Tag Archives: Baby Turnadette

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

 

Christmas Trees and Mushy Stuff

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After working on some difficult writing, I needed a break and wanted to write some Turnadette fluff (although don’t get me wrong. Good fluff is hard to write-as you may soon read). Alas, I was fresh out of ideas. So I turned to my fellow Nonnatuns on Tumblr and begged for prompts (hey, I’m not proud).

One came in almost instantly from Clonethemidwife:  “Shelagh teared up, looking at the silver tree on the table, and the natural tree in the corner, both decorated with love by her family. She looked down at the sleeping girl in her arms, and knew that her daughter’s childhood would be so much better than hers…

With mushy stuff and fluff and some minor feels as Patrick learns more about his wife by what she tells him she wishes for their daughter’s future.”

I played with the prompt a bit, so it doesn’t address Shelagh’s childhood, but there are two trees, a loving family and lots of mushy stuff. Plus you may find a few lines dropped in from the series. But I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.

 

As Christmas Day eased into Christmas Night, a gentle quiet descended on the Turner family. Timothy struggled to hide his yawns while his parents sat close together, Angela sleepily finishing her last feed before bed. It was hard to imagine the chaotic scene that had been just this morning.

“Mrs. B. didn’t like it much when you caught her under the mistletoe at Nonnatus, Dad. I heard her say later that she always thought you were too charming for your own good.” Timothy’s eyes rolled Heavenwards.

“Tim,” Patrick’s smug smile belied the scold.

“She did,” Tim asserted. “I saw her wink at Mrs. Buckle when she said it though, and she always makes sure there’s Battenburg for you, so I think she rather liked it.”

“Oh, no. Do I have some competition on my hands, Patrick?” Shelagh teased.

“Not likely, sweetheart. You make a lovely Battenburg cake yourself.” He leant down and pressed a kiss to her lips.

Tim groaned. “Really? Angela’s still eating, you’ll put her off her bottle. Why was there mistletoe in a convent, anyway? Seems an odd place for it.”

“I was wondering that myself,” Patrick mused. “Weren’t you in charge of the decorating this year, Shelagh?” His grin became wolfish.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick,” his wife returned, blushing fiercely.

Tim reached into a nearby box of airplane model parts. stifling yet another yawn.

“Right, then. Bed for you, Tim. It’s been a long day, and you have the entire holiday to build airplanes and ride your new bike. No, no arguments.” Patrick stood and turned to his wife. “Shall I take her?” he asked.

“No, thank you, Patrick. I’ll let her doze just a bit before I bring her to bed.” Shelagh smiled. “I think we’ll sit here in the quiet for just a bit longer.”

Patrick nodded and followed Tim down the hall.

A small mewling sound escaped Angela’s lips as she released the bottle, then smacked her lips in her sleep. Shelagh touched a fingertip to the swollen upper lip. Was there a blister starting? No, just a drop of formula.

A sudden flood of emotions filled Shelagh’s heart. She teared up, looking at the silver tree on the table, and the natural tree in the corner, both decorated with love by her family.* How very different this Christmas was from the last. Joy replaced anguish, and with the addition of Angela, the family was complete.

She looked down at the sleeping girl in her arms.* How was it possible she was such a mix of the two of them? Barely two months old, Angela’s face revealed glimpses of both her father and mother. Would her hair stay fair, would her eyes keep their blue or turn greeny-brown like Patrick’s? Her neck was still not strong enough to show any discerning Patricky tilt, but Shelagh was certain Angela’s ears did stick out, just a wee bit.  

A tear escaped and trailed down Shelagh’s cheek. “You were ours from the start, Angel,” she whispered. The baby mewled again in response.

With Tim successfully in bed, his book a show of false staying-up-late bravado, Patrick returned to the sitting room. “Shelagh?” he asked, his voice husky. “What’s wrong?”

Her smile was wide, the tears glistening behind her glasses. “Nothing’s wrong, dearest. I’m just so very happy.”

Patrick released his breath in relief as he rejoined her on the gold sofa. “It’s been quite a time of it, hasn’t it?” he agreed. He slid his arm behind her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. “This is a much better Christmas than last year.”

Shelagh snuggled in closer. “Indeed. Timmy’s healthy, Angela’s safe with us, and I have the most wonderful husband I could ever imagine. I am a very blessed woman.”

