Tag Archives: Call the midwife

Beyond the Grief

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Before the great romance, there was a nun looking to heal her own spirit and a doctor and son who needed to rebuild their family.

 

She loved clinic days. She loved watching the mothers with their babies, catching up and comparing notes, the older children playing. The noise and barely controlled chaos of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic was the beating heart of the world of Nonnatus. The drama of midwifery, with its tests of mothers’ courage and her own skills, fueled her mind, but it was here that she felt she made the most difference.   

For a few hours, women would come to her to soothe their fears and anxieties. They would share intimate pieces of their own lives, revealing the power of love in the ordinary life that she had renounced. Life in the Order had provided her with a community when she needed one, had provided a place to worship and serve her God apart from the world, but of late she had become aware of a need to be part of a larger world. At the Clinic, she could pretend for a short while that she was part of their world.

From her corner in the back of the Parish Hall, Sister Bernadette scanned the room for a particular face. She told herself it was merely concern for a lost soul, nothing more, but she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She felt a sense of connection with him that should not have surprised her.  The sadness she saw in his eyes touched a past sadness of her own.

Twenty years and more had passed since her own sadness, and at times, the sting was just as fresh as the day her mother died. She pressed her lips together in concentration and pushed her own pain to the side. Today he would need some help, and if he would accept it, she would offer it.

There, she saw him. He stood just inside the doors to the Hall, his face nearly expressionless. She sighed. His was a face that should smile, she thought. He had such a clever smile and his eyes would light up with humor if he let them, but he was working so hard to be brave that she rarely saw his face light up.

For a year now, Timothy Turner would come to the Tuesday clinic straight from school. He would spend the housekeeper’s day off tucked in a back corner, his nose in his schoolbooks, trying so hard to seem indifferent to the commotion before him. Perhaps because she saw so much of herself in him, Sister Bernadette saw beyond the facade. She could see his eyes follow children as they sought out their mothers to settle squabbles or ease childish indignities, and her own heart clenched in pain.

She glanced at the charts before her, trying to determine when she would be able to appear at his side to offer a bit of cheer. He would smile at her, and for a moment, they would each find solace with the other. Perhaps a shared joke about one of the boys, or a math test score shyly presented for the hoped-for accolades. A small moment between them to fill a tiny bit of the hole in his heart. If it meant more than that to her, she was unwilling to admit it.

“Sister, Mrs. Peters will need a special visit later today. I’m not happy about her blood pressure. Could you place her on the evening calls list, please?” Doctor Turner’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Quickly, she turned her face to the chart in his hands, anxious not to be caught watching his son. “Certainly, Doctor. Nurse Lee will be able to see her this evening. Shall I put her down for tomorrow as well?”

When there was no response, she glanced up and saw his eyes on his son. The poor man, she thought.

“It’s a year today,” his voice was quiet, only for her ears.

“Yes,” she answered. Marianne Turner had been remembered by the Sisters during morning Lauds.

Doctor Turner stood quietly for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. She thought he would turn from her, his thoughts kept to himself, when he confessed, “He hasn’t said anything. I wonder if he even remembers the day?”

She wanted to reach out and place her hand on his but held back. “I’m certain he does. He–It’s quite possible he’s afraid to mention it for fear of upsetting you. He’s always been such a sensitive child.”

Dr. Turner sighed heavily. “He’s only a boy. He shouldn’t be worrying about me.” He paused, “Was it like that for you, too, Sister? Forgive me, I shouldn’t pry…”

A compassionate smile crossed her face. “No, please ask me, I’d like to help. Yes, I think I was rather a lot like Timothy. But my father was quite different from you, Doctor. It was too difficult for him, and I was sent away to school.” Unable to help herself, her hand gently pressed his coat sleeve. “I know it must be so very difficult, but you will get through this.”

He rubbed his thumb nervously. “Thank you, Sister. It’s been a hard year, but I’ve been managing. Marianne wasn’t one to dwell on the past, she wouldn’t have wanted us to get stuck, but I am worried about Timothy. I was so wrapped up in my own pain for so long that I’m afraid I’ve done damage.” His eyes met hers. “Is it too late?”

The young nun felt a flood of tenderness for this man and his son, and she understood in that moment that it was more than grief that made them suffer. Their love for one another had made them afraid to touch wounds and in their pain, they had turned away from their own best source of comfort.

