Caught Yellow-Handed

Posted on October 21, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

If you give a Nonnatun a Granny Parker post, she’s going to want a Shelagh painting fic.

This one goes out to MissOuiser, whose twisted mind took us from discussing the complicated relationship between a widower and his mother-in-law to Shelagh prancing around in entirely un-Shelagh-like trousers, determined to redecorate that ridiculous flat. I begged her to let me do this when calls for a fic started to make their inevitable appearance on Tumblr. Thanks for the inspiration, Weezy, and the permission to write this ridiculous bit of fluff.

For most families, the hours between five and seven in the evening bring a level of barely controlled chaos that should be studied by military strategists. Dinner preparations, schoolwork, and cranky youngsters, all convening within a ten foot radius of one particular person, require a delicate balance of attention to avoid complete pandemonium. On this particular evening, the Turner household was dangerously close to such an end.

“Timothy, please clear away your things from the table, I need to get dinner settled quickly if we’re going to make it to the Science Fair on time tonight. And no jokes about your father being late. You lost all mocking privileges when you left finishing your project to the last minute.” Shelagh grimaced as she lifted the pot of boiling potatoes to the sink. If she hurried, she would have just enough time to re-do her hair before they would sit down to a hasty meal.

“It’s only the silly poster I had left to do. I don’t know why they make such a big deal about a piece of cardboard. It’s the project that’s important, isn’t it? You’d think Mr. Fitzpatrick would be more interested in the fact that I’ve figured a new way to sanitize the bathroom sink than how many colors I use on my poster. I hate using these new markers, they get all over my-” Timothy’s voice cut off quickly, a sharp gasp finishing his sentence.

Shelagh turned, her vision fogged by the steaming potatoes. “What is it?”

“Angela! No!” Timothy cried. He rushed around to the table. “Thank goodness,” he breathed. “The poster’s fine.”

The pot clattered on the cooker and Shelagh joined him in the sitting room. “What was that all about?” she asked.

“Angela had my red marker, I thought she’d scribbled on my-” This time, Timothy’s voice disappeared altogether and Shelagh’s eyes followed his.

Now, remember. It’s the witching hour in a family’s day. Under usual circumstances, the sight of a two-year old happily keeping herself occupied as her mother scrambled to the climax of the afternoon would bring a sigh of contentment from said maternal figure. Dinner would come together, books would be closed and the family would sit down to enjoy a cheerful end to the day.

Alas, when said toddler’s employment involved a large, red, permanent marker and a sitting room wall, little cheer would come of it.

“Angela Julienne!” cried her thunderstruck mother.

The little girl glanced up innocently. “Painting, Mummy!” She turned back to the task at hand.

Timothy acted quickly, and plucked the offending tool from his sister’s plump little hand. “At least she didn’t paint herself, Mum. Then we’d never make the Science Fair on time.”

The front door opened. “I told you I’d make it on time!” called Patrick. He turned the corner into the sitting room, a smile on his good-natured face. Now that Shelagh had his practice in fine working order, family nights were a source of delight and not yet another strain on his limited time. Shelagh’s dinner and an evening showcasing his son’s academic success were a very satisfying way to end the day.

Unaware of the scene he had missed, Patrick lifted his daughter up in his arms. “Hello, Angel Girl! How was your day? Were you a good girl for Mummy?”

He accepted her little arms tight around his neck and turned to his wife and son. “Why do I have the feeling I’ve made a mess?” he wondered aloud.

For a week, Shelagh struggled to remove her daughter’s graffiti. She tried scrubbing. She tried solvents. Utterly baffled by the resilience of Timothy’s poster-making supplies, she finally gave in and made a plan.

Simply painting the sitting room would never do, of course. Once completed, the new decor would make the kitchen seem shabby, and if they were painting the kitchen too, they might as well paint the hallway. Shelagh knew she couldn’t press her luck, and restricted her plans to the public rooms. Patrick would resist, but if she handled this wisely, he’d be in it before he even knew it had begun.

At the breakfast table Friday morning she announced, “We’re going to have to paint the flat. I’m sorry, dearest, it can’t be helped.”

Patrick sighed. “Surely not, Shelagh. I’m certain we have a can of the old paint in one of the storage closets. We’ll simply paint over the…artwork. It will be fine.” There were few jobs Patrick Turner hated more than painting.

“It will not be fine, Patrick. The ink is too strong, and that paint is too old. It’ll bleed straight through. We’ll have to paint the whole room.” Shelagh was not going to back down.

Patrick knew when he was beaten. “I suppose.” He tossed his napkin to his plate and stood. “I’ll call Len Warren and see what he can do.”

