Tag Archives: Call the Midwife fan fiction

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Four

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A/N: Four chapters in and no one’s as much as packed a bag. This might take a while.

Previous Chapter

The last Sunday of Advent marked a change in Nonnatus House every year, a shift from contemplation to anticipation. For the faithful, the celebration of the birth of Christ served to renew the spirit. For the others, the sense of tradition and custom helped to ease the stress and pain of life and gave the energy to push forward. After a particularly difficult autumn, the community of Nonnatus needed a new beginning more than ever.

To that end, a gathering had been called after Church services to present the planned mission. In quiet words, Patrick, Shelagh and Sister Julienne put forth the details and goals to a surprised room. By the time they were finished, the faraway world of the Eastern Cape of South Africa had replaced any thoughts of tree trimming and holiday baking. 

“I would like to thank you all for your attention,” Sister Julienne’s restrained voice cloaked the room in calm. “The Order has committed to sending two nuns along with Dr. and Mrs. Turner, and Mr. Hereward has agreed to go to serve as a liaison with the local church authorities. Beyond that, everyone is free to decide for themselves.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Patrick joined. He spread his arms out, his hands wide open. “We realize this is unexpected, that we’re asking for something quite extraordinary. But we are certain that if any group can help Hope Mission survive, it is this one.”

Twelve people sat around the long table of the Nonnatus dining room considering the proposition before them. A six-week long mission to the South African bush was hardly what anyone expected when this meeting was called. Indeed, until an hour ago, the only thing on most minds was the enormous Christmas tree in the sitting room.

“Doctor, may I ask a question,” Nurse Phyllis Crane’s voice broke the silence.

“Of course.”

Phyllis looked around the table, then turned her focus back on Patrick. “This all seems very much a rush job. Even if we were to bring in reinforcements for the community which we now serve, how could we possibly be expected to complete preparations in such a short time?”

Shelagh stood. “Nurse Crane, the Mission Society would make our efforts a priority. They are prepared to meet all of our needs, be it one nurse or ten.” 

Phyllis leaned forward, her chin against her fist. “This does require some thought.”

“Yes, of course,” Shelagh responded. She glanced around the table.  “However, and I do see the difficulty here, we will need a decision from you as soon as possible if we are to assemble the team from other sources. There will, of course, be no expectation that any of you participates. We simply felt that the project should be presented to you before anyone else.”

Phyllis nodded, then continued. “Mrs. Turner, I don’t mean to be intrusive, but is it practical to consider bringing children on such a mission?”

Shelagh’s lips pressed together and Patrick’s hand reached for hers in support. She turned squarely to Nurse Crane and answered, “The Mission assures us that the children will be perfectly safe the entire time. Timothy may continue his studies whilst there, and a local woman will be found to assist in Angela’s care.” She met Phyllis’ eyes determinedly. “As to whether or not it’s practical, no, it probably isn’t the most practical decision we’ve ever made. However, Dr. Turner and I feel there’s much for Timothy to gain from this experience… and I couldn’t bear to leave Angela behind, even for only six weeks.”

Phyllis nodded in understanding. “Of course.” She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Alright then, I suppose I’ll have to start learning Afrikaans now. Or perhaps Xhosa! I’ve heard the clicking sounds are remarkably difficult to reproduce for the European tongue!” She looked around the table, her face eager for the adventure.

“Hear, hear, Nurse Crane,” came Tom Hereward’s voice from the far end of the table. He studiously avoided Barbara Gilbert’s eyes.

“I can go, if the Mother House would like me to,” volunteered Sister Mary Cynthia.

“As can I,” added Sister Winifred.

Sister Julienne nodded in their direction. “Thank you both. I think it best if we sit together and decide amongst ourselves who should join the mission. There is also Sister Monica Joan to consider. We must not make the change too difficult for our sister. She has taken…” she paused to take a deep breath, “She has taken Sister Evangelina’s death very hard and will require extra care.”

“Well, I don’t need to think about it,” Trixie’s voice came forcefully through the room. “I’ve always wanted to travel beyond France. This doesn’t sound like The Grand Tour, but I’d love to see Africa.” she looked at Sister Julienne. “Sister, if you’re quite certain things will be managed without us, I would very much like to go.”

The nun nodded. “Of course, but you might want to consider for a day or so?’

“No,” Trixie smiled bravely. “I’m definitely on board. Who knows? This could be exactly the change I’ve wanted.”

Patsy looked around the table. “I’m afraid I’m out. I can’t speak for Delia, of course, but we’ve already booked our trip to Paris this spring. I’m not sure we could–” She met Delia’s eyes across the table, and a moment of agreement passed between them.

“Of course not,” Shelagh answered. “We’re not looking for sacrifices from any of you. We hope that anyone who joins us will do so happily. Things will be difficult enough without anyone feeling uncomfortable with their decision.”

“Then you can be sure to count on us to hold down the fort here, Shelagh.” Patsy’s confident smile was meant to reassure, and it did.