“It’s never too late where there is love. Doctor. Forgiveness is the greatest gift God has given us, but we must find a way to it ourselves.” Her eyes were soft as she looked over to the boy in the corner. “Pain doesn’t disappear, but if we learn to accept it, it becomes another layer in our love for one another. Don’t be afraid of it. Timothy needs you more than ever. I’m quite certain there’s no permanent damage. He’ll follow your lead in all things, Doctor, you’ll see.”

The lines on his face softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Sister. We’ll try.”

Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. Sister Bernadette felt her heart lighten and a smile lifted her face. She could feel God’s grace in that moment of comfort, and sent up a prayer of thanks.

Doctor Turner seemed a bit taller as he rolled his shoulders back in determination. “Ask Mrs. Peters to wait a moment, would you? I have something to do.”

She watched him cross the Hall to meet his son, and was pleased to see him take the chair beside him. Timothy looked, up, his face guarded as he listened to his father’s words, and a crease formed between her eyebrows in worry. It wouldn’t be an easy path back to each other, she knew. Grief could prove to be a formidable barrier.

In that moment, however, the boy’s face lit up with a smile.

“There,” she whispered to herself. “They’ve made a start.”

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.

 

The Birth of a Nightgown

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Time for some classic pre-wedding Turnadette. Maybe I’m trying to distract myself from impending Series 5 doom. Whatever.

I’ve lit the stove and put two, maybe three kettles on for steam, I think.

Notes: Mannion was given as Shelagh’s maiden name in the cast list for the 2013 Christmas Special. We never heard it said, but that put it in the canon.

 

The light of the late spring dawn woke Shelagh Mannion from a light slumber. Stretching, she brought the covers up under her chin and turned into her pillow. She felt decadent sleeping past the sunrise, but after three months of life outside the convent, she appreciated the quiet solitude and ease of her mornings.

She smiled to herself and snuggled deeper into the blankets. She had enjoyed this time on her own, but soon her mornings would no longer be solitary or quiet. A week from today, she would wake for the first time as Shelagh Turner, wife and mother.

Her eyes opened in surprise and she sat upright in her bed. A week! Their engagement seemed to go on forever these last five months, and now suddenly she and Patrick would be husband and wife in seven days. A slow smile crept across her face and she pulled her knees up to rest her chin.

Married to Patrick in one week. It was hard to believe, after all they’d been through these last months. She wiggled her toes into the mattress. If things had gone according to the original plan, they’d have been married for more than two months by now. She sighed, and turned to look out the window.

Her life had taken so many unexpected turns, but her path felt sure. She felt such a deep happiness, one greater than she had ever known, and she was grateful. There was grace in the sadness, too. Shelagh knew without the pain of the past, she would not be where she needed to be now.

And she was definitely where she needed to be. Timothy was home from hospital finally, and despite the boy’s attempts at independence, he and Patrick needed her more than ever.

Good planning left the last of the wedding to-dos in the hands of her bridesmaids.  Shelagh could devote her energies to her soon-to-be family this last week. All there was left for them to do was try out Timothy’s suit and enjoy their time together. She would join them after church and spend the entire day with them. Content, Shelagh rose from her bed to pray.

Prayer was once again the salve for her soul, and she offered her petitions to a God she knew would accept her and love her, despite her human failings. Her breathing slowed and her mind stilled for a moment, and Shelagh let her peace fill her heart.

Standing, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her face still bore the impression of the hand it rested upon through the night. And the nightgown! The peace of the moment before fled as a crease formed between her eyebrows. All but her face, hands, and feet were shrouded in white winceyette. What would Patrick think? It was hardly a nightgown suitable for a wedding night, she realized. She looked like a child, or possibly someone’s granny.

She chewed her lip. She was completely certain this was the right path. Pledging herself to be Patrick’s wife was exactly the life she wanted. She felt complete with him, and this prolonged engagement gave them the chance to build a partnership. Together, they could face the challenges life put in their path. But as of next week, there would be one more element to their life together that made her nervous.

Her cheeks grew warm with her confusion. Why was she embarrassed, she wondered? There was no shame in the physical expression of love. The unique closeness it created between a husband and wife could strengthen their union, and she did not shy from the act. But what would it mean? How would it change things between them?

