Tag Archives: Angela Turner

First Words

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tumblr_nib2uu829A1sjv7x9o1_1280Another response to a prompt suggestion by Like-an-Officer-and-a-Sergeant over on Tumblr. I think the title speaks for itself.

 

Propped up against the pillows of the family’s gold sofa, Angela Turner was the center of attention. She was quite used to such treatment, for she was, after all, the most beautiful baby ever born (her father often told her so), not to mention brilliantly clever (big brother Timothy’s decree) and undeniably charming and captivating (that’s what Mummy said, anyway). Today, however, there was a new reason for her admirers to kneel at her feet.

Angela Turner, at the advanced age of five-and-a-half months, was learning to speak.

“Say ‘Mama,’ Angela darling,” her mother coaxed. Shelagh’s voice was gentle, and Angela turned towards it naturally. “Mama,” Shelagh repeated.

Angela’s eyes were enormous in her sweet face, and her smile revealed two tiny little white tooth buds in her bottom gum. She must have known its effect, for she brandished that smile at all and sundry. She watched her mother’s face, rapt with attention.

“Honestly, Patrick, she said it this very afternoon. It was as clear as a bell.” Shelagh bit her lip in bewilderment.

“She might have done, Shelagh, but you know as well as I that a child of this age isn’t really speaking. They’re simply practicing sounds. ‘Mama’ is an easy one to say. She could just as well be saying ‘dada.’”

Shelagh glanced up from under her lowered brow. “She did not simply repeat a sound, Patrick. Angela’s been babbling for weeks now, I know the difference. Today she looked at me and said “Mama.” Our daughter has said her first word.”Determined, Shelagh reached for the satin-bound baby book by her side and opened it.  

“What are you doing?’ Patrick demanded.

“I’m filling in her first word, of course.”

“Shelagh, you can’t. Angela hasn’t repeated it once this evening.”

With a sigh, Shelagh capped her pen and put the book down. “Very well, then. We’ll just have to show Daddy, won’t we Angel Girl?” She smiled softly at the child and began to repeat the word.

With a quick squeal, Angela began to laugh. Her lips opened and closed, mimicking the face her mother made, and then, it happened. “Mama!” the genius child cried.

Both parents laughed with her. “Patrick, she said it again!”

“Mama. Mama.Mama.” The word filled the sitting room.

After a few moments, Patrick glanced at Shelagh. “I’m still not convinced she’s saying this as a word, Shelagh. Try and see if she can use the word to identify you.”

“Patrick, she’s said my name a thousand times already. Of course, she knows.”

But Patrick would not give up. “Just a small experiment. To prove me wrong.”

That was a wise tactic. He knew no wife could resist the chance to prove her husband wrong.

“Alright, then.” Shelagh rolled her eyes and then knelt down in front of their daughter. “You’ll have to come kneel here as well, Patrick. No complaining. This is your experiment, not mine. Now Angela, darling where is Mama?”

The baby squealed, and cried, “Mama!” Her chubby arm reached for Shelagh’s face.

Trying unsuccessfully to hide the triumph on her face, Shelagh kissed the little hand  and moved to the table with the baby book.

Patrick, a bit crestfallen, decided that while ‘Dada’ may not have been the first word his daughter ever said, he was certain that it would be the second. And immediately.

“Angela sweetheart, say Dada. Dada.” The baby turned her curious eyes to his face and answered, “Mama.”

Now, if  Poor Patrick were in doctor-mode, he would have pointed out to his wife that the certainty of Mama being an actual word had just come under some doubt. But Patrick was not in doctor-mode, he was in full-fledged father-mode. Rather than listen to the sound of reason, he spent the better part of the next half hour repeating himself.

Shelagh watched from the kitchen as she finished the dinner preparations, and was the only one to greet Timothy when he returned from school.

“What’s that all about?” The boy asked, gesturing to his father and sister.

