Blush

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10

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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Change Takes Time

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18

Okay, so this one is definitely a solid three kettles.

The new Maternity Home stood at the far end of Kenilworth Row, nearly half a mile from its previous home. The years had not been kind to the old building, and in the burst of energy that came after the Christmas bomb scare, the Borough Council decided it was time for a change.

As chief medical officer of the hospital, Dr. Patrick Turner was expected to find new sites for both the hospital and the local clinics. It seemed the Council has little regard for an already over-full patient list, limited resources and the needs of a recuperating son. Fortunately, Dr. Turner was not in this alone.

It was Shelagh that found the location for the hospital. Her years cycling the roads of Poplar had given her a thorough knowledge of the area, and her sharp mind forgot nothing. Soon after the request was made, an offer was made on an old grammar school up the road and the hospital claimed its new home.

Now married several weeks, with Timothy back at school and Patrick busy as usual, Shelagh devoted much of her days to overseeing the renovations necessary. Choosing paint colors most suited to relaxing nervous patients or expectant mothers, organizing files and furniture, she was in her glory. Her husband teased that she was nesting like a spring robin, and perhaps she was.

The hospital was due to open in just a few days, and with all the large tasks completed, only the finishing touches remained.

Intent upon sorting the last bottles on the shelf in Patrick’s office, she didn’t hear her husband arrive. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking the opportunity to admire his lovely wife. She was wearing  his favourite skirt, a soft jumper hugging her curves, and her hair dressed casually. He feared this outfit wouldn’t last long in her rotation. Just this morning she seemed nervous about it. Pushing off against the door jamb, he made a quiet entrance and moved silently behind her.

Shelagh started when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body up against him.

“Oh, goodness, Patrick!” she exclaimed.

“Goodness, indeed,” he agreed. He nuzzled her neck. “I like your hair down like this.”

His voice was husky, and Shelagh tried to steel herself against its effects. “Fred will be along shortly with Timothy, Patrick. You’ll have to behave.”

Laughing softly, he stepped away, giving her room to turn and face him. “Why is Tim with Fred?”

“There are some boxes from home that needed to be picked up, so he stayed at home to let Fred in. Besides, I didn’t want Timothy to walk all that way. He’d be too tired out.”

Rather than argue the point, Patrick moved back closer to her. “So we’re all alone, then?”

“No, Dad.” Timothy’s voice came from the doorway. “Sorry, Fred. I should have warned you. They’re always like this.”

Bearing a large box, Fred beamed at the newlyweds. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, young Tim. So where’d ya want this ‘un, Mrs. Turner?”

The blush receding from her cheeks, Shelagh pointed to the desk in the center of the room. “Right here, Fred, thank you. The other boxes can remain in the waiting area. Did you bring the plant as well?”

“We left it on the chair. Mum, Fred has to run some deliveries for Nonnatus, may I go with him? I promise I won’t lift anything heavy or climb any stairs.” Tim was well versed in his stepmother’s protective streak, and for the time being, did not mind.

Shelagh glanced quickly at Patrick, looking for his reaction. “I suppose if it’s alright with Fred…” Somehow her statement sounded more like a question.

“Absolutely, Mrs. T. I could use the compn’y. ‘Sides, me and Timothy here have a bit o’ catching up to do. Loads to tell.”

“I’ll pretend that’s a good thing. Thanks for your help, Fred,” Patrick responded. “Dinner out tonight, remember, Tim. I won’t ask Mum to cook for us after all the work she’s put in for my surgery.”

“Right then, we’re off. I’ll have him back before tea.  Give a shout if there’s anyfink else,” Fred told them as he led the way out.

After a moment, Patrick turned to Shelagh. “You don’t have to look to me for permission, my love. Your Timothy’s mum now, you can make decisions on your own.” His smile was encouraging.

She nodded and sighed. “I know, there’s just so much to get used to. But thank you.”

Patrick shrugged in agreement. “Well, then. What’s in the box?”

“I have no idea, Patrick. I found it in the back of the hall cupboard and thought perhaps you’d need it. It’s labelled “Surgery.”

“You didn’t open it? Why not?”

Shelagh fidgeted with the last bottles to be shelved. “I didn’t want to, Patrick. It was obviously put there a long time ago. I thought you might want to open it on your own.”

Patrick peered at his wife, confusion drawing his eyebrows down. “Shelagh, it’s your home too, I have no secrets from you.” He pulled her to face him. “I understand, sweetheart. You’re afraid there’s something about Marianne in there.”

“Not afraid, exactly, Patrick. But who knows what’s in that box? Or how it will make you feel? Perhaps it would be best if you went through it whilst I organize the files outside.”

His arms tightened about her, pulling her closer. “No. We’ll do this together.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. With his hand caressing her cheek, he continued, “I haven’t forgotten Marianne, Shelagh, but the wound has healed. It’s a bit more scar tissue, perhaps, but I can think of her without pain now. Timothy can, too. What do the nuns always say about love? That it will fill in where it’s needed?”

She chuckled. “You always know the right thing to say, Patrick.”

“You won’t say that when we’ve had our first fight and I won’t speak for days. I’m quite the sulker, I’m afraid.”

“Fight?” she cried, outraged. “Why on earth would we fight?”

A deep laugh broke out from his lungs. “We’re married, Shelagh. We’ll find something, I’m sure. Now, are we ready to open the box? I can’t remember for the life of me what could be in here. When I moved into the old surgery there wasn’t much room for personal items, so I just boxed stuff up and forgot about it. Tim had just been born, there was quite a lot going on. I suppose life got in the way because I never gave it a thought again.”

“Really, Patrick. Life doesn’t get in the way of our possessions, it’s the other way ‘round,” Shelagh admonished. The tenderness of the last few minutes had faded, and shades of Sister Bernadette appeared.

Patrick scoffed, his finger lightly tapping the brooch she wore. “Hah. My love, if I want to give my wife little gifts, I’m going to give her gifts. It makes me happy to find pretty things for you.” He kissed her quickly, then added, “And before we find the topic of our first fight, let’s solve this mystery.”

The box was soft with the effects of time, and after a firm tug, the top pulled away. Patrick lifted a sheet of tissue paper and revealed a collection of frames and knick knacks. Reaching in, he pulled out a dusty clock.

“I loved this clock! It was from my first registrar, Morton Baird. He gave it to me when I qualified, to remind me to take time with all my patients.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to help your tardiness?” Shelagh teased.

Placing the clock on the desk, Patrick said, “This stuff is filthy. I’ll get a cloth to clean off the dust.”

Shelagh began to pull the frames from the box, examining each in turn. The largest, a painting of Patrick’s medical college, she recognized from the label. That would go nicely on the wall.  A few other frames held photographs from school and his first surgery, but several photographs were unframed. She looked through the small collection, a small, happy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. At the end of the pile was a image of a university cricket team.