She shook her head, trying to erase her confusing thoughts. She had no need to fear what lay before her, indeed she longed for it. Patrick would be gentle; he would help her learn. Of course, a sexual relationship would bring them closer.

She knew this, and yet she did not. For weeks now, Patrick kept her at arm’s length. Their time together was filled with Timothy, their time alone shadowed by fears of gossip. Despite their good intentions, Patrick and Shelagh, the couple, fell from the priority list. Yet, somehow, this lack of closeness felt deliberate, somehow.

She found she missed him. Even when they were together, he held himself away from her. The gentle experiments in intimacy became fewer and fewer. No longer did he sneak quick kisses or whisper words he knew would pinken her cheeks.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she told her reflection. “Patrick loves you. After the wedding, then things will settle into place.” But she could not shake the worry that her fiance was more interested in her as a partner than a wife.

 

That evening, a tired Timothy swayed before her in his calipers, his black suit crisp in its newness.

“It’s perfect,” she told him. “You look very handsome.”

“You do look smart, Tim,” his father agreed. He tilted his head to get a better look and added,  “Quite grown-up, really.”

“Yes. You’ll need a haircut this week, perhaps your father–”

“It’s all in hand, Shelagh. Haircuts Thursday after clinic. I’ve asked Mr. Floyd to keep his shop open for us. Then Capriani’s for our stag dinner on Friday, and by Saturday morning, the Turner men will be fit and ready to be presented.” Shelagh watched the same grin crossed both of their faces.

“If it’s alright with you both, I think I’d like to get out of this monkey suit and into bed,” Timothy informed them. “I’m not much good as a fashion model.”

Patrick nodded. “I’ll help. The last thing we need is to find your suit in a pile on the floor tomorrow morning.”

Left alone for a few minutes, Shelagh set the room to rights. Tim’s school books were stowed in his bag, and his lunch left in the refrigerator to be packed in the morning. Knowing it was more likely to make its way to school if Patrick had a reminder, she left a note by his morning coffee cup.

She looked up at the sound of Patrick’s feet returning down the hall. “All’s well?” she asked.

“All’s well. He won’t read much tonight, despite what he thinks. He’s tired.” He relaxed his lean frame against the door jamb. His eyes followed her as she took care of those small chores that helped to make the flat so much more of a home in the last months. “Today was a good day,” he told her.

Their eyes met across the kitchen. “Yes, it was. I can’t remember the last time we spent so much time together.” She stopped herself, unwilling to douse the relaxed mood.

One step brought him before her. “I can’t either. Thank God there’s only one more week and we can be together like this all the time.”

Something in his voice surprised her. His timbre softened, luring her closer. Shelagh felt her heart begin to skip. She searched his face for signs of withdrawal, but his expression remained warm.

He reached for her hand and led her back to the sitting room sofa.

Shelagh chattered, filling the silence. “You’ll both look so smart together in your matching suits. I’ve chosen the boutonnieres for you, you’ll be quite dashing.”

“It’s not quite fair, you know,” Patrick teased, pulling her beside him. His eyebrows lifted with his grin. “You know exactly how I’ll look on Saturday, and I haven’t a single clue as to what my bride will look like at our wedding. All I know is that your new dress took the efforts of the whole of Nonnatus!”

Shelagh pressed her lips together, hiding a smile. “Patrick, you know you can’t. I know it’s just a silly superstition, but I want you to be surprised.”

He picked up her hand and entwined their fingers. “Surprised? I’m amazed you’re marrying me at all!” His eyes traced her face, his own growing serious. “I don’t even know what your hair looks like down,” he murmured.

Her cheeks grew warm. “Of course, you do, Patrick!”

With a small laugh, he grazed his fingers at her temple. “No, I don’t. You kept it buried under a wimple for most of our acquaintance if you remember. And since…since then, you’ve always worn it up like that. How long is it?” His voice seemed muted.

Shelagh gazed up into his face. Though he was smiling, his eyes glittered, their hazel color greener. The air in the room seemed to disappear and it became more difficult to breathe. The distance she had sensed between them was gone.

Without thinking, she answered the question in his eyes. Blood pounded in her ears, silencing her doubts, and she let instinct take control.  Reaching up, she removed the pins that kept her hair in its sleek twist, letting it fall down to her shoulders. The silence between them grew deeper, and Patrick buried his fingers in the blond tresses.