“Mr. Warren can’t help us, I’m afraid. I’ve seen him and he’s booked solid through the autumn. And don’t suggest Fred. I do love him, but he’s never been much in the way of a careful painter. Besides, Mrs. Buckle has him busy building new shelves for the shop’s addition. We’ll have to do it ourselves.”

Patrick’s face flooded with color. “Oh, no, Shelagh,” he shook his finger. “I am not using the few hours I get off to paint. No. I won’t do it, Shelagh.”

“Nice try, Dad. I said the same thing when she told me I was going with Angela to Nonnatus for the entire weekend. Mum has a way of getting us to do exactly what she wants.”

Shelagh smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Saturday morning dawned on a Turner flat transformed by canvas sheets and newspapers spread out on the floor. A grumpy Patrick stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on his hips. Breakfast on Saturday was supposed to be a grand affair, even on clinic days, not a quick gobble and a trip to Nonnatus to drop the children. “I’m feeling a bit managed, Shelagh,” he complained. “I thought we were painting the sitting room.”

“If we’re painting the sitting room, we might as well paint the rest, dearest.” She patted his forearm. “I know it looks like a lot, but Fred’s paint rollers will make the walls fly right by, you’ll see.”

Patrick was unconvinced. “Hmmm,” he muttered. “More likely the weekend will fly right by. First Saturday in months that I haven’t had to take morning clinic, and I get to spend it painting.”

He watched as Shelagh finished putting away the breakfast dishes, her hair pulled back in a jaunty ponytail. She looked young and fresh and happy. That was a new outfit, he noticed. Shelagh never wore trousers of any sort, and these pedal pushers were a complete surprise. Closely fitted and tapered to reveal her trim ankles, they showed off her curves in ways that distracted his mind from the task at hand.

An idea occurred to him, and he stepped closer to his wife. “Seems a shame to waste such a fetching outfit on a paint job. A shame to waste a weekend without the children, too.” He nuzzled behind her ear.

Shelagh giggled. “Patrick, behave. We’re painting today and that’s final. Besides, I’m wearing these trousers to paint because I’ll never wear them outside the flat. I have no idea how I let myself be convinced to buy them in the first place. If I get paint all over them, I won’t feel so guilty leaving them in the wardrobe.”

His hands travelled to rest on her hips. “Maybe just a little warm up?” His voice was husky. “Half an hour in our room and I’ll give you the rest of the day in here.” His lips slid along the length of her jaw. “An hour, most.”

But Shelagh was not to be deterred. “I know you, Patrick Turner. An hour will turn into the entire morning, and then the early afternoon, and before I know it this will never get done.” She pushed against his shoulders. “I will let you pick the best roller, though.”

“Wonderful,” the disappointed man groused. “Not exactly what I’d call a fair trade.”

Shelagh moved to the cans of paint on the table and opened the largest one.

“Yellow? For the sitting room? Won’t that be a bit much?” Patrick questioned. His brow furrowed in bewilderment.

“No. Yellow will be perfect, dear. I did ask for your input, you’ll remember. You said whatever I liked was fine with you.” The pale yellow emulsion poured like sunshine into the paint tray.

“That’s because I knew you’d pick whatever color you wanted anyway,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

“What’s that dear?”

Patrick lifted a paint roller and felt its weight in his hand. “Won’t yellow clash with the furniture? It’s a grand color choice, Shelagh, but won’t that be a bit…much?”

“No, I’ve got that settled. We’ve talked about replacing that old suite from your mother’s house for a long time. Now’s our chance. I’ve ordered a new sofa, in navy blue, and two new chairs. Brown leather. I’m sure you’ll love them.”

Holding the tray of paint aloft, Shelagh glided past her husband into the sitting room.

Shaking himself from his surprise, Patrick followed. “Shelagh,” he grumbled. “ I am being managed, aren’t I?”

With a saucy grin, Shelagh loaded her roller with paint and considered the best place to begin.

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

Six hours, three tea breaks and a quick lunch later, Patrick and Shelagh stood back and admired their handiwork.

“I have to hand it to you, sweetheart,” Patrick admitted. “The yellow was an excellent choice. I’m even starting to like it with the grey mouldings.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it to the table.

Shelagh turned to face her husband, shocked.

“If this medical line doesn’t work out, we should consider giving Len Warren a run for his business. Two coats of paint throughout in less than a day? We’d make a fortune! And look at you, not a drop of paint on those trousers.” Patrick grinned mischievously, and pulled her to him. “I quite like them, actually. I’m not so sure I’d like the rest of the world to see my gorgeous wife in all her curves, but here at home…” The expression on his wife’s face finally broke through his cheerfulness. “What is it now?” he asked warily.