Patrick and Timothy enjoyed the sport, she knew, but she had no idea Patrick had played. She scanned the photograph searching for him, her eyes coming to rest on a tall, slim young man on the end. She breathed in sharply as she took in the sight.

He looked very handsome in his whites, confident and ready to conquer the world. There were none of the lines of care on his face, its very smoothness making him seem a different person. Yet she recognized the boyish grin and felt a stirring when her eyes traced the broad shoulders.

She was so wrapped up in her perusal of the picture that she didn’t hear Patrick return to the office, damp cloth in hand. He paused in the doorway, surprised by the stillness of her back. He moved quietly towards her, curious to see what had her attention.

Still unaware of him, her breathing quickened. Patrick’s eyes glittered as he felt his body respond to her.

“Oh!” she cried, startled. Guiltily, words rushed from her. “Oh, you startled me, Patrick. I’ve-I’ve  found some old photographs, perhaps you’ll want them up on the mantlepiece…” her voice trailed off as her blush deepened.

Without speaking, Patrick took the photograph from her nerveless fingers, and turned her around to face him. He removed her glasses, placing them on the desk to her side. His hands slid up her arms, giving her a chance to either control her feelings or give in to them.

Shelagh’s eyes fluttered shut and he bent his head, his lips lightly tracing her jawline. In the few weeks they had been married, he had learnt that his wife was just as shy as he had anticipated, but that if he were patient and gave time for her own passion to bloom, she would meet him desire for desire.

Her breath escaped in tiny shudders, warm and moist against his ear, and he held himself back from taking her lips. His mouth slid down the length of her throat, and he stopped a groan as he tasted her skin with the tip of his tongue.

Shelagh clenched and unclenched her fists, her body tense with emotion. Rational thought had since abandoned her. Their surroundings faded from her mind as her sole focus became the soft spot at the bottom of her throat where his mouth was. More. There had to be more.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him. Her acceptance of him complete, Patrick took her mouth with his own, not rough, but not gentle. They kissed passionately, their breath blending. Shelagh parted her lips, welcoming the intimacy of his tongue as she returned his kiss.

This time, the groan escaped as Patrick slid his hands down along her back, coming to rest on the upper curve of her derriere. “This skirt,” he whispered. He pressed her to him, wanting her to know her effect on him, then moved his hands under the softness of her jumper. Her skin was like silk, and he was desperate to feel more.

But they had reached a point of no return, he knew. Whilst still shy about their “activities,” as she called lovemaking (he laughed each time she whispered the term), once engaged, Shelagh was all in. He could let his fingers continue their path and she would willingly give herself to him.

She moved her arms to his shoulders, and her fingers slipped into the hair behind his ears. He groaned again, as she knew he would. It seemed Patrick was not the only one who had learnt secrets.

“Shelagh,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure if he was asking or telling her something.

Huskily she responded, “I love you, Patrick.”

And it was decided. Patrick pulled his head back away from her lovely mouth and pressed his nose to hers. If they were to go any further, it would have to be with her complete consent. He couldn’t seduce her now and worry about her feelings afterward.

“My love, if we go one inch further, we won’t be able to stop. I’ll have you right here.” He breathed deeply. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Shelagh tried to catch her breath, tried to understand his words. Her body hummed with desire.

“It’s alright if we stop, Shelagh. It’s alright.” Patrick’s own breath was shaky.

The look in her eyes changed, and Patrick smiled softly. He pressed a gentle kiss to her parted lips and moved a step away from her.

“Maybe not on my desk just yet,” he teased.

Disappointment crossed her flushed face. “I am sorry, Patrick. I truly am. I do want to…” She looked around the room nervously. “Oh, Patrick. Here? I can’t believe-”

“Shelagh,” Patrick interrupted. “We didn’t do anything wrong. It’s never wrong between two people that love each other as we do.” He tipped her chin up so she could meet his eyes. “Maybe someday, Shelagh. Maybe not. But no matter what, as long as we’re honest with each other, we’ll be fine. Little steps.”

He reached around her and returned her glasses. “Now maybe we’d better start on those files.”

Having regained her equilibrium, Shelagh smiled widely up into his eyes. “I suppose we should.” At the door, she turned back. “Patrick, I should thank you. I got a bit lost there for a bit, and I’m not sure I would have been comfortable with another outcome.” Her forehead scrunched in confusion. “I don’t mean I wouldn’t have enjoyed…that activity…I’m just not certain I’m ready to…”

“I know, sweetheart. I understand. You don’t have to say.”

“I sometimes think you know me better than I know myself. I’m very lucky to have you.” A glimmer came back in her eyes as she turned to leave. “Maybe tonight I can show you how lucky.”

As the door closed behind her, Patrick took his seat behind the desk. It would be a long time before he stood up comfortably again.

 

Author’s Note

Okay. I know this is not how (some of) you wanted me to end this story. Believe me, it’s not how I originally wanted it to end. But this is the story I needed to tell.

In Series 3, we saw a Shelagh who was struggling with finding her path. After making the initial leap into her new life (oh! she was so brave to make that call, to go out on that misty road!), it took some time for her to find her balance, and she even slipped backwards a bit. I know I’m in the minority when I say this, but her confusion worked for me. Don’t bother trying to argue with me. I will not budge. 😉

I know what you want to happen here, I just don’t think it would, given where Shelagh is at this time. That’s not to say, AT ALL, that I think it would never happen. Maybe someday I’ll fic that.

God Loves a Trier: Nonnatun Hiatus Challenge: Countdown to Six Months

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As we count down to the six-month mark until the CtM Christmas Special, we’ve come up with a new challenge: create something featuring a character you don’t like, or simply don’t know very well.

I’ve chosen to focus on Peter Noakes for this one, and I’m glad I did. Peter is an interesting character. He’s not perfect (perhaps a little officious when on duty), but he loves his wife. They make an excellent team. I think I may write another one, actually.

I have to give a little shout-out to EleanorKate over at fanfiction.net for giving me a little push to think outside my box.

Peter left the police station, tired and dissatisfied. Yet again, his day had thrown him in the path of the very person he hoped to avoid. It was just like the contrary Sister Monica Joan to create a diversion that would require his presence at Nonnatus House.

He struggled to keep his mind from straying into dangerous topics, and set his mind to a sure cure. Winding through the narrow streets of Wapping, he decided it would be best to . A quick knock on the door to his parents house, and he let himself in.

Arthur and Millicent Noakes, each cozy in their favorite chair, looked up in surprise. Before Peter had started seeing his lady friend, it was not unusual for their son to spend an evening or two a week with his parents. In the last weeks, however, those visits had all but ended.

“Fancy a pint then, Dad?”

The noise of the pub prevented all but the most superficial of chat. Peter was grateful for the crowd of dart players in the corner. Deciding to tell his father his news was easier than actually doing so.

They watched as the throwers cheered on one of their own as he threw dart after dart. Every one missed the mark widely, but the determined man took on more bets as he continued the attempt. Fifteen darts and two rounds of drinks in, and the man was still hadn’t hit the board once.

