s eyes flew to him, her face pale with surprise. She sought excuses, but could think of none. Finally, she asked quietly, “Were we that obvious?”

Fred turned back, his face full of compassion. “The others, they didn’t see it,” he reassured her. “I’ve been married, remember. I know the signs. Polite enough to meet the Queen, not really looking at each other, oh, all the tell-tale hints.” He reached into his pocket for another nail. “I loved my wife, none better, but we could throw down something fierce. Stayed angry for days sometimes, not speak more than three words altogether. Then somefink’d happen and we’d remember what we were together for.”

Shelagh pressed her lips together in confusion. Part of her wanted to end this conversation quickly. She knew dear Fred meant well, but it really wasn’t anyone’s business. She was sure that Patrick would not want her discussing their private affairs with someone else.

The handyman reached into his toolbox for a small spirit guide. Shelagh knew he would put no pressure on her to continue. Patrick might not want her to talk with Fred, but she needed to speak with someone. This rift with her husband had her thoughts in a tangle. In a quiet voice, Shelagh confided, “We’ve never fought before; we don’t even bicker.” The crease between her eyebrows deepened.

“‘Course you don’t. You’re newlyweds. On yer best behavior, ain’t ya?” He turned around, giving his attention to the wall chart. “You and the doc, yer still gettin’ to know each other. A year ago, where were you? Still Sister Bernadette, in that sanatorium, and now look at ya. A wife and mother, livin’ a whole new life. That’s a long way to come in a twelvemonth.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t know him at all, Fred. I thought…” She breathed heavily, a catch in her voice. “He knows all there is to me, and  there’s still so much he’s never told me.”

Fred scratched the back of his head, a look of concentration on his face. “Is there? I reckon there are plenty of things you haven’t said, neither. It’s alright. Things take time. Yer still gettin’ to know each other.”

The anger she had quelled throughout the day with busy activity began to grow again. “But he should have told me. That’s what hurts so, Fred. He didn’t care enough or-or trust me enough to share something with me, something that really matters, something that could change everything we ever wanted. And now he wants me to pretend it never happened.”

Finished with the wall chart, the large man turned his attention to his toolbox. After a few moments, he began, “I want you to consider this. It took a rare courage to leave your old life behind, start fresh with Dr. Turner. You think he doesn’t trust you? Fiddle. That man knows your worth more’n anyone.

“There’s a reason he didn’t tell you somefink. I’m not sayin’ he was right, but I know, and you know that your husband is the best of men. And men want to be the hero, even if it’s just for their lady. Especially for their lady.”

“I didn’t marry Patrick because I needed him to be my hero, Fred.” Frustrated by the tears that began to fall, she pulled a handkerchief from her bag.

He smiled wisely. “No, it’s been my experience few ladies do. That doesn’t stop us from wantin’ to be one, though, does it? The important thing is to let the bad feelings go. Me and the missus never had a fight where we both weren’t to blame.”

Shelagh glanced away, ashamed. She had pushed all responsibility for this mess in Patrick’s corner. Patrick had not spoken, true. But had she listened?

“You just bide yer time, madam. You’ll soon remember what you’re together for.” The toolbox snapped closed loudly. “And then you’ll be stronger for it. Mark my words.”

On the steps outside the entrance, Shelagh thanked her old friend for his help.

Fred shook off the gratitude. “My pleasure. Always like to help things measure up.” He started down the steps, then turned back.

“One more thing, Mrs Turner. If you don’t ever fight, you don’t get to make up. And I have to tell ya, the makin’ up’s the best part.” With a tip of his hat, Fred the Handyman went on his way.

 

Chapter 4

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Two

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When the hot blaze of anger goes, it becomes a cold ache.

Shelagh’s probably never had a fight before, don’t you think? Not a real drag-out, emotional battlefield kind of fight, anyway. Love is a risk. Marriage is hard.

It’s a good thing she’s brave.

Here’s a link to Chapter One, ICYMI.

Chapter Two

Shelagh returned from her outing worn and exhausted. For the first time since her days at the sanatorium, she collapsed on the bed in the middle of the day and slept. It was only the sound of Timothy at the door of the flat that finally woke her.

Timothy stood at the sitting room table as she entered the kitchen, her fingers tucking in a stray lock of hair.

“Did you take a nap?” he asked, confused.

She kept her face from him as she went to the sink. “Yes. It’s been a demanding week. I thought a quick doze might prepare me for when you need help with your maths.” Her joke was meant to distract him. Timothy was quite proud of his quick maths skills. She lifted the kettle, eager to avoid his curious eyes. “I’ll start the tea.”

“But you never nap. You like to brag that even when you were a midwife, you could stay all night at a delivery and last the whole day through.” He began to pile his school books on the table.

“Books after tea, Timothy. And I hope I never brag.” She came around the side door. “Here,” she handed him the brown paper sack.