“Your father is upset Angela said her first word today, and he’s trying to make her say ‘Dada’ now.”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure either of you should be rushing to get her to talk, you know. All Angela has to do is look at either of you and she already has you both wrapped around her finger. Besides, once she starts talking, we’ll probably never get her to stop.”

Shelagh smiled sheepishly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timmy. Now go and get cleaned up, dinner will be ready in just two ticks.”

A cheer came from the sitting room.

“‘Dada!’ She said ‘Dada!’” Patrick exhaled, delighted.*

Timothy’s eyes rolled up to his eyebrows.”You two. When she learns to walk you’re going to be unbearable.”

 

*From a prompt by Like-an-Officer-and-a-Sergeant

 

Pink Cheeks and Pyjamas

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Fun fluff to keep my mind off the catastrophe to come on Sunday with the final episode of Series 5 of Call the Midwife.  This bit of fluff occurs in that rather nice hotel Patrick spotted on the way to the campground from Atlantis.

 

“Your turn, Timothy!” Shelagh emerged from the bathroom bearing a wiggly, towel-wrapped toddler.

Fresh from his own bath, Patrick looked up from the artful arrangement of damp clothes he was creating around the hotel room. “I’m glad we kept our suitcases in the car at Sunny Vista, or we wouldn’t have a single dry thing to wear. As it is, my socks may be ruined.” He looked down at the offending items, then sniffed  in disgust.

“Yes. That would be a shame,” Shelagh teased. Rubbing Angela dry she asked, “Please pass me Angela’s nightgown, dear?”

Patrick grinned and tossed the pink pyjamas. “You said you liked my outfit.”

“I most certainly did not. The shorts I could bear if they fit properly, but I do wish you’d let me buy you a pair of trainers.” Angela’s head popped through the neck hole of her nightgown and she laughed sleepily.

Patrick moved to sit next to the little girl. “Here, I’ll finish with Angela. Go get a quick bath in our room–you look like you could use it. We’ll read a quick story and this little angel will be asleep in no time.”

“I do admire your optimism, Patrick. Don’t forget–”

“Her bear, yes, I know. I have done this before, Shelagh.”

Shelagh chuckled. “I’ll see you in a little while then. Night-night kisses, Angela!” Mother and daughter exchanged a loud kiss. “Good night, Timothy,” Shelagh called through the bathroom door.

She paused at the hotel room door. “Thank you, Patrick. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

 

Over half an hour, four stories and three songs later, Patrick slipped into their room. Steam wafted from the open bathroom door, and he could hear the water splashing. Grateful for the chance to relax, he sat to remove his socks and sandals. His jacket and shirt followed, and he hung them over the last remaining chair in the room.

“This place looks like a laundry,” he muttered. The hotel clerk said he would call a local woman to take their camp-weary clothes in the morning. If they were lucky, the weather would brighten and they could unfurl the tents to dry as well.

He wondered, was the surgery in a similar state of upheaval, too? He trusted Sister Julienne’s judgment, certainly, but Dr. Godfrey did seem a bit off to him. With a deep breath, Patrick rubbed his face. “Let it go, Turner,” he said to himself. “You’re on holiday.”

“Did you say something, Patrick?” Shelagh stood in the doorway, wrapped in a large towel and her hair pulled up high. There were damp tendrils of hair clinging to her neck, and her skin glowed pink from the heat of the bath.

All thought of the surgery flew from his mind. He loved camping–really, he did–especially when the weather was a bit more favorable. But there was definitely something to be said for private hotel rooms with locks on the door.

He stood up and walked slowly towards his wife. Shelagh’s eyes grew round. “Oh, no, Patrick. The children might come in at any moment,” she protested.

He reached up and pulled the few pins holding up her hair. “No, they won’t. Angela’s out like a light and Tim has his book. We won’t hear from them until morning.” His hands came to rest on her shoulders. “There’s something to be said for the creature comforts.”

Shelagh’s hands slipped under his vest, her fingers gliding over his skin. “You promise no talk about ulcer clinics?’