“God loves a trier,” chuckled the elder Noakes.

Peter didn’t respond. Finally, the elder Noakes began. “You haven’t mentioned Camilla, son. Your mother thought perhaps you could bring her over again for tea.” He winked. “We’ll leave the dog outside this time.”

Peter raised his glass and drained it. “How ‘bout another one?” he asked.

“If you’re buying…” the older man held up his own glass and gestured to the barman.

Peter turned away, his eyes on the drunken dart players. “She’s chucked me over,” he said baldly.

“Ah, no.” Arthur shook his head. “I’m sorry, Peter. I thought…we thought that maybe this one was special.”

Peter’s face tightened, his jaw working tensely. Finally, he said, “She was–she is special. I know she cares for me, but she can only see herself… Her mother’s in town.”

“All the way from India?” Comprehension passed over the old man’s face.

“Majorca, actually. They’ve left India for a few years now.”

“Very posh, is she then?”

Peter nodded. “A right Empress of the Empire, Dad. She swans in once a year, stalks through Norman Hartnell’s and turns Camilla’s life upside down.”

“Who’s Norman Hartnell?” The barman placed two more pints before them.

Shaking his head, Peter answered, “Don’t ask. Apparently, Lady Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne does not approve on Camilla’s life choices, and when the command comes from on high, Chummy falls right in line.” His voice was hard. He never called her by that family nickname, but just now it seemed entirely appropriate.

“As I understand it, Lady Browne has never approved of anything her daughter’s done, and of course she gives in every time. I thought this time it’d be different. Ca–she loves being a midwife, I’m certain of it. And she’s grown to feel so comfortable in the East End. I can’t understand how she’s so willing to just throw it all over just to please that domineering old-” he stopped himself.

He drained his second glass and turned away. “So, long story short, I will not be bringing any girls home for tea in the foreseeable future. I’d appreciate it if you told Mum.”

Arthur nodded. “None will speak of it, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Peter swirled the dregs of his lager in the bottom of his glass. “I thought she was the one, you know? We’re right together. I love her, I’d go to the ends of the earth for that woman, Dad. But if she can’t see her own way through, how could I expect us to work out?”

Two nights later, Peter worked a quiet night at the station desk, the bitter words repeating in his mind. There were so many differences in their pasts, he wondered how it had been even possible for anything to start between them. Yet somehow, love had bloomed.

Not love, Peter scoffed. It couldn’t have been love if she could walked away from him so easily. Lady Browne had provided her with a convenient excuse to reject him. Self-loathing and fear had withered her pride. The woman he had loved didn’t exist anymore, if she truly ever had.

The station door banged open, bring his eyes up. Before him stood the focus of his thoughts, flustered and frazzled, but glowing. He had fallen for that glowing face before.

He braced himself against the wave of pain that came every time he saw her, and was glad of the counter between them.

She began to speak, but he could not, or would not, hear. He knew what she was about to say. Her posture, her low voice, even her words of exaggerated flaws and self-blame, told him she  would be leaving Poplar.

Unwillingly, his eyes met hers and in that moment he knew. Camilla Browne stood tall and sure, ready to take on the world.

She would see her way through.

Camilla was a trier, God love her.

The Christmas Shoe Fairy

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The last clinic before Christmas was finally over, the chaos of anxious mothers and over-excited children replaced with the quiet of a tired staff refreshing themselves with one last cup of tea before they ventured back out into the cold.

“I do love a bit of snow for Christmas,” Trixie Franklin announced as she stared out the window. Then she giggled and added, “Though I must admit I’m quite ready for winter to be over by New Year’s!”

Turning away from the window she asked, “I do hope you’ve bought a snowsuit for Angela, Shelagh. I saw one in the window at Reed’s the other day, and she’d look quite adorable in it, all puffy and pink, with that white rabbit’s fur framing her face!”

Barbara Gilbert gushed. “Oh, yes, I saw that just yesterday. She would look lovely in it, Mrs. Turner.”

“Angela Turner does not exist merely for the two of you to dress her up like one of those horrid “Bar-bee” dolls,” groused Sister Evangelina. “Mrs. Turner has the good sense to dress her daughter without all that ridiculous frippery, I’m pleased to say.”

“Hmm-mm…” came the distracted reply. Shelagh Turner stood near the hatch, watching as her husband and daughter returned toys to the toy corner. Angela scooted about, her hands slapping the floor as she crawled from toy to toy, neither the little giraffe in her mouth nor the yellow smocked dress impeding her progress.

Instead of bringing a smile to her mother’s face, however, the sight brought out two lines of worry on Shelagh’s forehead. Trixie moved closer and asked,

“Shelagh, is everything alright?”

Shelagh quickly shook herself from her reverie. Pressing her lips together, she took a deep breath and responded. “All is well, Trixie, thank you.”

Trixie remained unconvinced. “I suppose I’ll have to pretend I believe you, even though I don’t. Is it the concert? I’m sure you’ll sing beautifully, we’re all looking forward to it.”

“Thank you,” Shelagh smiled. “I suppose the concert does have me a bit nervous. I really much prefer performing as part of the choir. I haven’t had a solo since I was back in Aberdeen, and the director wants me to stand right out in front.”

Patrick entered the kitchen, Angela squirming in his arms. “Her hands are filthy, I’m afraid.” He moved to the sink and ran the water.

Reaching for a cloth, Shelagh began to soap up her uncooperative daughter’s hands. “Sorry, Angel Girl, but if you’re going to crawl about on this messy lino we’re going to have to scrub your hands.”

“Shelagh, don’t fret so. Angela will walk when she’s ready,” Patrick soothed. He picked up the toy giraffe and handed it back to his daughter.

“I know, Patrick. I can’t help worrying.”

“Of course you can’t,” Trixie teased. “It’s a mother’s prerogative to worry, Dr. Turner. You’ll walk when you’re good and ready, won’t you, Angela?” Turning back to Shelagh, she noted, “I’d be careful of encouraging her, Shelagh. Something tells me this one will go straight from crawling to running!”

 

Two nights later, the Turners paced the vestibule of the church as they waited for the others to arrive.

“This is why I’m never early,” Patrick complained as he glanced at his watch again.

“Hah! You’re never early because you’re always late,” Timothy returned. Placing his sister down, he coached, “Come on, Ange, let’s get some walking practice in. If we don’t tire you out you’ll spend the whole of the concert trying to wiggle away and find Mum.”

Her arms raised over her head, hands gripping her brother’s tightly, Angela waddled about the dark panelled space. Her dress, a close match to her mother’s own blue velvet,  swayed around her knees, its broad white bow bouncing jauntily.

“See, Mum, she’s getting it. We just have to be patient.” Standing quite still, he waited for his sister to get her balance and slowly released her hands. Angela stayed straight for long moments, then dropped to her knees. With a squeal, she quickly crawled across the space to her mother.

“Oh, well. At least she always goes to you.” He scooped his sister up and returned to their starting point.