Peering into it, Timothy wondered, “Chocolate? What’s this for?”

“No reason. I thought perhaps you might like a treat, to say thank you for all you’ve done for us these last weeks.” As soon as she said the words, Shelagh felt a stirring in the back of her mind. Clamping it down, she went back to put the kettle on. “Your father’s on call at the maternity hospital, so it’ll be just us two tonight. I thought maybe we’d go and try that new restaurant over near the tube station.”

“The Indian place? I’m not sure. I’ve never tried it. None of my friends have tried it.”

“Neither have I, but it’s always a good idea to keep your mind open to new things. If you really don’t like it we’ll stop and get you some fish and chips after.”

“We wouldn’t try it if Dad were at home,” Timothy said with a smirk.

Shelagh was glad her back was to the boy. “Well, you’re father is perfectly able to get himself his own dinner tonight.” The sharpness had returned to her voice, and she could feel the acrimony return. Timothy was always quick to pick up on her feelings. It wouldn’t do for him to suspect there was something wrong. Shelagh brightened. “If we really like it, then we can try and convince him to join us next time.”

“Not much chance of that. In case you haven’t noticed, Dad’s a bit of a stodgy old man. He doesn’t like change much.”

Before Shelagh could respond, Tim interrupted. “I know, don’t say it. You’re sure you don’t know what I’m talking about

“One last one, I promise. What’s the longest word in the alphabet?”

Shelagh pretended an exasperation she didn’t feel. For a few hours, she had been able to lock away any unsettling thoughts.  “Oh, alright. I don’t know. What is the longest word in the alphabet?”

“Smiles.”

Shelagh stared blankly at the boy. “ I don’t get it, Timothy. How-”

“Because there’s a mile between each ‘S!”

Shelagh groaned. “For that one, you’ll have to do the washing up tonight.”

Timothy grinned widely. “I wish it were as easy every night!” The greasy newspaper wrappings crackled loudly as he crumbled them into a ball then threw them onto the bin. “Even the tea things?” he asked, keeping up the pretense of frustration.

“Oh, your poor thing. Go on with you. I’ll do the washing up. Be sure to put your jumper out for me to wash. I’m not sure if curry stains, so I’d better get to that tonight. I’ll come to say good night in a bit.”

Without Timothy’s cheery voice, the kitchen became quiet very quickly. Ordinary sounds were magnified. The screech of the ironing board’s legs, the thud of the heavy cord as it fell to the floor seemed to echo in the empty sitting room.  Shelagh could feel her discomfort start to grow again. But the hours spent with her son had changed things.

The alarming resentment she carried throughout the day had dissipated. leaving a dull tension in her middle. She still couldn’t understand why Patrick had kept such a thing from her. He had kept a big part of himself from her, carried a secret that must have been separating them all this time.

She wasn’t as naive as he thought. She’d worked closely enough alongside the families of Poplar this last ten years to know that married couples fought. She’d always been surprised by the animosity that could spring up between two people that loved each other, then ease away back into marital harmony.

Whatever was happening between her and Patrick, it barely resembled those loud arguments. A flash of an unexpected temper had burst from her, met only by his withdrawal, both physical and emotional. Could they even call this a fight?  

Timothy’s door stood ajar, his sign that he was ready for bed. The boy was beginning to become a young man, and she was careful of his privacy. A gentle rap on the door jamb was answered by his call to enter.

“I don’t think it’s such a stain, you’re a whiz at laundry.” Timothy gestured to the soiled jumper. He climbed into his bed, adjusting the pillow into the funny lump he preferred. “Colin says his mother can never get the collars right, says his parents argue about it all the time.”

She drew a finger down his cheek, then tweaked his ear. “No telling tales, Timothy dear. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Monk wouldn’t want to hear their business gossiped about in the play yard. Married people are bound to argue over something sometime. You and Colin have arguments, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. But they never last long.”

“There, you see? Things blow over.” She smoothed the blanket over him. “Now get some sleep. And dream of maharaji and the Taj Mahal.”

The door clicked quietly behind her, and she wondered about their chat. Childhood spats with friends seemed to be quite ordinary, but she couldn’t remember having many. Even at Nonnatus she had avoided getting involved in petty arguments. For years she had put it down to strong diplomatic skills. They had unquestionably come in handy living with Sister Monica Joan.

The iron hot, Shelagh reached into the laundry basket for the first of the ironing and stretched out one of Patrick’s shirts on the board. She dampened the fabric and began to press it smooth. A cloud of starchy steam puffed up, filling her nose with its scent. Tears welled up as she was flooded with memories of Patrick’s arms about her, her face pressed to this same shirt.