A low groan escaped him. His arms pulled her close and his lips found the warm smooth skin of her shoulders. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Much later, sated and very grateful for the luxuries of a soft bed, they lay wrapped around each other. Patrick’s voice broke the silence. “Thank you, Shelagh.”

“Don’t thank me, you did most of the work this time,” she purred.

“Minx.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers. “All this rain and that dreadful tent. You’ve done all you can to keep up our spirits. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“It’s alright, dear. I know you worry, and you’ve been wet from the moment we got here. I’m simply glad we’ve had time together. Before you know it, Timothy will be too big to want to go away with us.” With one last squeeze, she sat up from the bed. She found her nightie and slipped it over her head, then tossed him his striped pyjamas. “We won’t have time to scramble for these when the children come in the morning. Oh, and these sheets are a tangle! Get up, Patrick, please, and help me set things to right.”

Patrick shuddered from the chill on his exposed body. With a resigned sigh, he scrambled into his night clothes and straightened his side of the bed. “At least, your cheeks are still flushed. You can act all bossy and efficient, Shelagh Turner, but I know the real you.”

Shelagh pulled the covers to her shoulders and turned to face her husband. “And I couldn’t be happier.”

A Perfectly Appropriate Dress

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Thank goodness the Turners had the good sense to book a proper holiday, if for no other reason than that dress.

2016-02-23

 

“The weather forecast is for bright skies all weekend,” Patrick announced at the breakfast table. “It looks like we’ll have that sunny day at the seaside you wanted on Sunday, Shelagh.”

Still wrapped in her dressing gown, Shelagh put the finishing touches on a picnic basket. “That’s lovely, dear. I haven’t walked along the seaside in years.”

“You went to Brighton for your honeymoon, Mum. That’s not so very long ago. You must have had plenty of walks along the shore then,” Timothy reminded her. Distracted by his sister, he didn’t see the look exchanged between his parents, nor the blush that flooded his mother’s cheeks.

Patrick cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it’ll be nice to get in a few of those hikes in the forest we’d planned, Tim. Maybe this time, we can protect Angela from the S-Q-U-I-R-R-E-L-S this time.” He stood up and carried his dishes to the sink. “Everyone should put a move on it if we’re to leave on time.”

Shelagh glanced up. “Patrick, I’ve put the suitcases in the hallway, and the basket of food is all set. Please load the car, I need to go get dressed.”

“I still don’t see why we need to bring food along,” he muttered. “The hotel will feed us, Shelagh. This holiday is supposed to be a relaxing one for you, too.”

Shelagh thought of the three days of washing, ironing, packing and organizing, and smiled to herself. He did try, she knew. “Well, it won’t be very relaxing for anyone if the children get hungry along the way. It’s not enough to ruin our lunch in Southampton, but enough to keep us happy. And be careful, Patrick, don’t get your suit all dusty. You look very handsome, and I want to show you off. Timothy, could you please wash up the breakfast dishes? I’ll put Angela in her playpen.”

“At least I won’t have to do any washing up at the hotel.” grumbled the teenager.

Shelagh lifted her daughter from her chair. “If you like, we can find a nice cafe in town that could put your skills to work, dear.” She grinned and squeezed his elbow as she passed by.

A quarter of an hour later, Patrick entered their room. “Bags are packed, and the children are set to go, Shelagh. Almost ready?”

She stood up from her dressing table, her hair smooth in its twist, light make-up carefully applied, and her earrings adding an elegant glow to her face. “Almost, Patrick.” She turned her back to him. “If you could zip me up, please?’

For a long moment, there was no sound or movement from her husband, and Shelagh’s eyes danced. “Patrick?” she asked innocently. “My zip, please?”

She felt his fingers fumble, then tug the pull up the length of her back. Turning into his arms, she whispered, “Do you like it?”

Patrick swallowed thickly, and Shelagh pressed a kiss to his mouth. “It’s new,” she told him. “I thought I’d try a new look this week.” She pulled away, suddenly nervous. “It’s not too much?”