“We’re not finished, Patrick,” Shelagh admonished. “That was just the wall paint. We’re painting all the mouldings, as well.” Really, Shelagh thought. How on earth could the man think the colors suited each other?

Patrick’s face went blank with shock. “All the mouldings? Shelagh, you can’t be serious. That will take us days!”

“Yes, Patrick. Why on earth else would I send the children to Nonnatus for the entire weekend?”

Patrick sat down on the ladder’s step, dejected, his cheek resting against his fist. He looked up at his wife and waited for her to figure the puzzle out.

Shelagh stared about the room, clearly only half-finished. What on earth did the man think they were going to—

“Patrick!” she cried, astounded. “You didn’t think I planned this whole thing just to get you into bed?”

“A man can hope, can’t he?” he responded ruefully.

Really, Shelagh thought. The man was ridiculous! As if the mere mention of their bedroom door wasn’t enough to get Patrick in the mood. Why on earth would she need to go to such lengths? She shook her head, exasperated.

But he did look awfully attractive, sitting there against the ladder. The sleeves of his old shirt were rolled up, revealing his forearms. She did have a weakness for Patrick’s forearms. Not to mention how his hair flopped very rakishly over his right eye. Despite his confident assurances, there was a smudge of paint there, just at his temple, begging for her to rub off.

The mouldings did need to be painted, of course. But perhaps it would be best if they waited an hour for the walls to dry? Or more? Shelagh was certain she had heard once that sometimes paint could take as many as three hours to dry.

She stepped over to the ladder, her body just a little bit closer to him than necessary. Her fingers slid through the dark hair above his ear, her thumb stroking his brow.

Patrick’s eyes flashed to hers, instantly recognizing the change in mood.

“Maybe we should wait a bit?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Mh-hmm,” Shelagh answered, as her head lowered to his. “Patrick?” she whispered.

His reply was more of a groan. “You know exactly how to manage me, don’t you?”

Her lips smiled against his. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luck, or the Ryan baby, were on Patrick’s side later that evening, for just as the happy painters were about to crack open the can of white paint, a call came in from Nonnatus. Mrs. Ryan, newly admitted to the Maternity Hospital for showing signs of spending too much time on her feet, was likely to need a doctor’s care, and both Drs. Greenwood and Hammond were out on calls.

“I didn’t plan this, Shelagh,” Patrick laughed as he came into the kitchen to say goodbye.

Shelagh placed her paintbrush in the bucket of white paint on the top of the ladder. She hopped lightly down from the ladder, her ponytail again bouncing behind her as she leant up to his kiss. “Of course you didn’t. But you’re certainly not complaining, are you?”

He shook his head. “Not if you insist on painting.” He tugged gently at her new hairstyle. “I do like this, love. Oh, you’ve got a smudge,” he noted, tapping her cheek.

“Where?” Shelagh stepped to the sink and reached for a rag. Just a bit out of her reach. she shifted her body, pressing her hands against the counter as she reached for it. Unfortunately, in their rush to clean up the paint from the walls a few hours earlier, neither she nor Patrick had noticed a smear of yellow paint was left behind. Shelagh’s hands did.

Patrick laughed and taking the rag, wiped her pink cheek clean. “Painting’s not so bad,” he breathed, and pressed his lips to hers. Passion flickered, then quickly flared up. They moved together, arms pulling each other close as the kiss deepened. Long moments went by, then Patrick pulled away.

“Duty calls,” he murmured.

Shelagh sighed heavily. “I understand,” she answered.

Determined to get on with the painting, she turned away and climbed back up the ladder as Patrick shrugged into his jacket.

“Don’t feel you have to save some for me,” he called as he closed the flat door behind him.

The Maternity Hospital was quite a flurry of activity when Patrick arrived. Sister Evangelina, Nurse Franklin and a nervous Sister Winifred tended to the women as he stopped in the ward to review the cases. Mrs. Ryan, grateful for the time off her feet, had settled down nicely, and the worrisome swelling in her ankles would soon lessen.

Assured that all was as it should be, Patrick stood in the doorway.

“Your medical coat, Dr. Turner?” Sister Winifred, never one to like protocol broken, held out his white jacket.

“Yes, thank you, Sister.” He shrugged out of his jacket and turned to accept his uniform.

A twitter broke out among the women, quickly spreading around the ward. Patrick’s eyes darted around the room, confused.

“Mrs. Turner chose yellow for the sitting room walls, I see,” snapped Sister Evangelina. The room burst into laughter.

More than a little confused, Patrick looked for some explanation. Trixie Franklin caught his eye and pointed to his back. Aghast, Patrick lifted his arms and looked behind. There, just below his hips, in a place he could not possibly explain as an innocent mistake, was the evidence.