“I wouldn’t say very blessed,” Patrick denied, his mood darkening. “I almost ruined everything. What if the Agency hadn’t approved us? I kept such secrets, Shelagh. It was you–you were the one that kept us together. I can’t imagine what would have become of us all if it hadn’t been for you.”

Shelagh reached up carefully and turned his face to hers with her free hand. “Listen to me, Patrick. That most certainly is not true. So much happened this year, and yes, there was sadness. I thought my heart would break in two when I learned of my diagnosis, and we did have our own struggles together. But this is important. I wouldn’t change a single moment of it. Not one. God put us on this road together for a reason. If we changed even one thing, we wouldn’t be here today.”

“Shelagh-”

She pulled his face to hers and pressed her lips to his, her thumb caressing his lined cheek. The kiss deepened and Patrick released some of his guilt.

“It wasn’t me, Patrick. It was both of us. It was hard, but you came back to me. I made mistakes, too, don’t forget. We learned to trust each other in ways we never could have if we hadn’t gone through all that.”

Patrick nuzzled his nose against her temple. “I’m not certain you’ll convince me of that entirely, sweetheart, but I do know I would have done anything to make things better. You’ve given me so much.” He pressed a light kiss to her cheek. “I thank God for you.”

The moment was broken by the sudden squall from the infant between them, then the abrupt burst of wind. Almost instantly, Angela settled back down to sleep. Laughing, Patrick reached for his daughter. “You, little girl, are very lucky you’re about to go into your cot. I am about to do all sorts of mushy things to your mother, and you most certainly would not approve.”

Fortunately for the infant girl, she had no idea what her father was talking about.

*italicized lines taken from Clonethemidwife’s prompt.

 

In Silence, Part One

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Here goes my first attempt at first-person PoV. I have to be very honest, Patrick Turner is not your typical 1st person character. He’d be great at describing things, and he’d be tops at making us feel compassion for those he serves.

But as far as deep introspection goes, Patrick is not your man. To make things more complicated, he’s having a bit of an emotional crisis.

Oh, well. I’m jumping in with both feet.

I watched Timothy cross the schoolyard, his back to me. I know I hadn’t given him the answers he wanted, but I didn’t know them myself. Our world was off kilter again, and just as before, I had failed him.

This time, it wasn’t a late arrival to a pageant or a forgotten lunch. I closed my eyes to shut out the image of the letter from the agency in Shelagh’s hands. Not now. There was a full day of calls and appointments ahead of me.

Instead, I concentrated on the streets in front of me. Poplar had been my home for so long that it was as much a part of me as anything. I belonged here, right now, not in any time past. I knew these people, had been there at the most important moments of their lives, and knew I was doing good work.

I pulled up to a shabby red brick building alongside the railyards, a regular weekly stop for years now. I reached into the backseat for my medical case and saw a bright blue piece of silk peeping out from underneath the seat.

My hands clenched around the bag’s handle. I didn’t have to press the scarf to my face to feel the softness of the skin it caressed or to breathe in her scent. Blood pounded in my ears and I closed my eyes, trying to regain my composure.

“You okay, then, Doc?” a voice called to me.

I turned to the entrance and saw the weather-worn face of my patient. John Hawkins had spent a lifetime moving the engines that transported goods off the docks and had little to show for his years of service but a mangy flat and a sparse pension. I was never quite sure how he and his wife managed, but there was never a complaint from either of them.

“I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. Hawkins.” I turned from the car and followed him into the building.

“I reckon by the way ya slammed yer door maybe not as well as all that.”

I gestured to the stairs. “Shall we go up to your room?”

“Nah, no secrets here. It’s just me angina, nothin’ the missus ain’t seen before.”

“Nothin’ the missus wants to see again, neither!” called out his wife. I smiled at that. Mrs. Hawkins joined us, slowly moving from the kitchen, her hands wrapped in a hot tea towel for relief from her arthritis. I’d try to take a look at that before I left.

Mr. Hawkins opened his shirt and waited patiently for me to get my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff in place.

“How are you feeling?” I asked. His arm was thick and covered with tattoos, the type Tim would stare at for hours if I let him. “Any new troubles?”