Roughly, she rubbed the tears away. She was tired of these unsettling feelings. Patrick had lied to her, and their chance for a new baby seemed but a pipe dream. She wouldn’t back down in a wave of sentiment. She was a full partner in this marriage, for better or worse, and would not shrink away to be considered anything else. Perhaps there was something else to consider. For so much of her life she had lived vicariously through the community she served, always on the periphery, never in the middle of things. She was certainly in the thick of things now.

Diplomacy would not be the solution.

 

Chapter 3

The Thing That Matters, Chapter One

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As usual, we have to imagine for ourselves how Patrick and Shelagh find their way. Between that awful interview with Mrs. Litchcroft and their reconciliation, we’re given only a handful of short scenes with very little dialogue. Here’s my take on that difficult time.

Chapter One

Shelagh pulled the last of the laundered shirts from the wash tub, her morning following its usual pattern. Routine centered her. As a nun, the repeated daily ritual of prayer and service had for a very long time provided tranquility and peace of mind. Then, after she emerged from her wilderness of the soul, ready to enter a new life, she discovered that a new routine could be just as much a part of that serenity.

This morning, she found no such harmony in her daily chores. Despite all her efforts, Shelagh could not force the memory of last night’s interview to the back of her brain. Still stunned by its disastrous outcome, she found it difficult to remember exactly what had happened. Only impressions of moments came to her mind, disconnected images and words that jeopardized the life she thought she was living.

Last night, her dreams came tumbling down around her ears. The adoption interview quickly shifted from a pleasant formality to a devastating revelation of secrets. Shelagh’s heart clenched as the terrible words came back to her: Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital.

She snapped a shirt in the air, uncaring of the droplets that sprayed her clean walls. Had Patrick ever intended to tell her of his time there? What other secrets was he keeping from her?

Anger rose in Shelagh’s heart. After she had confronted him, Patrick had fled the flat, not to return until late in the evening, long after his wife and son had retired. This morning, few words were exchanged, no real attempts at communication were made.

“He think’s I’m a child,” Shelagh told herself angrily as she hung her husband’s shirts to dry. “Not a partner, not an equal.” She roughly shaped the collar. “He doesn’t trust me!” Bitter tears stung her eyes, refusing to be shed.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, building up an energy that needed to be released. The washing was done quickly, too quickly, and Shelagh searched for something to occupy her hands, and by extension, her thoughts. The preparations for the interview left little to be done, and she glared at the pristine flat.

She had to get out. She glanced down at her comfortable dress and apron and made a decision. She would get out of the house, even if just to do the shopping. If Patrick could avoid their home, then so could she.

In their bedroom, her eyes avoided his side of the bed. She hadn’t needed to do much to make the bed this morning. Anger had kept her still in her sleepless state, and Patrick must have found his rest on the sofa.

Her grey suit would do. She felt very in control in the grey suit. Dressed, her hair in its controlled updo, she automatically reached for her jewelry box for a brooch. Her fingers stopped, and she snapped it closed. There would be no need for jewelry today.

 

Polished heels clicked sharply against the pavement as Shelagh briskly walked to the shops. Timothy needed some more pencils, and the boy seemed to lose at least a pair of socks a week. He was so very helpful, perhaps she would surprise him with a chocolate bar when he returned from school.

Part of her mind reviewed Patrick’s requests in the past few days. No, there was nothing pressing he needed, and she tried to dismiss him from her mind. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she decided. She was not an errand-girl, there to fetch and care for him. Let him get his own things.

The bell tinkled as she stepped into the corner shop. The early morning rush was over, and the proprietor, always an admirer of the lovely Mrs. Turner, had a moment to spend.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Turner! Always a pleasure to see you. How may I be of assistance today?” His eyes were clever and used the moment she turned to the news racks to admire her figure.

“I’ll need some pencils and a bar of that chocolate. The big one, if you please.” Her purse clicked open.

“As you wish, Mrs. Turner. I saw that Timothy of yours the other day. He’ll be startin’ to sprout any day now.” The newsagent leaned over the counter. “I must say, Mrs. Turner, that boy’s lucky to have you. All that nasty stuff in the past, he’s as right as rain now. Well done.”

Shelagh blushed. “Why…thank you, Mr. Morris. We’re very proud of Timothy, he’s worked so terribly hard.”

“And he couldn’t have done it without you. Dr. Turner, neither. Never saw a man so changed for the better in so little time.”

At the sound of Patrick’s name, Shelagh felt herself stiffen again and the sense of dread in her gut re-awakened.

“Would you be wantin’ a packet of cigarettes for Dr. Turner, then ma’am?” Mr. Morris snapped open a paper sack.

“No.” Shelagh heard the sharpness to her voice. This wouldn’t do, she thought. She mustn’t behave as if she weren’t in control of her feelings. “No, thank you, Mr. Morris. No cigarettes today.”

The sky was too bright when she stepped from the dim shop, forcing Shelagh to squint to see. She turned away from home and walked towards the river. The news agent’s words rang in her ears. No. She didn’t want to think of how Patrick needed her.