“My!” exclaimed a very embarrassed Sister Winifred. “Mrs Turner has very small hands!”

Falling For Angela

Posted on October 16, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Welcome to Call the Midwife trope city. I’ve thrown in a crooked smile, a nuzzle, Angela’s pink cheeks, baby talk (sorry about that) new socks and sassy Tim. Add to that the sights, smells and sounds of Autumn, and a terrible pun in the title. I have no shame.

But as you can see from the pic above, I have a lot to put off. All and any offers for assistance will be accepted.

Autumn came on quickly in Poplar that year, a dry, crisp cold season that turned both the trees and Angela Turner’s cheeks a brighter color. The little girl toddled along the edge of the park, stooping to pick leaves to add to her bouquet, humming a breathy-voiced tune. Her father trailed behind, his coat pockets filled to overflowing with the dozen leaf bouquets that must be brought home to Mummy for tea.

A squirrel chattered from the low branch of a nearby plane tree and Angela laughed. Pointing she called out, “Oh, Dada! Wirrel!”

“Squirrel, Angel Girl.” Patrick came to a stop next to her and touched her hair. “Shall we go back to Mummy now?”

Angela sighed deeply. “Yes,” she lisped. “Dada you take.” She held up her bundle of leaves.

“There’s no more room, sweetheart. Daddy’s pockets are full. See?” He gestured to his coat. “We have plenty of leaves for Mummy already.”

A determined look came on his daughter’s face. “Dada you take.”

Knowing the battle had been lost when the first leaf was picked, Patrick relented and opened his pocket.

“Well, then. Shall we?” He held out his hand to begin the walk home.

“Carry, Dada. Peese?” Her eyes were round and pleading.

“Angela,” Patrick resisted. “You promised Mummy you’d walk both ways if we left the pram at home.”

Somehow, her big, round eyes grew bigger and rounder. “Carry, Dada?”

It was Patrick’s turn to sigh. “Mummy’s right. You do have me wrapped around your finger.” Using his legs, he bent and lifted her into his arms. His back wasn’t what it used to be, and was grateful for the new socks Shelagh had insisted he put on this morning. At least his feet were warm. Angela settled in comfortably, resting her head on his shoulder. He placed a kiss on her cheek and set off. “Trouble is, I like it.”

Angela was a dreamer, but she was a practical child as well. As they paused outside the great door to their flat, she gathered the prettiest of her bounty, leaving the crumbled remnants for her father to clean up. Thus, it was a triumphant Angela and a sheepish Patrick that were greeted in the long hallway.

Shelagh joined them from the kitchen, followed by the warm smell of baking apples. “That was a bit quicker than I expected. How did you get to the park and back already?” Shelagh crouched down to help Angela with her coat.

Angela held out her gift. “I picked weeves for you, Mummy. For you fower vase.”

“Such pretty leaves, Angel! Did you carry them all the way from the park?” Shelagh pulled a bright leaf from her daughter’s hair and smoothed her rumpled cardigan.

Shaking her head, Angela answered, “Dada’s pockets did, and Dada carried me.”

Pointedly ignoring her husband’s apologetic grimace, Shelagh stood and hung the bright pink coat. “Didn’t you promise to walk today, Angela? It’s a long way for Daddy to carry you. You’re getting to be such a big girl.”

“No,” Angela shrugged. “Dada carried. Timmy!” Her little feet thundered down the hall in search of her next playmate.

Shelagh turned to face her husband, a resigned grin on her face. “Patrick, you’ll spoil that child. Leave your coat there, you can brush it clean later. Dinner’s nearly ready.” Her slippered feet padded back down the hall.

He followed his wife into the kitchen. “You used to say you can never spoil a child with too much love,” he reminded her. “I remember a time when you would jump at every peep.” He peeked into the large pot simmering on the cooker and sniffed appreciatively. “Apple cake, too?” Life was very good.

“Put the lid back, please, Patrick, or the stew will dry out! Yes, I said that when she was a baby. She needed to feel safe.” Shelagh reached out. “The yellow vase, on the shelf, please?” She filled the vase from the tap and began to arrange the leaves. “Angela needed to know she was part of our family, that she belonged here. Now she doesn’t know any different.” Shelagh’s face flushed with happiness.

Patrick smiled crookedly in response and pulled his wife to him. He nuzzled his nose against her temple. “Of course she doesn’t. This is our family just as God intended it to be, so stop worrying and let her be.” For good measure, he pressed a light kiss against a just-starting-to-form worry line above Shelagh’s nose.