“You’re so lovely, Shelagh,” he whispered, and she felt for certain he would kiss her.  Then he pulled away, making some space between them. “I should take you home.”

The air between them still crackled, for all his attempts to bring things back to normal. Bewildered, she watched his Adam’s apple move convulsively in his throat as he swallowed. Tired of the distance, Shelagh pressed a kiss to his mouth.

Surprised by her sudden move, Patrick sat ramrod still, and after a long moment, Shelagh released his lips. A small breath fluttered from her lungs as her eyes opened to meet his.

Her bold gesture triggered a change in him. “Well, then,” Patrick exhaled.  He slipped her glasses from her nose and placed them on the table. “Home can wait.”

Something opened up in Shelagh, something she’d felt those few times Patrick loosened his control. She met his mouth in a slow, lingering kiss, one hand caressing his cheek whilst the other wrapped around his neck. She held his face to her, their kiss building to a sweetness she did not want to end.

She knew he must have sensed her eagerness, for he deepened the kiss. His scent filled her head, the intimate taste of his mouth thrilling her. Her arms wrapped tighter about his neck and she pressed herself closer to him.

In response, Patrick shifted and pressed her back into the arm of the sofa. The angle was awkward, and they could not find the closeness they sought. In a single movement, he slid his arm beneath her knees and swept them over his lap. They were now closer than they had ever been.

Patrick kept the kiss slow, his hands gentle as they rested against her knees. A low sound escaped from Shelagh’s throat, and in response, he slid his mouth along her jaw.

“My love,” he whispered. His mouth found the soft skin at the base of her ear as his fingers stroked the smooth skin behind her knee.

She coaxed his mouth back to meet hers and she gave him the kiss she had been thinking of all day. The suppressed passion of the last months rose to the surface, and she was overwhelmed by the strength of it.

Too soon, Patrick pulled back, easing her away from the intensity of their embrace. He traced the line of her cheek with his nose.

“Alright?” he breathed.

“Yes, alright, Patrick.”

They stayed that way, heartbeats slowing and minds clearing. After long moments, Patrick shifted, helping her up to a less amorous position. He pulled her close to his side and nuzzled her hair.

Shelagh pressed her face against his chest. The feelings aroused by their embrace calmed, but her confusion did not clear. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” Her words were soft, barely audible.

His head turned to her, baffled. He stayed silent, waiting for her to find her words.

“It’s so confusing. I’m so happy, and content and…it feels so right, Patrick, being together with you. But we haven’t . . . Done things in so long . . .and I thought…I thought that maybe you didn’t think of me this way. That maybe this wouldn’t be an important part of us.”

“Not important!” he groaned. “Shelagh, I’ve spent the last five months taking twice daily cold baths to keep myself from “doing things” to you. I had to hold myself away from you or I’d have–My God, Shelagh, I’m mad for you! I didn’t want to–to frighten you, or make you feel uncomfortable about any of this. But I can tell you, without any doubt, that I very much want this to be an important part of our marriage.”

This time, it was Shelagh who lightened the kiss, placing her hands on his shoulders and keeping her face even with his. “You don’t have to treat me like a china doll, dearest, I’m not afraid. But you’ll be patient with me? You’ll help me learn?”

“Absolutely nothing would make me happier, sweetheart. We’ll learn together.”

Much later, so much that she nearly missed her curfew at the boarding house, Shelagh stood at window of her rented room and watched Patrick drive off. She pulled down the blind and turned to her bed. There, folded neatly, was her old winceyette nightgown.

She held it up for inspection. “Sorry, old girl,” she murmured, surveying the yards of fabric. “It’s time for you to go. I’m going to be a married woman, after all. It won’t do to wear an enormous granny nightie for our wedding night. I’ll need something pretty, maybe with flowers? Yes. I’m certain Patrick will like that. Something pretty and flowery, with a bow in the back, perhaps…”

 

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 Four

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Poor Patrick has been suffering long enough, don’t you think? Maybe it’s time for him to have the think session needed to get him back to his happy life.

Thank you all for your support of this fic. It was a real challenge to write Patrick in the first person without becoming too self-indulgent.  I thought it was fitting to use the patient list to highlight the journey he has to take to get to a place of trust. Who knew Lady Browne would come in so handy?