Indeed.

Of course he needed her. She ran his home, she supported him, she took care of him so that he could focus on his own concerns.

She was the perfect footrest. And then, at the end of the day, if he cared to show her some attention, she was content to give him what he wanted.

It was her job to make sure Patrick was happy and she was very good at her job.

She pressed her lips together in frustration. She didn’t ask for much. She certainly didn’t ask for the trinkets and gewgaws he bought for her. A sunflower brooch, how ridiculous! She was from Scotland, not Spain, for heaven’s sake. A thistle would’ve been a better choice. At the time, she’d been touched by his words of explanation: “You’re like the sun to me, my love.”

He was just giving her a treat, a shiny object to keep her happy. How had she been so wrong?

The pavement took her to the quay’s edge and she leant against the rails. The closeness she thought they shared now seemed so very shallow. Clearly, Patrick did not have faith in her. He cared for her, he even loved her, but he was not prepared to share himself with her. To have left such a thing untold, to have kept such a part of him from her, he must not have cared. Not for her as a partner, not for the baby they might have raised.

Shelagh felt the ball of dread burst into a hot anger. There it was. Patrick had kept secrets, and his lack of trust had robbed her of her last chance to have a child. For the first time since that dreadful moment, Shelagh felt tears on her cheeks.

Her hands clenched tightly around the railing, searching for purchase. She had left everything behind, abandoned her whole life for this man. Had she been blind the whole time? Why on earth would he, at fifty, with a son nearly grown, want to start again? He must have thought he had dodged a bullet when her diagnosis came through.

She could picture it. Mr. Horringer’s news must have come as a relief, which Patrick was quick to hide during her convalescence. But soon, much sooner than she had expected, he had moved on. “Put it away, Shelagh,” he said of the nightdress. “Put it away, out of sight.”

Her heart ached to think how he must have recoiled from the subject of adoption. How he must have lied again when he encouraged her to pursue the idea.

“How could he not have told me?” Hours later, she was still stunned. Could he think she would possibly let this rest? Did he know her so little?

Shelagh stopped and turned away from the river. She wiped the angry tears from her face, glad she had used only a minimum of mascara that morning. It wouldn’t do to be seen with a smudged face. She took a deep breath and headed home.

 

 Chapter 2

Hundred Word Challenge, 2015 edition

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To mark the hundred-days-to-go point until the 2015 Call the Midwife Christmas special, the fandom on Tumblr got together with this eponymous challenge. The word limit is constricting at first, but it’s a great opportunity to play with words until it’s just so.

Big shout-out to Superfluous Bananas, as she got us started with this last year.

(If you’re reading this and you’re not on Tumblr, you should come by and say  “Hi!”)

Making a Connection

She stood alone at the end of the hallway, oblivious to the morning light streaming through the high windows, the muffled sounds from the dining room. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood rushed in her ears. Was this a mistake? What if she’d misunderstood? She hovered in that place of knowing everything and knowing nothing.  

She’d come this far. A few more steps couldn’t be that difficult. A deep breath shuddered through her chest as she made her way to the telephone and with trembling fingers she dialed. Ages passed, and then came his voice:

“Morning!”

“I’ve been discharged.”

A Particular Blessing

Timothy loved how the photograph felt in his hands. His eyes traced a well-worn path, taking in the bright candles, the party scene, and came to rest on his mother’s face.

She smiled back at him, and he could see her heart in her eyes. He could feel his mother’s love surround him even now.

His throat tightened as the face of another woman came to mind. For two long, childish years he had gone without that particular sheltering love. Then she came, and she helped fill his lonely heart.

He had been blessed by the love of two mothers.

A Close Shave

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For a Tuesday morning, the Turner family kitchen seemed a bit casual. Both Doctor and Mrs. Turner were still in their dressing gowns, and little Angela breakfasted in her nightdress, a rare occurrence. Only scholar Timothy Turner seemed ready to face the day, dressed in his school uniform.

“Neither your father nor I will go into the surgery or clinic today, Timothy. Dr. Henderson said your father isn’t to do any lifting or much movement with his hand today, it could start the bleeding again.” She turned in answer to her husband’s growl.  “Patrick, it was an accident. I’m sure Nurse Noakes didn’t mean to cut you. It will heal before you know it.”

“Does it hurt much?” Timothy Turner asked his father. He peered closely at the bandages that immobilized Patrick’s hand.

“Yes. Now leave it be, Tim. You’ll bump it and then it’ll really hurt,” came the tense reply.

Ever the peacemaker, Shelagh intervened. “Timothy, thank you, but you’re not really helping. Your father is not an opportunity to work on your First Aid badge. Leave your father be and go get your bag. The bus won’t wait, and it’s a terribly long walk.”