“We can’t give her everything she asks for simply because we love her, Patrick. We have to teach her to be independent.”

A laugh came from the door. “You don’t have to worry about that,” Tim assured them. Angela was perched upon his shoulders. “I am completely certain that Angela will have no trouble ruling the world when she grows up.”

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Five

Posted on September 24, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

The post-adoption trauma? That was a pretty big fight. We all know that Patrick and Shelagh made up (spoiler!), and have a lovely scene in S3E8 to help us see it. But such an estrangement would take a bit longer than that to repair. Do you suppose Fred’s advice in chapter three was right?

I think he was about three kettles right(four if you have a good imagination).

Screen cap is mine, credit goes to Call the Midwife productions.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

Shelagh’s mending basket sat beside her, overfull with the evidence of a much-hated chore. Ripped seams and torn hems were standard wardrobe calamities in the Turner household, and she quickly grew tired of the sight. And while she was never one to shirk her duties, the sewing was often put off for more pleasant diversions.

Tonight, however, Shelagh found herself with little else to occupy her time. Timothy abed, and Patrick on call again, the quiet of the flat unnerved her, and she turned to the despised task. Yet there was little solace in the activity, for it did not distract her mind. Worries rose up and took over her thoughts, making her resolutions difficult to fulfill.

The click of the front door made Shelagh’s heart begin to pound. Would she be able to stay her course? She had pushed back at Patrick’s coldness this morning, pressing for some sort of connection, but even the hoped-for letter from the adoption agency provoked no emotion from him.

Throughout the day, her brave words to her son the night before seemed so far away. Would her efforts be enough? She could not repair the damage she and Patrick had done to their marriage by herself. If Patrick would not respond to her, she feared they would never get past this. Yet knowing she needed resolution was easier than finding a way to it. She shifted in her seat and nervously pulled the needle through the torn hem she was mending.

Wearily, Patrick came into the sitting room and stood beside the mantle. Beyond a short greeting, he was silent. Shelagh glanced quickly in his direction, then turned her eyes back to her mending, missing how he rubbed his thumb against his finger, a tell-tale sign of his nerves.

“I’ve been to the Noakes’,” he began baldly. “Lady Browne has stomach cancer, I’m sure of it. I palpated at least two tumors, each the size of a lemon.”

Shelagh inhaled sharply. “Oh, the poor woman. She must be in terrible pain.”

“I’m certain she is. Judging from the signs, the pain must have become intense weeks ago. I’m surprised she’s been able to hide it for this long.” His hand absently tapped the mantle.

“Lady Brown is of a particularly…strong-willed character. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know.” she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. She wasn’t sure she was speaking of Chummy’s mother any longer. “The tea’s fresh. It’ll still be hot.”

She watched his straight back disappear beyond the kitchen door. Should she say something, she wondered. This was the first time he had initiated conversation in days, and she found herself uncertain.

As hurt as she had been, she knew that he had reason to be upset as well. Her harsh advance on him after the interview had stunned them both, her angry words an attack. Would Patrick want to just put this episode behind them, without real resolution?

Perhaps it would be simpler if she gave in. For ten years she had kept her vow of obedience, and for the better part of that time, she had gladly followed. Duty and devotion could be enough. Perhaps this was how she was best suited to live.

Her needle stumbled through the hem. She would most likely have to unpick it in the morning. Hems were much trickier than they seemed. It was easy to do one stitch too many or few and leave behind an uneven line. The error might be difficult to see, but if not corrected, would affect the entire hem. She preferred reattaching buttons. Once the damaged stitches were cleaned away, strong neat stitches could make a stronger connection than even the original.

She closed her eyes, remembering. Once, a simple button, sewn with confident stitches, had made her see what she had been denying for so long. Obedience to a calling she no longer felt had led to heartache. Finding the courage to find the right path, she had found joy. Duty and devotion had not solved her problems then, they would not do so now.

The tension in the room shifted as Patrick turned back with his tea. He spoke, but his words did little to calm the coil of nerves inside her. The nightdress, source of such hope for her chance at bearing a child, was not something she could discuss casually, and her stomach churned in confusion when he returned to that subject. Did he really not know her?

Suddenly, there was a shift in his manner as if he was consumed by another force, and he came to her, speaking words of apology. Confused, she struggled to look at him, but his voice, husky and ardent, drew her eyes to his. The breath escaped her lungs as she saw the emotions flood his beloved face and she felt the walls separating them crumble.

He kissed her hand, in that way he had, his dark hazel-green eyes glittering with relief and elation. Her heart full, Shelagh slipped her hand from his and caressed his cheek. She was overwhelmed by the joy she felt, and needing to be closer, she stood before him and pulled him to stand in her arms. They lingered for long, still moments, sure in this homecoming.