Patrick grinned and took his wife’s hands. His eyes swept over her. “I can see why. You look extraordinary tonight, my love. I’ve always loved this dress. For some reason, I’ve always loved you in blue.”

“Patrick,” Shelagh blushed.

“Shelagh,” Patrick teased. His eyes caressed her face and he continued in a whisper, “I can see you, walking towards me down that aisle, the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. All I could think was how lucky I was that you chose me.”

For a moment, they were both lost in a world of their own, oblivious to the sounds growing around them.

“Dr. Turner!” Sister Evangelina’s voice broke through. “It’s all fine and lovely, strolling down memory lane, but the concert’s about to begin. You should probably release your wife and let her get about her business.”

“Wait!” Trixie came through the doors. “Poor Angela can’t attend her first concert in those shoes.” Holding out a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes, she asserted, “When a lady gets dressed, every detail matters.”

“Oh, Trixie, they’re lovely!” Shelagh smiled. “You needn’t have done this.”

“Every girl needs her shoe fairy, and if not me, then who? Besides,” Trixie giggled, “it was ever so adorable shopping for them! Now, you go join the choir and we’ll get the little princess sorted.”

As expected, Trixie was completely right. Angela’s shoes made her outfit. Even Timothy agreed.

“I have to say I’m quite satisfied with my own boring black uppers, Dad, but Angela’s shoes are adorable.”

“Yes,” Patrick grimaced. “I’d agree if she’d stop kicking me!”

As the concert began, Angela settled on her father’s lap, tapping her shiny new shoes together and playing with the bright gold buckle. Soon, however, the late hour and soothing music put the little girl to sleep.

From her place in the choir, Shelagh watched her family. Tonight, all worries disappeared in the joy of the holiday. Timothy had quickly found his feet at the grammar school, the medical practice was settling into an easier pattern, and Angela was a bright and happy child. There was plenty of time for her to walk yet. Shelagh smiled as she remembered things happened as they were meant to.

She stood for her solo, and caught Patrick’s eye as he winked his support, a broad smile on his face. Her voice was clear and sweet as she began to sing, her favorite Christmas hymn filling the church.

Awake with the suddenness only a child knows, Angela’s head popped up in search of her mother. She wriggled in her father’s arms, and eager to keep his daughter quiet for the rest of the song, Patrick placed her at the end of the pew next to him.

Angela sat for a moment, then caught sight of her new shoes. Inspired, she laughed just as her mother hit the high note. In an instant, Angela Turner slid off the pew, and holding on to the dark wooden side, stepped into the aisle.

Too late, Patrick realized what was happening. He reached for his daughter without luck. Angela Turner would go to her mother.

As the choir sang the chorus, Shelagh’s eyes caught the bit of commotion in the aisle and her voice wavered. Realizing exactly what was happening, she crouched down and held her arms out.

One wobbly step, then two, then four, and then Angela ran the rest of the way to her mother.

Some claimed it was the spirit of the music, some declared it was simply time for the developmental step, and some said it was a testimony to the love between a mother and child.

But later, as the crowds gathered to celebrate, two ladies in shiny black shoes found their way back to each other and shared a moment of understanding. It was all of those things, of course.

But every girl needs her shoe fairy.

 

This was part of Rockbird’s “Hiatus Production Pic Production”  fic extravaganza.  While Rocky was away enjoying the wilds of Cornwall, I filled in for a few haitus pics.

This picture appeared on the CtM Facebook page on Tuesday, May 26th, and features the church used in several episodes (you may remember a certain wedding? or be trying to forget a certain funeral?). Then SuperflousBananas and Atearsarahjane ratcheted up the prompt.

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Gorgeous

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I’m cheating a bit with this “Hiatus Production Pic Challenge, May 25th.” I’ve left yesterday’s Emerald Fennell/Patsy mannequin pic for Rocky, as she might be brewing something with that (or not–no pressure, Rock). So this prompt isn’t exactly a pic, but the pic of the tweet made me so happy, I don’t care.

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Shelagh Turner bustled into the sitting room, nervous despite her smile. “Now when she comes in, don’t start with her about the length of the skirt. It’s not too short, not even a bit.”

“Hmm…” Patrick responded, doubtful.

“Patrick, please. She’s nervous enough as it is. If she thinks you don’t approve, she’ll not have any fun tonight.”

He frowned and crossed his arms. “I don’t approve. She’s too young to start dating, I’ve said that before.”

“She’s seventeen, dearest,” his wife reminded him. “I’d say it’s been put off for about as long as possible.”

“You didn’t date when you were seventeen,” Patrick muttered. He really wanted a cigarette right now. Funny, fifteen years since his last, and he still felt the craving.

“I wasn’t your typical teeneager, so that hardly applies.” Shelagh stepped closer and pressed her cheek to his arm, her arms wrapped around his waist. “Besides, I was waiting for the right man to ask me.”

A small laugh escaped his lips as a crooked smile replaced the frown. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for her to go into the Order until I’m ready for her to start dating?” Shelagh looked up and he met her lips in a gentle kiss.

“Mum, when you said you’d soften him up, I didn’t think you meant this!” Angela Turner stood at the entrance to the sitting room, her outraged expression a direct contrast to her lovely appearance.

“Well, that was foolish, dear. I should think by now you’d be fully aware of my strategies,” her mother teased.

Patrick stood in stunned silence, voices drifting past his ears. Before him stood a vision in pale blue, the light layers of chiffon swirling around her knees. Tall and slim, Angela Turner had blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

Images flashed before Patrick’s eyes:  a newborn, pink and curled into a bundle barely bigger than his hands, a toddler with flaxen hair and brown eyes so big she could charm the world. Angela had been a precocious child, a born leader with a sharp mind and a kind heart. Patrick watched as she gracefully turned before him.

His wife’s small hand squeezed his, bringing him back to the present. “Patrick?” she asked. “What do you think? Isn’t she beautiful?” Shelagh whispered. He could hear the tears of happiness and sadness in her voice.

He took a moment to gather himself, and then smiled.

“Gorgeous.”

Angela Cracks Up

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After yesterday’s trial run, Rockbird86 gave me permission to continue as her locum until she returns from the wilds of a family holiday.

So here’s a response to today’s “Hiatus Production Pic Challenge.” May 22. 2015

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A little backstory: Maundy Thursday, or Holy Thursday, celebrates the last Supper of Christ. In the UK, the Queen celebrates by selecting a group of senior citizens to reward them for their Christian service to the community. (Thank you Google!) There’s more to it than that, but that’s the bones of it.

“Do you think she understands what’s to happen tomorrow?” Patrick Turner asked as he leant against the kitchen door jam. The table was strewn with newspaper, an assortment of bowls filled with bright dye and several dozen colored eggs.

Shelagh removed a bright purple egg from its bath and placed it on a makeshift egg-drying rack. “It’s hard to tell with Sister Monica Joan. You know how she is, Patrick. It’s quite possible she’s being willful again. It’s not exactly the sort of thing she approves of, you know.”