Patrick lifted her arm and twirled her slowly to fully appreciate the new look. The dress wasn’t so much a departure in style, but the cut emphasized his wife’s lovely form in ways that made his imagination spark.  “It’s perfect, Shelagh. You’re perfect.” He pulled her close against his body. “I’m so glad I booked two rooms.”

“Dad!” Timothy’s voice called from the doorway. “Could you two hurry? At this rate, we’ll be late for everything!”

Laughing, Patrick kissed his wife quickly. “That boy is going to get rich babysitting his sister this week.”

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

Patrick watched as she walked down the hallway. The way she moved in that dress, he was completely certain she knew exactly what he was talking about.

 

Of Greengrocers and Costumes

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Sometimes, a little fact will stick in our heads and take us to odd places. This fic is inspired by some bits of character background provided by Doctor Turner’s Casebook.  If I’ve gotten any details about British grammar school years, or fruits available to greengrocers in Northern Scotland in the 1930’s, or Victorian theater, it isn’t for lack of trying.

 

Chaos reigned supreme that afternoon. Timothy , gearing up for exams, needed quiet to study, whilst Angela was busy in the discovery of music, and determined to make as much noise as possible. Between preparing dinner, cleaning a lunchtime spill on Patrick’s new jacket, and preventing Angela from both banging the piano keys and crushing her wee fingers under the keyboard cover, Shelagh was exhausted. It was a weary woman that crawled into bed that night.

“Tomorrow will be easier,” Patrick promised, looking up from his book. “I’m off, and I’ll take Angela to the park. She needs a good long run-around to work off all that steam.”

Shelagh rolled over to face him and burrowed her face into his side. “Mmmph,” she breathed. “You’ll need to run her for another four months if we’re to head off the terrible two’s.”

Patrick stretched, then placed his book on his nightstand. “I’m afraid the two’s are nothing on the three’s, my love. We’re in this for the long haul.”

Shelagh’s eyes blinked wide as she watched her husband thump his pillow into shape. “Patrick, please humour me tonight. I only managed today by telling myself she’s getting it out of her system.”

“Alright, then. We’ll run her like a puppy every day and she’ll be through this in no time. I’m sure we won’t even have a single issue during her entire adolescence.”

Patrick chuckled, but when he glanced down at her he saw a gleam of tears in her eye. He switched off the lamp and pulled her back into his arms. “Here, now. A good night’s sleep and you’ll feel better, and that’s my official medical diagnosis.”

“I hope so,” Shelagh answered. They lay in the quiet dark together, and Patrick could feel the trials of the day slip from his own shoulders. “What can I do to help?”

“You do so much, already, Patrick, and I don’t know what I’d do without Mrs. Penney. I should be able to manage.”

“You do manage, my love. You manage beautifully. You’re tired, that’s all.” His hands slid up to knead her shoulder. “Roll over and let me rub your back.”

She shook her head and burrowed her face against his chest. “Tell me a story,” she whispered.

That surprised him. In the early days of their engagement, when there were still so many details to learn, they would take turns sharing stories from their pasts. The business of juggling family and work didn’t leave much time for it anymore. He missed it, now he thought of it, and so, it seemed, did Shelagh. “It’s your turn, I told the last one. Back at Christmas?”

Shelagh lifted herself up to look into his face. “You did not. It was my turn last, remember? The night it snowed, I told you about the Apple Brownie.”

Patrick’s shoulders shook. The “Apple Brownie.” He recalled how each morning of her childhood, a young Shelagh would wake to find a an apple, or an orange, or even once a mango (but almost always an apple) perched upon her chest of drawers. When Shelagh had first mentioned this, he hadn’t been surprised. Her father was a greengrocer, after all. If any house would have an abundance of produce, it would be the Mannion’s, and Patrick called shenanigans.

“Don’t be so sure you know me, Patrick Turner,” Shelagh scolded that night. “There’s much more to me than what’s on the surface.”