“Oh, well enough,” the old man answered. Judging by the pressure I was hearing, I had my doubts about that. It never failed to surprise me which of my patients complained the least.

“Your pressure’s a bit higher than I’d like, Mr. Hawkins. Have you been taking those walks like I suggested?” I removed the cuff and moved to his back. “Your heart rate’s a bit fast, as well.”

“John an’ me go up and down the lines every day together, don’t we love?” Mrs. Hawkins answered.

“Best part of the afternoon, innit?” The old couple shared a smile. “Together over sixty years now, Doc.”

“Ever since you started following me around the shop I used to work in. Wouldn’t leave me be from the very start,” Mrs. Hawkins confided, her cheeks a bit rosy. Shelagh’s cheeks pinkened like that.

“That’s right. Chased you ‘til I let ya catch me, dinn’t I?”

I laughed as I stowed my gear into the bag. “Right. Everything sounds as it should, all things considered. I’d like to take a look at your hands if I may, Mrs. Hawkins.”

She backed away a bit. “Oh, no, Doctor. It’s just a bit o’ the same. Nothing a warm towel won’t take care of. Oh, that’s the kettle. You have a good day today, Dr. Turner.” She very deliberately caught her husband’s eye, gave him a look, and turned into the kitchen.

Curious, I peered at her husband. The old man suddenly seemed a bit awkward. “Is there something you wanted to tell me, Mr. Hawkins?”

He turned away from me and began to stuff his pipe. “There was one thing. Me and the missus, we–we were wondering…You said I had to take things easy-like, no strenuous activity.”

“Yes. It won’t do to put too much pressure on your heart, Mr. Hawkins.”

I watched him fidget with his pipe and attempted to understand what he was trying to say. “Is there something you’re concerned about?” I asked.

“Well, we were thinking, maybe it would be alright if we…” His eyes glanced nervously towards the back of the flat. Swallowing loudly, he blurted out, “We was wonderin’ about marital activity if you see what I mean.”

In twenty-five years of medical practice, I had heard more about the human experience than most people could ever imagine. After a moment of surprise, I cleared my throat.  “You’re concerned it might cause an attack?”

“Yes. But Hildy and me, we ain’t–you know–in quite a while, and I have to tell ya doc, it ain’t good for married folk to completely cut off the supply lines. So we wanted to ask ya if maybe, if we were all kinds of careful, we might give it a go.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable fear. Mr. Hawkins was eighty-seven, and his wife wasn’t too far behind. “Have you discussed the possible consequences?” I asked.

“If ya mean, have I made sure my pension’ll go to Hildy if I kick off, then yes. We’re no fools, Doc. We know we’ve been lucky to ‘ve lasted this long. We’d just like to spend our last times as close as we always was.”

I considered for a moment, then stepped closer to the old husband. “As long as you’re both aware, I’d have to say-” I lowered my voice- “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

He looked up at me then, a spark in his eye. “That’s right, Doc. I knew you was a right ‘un. An old romantic, just like me!” He laughed as he clapped my shoulder, not so eager for my company now that medical permission had been granted. In a moment, I was on the other side of his front door.

I had to laugh as I walked back to my car. The old couple’s enthusiasm for each other was an inspiration. I couldn’t wait to share this tale with Shelagh tonight, after Tim had gone to bed and it was just us two. Her cheeks would slowly flush as she struggled to master her initial embarrassment, and then her eyes would grow big, a bold spark shining out.

The door creaked slightly as I stowed my medical case in the backseat. Again, the bright silk scarf caught my eye. A flood of images passed suddenly before my eyes and I remembered. I wouldn’t tell Shelagh this tale tonight.

I couldn’t tell her of this old pair, content with what they had, happy to spend their remaining time sharing all they could. I couldn’t tell her how, after nearly sixty years together, they still longed for the other’s touch. Since our dreadful hour, there had been no more than duty kisses between us.

It was temporary, I knew. Eventually, Shelagh and I would begin to talk around our silence, and then one night would again live as husband and wife. Shelagh was a good wife, and would be sure to accept my occasional attentions.

Suddenly angry, I reached for the scarf and shoved it in my pocket, out of sight. My next call was waiting.

 

Part Two

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.

His Safety Net

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Author’s note: This fic is set at the end of Series 4 Episode 5. Patrick has begun his recovery from his near-breakdown, and Shelagh has found resources within she hadn’t known existed.