Sighing, Tim got up from the table. “I was only trying to help. I wasn’t thinking about Scouts at all.” He stopped at the doorway and turned. “But I could get some requirements taken care of, Dad. You know how eager you are for me to make Queen’s Scout.”

“Go, Tim,” ordered the cranky man at the table.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Tim tossed his bag over his shoulder as the door slammed behind him.

Shelagh moved to refill Patrick’s teacup. “He always has an answer for everything, doesn’t he?” she giggled.

Testily, Patrick tapped a piece of toast against his plate.

Hiding a grin, she asked, “Would you like me to butter your toast, dear?”

A pained expression crossed Patrick’s face. “I suppose I have no choice. I can’t do anything with my left hand bound up like this.” He dropped his toast and grumbled. “There’s no way I can see patients with it, or–bloody hell, Shelagh! I can’t drive my car! My car!”

Shelagh waited for the storm to pass and put a tad bit more butter on her husband’s toast than usual. She had wondered when that particular shoe would drop. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and determined her course.

“We’ll get Fred to drive you about this week. It won’t be for long, Patrick. The stitches will be out before you know it.” Lifting Angela from her high chair, she placed her in the playpen, then turned back to her husband. “We have bigger problems to solve, dear. Finish your tea, and then join me down the hall.”

Feeling very sorry for himself, Patrick harumphed and slumped in his chair,  his cheek resting against his right fist. His eyes wandered over to the playpen. Angela, contentedly playing with her favorite giraffe, looked at him seriously.

The ridiculousness of his mood started to sink in. “Sorry Daddy’s such a bear today, Angel Girl. I can’t even pick you up. Doctor’s orders. Though how that Henderson is old enough to have qualified, I’ll never know,” the growl returned. Angela continued to chatter with her giraffe, unfazed.

Shelagh’s voice came down the hall. Sighing heavily, Patrick stood. “Mummy’s calling. Be good and don’t break anything.”

Patrick followed the sound of his wife’s voice, softly singing in the bathroom. He pushed the door open to find Shelagh standing at the sink, steam rising from its full bowl. She held his badger shaving brush and mug in her hands, efficiently swirling the soap into a lather.

“What’s this? You know I can’t shave with my right hand. I’ll simply have to be a bit scruffy for a few days.”

Shelagh smiled, and a looked coyly back. “You know I do like your face a bit scratchy, Patrick, but smooth is nice, too. Besides, I thought you might like to see that sometimes it’s nice to have someone give you a hand.” Her eyes twinkled at her pun.

“Shelagh, love, you know I trust you in all things, but I’m not quite certain I want you to use that safety razor on me. It’s a bit tricky.”

The frothy mug and brush clinked against the surface of the sink’s edge, and Shelagh opened the cabinet. Carefully she removed the abandoned straight razor from its case. “I’m not going to use the safety razor. I’m going to use this instead.”

Patrick’s eyebrows came down in consternation. “My straight razor? How…?”

“I am a nurse, Patrick,” Shelagh huffed. “Of course I know how to use it. Now, sit down and let me help you.” In moments she had him sitting, a dry towel covering his injured hand and a hot, wet towel wrapped about his face.

“That should get that beard a bit softer. Now sit still and relax. I’ll go check on Angela and then we’ll get started.”

Small footsteps disappeared down the hall and Patrick found himself grinning beneath the steam towel. Shelagh certainly managed him well. “Imagine if she went into politics. She’d have the whole country in order by noontime!”

The effects of the warm towel began to ease the tension in his shoulders as well, and Patrick forgot about his wounded hand. By the time Shelagh returned and removed it, his bad mood had completely melted away.

“I’ve given her the toy telephone, she’ll be busy for a good long time.” Shelagh used the towel to rub his cheeks a bit. “She may be picking up some habits from watching me in the surgery!”

The froth in the mug had dissipated a bit, so Shelagh gave it a few more swirls. His eyes watched her as she began to soap his face with the rich lather. Her lips pressed together a bit as always when she concentrated, and he fought a grin.

She placed the brush and mug down and reached for the straight razor. As she gave it a few strokes on the honing block he asked, “Why don’t you use the safety razor?”

Shelagh shook her head in disapproval as she gently turned his face to begin. Slowly, she ran the blade down the curve of his cheek.  “I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it feels in my hand, and I can’t get the same closeness. I cut myself with it once. I haven’t used it since.”

The blade glided over the contours of his face, and she stopped to make short strokes above his lip. He tightened his mouth to give her better access to the tight corners there, then shifted his face to the other side. She moved the blade slowly, but purposefully, her touch light.

Shelagh turned to rinse the foam from the blade and he asked, “What do you mean, cut yourself?”

“My leg. I cut myself just above my right ankle last month. You remember, the plaster kept sticking to my stockings?”

An image began to form in his head. “You mean you use my straight razor to shave your legs?” His voice hadn’t cracked like that in a very long time.