“Thank goodness for that,” he murmured in her ear. Years in a habit had effectively hidden many of his wife’s secrets from the world. One of the great joys of this marriage was the discovery of those secrets.

“Patrick, if you’re not going to listen, you shouldn’t be quite so hopeful.”

Schooling his features to an attentive expression, Patrick begged her to continue.

“It was always the loveliest piece of fruit, much nicer than the fruit left after the shop finally closed for the day. Sometimes the stuff Dad would bring up was so bruised it was only fit for stewing,” she shuddered. “I hate stewed fruit.

“When I was old enough to ask, my mother simply said that it must’ve been left by the Apple Brownie, and went about her day. I didn’t question her, and I don’t think I ever asked again.” A shadow passed over her face. “As I got a bit older, I started to suspect that perhaps my mother knew more about it than she let on. I thought I was very clever, and would set my alarm earlier and earlier to try to catch my mother out, but I never could. No matter what time I woke, the fruit was always there, waiting for me. It wasn’t until she became ill and then. . . later . . . that I realized it must have been my father all the while.

“Up until the day I left for school, never a day went by that I didn’t wake to a piece of fruit.” Shelagh’s voice drifted into quiet. “He never told me he loved me, my father. It wasn’t his way. But now I think perhaps he had his own way.”  

Patrick pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He knew better than most, better than Shelagh even, the struggles her father would have faced as a widowed father alone with a child. Hadn’t he himself hidden behind his practice during those first terrible months after Marianne’s death? But some force pulled him back to life; back to his son and opened his heart to Shelagh. Shelagh’s father never knew that redemption.

Angus Mannion was a man who knew love, but was afraid of it. A polished apple was the most he could give his daughter, and when his pain became too much for him, he found a new place for Shelagh at a convent school.

Lying next to her now, Patrick caught her hand and brought it to his lips. As long as it was up to him, Shelagh would never doubt she was loved. He searched his mind for a new story to share, but could think of none. She knew of the days spent running about the parks near Alder Hey Hospital, and how he would watch the wounded soldiers in their “hospital blues.” She knew of his determined studies, how he pushed himself to the top of his class in order to prove to his father that he was better suited to a medical career than the accountant’s life. As Shelagh’s confidence in their relationship grew, she had begun to ask questions of her own, and by now Patrick felt he had shared it all.

“Cranes,” Shelagh murmured. “Timothy made one for Angela this morning before school. He told me you taught him how. Where did you learn to make cranes?”

A laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “The musicals!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t thought about those for years!”

“What musicals?” Shelagh was alert again.

“At school. Liverpool Collegiate.” He chuckled again. “It was always Gilbert and Sullivan, every year.” His mind flooded with memories long forgotten.

“Patrick, you can’t stop there! Tell me more,” Shelagh begged.

“Every year the school would do a production of a Gilbert and Sullivan musical. When I was–oh, sixteen, maybe?” He nodded. “Yes. My fifth form year I was cast as Yum-Yum in The Mikado, and we were required to make cranes by the dozen for the prop department.”

“You most certainly were not! You’re making this up.” Shelagh pressed her lips together in disbelief.

“No, no, I’m not! My voice hadn’t changed yet, and there were no other older boys who could sing the soprano part. Even so, I could barely hit the notes they wanted me to sing, and then my voice broke right in the middle of dress rehearsals. Headmaster Brown was convinced I’d done it on purpose.”

Shelagh sat upright. “Patrick Turner, you’re teasing me.”

He looked up at her outraged face. “Honest, Shelagh, it’s true! Headmaster Brown started those productions before the Great War. By the time I was there, it was a tradition. I’m not sure why, it was always so hard to cast the soprano parts. But if you were tapped, you did your service to the school.

“Anyway, I was fitted for the costume and learned the part, and then my voice broke. I could only manage if I did a falsetto, and it sounded so ridiculous, the director gave the part to a second year. They never let me try out again, even though I have a perfectly reasonable tenor.”