I hope you enjoy this conclusion.

Here’s a link to Part Three

 

I needed space. I drove without thinking, passing through the darkening streets. The stonework of the city slowly began to give way to greener spaces, and soon I found myself on a long, quiet stretch of road.  

The steady hum of the engine eased my mind into a blank space. All thoughts from the long day receded and I focussed on the grey asphalt before me, the harvested fields along the road. The tight coil of tension I felt in my entire body began to ease into a dull ache. After a few more miles, I pulled over to the side of the road. I inhaled one last drag from my cigarette before I climbed from the car and began to walk.

Exercise. That’s what I needed. I’d been too cooped up on the narrow confines of the city for too long. I needed to fill my lungs with the sharp cool air of the countryside; to stretch my legs and feel my heart pump firmly in my chest. I needed time to be away from all the demands.

Long strides took me down the road, the sound of my shoes clicking on the hard surface a sort of white noise that filled my head. Before long, I came to a crossroads. I turned and looked back. The car was too far back for me to see in the gloaming, even along the straight road. I knew it was there, waiting for me. But if I kept walking on, would I lose it?

I hesitated. The road sign indicated villages in either direction, not so very far off. I wasn’t likely to entirely lose my way. I lit another cigarette and pulled the smoke deep into my lungs.

Deliberately, I reached into my pocket and pulled out Shelagh’s scarf. The smooth silk seemed almost fluid in my hand; solid, but almost intangible at the same time. I loved Shelagh in blue. Not for the first time, I chuckled to myself about that. Would I feel the same about the color if the habits worn by the Nonnatuns were another color?

An image came to my mind, blocking the ardent feelings the scarf conjured:  Shelagh’s face, stunned into a sharp anger as she rounded on me after that horrible interview. I could hear her voice, accusing me, blaming me for destroying her dreams.

But we’d been approved, after all. Why, then, had she looked at me with such pained confusion this morning? She was getting what she wanted. My mind turned away from the thought, only to hear her words again.

“How can you treat others when you so clearly cannot treat yourself.”*

My eyes closed tightly to block the image. Where had that come from? Shelagh knew me, better than anyone. Did she now doubt even my medical abilities?

She was wrong. I was a good doctor. I wasn’t perfect, but I knew that much. I hadn’t fallen into the traps so many other medical men had succumbed to. I wasn’t arrogant, or cynical, or indifferent. I could care for my patients without regard to my own troubles.

So what if I preferred to keep parts of my life in separate little compartments? Bringing up the pain from the past would do no good, and would indeed keep me from doing good. We had been happy until this matter. During the trials of Timothy’s polio and Shelagh’s own struggles, I was there, strong and supportive, and I had helped.

Even now, in the midst of this mess, I worked to improve lives, to lessen pain. How could Shelagh expect me to care for my patients if I were focussed on our problems? My mind filtered through the people I had helped through the years of pain. For God’s sake, hadn’t I found a way through the agonies of the war to help the people of Poplar? How did Shelagh think I managed to get through the pain of Marianne’s death?

But her words kept going through my head. “Treat yourself.” No. Shelagh was wrong. The past was best left just there. Dwelling on it would only make things worse. My way was better. My way was the only way.

I rolled my shoulders, set on my course. I would continue as I was. Shelagh would grow to understand, and our life together could resume its course. I turned back towards the car.

There was still work to be done before I went home. My notes for Lady Browne were yet to be completed, and the list for tomorrow’s nursing calls needed adjusting. I didn’t envy the workload the Nonnatuns would face with the added burden of the loss of Chummy.

My feet halted in their progress. Nonnatus would send a rotation of nurses for the woman’s care. Would Nurse Noakes remain with her mother or would she go out on her own calls? Was I wrong to assume Chummy would remain home to assist in her mother’s care?  

My throat tightened. During Marianne’s illness, I worked long hours away from home. Poplar’s population was booming, and fewer doctors were coming to the area. My practice consumed nearly as much of my attention as it had in those early days of the National Health Service. 

Just as in the early days of our marriage, when the scars from the war were still fresh, Marianne and I tacitly agreed to concentrate on the present during her illness. We were of a like mind that way. Neither of us wanted to allow the pain to surface. Marianne filled her last days with time with Timothy, whilst I centered my attention on my patients.