Seemingly unaware of the change occurring in her husband, Shelagh turned his face to the side and began on his left cheek. “Yes.” She paused to trace the curve of his nostril. “It’s so sharp I hardly need to shave more than once a week. Now, Patrick, please still your throat. I can’t put the blade there if you’re going to swallow so hard.”

“Sorry,” he gulped.

Eyes twinkling, Shelagh finished the last stroke and cleaned the blade, then turned to rub the last vestiges of foamy soap with the cooled towel.

“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” She stood before him, her hands holding his face as her fingers smoothed over his cheeks. “Not scruffy at all.”

“I thought you liked me scruffy,” he murmured.

Shelagh nuzzled her own smooth cheek against his. “I like you any way I can have you, dearest.”

Patrick’s good hand found its way beneath her dressing gown and he ran his fingers up the length of her leg.

“Smooth,” he whispered against her lips.

“Not for very long, Patrick. I think I may need you to repay the favor when your stitches come out.”

“Yes. my love. Always happy to lend a hand.”

 

Under the Starry Sky

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Author’s Note: My science is off here, friends. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why we call it fanfiction. And all knowledge of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich comes from the internet. But it’s on my list of things to do (certain people should take note).

This story is set very early during Patrick and Shelagh’s engagement.

And apologies for the terrible Cockney accents. Poor Fred deserves better than I give him.

Eight wolf cubs bounced along the sidewalk waiting for the bus to take them across the river to the Royal Observatory. The promise of a field trip, and in the evening no less, made them all particularly boisterous. Watching over the boys, Dr. Patrick Turner turned to Fred Buckle with a pained expression. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Fred? It’s like herding cats!”

“Where’s your courage, Doc? Afraid of a few young boys? Look at Sis-, I mean, Miss Mannion here. Calm in the center of the storm, she is. Always has been.” He leaned in to add, “Sorry, Miss. Hard to break old habits, ain’t it?” Realizing his unintended pun, he reddened.

“That’s quite all right, Fred, really. And please call me Shelagh. I’d like to think we’re friends,” Shelagh smiled at him. Of all those from Nonnatus, Fred seemed to be the easiest to be with since the “Great Change,” as he called it. His ingenuous nature and straightforward approach to life made everyone feel comfortable around him and Shelagh appreciated the complete acceptance he offered. Which was exactly why she volunteered herself and Patrick for tonight’s event.

Fred puffed out his chest, the too-tight uniform stretching over his great belly. “Not tonight, Miss Mannion. On duty, y’know.”

“Alright, lads, single file,” Patrick called out. “The bus is coming ‘round the corner. Gary, you’ll be squashed under the bus if you’re not careful,” he admonished. From the corner of his eye, he noticed an old man pull to the side away from the group. “You can go first, sir.”

“No thanks, guv,” the old man chortled. “Think I’ll wait for the next bus, if you don’t mind.”

“Wise man,” answered Patrick, grinning. He turned to Shelagh. The cubs had all nearly mounted the steps of the bus behind Fred. Smiling, he said quietly, “Ready, Shelagh? It’s not too late to turn back.”

“Ready, Patrick. I’m looking forward to tonight.” Shyly, she smiled up at him and he could feel his heart lurch. The world slipped away when she looked at him like that, her clear eyes revealing depths of her heart only he could see. Swallowing, he held out his hand to help her up the steps and she took it, embracing the chivalric gesture. She climbed the bus, and he regretted the heavy winter coat she wore, disguising her figure. The sight of her lovely legs was a welcome consolation prize, though, and Patrick’s thoughts took a decidedly “un-chaperone-ish” turn.

“Slow down, man,” he told himself. For over ten years Shelagh had devoted herself to the strictures of her Order. He would need to be patient as she grew comfortable with the developing intimacy of their relationship. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to be too patient.

“You comin’ then, mate?” the bus driver called, and Patrick cleared his head and followed her down the aisle.

“Dad! Bagheera says if we look really hard tonight we’ll see three planets!” Timothy called.

The grounds of the Royal Conservatory were quiet, the crowds long gone. Neither Patrick nor Shelagh were completely certain how Fred had managed to organize this trip to complete the Cubs’ Astronomy badge, but his schemes had rarely led to real trouble, and the two were willing to put their faith in the handyman.

Their trust was rewarded when they arrived at the gates to find them open, and a friendly caretaker there to greet them.

“ ‘ello, Fred! I knew ye’d use that marker up one day. Never expected it to be fer a pack o’ Cubs, I must say!” Barry Piper joked.

“Always happy to fill in when I’m needed, Barry, my man. Though to be ‘onest,” the large man leant in secretively, “I’d always planned on using this favor to court a lady!”

Impatient to move to their first stop, the Cubs grew noisy. “A’right, lads! Follow me. First stop, the old telescope building!”