Patrick moved first, rubbing his cheek against her glossy hair, his lips travelling the smooth curve of her downy cheek to find her lips turned to him. Slowly his lips met hers, placing light kisses on her pliant mouth. He kissed her on her soft upper lip, gentle and tender, drawing out her shaky sigh. His hands came up the length of her neck as his mouth began to caress her full lower lip, tugging it delicately between his own, his tongue barely brushing against its smooth interior. Her sigh became that sound he loved most of all. Groaning, his hands moved to cradle her head as his mouth opened hungrily over hers, delighting when she parted her lips in response. Her arms wrapped tighter around his waist, her body pressed close.

“Speak to me, sweetheart,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to taste the delicate skin along her jawline. “Tell me what you need.”

Shelagh’s knees buckled from the want of him, and she grasped his shoulders, his arms holding her tight against him. For too long there had been nothing more than duty kisses exchanged between them. The sad, lonely time was finally over and Shelagh was overcome by passion for this man.

“l need you, Patrick.” Her fingers threaded through his hair, bringing his mouth back to hers and a laugh burst from his chest. In moments, they were in their bed, lying face to face, skin to skin.

Their bodies fit together in a well-remembered embrace. Shelagh’s hands grazed across his shoulders and rested above his heart. “I love you so very much, Patrick. Please don’t let us ever fight again.” Her eyes glistened, and a tear spilled down her cheek to settle in the curve of her ear. Patrick hushed her, making impossible promises. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Never again, I swear.” He brushed a finger against the damp tear trail. “We’ll talk. I won’t be so afraid to speak.”

For now, impossible promises were enough. Their lips met in a sweet kiss, gentle and tender, their hearts healing. Slowly, the energy between them changed and Shelagh pressed herself against him, eager and willing to return to their cherished intimacy.

Moments, hours, possibly years later, he moved to separate their sated bodies, but was halted by her cry of protest. “No.” Shelagh tightened her legs around his hips, holding him to her. “Don’t leave me.”

His hands stroked her hair back from her face. “Sweetheart, my arms are completely knackered. I’ll crush you.” He kissed her lightly, then more slowly as he rolled to his back, pulling her with him.

They lay together, limbs entwined, as their breathing returned to normal. Shelagh tucked her head under his chin, and traced her fingers across the smooth skin of his chest. She smiled shyly. The euphoria of being so close, of sharing herself so completely with him was more than she ever dreamed. God had blessed her with this marriage, and she sent up a grateful prayer.

Patrick’s arm tightened about her, and she sighed. “What is it?” She could hear the contentment in his voice.

“I missed you,” Shelagh whispered against his skin. “I had no idea how much I need this.”

“This?” He would want to hear her say it.

“You.” Her voice lowered in her shyness. “I need to feel you above me, inside of me.” Shelagh skimmed the tips of her fingers along his side, just missing the ticklish place. “I was so lonely without you, Patrick. But it has to be more than this, we have to tell each other-”

“I know.” His lungs let out a deep breath. “I was scared, Shelagh. I thought if I told you, I might lose you.”

“Patrick, I would never leave-”

“I know. You’d never leave me.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “But I was afraid it would change things, that you’d see me differently if you knew. I couldn’t bear it if we lost this, Shelagh–this...wonder. I suppose I closed off to protect myself.” He tilted her chin up to see her face. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”

“Yes, you should have,” she told him lightly, lifting her body up on her forearms. Looking him squarely she whispered, “Nothing will make me stop loving you, dearest. Nothing.”

His fingertips stroked her temple, then slid into her hair. “It was never your fault, Shelagh. I threw up a wall to protect myself, but I think I was blocking myself in, not shielding myself. I was cold and distant, and you don’t deserve that. And neither does Timothy.”

“Patrick, you were hurting, and I was happy to pretend there was nothing wrong. I wanted a baby so much I forgot that I already have a family. I love you and Timothy so, but I must have done something to make you think you weren’t enough. God has given me so much. I promise from now on I won’t forget that.”

“And I promise to show you that I trust you. I know you think I can be a bit…patriarchal at times, but I do think of you as my partner, my love. I’d grown so used to being the sole decision maker. I need to adjust a bit.” He smiled crookedly and kissed the top of her head. “I think I might like letting you take the reins. You always seem to know what to do.”

A chuckle rumbled in Shelagh’s chest. She kissed his shoulder and replied, “I’d prefer it if we shared the reins, Patrick.”

“I’d like that, too.” The quiet of the flat cocooned them now. Shelagh breathed in deeply, the scent of home, and their bed, and Patrick filling her senses. His hand caressed the softness of her arm, then entwined itself with her small fingers. “So strong,” he whispered.