Shelagh leant back against the headboard. “Well, I never expected that. A thwarted acting career. Patrick, imagine if you’d gone on to play the part? Everything would have turned out differently. How could we ever have met? You’ve shaken my belief in fate.” Her eyes danced with humour.

He tugged her back into his arms. “Oh, we would have found each other, my love. You would have seen me in some West End production and fallen in love with me from the mezzanine.”

“You’re ridiculous. I think you’ve made up this whole preposterous tale just to shake me from my mood.” She snuggled in closer.

“Man cannot live by hope alone, my love.”

 

The next morning, the mood in the house was brighter. Angela’s ambitions shifted from music to drawing, and she quickly added many crayon masterpieces to her portfolio. Timothy was less tense with a weekend to master Geometry proofs, and both Shelagh and Patrick hummed as they set out the morning meal.

Patrick pulled a face as he reached for the cereal box. “Cheerios? On a Saturday?”

“Angela prefers them to eggs, dear. Could you please set her up?” Patrick did not notice the mischievous glance exchanged between his wife and son.

Angela’s squeal of delight drew his attention to the bowl. There, wading amongst the Cheerios, were a pair of origami cranes.

“Ha, ha, very funny, Shelagh.” He rolled his eyes in faux annoyance.

“You never were in The Mikado, Dad! You would have said,” Timothy teased.

“I’ll have you know there are many mysteries in your old dad’s past, young man.” He placed a crane into Angela’s outstretched hand. His head came up with a jerk. “Hang on,” he muttered.

Sounds of boxes being moved travelled down the hall from the storage closet.

“Patrick, what on earth?” Shelagh called.

He popped his head out the doorway. “Don’t come in. I’ve just remembered something.”

Shelagh muttered under her breath. “I’ve finally gotten that room organized and you’ll make a mess in the work of a moment.” She sighed, her annoyance not entirely pretend, and returned to the kitchen.

Several minutes later she called down the hall, “Patrick, come and sit down. Your eggs will get cold.”

Patrick shuffled back and stood in the doorway for several moments before his family looked up. Collectively, they gasped.

Before them stood the family patriarch, stalwart and steady pillar of the community, trusted friend and confidante, bewigged and wrapped in a satiny yellow and blue kimono.

“They never collected the costume after they sacked me. I’d forgotten all about this old thing, it was with the boxes from my parents’ house. . .” Patrick’s voice trailed off as he looked up at the faces of his family.

Timothy paled. “Dad,” he whispered in the horrified voice only an adolescent can muster, “Take. Off. The. Wig.”

Patrick grinned wickedly. “I can sing “Three Little Maids from School Are We,” if you like.”

“No!” came the family chorus.

Pulling the wig off, Patrick continued, “Well, the wig is a bit scratchy, certainly,  but this might do very well for a dressing gown.” He stroked his thumbs across the hem of the wide sleeve.

At the sound of the postman, Timothy jumped up. “I’ll get that,” he announced.

“No, Tim, you finish your breakfast. I’ll get the post,” his father replied.

“Dad, no!” Timothy was aghast. “You can’t go to the door like that! You look . . .”

Patrick schooled his features into an expression of pained shock, an effort made more difficult by Timothy’s efforts to protect his father’s dignity.

“Dad, it’s fine, having a keepsake and all, but if you . . .if you went to the door in that people would not smile at you–or–or want to associate with you. Put it back in the box, Dad.” Worn from his efforts at parent-managing, Timothy went for the post.

The wicked grin returned as Patrick turned back to his wife. “He makes it so easy sometimes.”

Rolling her eyes, Shelagh buttered another piece of toast for Angela. “Yes, you’re very funny, dearest. Now go put that back in its box and eat your breakfast. Angela’s looking forward to her day in the park with you.”

“Oh, it’s not going back in the box, my love.” Patrick shrugged the robe off his shoulders and folded it over the back of his chair. As he took his seat, his eyes caught hers, their expression bring the color to her cheeks. “I’m quite. . . hopeful you’ll like to wear it yourself.”