The tour took the small group to the site of the Great Equatorial Building, the former home of an enormous 28-inch diameter telescope. Damage to the building during the war had led to the transfer of the Observatory to Herstmonceux the year many of the Cubs were born, and the structure bore little resemblance to its days of glory.

The pack wandered about, closely examining the historic photos on the wall. “It looks like an onion!” exclaimed Billy Wegman, whose father was a greengrocer.

“It does, Billy. The dome had to be wider on the bottom to account for the length of the telescope. And there was a balcony built on top, here,” Patrick pointed to the next photograph.

“Why’d they keep changin’ it?” asked Jack. “They’re as bad as me mum. She’s always movin’ the furniture!”

“Scientists have to keep changing,” a voice piped up from the back. Timothy Turner continued, “We can’t keep doing things the same old way, we’d never learn anything that way. Scientists have to be ready to take risks.”

Patrick caught Shelagh’s eye. “That’s precisely right, Tim. Where would we be if we never had the courage to accept change?” He grinned and was rewarded with the light blush that colored her cheeks. This was fun, Patrick realized. Shelagh was hesitant to draw attention to them as a pair, and throughout the evening they had kept a respectful distance from each other. Now, he thought, he would find more subtle ways to flirt with his new fiance.

The walk along the Meridian offered him another chance. A laughing line of Cubs balanced themselves between two hemispheres, sure that one day they would rule the world. Lanterns and torches flickered as the boys darted around each other playfully in the growing dark.

Bagheera called out, “Right. Who can tell me what an orrery is? No, not you, Timothy, someone else this time. Gary, I’m sure you did yer required readin’ before settin’ out this evening. What is an orrery?”

There was a moment’s pause, then Gary responded, “A model of the universe?”

“Precisely. And don’t think I didn’t see you sneakin’ up behind wif the answer, Timothy Turner. Now, we are goin’ to make a human orrery.”

“I think Fred’s found a new word,” Patrick whispered in Shelagh’s ear.

“Patrick,” she scolded. “Shh!”

Fred continued. “Wif eight cubs, plus me, we make nine. I’ll be Jupiter, for obvious reasons.” He patted his belly and glanced around the group of boys. “Billy, you’ll be Mercury, and Timothy you be Venus…”

“Great. Why do I always have to be the girl?” Timothy muttered.

Soon the nine planets were lined up properly in their orbits, varying sized planets and varying distances. “So you can see how each of the planets lies in relation to the others,” Fred seemed quite proud of his successful plan.

“Sorry, Bagheera, but I think there’s something missing from your solar system,” Patrick pointed out.

Fred looked confused.

“The sun, Fred. The solar system won’t work without its center.” Patrick took Shelagh by the hand and led her to the center of the group. Moving beyond the circles, he explained, “It’s the strength of the sun’s gravity that makes the whole thing work. Without the sun, all the other planets would float aimlessly, cold and barren. The sun lets it all make sense.”

“Your hair is like the sun, a bit, Miss,” winked Tommy Bergen, the flirt of the group.

Patrick almost growled at the boy.

“Right, then, last stop, Mr. Tyson’s telescope. Hands at your sides at all times, I’m sure you’ll remember, Cubs. And wif some luck, we’ll see Billy, Tim and me up in the heavens!”

Mr. Tyson, another old friend of Bagheera’s from other times, stood by a magnificent telescope, high on the hill. Patrick noticed that the handsome astronomer bore little resemblance to Fred’s usual acquaintances. The quick lecture, and the stern warning delivered by their fearless leader reminded each of the boys that the rules regarding the telescope were definitely meant to be followed. One at a time, each Cub would have a turn viewing the visible planets, all conveniently located in the same quadrant of the sky.

“Ladies first, gentlemen,” Mr. Tyson invited Shelagh over to the telescope. Patrick followed her, and when she looked at him curiously, he remarked, “I’ll hold your glasses.”

Which of course alerted Mr. Tyson to the fact that “Miss Mannion” was not a heavenly body to be studied.

Shelagh looked up, delighted by the sight of such natural splendor. “Oh, Patrick. Look! If that’s not enough evidence of God’s power, I don’t know what is!”

He laughed and led her away from the pack. “I’m not quite sure now is the time for existential debate, Shelagh. But no one is looking if you want to show me proof of your own…”

“Patrick,” Shelagh scolded.

“Shelagh,” he answered.

“It’s Timothy’s turn next. Pay attention.”

Despite the darkness, Patrick could sense Shelagh inch closer, then felt the brush of her fingers against his. Heat flushed through his body, demanding he take a deep breath to control himself.

“I’m not an adolescent male. I can control this,” he thought.

Unable to resist, Patrick stole a glance. Despite the darkness, he could clearly see a small smile playing on her lips.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” he whispered.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shelagh whispered in return, her eyes alight with mischief.