“I don’t see why,” Timothy replied. “Sister Monica Joan may be irascible, but everyone knows how she’s contributed to Poplar.”

Patrick laughed. “Irascible? Someone’s been at the vocabulary books!”

Tim deliberately ignored his father. “Why wouldn’t she be thrilled? The Queen only gets to honor nine men and nine women this year for Maundy Thursday, I know I’d be!”

Shelagh stood and began to clear the bowls of vinegar and dye from the table. “Part of becoming part of an Order is to surrender one’s self-pride; it’s part of the vow of obedience. Sister Monica Joan may feel that to accept the award she is setting herself apart, or indeed, above the rest of the Sisters. Of course, she could be contrary because she doesn’t like Prince Philip.” She glanced up at her husband. “Don’t ask.”

Patrick chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it. The vagaries,” he glanced smugly at his son, “of the venerated Sister are well beyond my ken!”

Shelagh hid a smile. “Really, Patrick. Sister Julienne has had such a time convincing her to accept. Finances at Nonnatus could always use a bit of help, and the added attention to the work we do in Poplar will hopefully encourage donations.”

“Nonnatus steps into the public relations game, then?” Patrick was quickly serious.

“Yes, in a way, I suppose. People have come to expect more and more from the practice, we need to adapt to the changing times.”

Timothy picked up a pale yellow egg and looked to his mother. “May I? Angela needs to practice if she’s to do it properly on Sunday at Nonnatus. Someone has to beat Sister Julienne.”

Shelagh considered for a moment. “Alright, I suppose. She’ll need a bath anyway after this mess is cleared. I’m not sure what made me think dyeing eggs with a toddler was a good idea. At least I had the foresight to remove her dress first!”

Timothy held out the yellow egg to his sister and picked up a blue one for himself. “See, Angela, hold your egg like this, no, you mustn’t put it in your mouth like that, right, like this, and we’ll tap the ends together.” Angela pulled the egg from her mouth and waved it in the air.

“Hold it still, Angel girl. Hold the egg still and Timothy will show you how to crack it,” Shelagh advised.

Unconvinced, Angela looked to her brother, then held up her egg. Gently, Tim rapped his against hers, once, then twice. Neither egg would crack.

Angela squealed, and with the precision of an expert egg tapper, struck her egg against her brother’s.

“She did it!” Timothy laughed. “Mine’s cracked!”

“She’s a prodigy,” joined Patrick.

But Shelagh knew better. “Just wait,” she warned them.

“Why?” they asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve learned the hard way to never give Angela an egg that isn’t extremely hard-boiled.”

There was another cracking sound, and three pairs of eyes turned to the grinning  tot. Clutched in her chubby hand were the remnants of her lovely yellow Easter egg, fragments of shell and egg strewn in her hair.

“So much for anyone beating Sister Julienne this year,” muttered Timothy.

The Last Days of Brylcreem

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I’ll be serving as Rockbird’s locum today in her “Hiatus Production Pic Challenge.” Hopefully, she’ll get some much-needed rest after we’ve run her ragged creating multiple fics this last day or so…

This itty bitty thing is set earlier the morning of the fan-favorite scene, “Hello, Nurse!”

 

Mornings were always their special time together, from the first day of their marriage. A time away from the rest of the world, they both woke early enough to steal moments that strengthened their intimacy. Fortunately, as Shelagh couldn’t bear to put Angela in the small box room they’d set aside for a nursery, the baby slept quite deeply, and their early conversations left her undisturbed. Unfortunately, Angela didn’t sleep as deeply as Patrick would have liked.

“I can’t believe how quickly the time’s gone, it’s like summer’s just rolled right past me! And now there’s so much to do before school begins, I’m not sure how I’ll get it all done.”  Shelagh sighed as she gently caressed the forearm wrapped around her.

“What needs to be done still? You’ve bought Tim’s uniform, he has a new bookbag, I should think he’s all set.”

Shelagh rolled her eyes in frustration. “Really, Patrick. I sometimes think you married me just to take care of all the little things you never think of!” Sitting up, she threw the covers back.

Smart enough to know when he’d talked himself into a corner with his wife, Patrick pulled her back towards him. “Now that’s silly. If I never thought of the little things before, why would I marry you to take care of them?” His nose nudged at her ear and he whispered, “I married you for entirely different reasons, sweetheart, that have very little to do with errands and school uniforms. I can prove it to you if you like.”

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

Patrick growled lightly and proceeded to show his wife exactly what he did mean. But with a precocious baby in a cot not three feet away, mornings were not what they once were, and Shelagh soon put a reluctant stop to his lesson.

“She’ll be awake any minute, I’m afraid.” She sighed quietly as her fingers toyed with his hair, tousled and messy from a night’s sleep.

Patrick smiled, his eyes locked with hers. “If we’re very quiet?” he cajoled.

A deep, throaty laugh rose up between them and Shelagh responded, “You always say that, but we never are.” She pulled his face to hers for one last kiss, then sat up.

Patrick was unwilling to let the subject drop completely. “How about my lunch break? We could meet back here?”

Looking down at her husband, Shelagh shook her head. “That’s not what I intended when I insisted on you taking a break each day. You’re meant to be resting and having a decent meal.”

“I can’t think of anything better to help me relax midday, Shelagh,” he teased, a crooked smile on his face.

“You really are incorrigible, you know that? There’s no need to smirk at me like that, Patrick. Even if I wanted to,” she ignored his huff of disbelief, “we can’t today. Timothy needs a haircut desperately, and as it is, I’m not sure I can manage that. The surgery is booked for the morning, and there will be piles of paperwork to file before I head over to the clinic. I can’t see how I’ll get Timothy to the barber, plus feed Angela and do all that.”

Patrick knew when he’d been beaten. Shelagh’s schedule was an intimidating thing, and he knew any major disruption to it would lead to even more time apart.

“I’ll take Timothy to his haircut, then. He can meet me at the maternity hospital and we’ll run get that managed. We can stop for lunch, too, so there’ll be no need for you to pack one for me.”

“Patrick, I thought we’d decided you’d cut back on greasy food?”

“Shelagh,” he warned. “One thing at a time?”

Conceding his point, she rose from the bed to check on the baby. Like a jack-in-the-box, Angela popped awake, reaching to be freed from her cot, and Shelagh lifted her up for a snuggle. “Good morning, Angel girl. Take care of Daddy whilst Mummy gets ready for the day?”

Patrick joined his wife and reached out for their daughter. “You know, I think I’ll get a haircut today as well. Two birds and all that,” Patrick informed Shelagh as he let Angela pat at his cheeks.

Shelagh stood suddenly from the drawer she was rifling through. “A haircut?”

“It’s not so unusual, Shelagh. It’s been over a month since my last.” By now, Angela was pulling at his ears.