 

Easing Fears

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“I never know when I love you the most. But I sometimes think that these are the times that I love you best.”

This little scene from 5.4 has captured our fangirl hearts. I think we’ll be hearing about it and reading inspired fics for a long time.

 

“Come on, then.” Shelagh stepped back from her husband. “Bed, and no arguments.”

With a slow exhale, Patrick rose to follow her down the hallway to their room. He lingered as she stepped into the nursery to adjust the covers on their daughter, watching as her light hand felt for the rise and fall of Angela’s breathing. The toddler sensed her mother edging away from the cot and stirred. Shelagh tucked the well-loved bear in the crook of Angela’s elbow and immediately the child settled. After a moment, Shelagh kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to Angela’s forehead, then moved quietly to the door.

He loved how Shelagh knew instinctively how to soothe their worries. Her touch, her voice, brought a sense of serenity to their home that made the hardest of times bearable. Without her, he knew his current conundrum would consume him. His fears for those poor babies and their families could quite easily take over all of his time as he searched for answers. Shelagh understood, but knew how to keep him centered.

He was surprised when rather than going on to their room, she stopped at Timothy’s door. A light tap, and she slipped into the room. The boy slept at an odd angle, his long thin feet hanging over the edge. Shelagh’s hand twitched, and Patrick knew she held herself back from fussing with the boy’s blanket. A moment spent shifting his books on his desk, and she left, closing the door behind her.

Patrick stepped close, a wry smile on his face. “He’s nearly a young man, Shelagh. I think he’s gotten beyond tucking in,” he teased.

Shelagh blushed, glancing at the floor. “I know. But when he sleeps, he looks so like the little boy who stole my heart, I can’t help myself.”

He squeezed her shoulder lightly, then slid his hand along her arm.  Reaching for her hand he brought it to his lips. “It’s a good thing he did. I’m not completely certain I would have won you if not for him.”

Her blushed deepened at his quick wink. “Patrick–” she chided half-heartedly.

He laughed, and led her by the hand to their room. Shelagh stepped over to her small vanity table and began to pull out the precise pins holding her hair. She ran her fingers through it, and reached for her hairbrush.

“No, let me,” Patrick asked. Their eyes met in the mirror, and he stroked the brush through her hair, smoothing it about her shoulders in the quiet of their room. Shelagh sighed and stood, wearing her “nurse face.”

“You’re exhausted, Patrick. There’s no reason for you to look at me so…hopefully. You need your rest.”

“I’m always ‘hopeful,’ my love.” He pulled her close to him and buried his face in her soft hair. He could feel Shelagh’s body start to relax into his, and pressed a kiss to her throat.

“Patrick,” she demurred. “It’s late.”

He grazed along her throat and whispered in her ear. “Do you think about how you love me often, my love?” His voice was husky. “When? Tell me. Do you think about how you love me when we’re apart, when I’m away?”

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips and felt the soft sigh escape her lungs. The strain of the evening’s work faded, his fears eased as their own private world surrounded them. In the quiet of their room, they found comfort in one another that night, and in the morning, would face those fears stronger together.

 

Caught Yellow-Handed

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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!”

 

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.

IMG_1841

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.”

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.”


Sixty-Minute Challenge, Prompt One: Sitting Pretty

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This is part of what will be a 3-part exercise in insanity. I write slowly, and need to push some of my boundaries. So, with a free Saturday, I decided to ask my Tumblr friends (come join us- follow the Call the Midwife tag, we’re there) to send in prompts for me to write responses to in 60 minutes. One down, two to go.

This prompt technically breaks the “No Turnadette” rule, but hey, give the people what they want.

Turnadettefangirl said: Okay, a fic where a piece of furniture is the main POV 😉 The gold sofa, the hatch, the bed. Those have witnessed a lotta Turner family drama (and joy)

I used to have it easy. I was a lucky sofa, and I knew it. Years ago, in the furniture store, the old second hand furniture would tell tales of terror and abuse.