I’m going to give this a Three Kettle rating, primarily because of the story’s setting (a bath). However, I think the kettles better reflect a level of intimacy rather than steam, which I think is actually kind of hot.

***   ***

It was like they were courting again. Walking together along the cobbled streets, lit only by street lamp, Shelagh couldn’t remember a time in recent months when they had walked alone together, no children in tow, no hurry to be somewhere. They walked together, happy and relaxed, as they talked about the whirlwind of events of the last few hours.

Serious conversation would come later, in private. For now, they just enjoyed each others company. Shelagh smiled softly as Patrick shifted his medical bag from his right to left hand, and edged more closely to him. A flash of memory passed before her eyes, of another time walking with Patrick, their hands so close, yet not touching. How confused she had been then, uncertain of her feelings and afraid of what her tortured thoughts might mean.

She moved an inch closer and threaded her fingers with his. Together, they took the long way home.

 

It wasn’t so terribly late when they returned to the flat. Timothy greeted them in the hallway, his sister in his arms.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick cooed as he reached out for his daughter. The bleak lines of fatigue faded from his face as he held his baby to his heart.

“It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type,” Shelagh countered. She reached over and kissed Timothy’s cheek. “Thank you for managing without us, dearest. You’ve been so completely dependable, and we’re very grateful. Your father and I have spoken about it, and we can’t ask you to do so much. We’re going to have to work out some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Penney if this is going to work for everybody.” She smoothed his shirt across his shoulders. “ Have you eaten?”

Glancing around the bounty of food left as thanks during Patrick’s illness, she asked, “Well, it looks like I won’t have to cook for quite a while, certainly. What will it be tonight? Steak and Kidney pie or pasties?”

Patrick followed her. “I’m starving, I can eat anything, even that frightening looking pan from Mrs. Everett, if no one else wants it,” he grimaced at the offending casserole. “Eating that well-meaning yet revolting mess is the least I could do after all you two have done for me. I owe you both so much.”

“It’s alright, Dad. Just remember this when it comes time for me to borrow the car.” The boy stretched.  “I’ve eaten already. Mostly Mrs. B’s cake, but I’m fairly certain neither of you will kick up a fuss about it. I’m for bed. Taking care of Angela is exhausting!”

Timothy started out the door and turned back. “I like the uniform, Mum. It suits you.”

Shelagh hummed  the gentle lullaby she used to coax her daughter to sleep each night, and began to shed her uniform. The steps were logical and short, and she found herself remembering another uniform from another time. The fine cotton replaced the worsted wool, but the starched cotton smelled just the same.  She found a home for the uniform in the wardrobe and slipped into her nightclothes.

Silently closing the door on her sleeping child, she moved to check on Timothy. His light was out, and for once he was not sitting up late with a book. The lad had surely put in his time this week. They would need to find a way to make it up to him. Perhaps a day trip to the seaside. The family would have to miss Church, but she doubted Timothy would mind.

The poor boy had been such a responsible young man these last few days. Shelagh knew she hadn’t been able to keep all of her worries to herself, and Timothy seemed to read her distress so clearly. But he trusted her, and had faith in his father. Timothy’s unwavering belief in his father had given her strength, too. She pressed a light kiss to his forehead, grateful for her son.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and she nudged it open. Patrick stood before the mirror over the sink, his shirt discarded and vest tossed in the clothes bin, braces hanging loosely at his sides. He lathered up, and looked back at his wife over his shoulder.

“I thought I’d get cleaned up. I’m not sure when I last gave myself a decent shave.”

“That’s alright. I like you a little bit bristly.” Shelagh moved to draw him a bath. “You should have a nice long soak, too. Just the thing to help you sleep.”

Patrick turned to face her. “You take the bath, sweetheart. It’s been a long few days for you, too. Or better yet…” his eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

Shelagh pressed her lips together, feigning a prim expression. “Really, Patrick. After all Timothy’s done for us, the last thing that boy needs is to be awakened by us splashing in the tub like a pair of selkies.” She ran her hand under the tap to check the temperature. Satisfied, she placed the stopper, then teasingly flicked a few drops of water in his direction.