Shelagh sat down on the bed beside them. “I know, but I’ve grown to like your hair a bit longer, dearest.”

Something in her voice made Patrick’s eyes fly to hers. “You do?” he asked huskily.

Shelagh blushed and looked away.

“Shelagh…” Patrick’s voice coaxed a response. His hair was a source of frustration to him, for once it grew beyond a certain length, it had a way of flopping into his eyes. But if longer hair had the effect he was beginning to suspect it had on his wife, it was a small price to pay. Especially if he heard her tell him so.

Shelagh took a breath and pushed on bravely. “And no Brylcreem, if you please, Patrick,” she stood up and turned to the door. “I’d prefer not to get my hands sticky with it tonight.”


Walking Together

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Timothy Turner’s face was set, all his will concentrated on the new crutches under his arms. The weight of the calipers on his legs both stabilized him and shifted his balance. A few days of physical therapy wearing the metal and leather contraptions, and Tim was ready to take to his feet. Step by step, he paced the length of the polio ward, determined to master this important move toward recovery.

“That’s it, Tim, well done,” his father’s voice cheered him on. “Just wait until Shelagh sees you!”

Timothy grinned widely as he clumsily did an about-face. “Well, I’m certainly not going to win any dance competitions, that’s for certain. I must look an absolute oaf thumping around on these things.” His happy face took the edge from the self-deprecating words, however.

Patrick grinned back and reached around to re-adjust the left crutch. “She’ll think you look like Gene Kelly, more likely. Now, don’t let the crutch slip too far forward. It’ll put too much pressure to the front and could put you off balance. Try again.” He stood back and watched proudly. “That’s it,” he repeated. “Just like that.”

A memory flashed by, his son just past his first birthday, wearing that same look of determination on his face. Margaret’s hands held his chubby little fists as the tot wobbled on his short little legs. Without baby Timothy  knowing it, his mother slowly released her son’s hands and clasped her own together, holding her breath.

The toddler took one slow step, and a second, then found his momentum and charged towards his father. He crossed the six feet separating them, then threw himself at his father’s legs.

“Well done, son!” Patrick cheered and swung his boy up into his arms.

Margaret crossed to join them, reaching one arm around her husband as the other hand squeezed her son’s foot. “We’ve been practicing with me holding on all day, but he wasn’t interested in going on his own at all until he saw you come in!”

Patrick turned his head and kissed her. “He wanted to have us all together, that’s all.” He hugged the boy a bit tighter but was met with resistance.

“Oh, no,” Patrick joked. “Just look at that stubborn face.” Timothy began to push away, eager to try his legs again. “I’m afraid young Master Turner is off to the races!”

The thumping of the crutches on the hospital linoleum floor brought Patrick back to the present. Timothy had already improved in the few passes across the room, and Patrick laughed quietly. “I was just remembering your first steps. We were so proud of you, toddling across the flat. You didn’t walk for long, though. Almost immediately, you were running circles around the flat. Your mother swore you were going to wear a path in the floor, make your own track oval between the kitchen and the sitting room!” His finger traced circles in the air.

Timothy chuckled. “I remember she used to call me “Thumper,” because of the noise my feet made as I ran through the flat.”

“It was Mrs. Wilkins from next door that started that, I’m afraid,” Patrick reminded him with a grimace.

“Right. Mrs. Wilkins didn’t like children, did she?” Already comfortable with the crutches, Timothy rested his weight on them and let his body hang.

“That’ll hurt if you do it much,” his father pointed out. “But no, I think she preferred her neighbors to be a bit quieter than you. I’m sure she was thrilled when her husband moved them nearer his new job out by the rock quarry.”

Timothy shifted his body up again. “You don’t have to keep going, Tim. You don’t want to tire yourself out.”

“I’m not tired, I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that and then you never are…” Patrick teased.

“Just one more time. I want to be able to really surprise Shelagh when she comes this afternoon.”

As he finished the last pass, Timothy collapsed on his bed. “Well, that’s got me knackered. I’d better rest a bit before Shelagh comes or I won’t be able to show off.”

Patrick helped his son lift his legs up on the bed, then sat on his regular chair next to the bed. “She’ll be thrilled, Tim. Really.”

Timothy reached for the model plane on his bedside table, fiddling with the wing. “Dad, how long will I be on the crutches?”

Patrick considered. “Dr. Carson thinks your arms and back are extremely strong, so maybe a month or two, perhaps.”

“But if I work very hard?” Tim still would not meet his father’s eye.

“Tim, what’s wrong? I thought you were happy to be up and about.”

“I am, of course. If I had to sit any longer I think I was going to go mad! I just… Dr. Carson said back after Christmas that I could go home when I was used to the calipers.” His voice grew quiet.

Nodding. Patrick answered. “Soon, Tim. Probably just a few more weeks, then you’ll be home for good. Is that what you want to know?”

Timothy looked up, his face beaming. “A few weeks! That’s brilliant. I can definitely last a few weeks!” He sat up, eager again, and Patrick smiled widely.

“It will be good to have you home again, son.”

“And…” Tim hinted.

Patrick’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “And?”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “Dad, you said after I came home…Ugh. You have no sense of romance, Dad. Do I have to all the work?”

“Oh, Lord, Tim. That’s right. I was so caught up in your recovery I nearly forgot!”  He started to laugh. “Do you reckon she’ll say ‘Yes’ again this time?”

Timothy smiled his wise little smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. I have a plan.”

 

An hour later, Shelagh entered the ward, her arm filled with a stack of new comic books for Timothy and the others. She was quite proud that in addition to Eagle and Valiant, she had unearthed a copy of an old American superhero magazine. That was sure to keep the children happy for a little while, certainly.

Timothy’s bed stood empty, it’s bedding smooth. “Where on earth?” she wondered aloud. Turning to the boy in the next bed, she asked, “Harry, do you know where Timothy’s got to? I was supposed to meet him and Dr. Turner here tonight.”

Harry tried unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “Not sure, Miss Mannion. Try the hallway outside the nurse’s office, maybe?”

Sighing in her confusion, Shelagh shrugged out of her coat and left her new hat neatly on top. Smoothing her skirt, she set off around the corner.

Patrick stood in the middle of the hallway, a serious smile on his face. “Hello, Shelagh,” he said.

Sensing an undercurrent to his greeting, she answered. “Hello, Patrick.” Why was it becoming hard to breath?

“We have something to show you, my love.” Patrick shifted to one side, revealing Timothy, standing proudly, supported by his calipers and crutches.

Slowly, but with confidence, Timothy and Patrick walked the length of the hall towards her.

“Oh,” she whispered. Emotions crossed her face, confusion and surprise melting into delight, then ripening into tearful joy. As they came to stand before her, her two most beloved of all people, she laughed happily and clasped her hands together.

Words would not come, so Patrick helped her. “We said we’d wait until Timothy was better, Shelagh.”

Timothy chimed in. “I’ll be home in just a few weeks. And if I work very hard, I may even be able to leave the crutches here, too. With my calipers on, I’ll be able to walk in the church all by myself.”

