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.

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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!”