He glanced over at the pack of cubs mesmerized by the telescope, fighting for their turn. Certain that their attention was far from their forgotten chaperones, Patrick turned to face Shelagh, but was surprised by her own swift movement. A tug on his tie and his face was pulled down to hers for a quick kiss.

She moved away quickly, only narrowly escaping his arms as they reached to hold her closer. He stood there, stunned, until a slow smile crossed his face.

It didn’t look like he would need to be so very patient, after all.

Later, as they corralled eight tired boys on to the bus home, Fred noted, “Wouldnt’ve thought pink was your color, Doctor Turner.”

Puzzled, Patrick looked at Shelagh. ‘Oh dear,” she fretted.

“What? What is it?”

“Lipstick,” she whispered.

With a sheepish grin, Patrick pulled out his handkerchief and erased the traitorous mark away.

“Patrick,” Shelagh worried. “What if one of the boys had noticed? What if one of them saw us?”

With a grin, he squeezed her hand and leant in to whisper, “They’ll have to get their own lipstick.”

Blush

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A/N:  I’ve had a VERY long dry spell, for various reasons, and I needed to get my brain working again. So I’m jumping in with both feet with this one. No agonizing, no rewrites until my fingers hurt, no second guessing (well, maybe some).

I decided to use a prop to start my creativity. I don’t do it justice (it’s a pretty powerful prop), but it was fun trying it!

I wonder if you can guess before the end (it’s not too difficult. I’m fairly transparent.)

“Patrick, please. This will go much more quickly if you cooperate with Mr. Unger,” Shelagh Turner huffed in frustration as an exasperated photographer stepped outside for a cigarette.

“I don’t see the purpose, Shelagh. It’s an article about the new Maternity Home, not me. We should be taking a photograph of the building, or even the ward.”

The new and improved Kenilworth Row Maternity Home was finally ready to open its doors to a waiting population. Or, as Patrick liked to say (to his son’s embarrassment), “a waiting waiting population.” The pregnant women of Poplar had been without this center of obstetrical care for nearly two months since the closure of the previous home, and the burden on both the patients and doctors had been a heavy one. To herald the re-opening, the Board had sent over a photographer from the Poplar Gazette.

One might say Patrick was uncomfortable with this attention. He had never sought publicity, and was often uncomfortable with the level of hero-worship he came across in his patients. But after the difficulties getting the word out about weekly clinics, Shelagh had convinced him that it was all in the best interests of the community.

“Photographs of the new wallpaper won’t do, dear. The community wants to know that you’ll be here for them when they come in. Now, please, cooperate for just a few minutes more. You’re as bad as Timothy.”

Patrick sulked. “Timothy doesn’t have to sit and have his portrait taken for hours.”

Now Shelagh was a newlywed, and new to many of the situations she found herself in of late. But she was a quick study, and had soon learned a few “techniques” to soften her husband up.

Stepping behind the tripod, she glanced coyly at her husband. “Perhaps if I took the picture?” A hopeful Patrick was generally a much more amenable Patrick.

Patrick turned back to his wife, suddenly alert to a change in the room. Covering the smirk with his hand he answered.

“Where do you want me?”

Shelagh took a deep breath, determined to keep her composure. “At your desk, if you please. We’ll simply use Mr. Unger’s set-up. Just sit down-yes, like that. Now look at the camera…” Shelagh glanced at the device, readying herself to capture the image. Satisfied all was ready, she placed her finger on the shutter button, then looked back at her subject.

His eyes met hers, and all thought flew from her head. The shutter clicked, and the next moment the photographer returned.

“Excellent, Dr. Turner. All set? Let’s get this finished then, shall we?”

A week later, Timothy came in with the post.

“The paper’s here, Dad. The Maternity Hospital’s on the front page!” Excitedly, he tossed the rest of the post on the kitchen table before he returned to the sitting room.

“Timothy, be more careful with the post, if you please,” Shelagh scolded lightly. Sorting through the envelopes, she noted, “Patrick, there’s something else here from the paper.”

Shrugging, Patrick barely looked up from the article. “Go ahead, Shelagh, you open it. It’s probably a subscription renewal notice.”

Unfolding the letter, Shelagh read aloud, “”Dear Dr. Turner, I have enclosed some of extra photographs taken during our session last week. I thought you may want some to document the history of your Hospital. Others you may prefer to keep for personal use. Regards, F. Unger.’

“Personal use? What on earth…” Shelagh pulled the photographs from the smaller enclosed envelope.

A long silence followed. Intrigued, Patrick looked up from the paper to see his wife’s face, the usual creamy ivory of her skin a bright pink.

“Shelagh?” he asked. Standing up behind her, his eyes fell to the photograph in her hands. It was fairly clear why this photograph had not been used for the morning edition. It was equally clear that this same photograph would not be displayed at neither the maternity hospital nor their sitting room. But if he was lucky, he might be able to convince his wife that this should remain in their private collection.

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