“Hell’s teeth.” The quiet exclamation escaped my lips as the full impact of the thought hit me. Every time life became unbearable, I used work as an escape. I wondered now if perhaps I chose to start my post-war practice in Poplar for this very reason. In the East End, I could keep my secrets in the dark. In the East End, I could pretend my past did not exist.

My hands opened, and the silk began to slip through my fingers. With a convulsive clench, I caught the scarf and brought it to my face. “Shelagh,” I whispered.

From the moment Shelagh picked up the telephone and called me from the Sanatorium, she had been brave, honest and completely committed to our life together. There was a fierceness to her love, a depth I never knew in my partitioned life. Perhaps it was her faith, perhaps her own openness, but Shelagh had brought such wonder to my life. Was I willing to let that disappear?  At the very least, I owed her my complete trust.

Shelagh’s  love had opened up parts of my heart I had never known existed, and I rejoiced in it. I was a fool to think I could be content with anything less.

I felt the burden lift from my shoulders as I accepted my course. Shelagh knew me, flaws and all, and loved me still. She would help me tear down the walls I had built up separating myself, and we would be stronger for it. My steps quickened as I grew more impatient to get back to my wife.

We had work to do.

 

*Line taken from dialogue in Call the Midwife, S3E8.

 

In Silence, Part Three

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Here’s a link to Part Two

 

My calls were finished well before tea time, but rather than heading home, I returned to the surgery to complete my notes. Reverting to old habits this week, I claimed it made more sense to keep all the files in the surgery, but even to my own ears the argument sounded feeble.

Excuses depleted, it was time to head home. I shrugged my shoulders into my coat and patted my pockets for my keys. My hand found its way to my breast pocket again, and I felt the silk of Shelagh’s scarf cool against my fingers.

Her face appeared before me as it was this morning before I left, the same combination of anguish and bitterness that made me turn away; that very same combination I had seen after that disastrous interview. It hurt to breathe suddenly.

Shelagh had what she wanted now, the Agency’s approval assured that. From the very start, there was a baby between us, and today’s letter would finally make that dream a reality. Despite my blunders, the adoption agency approved us as parents. I wanted to feel relief, but couldn’t.

The shrill ring of the telephone brought me back to the present and I picked up the receiver.

Peter Noakes was never one for hyperbole, but his strained response to my questions over the phone made it plain the situation was urgent. Guilty in my eagerness to avoid home, I rushed to the aid of Lady Browne.

A brief examination confirmed my suspicions. The only remaining care we could offer was palliative. Morphine would help ease my patient through the worst of the pain, but I could offer no relief for the uneasiness and tension that filled the room.

Nurse Noakes was never one to fade into the background. Her personality, even more than her size, made others notice her. Curiously, in her own sitting room, she seemed to shrink. Aside from an overly-cheerful greeting, she had little to say as I examined her mother.

Lady Browne’s illness did nothing to diminish the force of her own personality, however. She reminded me of some career officers from my Medical Corp days, autocratic and cold,  but there was an added layer of bitterness that hinted at deep discontent. She would hold the ramparts against her disease, but at great cost.

As Nurse Noakes fled the sitting room to see to the routine tasks of preparing the sickroom, it seemed obvious that she felt the cause of her mother’s disappointments. I knew enough of the family’s past to be concerned that these last days could be more than they could handle.

Peter Noakes stood in the doorway, his face lined with concern. He turned to Nurse Lee and opened his arms to his son. “I’ll have him, then.” The toddler quickly settled in his father’s arms.  “Cup of tea, Doctor?” He gestured towards the kitchen.

I nodded back. “Yes. Thank you.” I lifted my case and followed him to the back of the house.

The police sergeant moved about the warm room, the child in the playpen never far from his attention. He had an ease with the child I admired. Peter Noakes was no stranger to the day-to-day care of his son.

I wondered if I felt a bit of envy, as well. Timothy was born almost precisely the same time as the NHS, and while I had Marianne to tend to my family at home, I was on my own with the new healthcare system. Rather than witness my son’s milestones, I learned of them late at night, or sometimes over the telephone lines. Another regret.

I cleared my throat. “I’d have thought your mother-in-law would be in private hospital. Are there any circumstances I should be aware of concerning Lady Browne’s care?”