Shelagh’s eyes flew from Patrick’s face to Timothy’s and back again. “Marry me, Shelagh.” Patrick proposed. “In one month’s time. Let’s not wait any longer.”

“Please, Shelagh? Please will you marry my Dad?”

 


Building Up Through the Cracks, Part One

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A/N: This is set during Series 3, Episode 5. I always think of the third series as a period of trial and error for Shelagh. She’s not completely certain who she wants to be, or how to become that woman. Her only certainty is the “rightness” of her choice to be a wife and mother to Patrick and Timothy.

Also, I’m definitely in the Timothy-calling-Shelagh-Mum-from-Early-On camp. He calls her “Mum” so naturally in episode 8 and wanted so much for the wedding to go forward, that I think he’s much more likely to admit vulnerability than his father.  Perhaps a trait from his mother?

The flat seemed too quiet without Timothy and Patrick now. Each had somewhere else to be, out in the world, and Shelagh could feel the walls closing in on her. Patrick was right, Timothy needed time to be a boy, to play out, to get into a bit of mischief. Here in the flat, months after his release from the hospital, he must have felt trapped.

Shelagh shook her head to clear the fog of self-doubt. What was done was done. She would have to apologize to the boy, and move on. Yet somehow, knowing the path she must take did not make it easier to follow. Her hands felt so idle, her mind adrift without Timothy’s time to consider.

What now? she wondered. For so much of her life she had followed a plan, had a purpose. Patrick’s solution, that she help at Nonnatus whilst Sister Julienne rested, seemed the best course. The task of keeping the midwifery and nursing practices going would certainly busy her hands and mind. Perhaps that would be enough, for now.

The door of the flat creaked open slowly, and she could hear the halting steps of her stepson as he quietly returned. Shelagh felt her face relax into an amused smile. She knew Timothy well enough to know he was feeling remorseful for abandoning her this afternoon. She sighed and put her unread book down.

“Hello, Timothy,” she called cheerfully. Best to let him know he wasn’t in trouble from the start.

Cautiously, he appeared at the sitting room door. He swallowed tightly.

“Your father told me you were playing cricket this afternoon. I suppose I’ll finally have to learn the rules, then! I hope you had a pleasant time.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded stiff. She smiled brightly to cover her unease.

“Yes,” Timothy replied. He bit his lip, hesitant. “Dad said I could.”

Shelagh nodded. “Of course. Did you get anything else to eat, you must be hungry. I can reheat dinner unless you’d prefer to wait until your father gets home?” She nervously moved into the kitchen, conscious of the strain between them.

“No, thank you. Dad gave me pocket money for an ice cream. I can wait ‘til he gets back. He said it should be a light list tonight.” He glanced quickly at her, then away. “I think I’ll go to my room now if you don’t mind. I’d like to read for a bit.”

It was as if they were strangers, on their best behavior. Memories of her distant father flooded her mind. Stoic as to character, made even more so by the death of his wife, Douglas Mannion had preferred silence. The physical distance of the convent school Shelagh attended soon after her mother’s death was nothing to the emotional estrangement she felt from her father.

This was not why she left the Order, Shelagh thought. The emotional connection she felt with Patrick and Timothy filled in places in her heart she hadn’t known existed. She would not let misunderstandings and doubt take that joy away from her.

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh tapped on Timothy’s door. A muffled, “Just a moment, please,” came through the wooden door, followed by rustling and a thump.

“Alright, you can come in.”

Timothy sat on the edge of his bed, his calipers in a heap on the floor. His face was tense, and Shelagh nearly lost courage. They had grown so close in this past year. Had she undone that in her desire to mother him?

“Timothy, dear, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.” She swallowed heavily. “I’ve been so anxious to keep you safe that I’m afraid I’ve … smothered you a bit. It’s only right that you should want to be outside with your playmates, and I’m certain they would welcome you. I won’t stand in your way any longer.”

Timothy didn’t respond, his eyes to the floor.

“Well, then,” Shelagh forged on, her voice cheerful. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

The hallway seemed dimmer as she made her way back to the kitchen. She had made the effort, but it seemed the damage was already done.

“Mum?” she heard him call through the flat. Worried, Shelagh returned to his doorway.

Timothy hadn’t moved from his place on the bed, his eyes still on the floor. His voice was hushed. “I’ve been a bit of a beast to you lately. I knew you just wanted to protect me, but it made me angry. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. It wasn’t nice of me to be so rude.”

Shelagh stepped into the room, closer to the bed. “I understand, dearest. You’re not a little boy any longer, nor-” she added certainly, “nor are you an invalid. If we want your legs to get stronger, it’s silly for you to stay inside with me. Sister Evangelina always says “A bored boy is a naughty boy.’”

“Is that why she’s always giving me things to do?” Timothy quipped. “Maybe she should give Gary a list!”

Shelagh chuckled and sat on the bed next to him. “I’m not sure even Sister Evangelina could think of enough things to keep Gary out of trouble!” She reached down, reaching for his calipers. “I suppose these aren’t necessary to wear whilst you’re reading. Call me when you’d like to put them back on, and I can help.”

Tim nodded, but his face clouded over.

“Timothy, is there something the matter? Can I help?”

He fiddled with the leather straps. “I had so much fun today, I really did. The others were brilliant, and no one seemed to mind I was so slow.”

“That’s because you’re smart enough to pick good friends.” She pushed his fringe back from his forehead, waiting for him to say more.

“I know it’s your job to worry about me, but I’m going to be fine. The doctors are all pleased with how well I’m doing, and playing out will only help.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “If I tell you something, you promise not to hold it against me?”

“You sound like a barrister,” she joked.

“Promise?”

Shelagh nodded. They weren’t starting over, but it felt a bit new, somehow.

“I’m glad I went out today. It was great fun, but I’m sorry that I made you feel bad, and I won’t do it again.” He looked up and met her eyes. “I am a bit sore now. That’s why I’ve taken off the calipers. My legs feel rather like when the physical therapy is a bit difficult.”

Of course, Shelagh realized. It would hurt. Pushing out against the old ways always did. But it had to be done.

“Alright, then. Lay back whilst I get the liniment. We’ll get these poor pins rubbed down and ready for tomorrow’s adventures.”

Sixty Minute Challenge: Prompt Three, Barbara’s Bucket Brigade

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“I’m afraid it happens quite frequently, Nurse Gilbert. I can assure you, you will learn a great deal, and it is always good experience to spend time on Casualty.”

“They’ll eat her for breakfast,” muttered Sister Evangelina under her breath.

Deliberately ignoring the grumpy nun, Barbara Gilbert took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders. It couldn’t be so bad, she told herself. Nurses like to help people, right? Cheerfully she smiled and rose from the table.

“Well, I’d best get on my bike if I’m to get a bright start, then. Wish me luck!”