With a grin, Patrick turned back towards the mirror. For a moment, Shelagh regarded his long back and the way his shoulders flexed as he shaved his face clean of the care of the last days. She stood and walked to him, pressing herself against his back, her arms wrapped about his waist. “I will wash your hair. though,” she murmured into his skin. “I’ll get you a towel. They’re still in the basket waiting to be folded.”

When she returned a few moments later, Patrick was in the bath, his head tilted back against the rolled edge. He looked tired, she thought, but the bone-weary exhaustion seemed to have left his face.

Opening one eye, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me? No monkey business, I promise. I’m not even sure I could, I’m so tired.” He held his hand out for her to grasp.

“We’ll make sure you get some good rest tonight. No surgery tomorrow-” she held up her hand when he began to protest. “One more day off, Patrick, There’s nothing so pressing right now, and you could use a day. We all could. Let’s get out of the city, go for a drive, have a picnic. Some time as a family.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Yes, Nurse Turner. Whatever you say.”

Their eyes held for a long moment, understanding passing between them. Shelagh stood and turned away.

“I thought you were going to wash my hair?” he complained.

“I am.” Shelagh slid the pretty blue flowered dressing gown from her shoulders. “You’ll see.”

The nightgown joined the dressing gown on the hook on the door before she motioned for him to move forward. “Make room. Just to keep my clothes dry, mind you.”

A breath of laughter escaped from his lungs. Shelagh knew she was certainly a far cry from the shy, self-conscious bride of their early months of marriage. She stood before him confident in their love and partnership, happy to revel in the closeness they had built together.

He slid forward in the tub and she slipped her slight form in the space behind him. The water was warm, but not uncomfortably so, considering the warmth of the night. She shifted, and let her body surround his.

They lay together in the soothing water, each releasing the stresses built up in their bodies. Slowly, Shelagh wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck. “Hand me the soap, if you please,” she requested politely.

A deep chuckle spread through his chest and he offered the white bar to her. “Yes, Nurse Turner,” he repeated.

Shelagh began to create a lather across his chest, but stopped to ask, “Patrick, did you mind me not telling you?”

He rested his head back, turning slightly to see her. “Mind? Why should I mind? You know my feelings about your nursing skills.”

She scooped up water to rinse his skin. “Yes, I know, but it…changes things. It makes a bit of a statement.”

“I’ll say. If I hadn’t had a desperately ill patient waiting when I saw you in uniform, I would have taken you into my office to make that statement. In fact, I’m fairly certain that several of the patients in the waiting room had a pretty good idea what was in my head at that moment.”

She blushed. Turning his head away, she poured a dram of shampoo in her hand and began to lather his head. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Wearing that uniform says something about my identity, who I am in the community.” Her fingers began to rub his scalp, finding the spot, just behind his ears, that he always responded to.

“I know. It says ‘Nurse Turner is here to take care of you,’” He groaned slightly as her fingers rubbed a bit harder. “Shelagh, if you want to go back to nursing, we can find a way. We’ll solve the childcare issue, and make a place for you wherever you want to be. We can do this.”

Her hands slid over his soapy head. “Rinse,” she ordered. He slid even farther front and lowered his head in the water before her. For a quick moment, their eyes met before he closed his eyes and she pushed water over his hair, rinsing away the last remains of sweat and Brylcreem and exhaustion.

“All done,” she tapped his shoulder. Rising to the surface like the selkie he had promised not to become, he shook the water out of his eyes. Automatically, he reached out and she placed a fresh washcloth into his hand. He dried his face, and then returned to his relaxed position against her.

“I’m not crushing you, am I?” he asked, He sighed deeply and ran his hand over her knee.

“I’m fine. I like you pressing against me.”

Shelagh’s hand moved up to his hair, and her fingertips began to comb through his unruly locks. She preferred his hair a bit longer, his fringe askew across his forehead, though she knew he struggled to control it. Now, with his hair smoothed back from his forehead like that, he looked different. No one else saw him like that, she thought possessively. He was hers.

She knew she belonged to him completely, as well. Her fears for him had waned, but she knew that even if he had not emerged from his…depression, she would have been just as tightly tied to him as she was at this moment.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders again and pressed her face into his neck. She couldn’t say the words in her heart, but he must have sensed them. He turned his head towards her, “Shelagh,” he whispered.