Steam rose from the kettle as Sgt Noakes filled the teapot. He sighed heavily, as if he were choosing his words carefully. Finally, he answered. “Lady Browne and Sir Arthur have…gone their separate ways, and I’m afraid it’s left her a bit skint at the moment.” He carried the teatray to the table. “She was on her way to leaving our home when she had this attack. If she’d been anywhere else, I’m sure she’d have kept it from us.”

Freddie pulled himself up to stand in his playpen and squawked in time to his bounce. His father smiled at him, and passed a biscuit to the outstretched hand. “Don’t tell Camilla,” he confided. “She doesn’t like him to have sweets, but the poor little man can’t help it. He’s got his dad’s sweet tooth.”

A smile tugged at my mouth. “With Timothy and me it’s cheese. Shelagh says we should have been mice.”

Sergeant Noakes chuckled.“Nice to be taken care of though, isn’t it?” His face grew grave. “To tell you the truth, Doctor, it’s Camilla I’m most worried about. She and her mother have never been close–well, that’s an understatement. Boarding schools and yearly visits–my wife’s got a tender heart, Doctor Turner. She pretends it doesn’t bother her, but it does. And now Lady Browne’s so ill, I’m afraid Camilla’s heart will break.”

My eyes stayed on my teacup. Peter Noakes needed a listener right now, not my advice.

“Lady Browne is so committed to her own dignity, she won’t even discuss what’s right in front of her. A good row, that’s what they need. Instead, Camilla’s family let it all fester. And now it’s too late to fix it. Camilla will watch her mother die and never be able to say the things she needs to, or hear the things she needs to hear.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Such a waste. I know they love each other, but the walls are too thick.”

Young Freddie tossed a cloth lion from his playpen and his father stooped to pick it up. His hand caressed the fine dark hair on the boy’s head. “I can’t imagine turning away from this little fellow, not in a million lifetimes. He’s brought us more joy than we ever imagined.”

At that moment the man turned his face away from me. Perhaps to disguise his emotions, he reached down to his son and lifted him into his arms. “How ‘bout a hug for your old man, then, hey?”

I was suddenly desperate to get away. I stood and announced, “I’m off then, Sergeant. Nurse Lee will know exactly what to do, but if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call me.” I made for the kitchen doorway and turned back. “I’m really very sorry, Peter. Shelagh and I…”
I couldn’t finish, but he understood. He reached out and clasped my outstretched hand.

 

*”From the very start, there was a baby between us”–this line is taken from a quote by Stephen McGann in series 3 promotional materials.  Here’s a link to @bannatnd.tumblr.com’s post back from December 2013.

 

Part Four

 

In Silence, Part Two

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Here’s a link to Part One, if you’re looking for it.

The morning soon became afternoon, without a break from the steady stream of home visits. I ate my lunch in the car, as was my habit. Early in my marriage to Shelagh I tried to stop at home for my midday break, but I soon found that the demands were too great on my time. If there were any hopes of being at the dinner table of an evening, I would have to push through the day. This past week, I hadn’t been home for dinner once.

My practice could easily take up all of my time, and I could feel myself sliding back into the long hours I worked in the past. I knew how to be Dr. Turner. I could heal the sick, or at the very least could offer comfort. I knew my path.

When I first came to Poplar, no one asked any questions. The smoke still lingered from the war, and there were wounds that needed immediate attention. I threw myself into the work with a vigor I thought long gone. There was no looking back, the way was forward.

I met Marianne during this time. More than one date was cancelled at the last minute, but she always seemed to understand. Even during our marriage, she would refer to my practice “the other woman.” There was an easy way about her that I found soothing.

My throat tightened guiltily at the thought of her. Had she realized how much I had kept from her? From the beginning, there had been a tacit understanding between us not to discuss the war. I knew as little about her past as she knew of mine, and neither questioned it. An idea began to niggle at my mind. Why were we content to settle for only part of each other?

“Last one,” I promised myself as I a lit another cigarette.  I inhaled deeply and glanced about the car. My flask of tea stood empty on the dash next to an uneaten sandwich. The full ashtray gave testament to how I had spent this break. I’d have to empty that before I went home. The last thing I needed was for Shelagh to see how much I’d been smoking lately. Trapping the cigarette between my lips, I climbed out of the car and made my way up the stairs to my next call.