 

Three days later, the young nurse knew she needed more than luck to survive the rest of the week. Casualty was not only frenetic and intense, it seemed to be staffed by nurses so fierce they made Nurse Crane look like a tabby cat.

“Gilbert,” ordered Matron. “The bandages are not stocked properly. I certainly hope you don’t think I’ve decided to arbitrarily create rules for you to flout them. Bandages must be stored precisely in this manner for a very good reason. Restack them and be back here in ten minutes.”

Barbara nodded, trying to hide the tears she wanted to shed. Half way through the week and she wanted to cry every day. The strict rules, demanding situations and sometimes unreasonable medical personnel did little for her self esteem. Closing the storage room door behind her, she let a few tears flow as she methodically stacked bandage upon bandage.

“Come on, Barbara,” she told herself. “You can do this. It’s really not so much different from home. All those children running about. You must simply keep your head clear and don’t let anyone rattle you. You can do this. Besides, after this, you’ll never be afraid of Nurse Crane again!”

The bandages done, she slipped back down to the admittance desk. A crowd of people filled the room, and she could hear matron shout,

“Form a queue! I cannot help you if you do not manage yourselves properly!” Catching sight of Barbara, Matron handed her a clipboard. “You. Take names, reason for being here. And clear out anyone who should not be here in the first place!”

Nervously, Barbara marched over to the group filling the room. Her attention focussed, she noticed that the large group of men that filled the room were wearing rugby uniforms. Several were covered in mud, and all were shouting loudly.

“They’re just large boys, Barbara,” she assured herself. Remembering the tip her mother told her when handling boys, she searched the room for the leader of the group. “Excuse me,” she interrupted as politely as she could, “I’m hoping you can help me.”

The rugby player turned to her and she was alarmed by his size. Well over six feet, and clearly more than fifteen stone, he towered over her. “Me friend’s hurt, Nurse. He needs to see a doctor, fast-like.”

“Yes. That’s what I’m here for,” she told him. Pretend you know what you’re doing Barbara, her inner voice whispered. “If you could help me to get the room under control, then I can help your friend.” She smiled, hoping the expression made it to her eyes.

Understanding crossed the big man’s face. “Right.” He turned to his mates and bellowed, “Bob, Mack, you stay. Everyone else, out!”

Within in moments, the room was cleared. Barbara turned to the Rugby leader and said, “Well done! You must be the captain!”

The big man blushed. “Yes, Nurse. You need a firm ‘and wif blokes like these! What can we do to help me friend Bob, here. It looks like he may’ve broken ‘is leg.”

Peering closely, Barbara confirmed his suspicion. “Don’t you worry, Bob. We’ll have you in to see the doctor quick as a wink.”

She glanced up quickly and shyly met the eye of the captain. “Thank you very much for your help-”

“Albert, Albert Smalls. We’ll just stay here wif Bob, if you don’t mind.”

Barbara nodded. “Of course. He’s lucky to have friends like you to help.”

 

For the rest of her shift, Barbara kept the interaction with the rugby player in her mind. If she could handle a large group of rugby players in line, then surely the rest of the week wouldn’t be so bad? She simply had to find the original solution to any problem Matron presented.

Unfortunately, originality did not impress the medical staff, and for the rest of the day, Barbara shuttled patients to and fro, collected samples and put on a brave face as her self-esteem dwindled. Nearing the end of her shift, matron assigned her to the desk to file the charts that had overflowed all day.

“I’ll be back in quarter of an hour, Mr. Swift requires my advice on a matter of surgical organization. If any unusual situations arise, do nothing. Wait for more trained personnel to arrive.”

Watching the gruff old nurse walk away, Barbara sighed heavily. “I’m not a child. I am a trained nurse. It would be nice to be treated like an adult sometimes.”

Files sorted themselves quickly, and soon she had little to do. The madness of the early afternoon had dwindled down and the only people waiting to see a doctor were a man with a sprained wrist and a lady with a rather shallow cut to her chin. “I suppose it bled rather a lot,” Barbara muttered.

Her attention was captured by a drop of water from above. When it was followed by another, and then another, Barabara began to search for its source. Walking around the room, she peered at the ceiling. A memory of a burst pipe in her father’s vicarage popped in her mind, and she suddenly realized what was about to happen.

Trying to keep calm, she called, “Excuse me, please follow me. Quickly.”

The two remaining patients looked at each other, shrugged and made to follow. Guiding them up the stairs to the desk beyond the waiting area, she reached for the telephone.

“Excuse me, Nurse,” cried Matron, “just what do you think you’re doing?”

“The number for the janitor’s office, please?” she asked as calmly as she could.

“Put that phone down right this minute. You’ll be reprimanded for this!”
“The caretaker’s office? It’s an emergency!”
“What emergency?”

Suddenly, the ceiling in the waiting room cracked open and water gushed down.

Stunned, the staff stared at the gallons of water filling the room.

“The number, please?” Barbara demanded.

Finally understanding, Matron called out the number and the connection was made.

Five interminable minute later, the water was shut down. The medical staff turned their attention to the patients, and tried to restore some order to the care.

 

Barbara stood at the top of the stairs looking down at the caretaker. The waiting area was flooded, nearly two feet deep in water.

“This’ll take forever to clean up,” poor Mr. Unger said.

Thinking for a moment, Barbara said, “Mr. Unger, get every bucket and pail you have down here. We’re going to empty this place out quick as a wink!”

The caretaker was doubtful. “I suppose I’ll need’em anyway.” He lumbered down the hall to the storage cupboard.

This is my chance, Barbara thought. Time to put my plan into action.
“Albert?” she called. “Albert Smalls?” The curtain at one bed in the far corner opened, and out came the rugby captain.

“Yes, Nurse?”

Barbara shook her head confidently. “Mr. Smalls, we need your help. Are your rugby friends still outside?”

“Should be. I told them to wait so we could carry Bob to the pub.”

“Yes. Well, before you go to your celebration, could I perhaps ask you to give me another hand? We seem to have a bit of a flood in our waiting area. I was hoping you and your teammates could form a sort of Bucket Brigade and help return our waiting room to its normal above-water condition.”

Her expectant face, plus her cheerful confidence shone through.

“”Course, Nurse. We can have this place back in shape quick as a wink.” The large man waded through to the door and called to his team. With nearly a dozen buckets, and nearly as many rugby players, the room was back to it’s antediluvian state.

“Well done, Mr. Smalls,” Charlotte applauded. “We are ever so grateful. Poor Mr. Unger would have been here all night trying to put this place to rights.”

“No problem, Nurse. “ ‘appy to help.” The large man grew shy again. “I was wondering, maybe you’d like to join us, you know celebrate? We won our game, Bob’s got his cast, you’ve got a dry waiting area. “How ‘bout it?”

Barbara considered, her mouth pursing to the side. “Oh, alright!” she answered. Leaning in conspiratorially, she continued, “As long as there’s no Advocat. I may have shown Matron what’s for, but I better not get ahead of myself!”