She looked up, then took his lips with hers. They kissed slowly, tender kisses that spoke more of devotion than passion. Her hands slid over his chest, stopping to rest over his heart. He shifted on his side slightly, his own hand cradling her head. As they pulled apart, he whispered, “I’m so very lucky to have you.”

She pressed her forehead to his cheek. “We’re lucky to have each other, dearest.”

He let out a small breath, a crooked smile crossing his face. “I don’t know what I would have done if not for you, sweetheart. I’m certain I wouldn’t have taken a break when I should have done,”  His face grew very serious. “It would have been so  much worse without you. You understood what I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit. Shelagh, without you I could have lost everything.”

“Pish,” Shelagh scoffed. “All you needed was a good rest.”

“No.”  He lifted her chin, meeting her eyes. “I needed more than a rest. I needed a safety net. I have that now, because of you.” His fingers tangled in the hair pushed behind her ear. “I’m better now.” He stopped abruptly, some old memory flitting across his face. He shook his head ruefully.

“I think I’ve said that before.” His eyebrows climbed up his forehead, wrinkling his brow. “I should say, I’m getting better. It’ll take more than just a few days off,  I’m afraid. I’ll need to make some changes. I’ve got to learn to say no sometimes.”

Shelagh smiled. “One day at a time, then?”

He nodded. “Yes. We’ll start with tomorrow. A trip to the seaside, perhaps?  A nice family day.” he settled back against her. “I think I’m going to like taking it easy.”

“Yes, well don’t take it too easy, if you please. You’re starting to get heavy, and it’s getting late. Time for you to get some sleep.” She pushed at his shoulders. “Bath time is over.”

Later, after Shelagh cleared the mess, she slipped into their bedroom. Patrick, full of hopes for the evening only minutes ago, lay sprawled on his back, asleep and already snoring. A quick look at the baby assured her that she, too, was in the land of nod.

Shelagh slid under the covers next to her husband and wrapped herself around him. He was still cool from the bath, and his scent filled her head. Patrick had once again returned from that grey place of isolation and fear, and once again, he was stronger for it. Their marriage would be stronger, too. Trust had taken its place beside their love.

 

 

An Unexpected Benefit

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Quiet came over the flat suddenly, as it did each night. Baths and homework, all the final preparations for the coming day created a such a flurry each night that Shelagh thought would the family would never settle. Then she would turn around and Timothy would be in bed reading, Angela asleep in her cot, and Patrick would be settled in his chair reading.

Once the quiet came, Shelagh slid into her own routine. Lunches were made, laundry sorted for the next day, and baby bottles were sterilized. By nearly nine, she was finally finished.

Patrick came into the kitchen. “You’re always so busy in here in the evenings now. Come sit with me.” He held out a hand to her.

“I will, Patrick, just one more thing. Let me get a bottle ready for Angela’s two a.m. feeding, and then I’ll join you.”

Patrick leant against the door jamb and watched her as she reached up to the cupboard for the formula.

“You don’t have to watch me, Patrick,” Shelagh told him.

His eyes laughed as his eyebrows twitched. “Maybe I like watching you,” he teased.

She glanced back, rolling her eyes. She reached from the collection of perfectly sterilized and stacked bottles. She always hated this part. It was rather like finishing the washing and having to use something right away. Measuring the powder, she grew a bit self-conscious.

“Patrick, stop. You’re making me nervous.”

Pushing off against the door frame, he  moved beside her.

“I know what you’re thinking, Shelagh. Don’t.”

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

Patrick reached around and took the formula can from her hands. “This can wait.” He slid his hands up her arms and looked down into her eyes. “What you feed Angela doesn’t make a difference. Shelagh, you could feed that child Horlicks and she’d thrive. In fact, I think Sister Monica Joan would prefer it.”

Shelagh wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I know, Patrick, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m letting her down. I want to give her everything.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you can’t give her everything. No parent can. I can’t give Timothy everything he needs, even though he’s my biological son. But we can give our little girl all we have.” He pulled her close. “And you give her so much, sweetheart. Angela is the sweet, lovely baby she is because of you. Not breast milk, not genetics, Shelagh. You.”

Finally, she was able to meet his eyes. “I suppose you’re right, Patrick.” She stepped closer into his arms. “You always make me feel better.”
“Do I?” he asked, his voice deepening. He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes teasing. “Then I suppose you’d better make it up to me.”