“Shelagh, it wasn’t you. I’ve never been able to talk of it. Even then, my family only knew I was convalescing, they knew nothing of the real problem. And then, Marianne and I–we never spoke of the war. The memories were too painful for both of us, I suppose. It was easier to let things slip into the shadows.”

A sharp pain crossed her face, and Shelagh lowered her cheek to his chest. Just as she could not replace Marianne in Timothy’s heart, Shelagh knew she could not expect Patrick to forget her either. Perhaps it had been this fear of being second best that had placed the first brick in the wall that had built up between them. She would have to trust that Patrick’s heart was big enough for the both of them.

“Light always seems to catch the shadows, though, doesn’t it, dearest? I tried that myself, I tried to pretend I wasn’t feeling my love for you grow, that I wasn’t leaving my path. It made everything such a struggle. I finally learned that I had to surrender to it. I think I’m still learning how.”

They lay together quietly, letting the power of their reunion heal the wounds of the last weeks. In the dim light their hands held and caressed, finding points of connection at every touch. Shelagh listened to the stillness, the steady beat of his heart under her ear, and knew they had found the right road, again.

Her mistake was in thinking that once having accepted love, her course was set. But love and marriage were not the same thing. Love was a gift from God, a blessing one had to be brave enough to accept. Marriage was understanding and compromise and trust. She was discovering that marriage was hard. It needed care and attention to thrive.

Love was a gift from God, one which required a brave heart to accept it fully. Finding that courage was only the beginning of the road. Marriage was about the joy and pain of working in union to stay on the path together.

She felt the breath fill his lungs as Patrick began, “I want to speak of it now, Shelagh.”

So, finally, this is done. I started this fic a very long time ago, and even after picking it back up, I hit my own wall of discouragement. Special thanks to Rockbird86 for keeping me on track.

I found myself dipping into some of my old fics as I wrote this. I like to be consistent with my characterizations of Shelagh and Patrick, and a few fics in particular helped me work through their emotional journey, particularly in respect to Patrick’s first marriage.

Also, big thanks for all the kind words that have come my way. I really do appreciate your support. Comments light up my day!

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Four

Posted on September 24, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Shelagh’s talk with dear old Fred may have helped her understand more about the complexities of her marriage, but righting the ship will take a bit of time. She’s starting to understand her own emotions, but there are two in a marriage.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

Any other time, the choir’s efforts to tackle such a difficult arrangement would have thrilled Shelagh. In such a short time the women had tackled the difficult task of reaching the high notes of Ave Verum Corpus whilst following her directions for sotto voce. The Bass section was coming along nicely, but the Tenors were still one short, and she could hear a weakness in that void.

The last notes bounced around the community center and Shelagh dropped her hands.

“Very well done, thank you. We’re well on our way to being ready for the competition. I think that will be all tonight, ladies and gentlemen. If you could all be here next week, seven o’clock, we’ll work on our timing.” She turned to Timothy. “Thank you, Timothy, dear. That was quite excellent this evening.”

The boy smiled back, but she could see the worry in his eyes. She glanced away. It wouldn’t do for Timothy to read too much into the situation. Patrick had clearly forgotten about their regular choir practice when he interrupted with Reverend Hereward Men’s Group earlier, despite having been one of the earliest members to join.

But that had been weeks ago, when Shelagh needed him to help rebuild the choir. Patrick’s chair was left empty soon afterward, a victim to his busy schedule. The choir was no longer a priority for him, and she understood.

With a deep breath, Shelagh faced the choir. “As usual, we’ll need to stack the chairs, neatly, if you please, and I’m afraid last time someone left several tea cups in the kitchen sink. I don’t think Timothy will thank you if he has to stay behind to wash up.”

A laugh came up from the group and Shelagh began to gather her score. Mrs. Sills, a rather enthusiastic alto and notorious gossip, joined her at the stage.

“Bit of a surprise to see Doctor Turner show up tonight, Mrs. Turner. I’d’ve thought him, of all people, would know the choir practices here once a week, what with his wife and son here.” Her sly voice did not trick Shelagh.

“Doctor Turner is a very busy man, Mrs. Sills, with many demands on his time. You can understand, of course, that a thing like this might slip his mind.” She kept her eyes on the sheet music she was sorting. Mrs. Sills was not going to get a rise out of her.

“Funny, I reckon you looked surprised when he waltzed in. Sounded a bit put out, too, if I may say.”