 

The flat had the well-scrubbed look of better times gone by but not forgotten. Sunlight gleamed through the clear glass windows, brightening the furniture veneers polished thin. A vase of fresh flowers called from the corner by the window.

A cheerful spot, at first glance. But there, in the back of the flat, the dark corridor seemed to pinch away at the hard-earned cheerfulness of the public rooms.

I squatted beside the threadbare sofa and peered into my patient’s throat. “I must say, Mrs. Babbish, young Billy seems to have passed through his bout of measles quite nicely. He’s past the point of danger, and this rash is well on it’s way to fading.”  I tousled the young boy’s head, smiling at him. “You think you can take it easy if I let you go out to play tomorrow?” I asked him.

The boy’s cheer filled the space. I laughed, glad to be able to give good news.

“Hush, Billy,” his mother warned, her lips tight. Her eyes flashed towards a closed door down the hall. “You’ll wake your father.”

I could feel an instant tension bloom in the room. My eyes followed hers to that door.

The doorknob rattled, then the door opened to reveal William Babbish. I knew him to be a well dressed, supercilious man on the streets of Poplar. The man before me pressed against the door frame, his clothes rumpled from the bed.  He cleared his throat with a rough, phlegmy sound and growled, “I asked for quiet!”  The bloated face, once handsome, reddened in warning.

I drew his attention to me. “Your son’s recovered nicely, Mr. Babbish,” I told him cheerfully. “Right as rain in no time.”

Babbish noticed me in the room for the first time, and turned in my direction. He stood taller, and walked towards me with a slow, practiced stride.  The anger evaporated as he focussed his eyes on me.

“Doctor.” His greeting was formal, and when he reached out his hand I saw the alcoholic tremor shake his arm.

“Your wife’s done an excellent job of managing things.”

The man stood with a studied balance and nodded, his eyelids heavy. “Thanks to you, too, Doctor.” His tongue slogged through the words.

“William, dear, I’ve put the kettle on. You go back and lay down, it’s been such a long day for you. I’ll bring a cup in for you in two ticks.” Mrs. Babbish’s nervous laughter set my hackles up. Her young son didn’t make a sound.

Babbish moved as if underwater. He took a deep, chest-expanding breath and nodded a farewell, then let his wife lead him back down the darkened hallway.

I took the moment to pack up my case, giving them the illusion of privacy. Murmured voices, the rattle and click of the doorknob, and she returned. The tight look about her lips was gone, replaced by a cordial, if distracted, smile.

“Tea’ll be ready in a minute, Dr. Turner. Billy, why don’t you finish that puzzle you’ve started?” Her hands smoothed back her tidy chignon.

The rapid change in mood revealed more than any long consultation. Today was simply part of a long parade of days driven by William Babbish’s alcoholism. His wife began to chatter, filling up the air so there was no room for questions. Her son was on the mend and she had no need for my medical expertise. As long as the bedroom door remained shut, Mrs. Babbish could pretend their life was normal.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Babbish,” I answered. Time spent over tea would be wasted. Any help I could offer would be rebuffed.  I would have to wait and let this drama play out.

After the tense brightness of the Babbish home, the dark stairwell offered me a moment of privacy. I lit up another cigarette and leant back against the tiled wall. My headache was drifting down to my shoulders, coiling in knots of tension. To ease the pain, I stretched my neck, trying to work the strain from my muscles. Shelagh’s small hands always knew how to relieve the tightness there.

The pressure intensified between my eyes, and my fingers moved to pinch the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t ask Shelagh for help. My throat tightened and the image of her face this morning got past my guard. Bloody hell, I made a mess of things.

For some unfathomable reason, she chose me, left the life of service to God to be my wife. Despite the many reasons not to, she promised herself to me for always. Now she knew how damaged I was, Shelagh would stand by those promises. I would go home tonight, and every night, and she would be there. She would care for me, help raise my son, be my partner in old age.

Shame broke through the cracks in my guard. Those buried months pushed at me, looking for light. I pushed back. I’d manage things, I knew I would. Just as before. Soon, I could put this behind me. Shelagh and I would find a way to be.

There was no solace in that knowledge. We would manage, but I knew I would remember the wonder I had let slip through my fingers.

I crushed my cigarette into the concrete floor and went back to work.

 

Part Three