The unfinished bottle forgotten, Patrick led his wife to their bedroom.

Some time later, deep in the dark, quiet night, Angela’s cries came through the flat. Shelagh groaned and lifted her head from Patrick’s chest. “Patrick?” she whispered.

“Hmmm?” came the muffled reply.

“Do you know what the best part about bottle feeding is?”

Patrick groaned. He had been out-manuevered.

Shelagh turned to her side, wrapping the blankets tightly around herself. “You get to to take the midnight feedings sometimes, dearest!”

My Little Yellowbird

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Photo credit: Messer-Turner-Bates (look at her great work on Tumblr!)

(Go ahead and yell at me. I realize how self-serving this is. Grandma made me do it.)

The Poplar Community Center hummed with activity as nurses and nuns transformed it into it’s Tuesday purpose: Mother and Baby Clinic.  Angela Turner was in her usual place, right in the middle of things, just the way she liked it. Her pram, in its place next to the in-take desk, gave her a clear view of all the activity in the room while allowing her to keep her eye on her mother at all times.

“It’s quite sweet, really,” Sister Winifred said. The young nun turned to Shelagh Turner, busy organizing the patient files into proper order. “I can tell exactly where you are, just by watching her eyes!”

Shelagh laughed, and stepped over to her daughter’s side. “We always know where the other is, don’t we, Angel Girl?” She ran her hand gently over the silky hair. “We keep an eye out for each other.”

A loud rumbling came from the entrance, and the doors to the community room burst open.

“That Fred Buckle had better make sure he steers clear of me for the rest of the week, that’s all I have to say,” huffed Sister Evangelina, her arms swinging briskly back and forth as she made her way into the room.

“Yes, Sister,” appeased Sister Julienne. “But even you must concede that Fred certainly had little to do with the state of the roads.”

“That’s as may be, but he is responsible for the state of my tires. My bones will never forgive him for the shake up I’ve suffered today.” Despite her words, the crotchety nun’s mood was softening. “Angela Turner!” she cooed, walking gingerly over to the pram. “Mrs. Turner, you’ve brought exactly the right cure for my lumbago!”

Reaching for the smiling infant, she was interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Sister. But I’m afraid I must pull rank.” Sister Julienne, usually the epitome of harmony and peace, edged in front of Sister Evangelina. Her reward for such surprisingly rude behavior  was a delighted giggle as Angela turned and reached for her favorite person outside of the family.

“Yes, Angel Girl,” Sister Julienne murmured. Lifting the clinic’s darling up from her pram, the nun held her in a close cuddle. Angela laughed again, her little hand patting at the starched white cloth covering the Sister’s head.

Shelagh chuckled, “You’ll spoil her, Sister. You shouldn’t let her manhandle your wimple.”

“That’s not possible, Shelagh. You can never spoil a child with love.” Angela’s attention turned to the long cord holding the nun’s plain wooden cross. “Do you like my cross, little girl?”

Angela gurgled, tugging at the cord.

“And look at you, so pretty in your yellow dress. You know, Shelagh, I think I like her best in yellow. With those lovely big eyes, it suits her perfectly.”

Angela laughed again, her arms bouncing with delight. “You like yellow, too, my dear? Well, why wouldn’t you? Yes, yes, my dear, flap your little wings. Flap them, yes, there you go.” Sister Julienne laughed, not caring if she looked the least bit silly.

Shelagh smiled proudly as she watched the two play. Angela was such a happy baby, and never more than when she was the certain of someone’s attention.

Sister Evangelina, however, had had enough. “Really, Sister. You can’t spoil a child with love, but you can certainly monopolize her. How on earth is the poor little thing ever going to get to know anyone else with you around?”

An expression that can only be referred to as slightly smug crossed Sister Julienne’s features. “I am so very sorry, Sister. I know it must seem so to you, but how can I possibly be held responsible if the child prefers me?” Sister Evangelina now forgotten, she continued, “Yes, little one, flap your arms. Aren’t you just the prettiest little bird? Aren’t you just the prettiest little yellow bird?”

Waiting For Tomorrow

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Shelagh can’t sleep as she awaits the results of her pregnancy test. 

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