Shelagh placed the sheaf of papers on the stage and took a deep breath. Years of handling the mercurial nature of Sister Monica Joan had taught her to keep cool and collected. “Is there anything else, Mrs. Sills? I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

The busybody frowned, unsatisfied. Over her shoulder, she took a parting shot. “It’s so generous of Dr. Turner to give so much of his time to the community. It’s just too bad he doesn’t have time for the choir anymore.”

On the walk home, Shelagh’s attempts at conversation were answered by curt responses, and soon she stopped speaking entirely. Timothy would need help understanding the change in their home, but she would have to wait and follow his lead. She knew he was confused–hurt, even, and she struggled to find a way of comforting him.

The atmosphere at home had not improved, despite her efforts at reconciliation. Patrick was just as distant as ever since the terrible interview, unwilling to bridge the growing chasm between them. Unavoidably, her own anger transmuted into a cold doubt.

Even in their marriage bed he would not lower his walls. For the first time since her surgery, there was no physical intimacy between them at all. She remembered how during the long painful nights after her diagnosis, Patrick had wrapped her in his arms, keeping her close in their own little world. Her heart ached to think of the cold inches that separated them these last nights.

After long moments of unsettled silence, Timothy spoke. “He should have remembered.” His voice was hard and uncompromising.

Shelagh sighed. He was such an intuitive boy, she had known he would recognize tonight’s lapse. Timothy was very protective of her, a thought that made her smile bittersweet. The loss of his mother was always under the surface, and informed so many of his actions. She understood that, and knew it was likely the first link in the chain that bonded them together, but she mustn’t give in to it.

She wouldn’t, she couldn’t replace Marianne. The most she could do was to find her own place as his new mother, but that should not be done at the expense of his relationship with his father. Her own sense of emptiness should not be filled by her step-son. It would be selfish to allow it, and Timothy would suffer for the breach that had formed between his parents.

“Timothy, your father is a very busy man, you know that.” Even to her own ears, the excuse felt feeble.

Tim’s eyes stayed straight ahead. “He’s never too busy for his patients. I thought that…I thought when you got married he’d stay home more, that we’d be a family. Lately, he’s never home, and when he is, he’s practically invisible.” His young body was stiff in its hurt confusion.

Placing her arm on his sleeve, Shelagh paused in their walk. “Timothy, you know your father loves you.”

“I know he says he does,” Timothy countered angrily, “but what good is that if he’s so cold and distant all the time? You spent all that time making a pudding he likes, and he barely tasted it. He doesn’t talk to us, he doesn’t want to be around us at all anymore.”

Days of pretending and smoothing over difficult moments had begun to fatigue her. It was like oil of clove on a sore tooth. It might dull the pain for a bit, but the only way to conquer the pain was to get at its source. Hadn’t she learnt that already?

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh reached out. “Timothy, remember during the summer holidays, when you were so irritated with me?”

His eyes glanced away guiltily. “It wasn’t you. I was frustrated I had those stupid calipers.”

Shelagh smiled. “No, you were frustrated with me. It’s alright, dear, I understand. I was smothering you a bit, I’m afraid.”

“Well, maybe you were, a little,” Timothy’s slightly crooked smile pierced her heart. “But I was a bit of a beast to you. You were only trying to help.”

It would be easy to agree with him. She had been trying to help, after all, and Timothy had been unpleasant. She stopped in her tracks. No, Shelagh thought. It was time to stop playing the part of the helpless victim.

“Yes, I was. But I was trying too hard. I was holding you too tightly. It was perfectly appropriate for you to push back at me. You may still be a child, but you have the right to be considered as a full partner in your own life.

“Your father and I…we’ve hit a rough patch, just like you and I did last summer. And just like that time, it isn’t all one person’s fault. Your Dad and I need to learn…” She paused. Timothy was a child. The work of a marriage was beyond his understanding. It would be better to reassure him, to help him understand that he was loved, and would be cared for.

Linking her arm in his, she turned home. “If I’ve learned anything this last year, it’s that you must earn the life you want. You can’t expect to sit back and let it come to you.”

Patrick’s own words of comfort last summer came back to her. The road ahead wasn’t clear, but they were on it together. Her resolve strengthened. She and Patrick wouldn’t find their way back to each other with puddings or favors. They would have to work together.

“We’ll get through this, dearest. We’ll find a way.”

Chapter 5

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Three

Posted on September 20, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

Posted on September 18, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

Posted on September 17, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

Posted on September 16, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

Posted on August 31, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

Posted on August 3, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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.”

	My Little Yellowbird on Courting Shelagh, Chapter…
	My Little Yellowbird on Everything She Asks For
	My Little Yellowbird on A Growing Family
	My Little Yellowbird on The Talk
	My Little Yellowbird on A Moment’s Peace

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