“Look at my back leg,” the tallboy moaned. “Two brothers fighting took that one. I’ve had this old board to hold me up since.”

“My scratches,” wailed the dining room table. “I’ll never be glossy and polished again!”

But it was the old sofa on the corner that earned the most pity. Its upholstery torn and stained, cotton wool peeping out and missing an entire cushion, the old couch had seen it all.

“A family of thirteen,” the old voice croaked. “One beast jumped on me and broke my spine, another pulled out the horsehair for a school project, and I won’t even tell you the details of the season the entire bunch of them had the stomach flu.”

When I was purchased by a quiet couple, starting out their marriage, I considered myself lucky. The man was out all the time, and the woman seemed to prefer to spend her time with the piano bench.

I didn’t mind. Life was easy.

The day they brought home a baby, I worried. “My bright covers! My arms! This child will be the ruin of me!”

But the boy left me alone. The floor was his domain. Each day he would amass a collection of blocks and cars and small animals and build great cities. Each day he would spill something, too. I never spent much effort getting to know the carpets in those years. They never stayed long enough.

By the time the boy became slightly less clumsy, he had moved to the table and chairs near me. He was a serious boy, and rarely had any friends over. He would sit quietly and do schoolwork or read. I wondered why he looked so sad.

Then the man began to spend his nights on the couch. I never saw the woman, though I could hear her talking quietly with the others in the private rooms. I wasn’t a proper place for a grown man to sleep, though I must admit he did rarely spend a full night stretched out over me. His nights were spent out of the flat, or pacing the floor. Even the nights he spent in the bedroom, I doubt he got any rest.

Eventually, he returned to the bedroom. The flat was silent through the day and I was left to my thoughts. In the evenings, the boy would stay at his place at the table, whilst the man sat in one of the matching chairs, silently smoking.

They didn’t talk much, not really, though it felt as if there was so much to be said. The man worked and smoked, the boy read and played his music. Sometimes, I would see one watch the other, a helpless expression on his face. Neither ever sat upon me, and after ten years, I looked as good as new.

 

I was grateful; I was a handsome couch, and could last for decades. There was little chance I would end up old and worn out at a second-hand shop. The few times a visitor came by, I was always admired. It is possible that I grew vain.

After months of no visitors, life in the flat changed very suddenly. The boy and the man had a new friend. A quiet, small young woman, she soon found a comfortable spot on the handsome gold sofa near the lamp. Her visits became frequent, and though I began to see much more use, she was careful to care for me properly. She made sure my cushions were rotated, and soon after she came to live in the flat, I was vacuumed frequently.

It seemed that I was, if you’ll pardon the expression, “sitting pretty.”

Oh, how wrong I was. The woman was little, and took excellent care of me. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough for the man to be home, he sat upon me, as well. And not on his proper cushion on the other half. No, the man insisted on sitting as close as possible to his new favorite. Right over two cushions. At the same time! The man had no thought for symmetry or wear! I began to show signs of use.

Perhaps if the man and woman had been content to sit still, it would not have been so defeating. But they never seemed to be settled in one spot for long. Once the boy left of an evening, they would shift and nudge and thump. Their giggles and sighs only infuriated me more.

And shoes! They completely forgot themselves and for the first time ever, shoes scraped against my beautiful cushions. I was furious. The shoes had to go.

And then the shoes went.

My friend, I blush to tell you that the shoes were only to first of many items to be removed. More than one morning I was awakened by the presence of a cufflink poking through my fabric. The deep corners and recesses of my shape became the lost and found of the detritus of their shenanigans.

So now, no longer the proud, handsome showpiece, fit for the display window of the best furniture retailers, I am an ordinary, faded gold sofa.

And the worst of all, further proof of my disastrous decline, I have discovered the fact that will most assuredly put me in the back corner of the saddest of all charity shops.

Now they have a baby.