“Mrs. T, I’m not so sure why I’m here? There’s not much I can do on the medical front, and no one’s ever asked me to serve in the manner of a religious.” Fred sat perched on a stool at the end of the table.

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged glances. “Fred, we were hoping you might consider coming along to provide some of your…special skills,” Patrick told him.  “From what we’ve been told, there’s more than a bit of corruption in the local government, and we’ll need someone who can act as a scrounger.”

“Plus,” Shelagh added, a sly smile lighting her face, “there’s none better to play the Pied Piper when it comes time to dig the new wells. You could be a big help to us, Fred, but I know you may not want to leave Violet. There’ll be no hard feelings if you decide to stay home.”

He nodded. “I’ll have to give it a good think. Plus, the Mrs. won’t be none too happy if I don’t discuss it wif her first.”

“I suppose that leaves just me, then,” Barbara Gilbert’s voice piped up. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to her, and color came to her cheeks. “I’m not certain that my parents would approve of me going. They were unhappy enough when I told them I was coming to London if I’m honest.” She looked about the room smiled her most “grown-up” smile. “Well hopefully that’s worn them down a bit. I’d hate for them to be disappointed when I tell them I’m going to Africa.”

Shelagh squeezed Patrick’s hand, her lips pressed together to hold back her excitement. “Well done. We couldn’t have asked for more support. Thank you all so very much!” Unable to contain her joy, her smile burst forth and filled the room with brightness.

 

Next Chapter

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Three

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Previous Chapter

“A missionary? Shelagh, I’m as far as you can get from a missionary.” Patrick sat at his desk, a pile of files in front of him. Surgery was about to open, and after a morning of calls to head cold after head cold, he was not prepared to process Shelagh’s news. In her excitement since the morning’s interview, she had forgotten to plan a strategy. She would have to let him work through this on his own.

With a little help, of course.

“Actually, Patrick, that’s not quite true. Even if you leave God out of it, you’re as much a missionary as any religious evangelist. You do God’s work every day, dearest.”

Patrick leaned on the desk, his fingers twitching, pressed to his lips. Shelagh smiled. In the months since Patrick had “given up” cigarettes (not always successfully, she knew), his normal tics had shifted to mimic the old habit. She could see that he craved one now, and felt for him.

“It’s too much, Shelagh. We’re strapped here as it is. It’s simply not possible.”

Shelagh walked around the desk and took his face in her hands. “Anything’s possible, Patrick. If I know anything, I know that.”

They smiled, their own past a testament to that. Shelagh pressed a light kiss to his mouth. “Just think about it, dearest.”

 

Surgery finished, Patrick held out his wife’s coat. “What about Nonnatus? They’re understaffed, too. They couldn’t possibly afford to lose nurses for so long.”

“Mr. Taylor assured me that the Society has enough nurses and doctors here in England that could come and carry the load.” She turned to face him. “And it’s only for six weeks, Patrick. It’s not forever.”

He rolled his eyes. “I had a hard enough time leaving Poplar for a week camping, Shelagh. Imagine six weeks!”

She smiled and led the way out the Maternity Home.

 

“We could all go? There’d be a place for the children?” Patrick rolled up the remaining Christmas wrap. Perhaps his distracted mind explained the two gifts he had wrapped this evening to Shelagh’s dozen.

Shelagh finished tying a bow to the festively wrapped gift before her. “Yes. Mr. Taylor said he could accommodate the children, if we like. Many of their missionaries have families that join them.”

“I couldn’t leave you and the children, Shelagh. Not that I’m considering it, mind you.”

Shelagh chuckled and placed the gift on top of the pile. “There, that’s done. I’m glad I learned to get ahead of schedule after things were so busy last Christmas. Shopping’s completed and everything’s wrapped. All that’s left to do is enjoy the peace of the last week of Advent.”

She stood and stretched her back. “I’m for bed, Patrick. Could you put the gifts in the cupboard for me? Behind the old coats like before.” She kissed the top of his head. “Come to bed soon, dearest.”

 

“Timothy would never want to go.” Patrick closed the bedroom door behind him.

“It’s not for very long, Patrick. I’m sure Timothy would be able to manage to keep up with his studies, and I’ve never known a boy more interested in the outside world.”

“But travelling with Angela would be impossible. She’s never even been on a train.”

“You keep using that word, Patrick. It’s not impossible. It’s hugely challenging, and we’ll need to convince an awful lot of people to support the idea. But this mission is going to happen. The only remaining question is who will go?”

 

“Let’s do it,” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s go to Africa.”

Shelagh rolled over to face him. In the morning light, he always looked boyish, the glint of eagerness for the day and its challenges keen in his eyes. She had missed that of late.

His hands came to rest at her hips and he kissed her. “If you’re completely certain,” he said.

She smiled. “I couldn’t be more certain.”

 

Next Chapter

Author’s Note: Yes, I agree. They’re not likely to bring Timothy and Angela along, both for story reasons and practical filming purposes. And there’s no evidence that either child actor is filming.

But this is alternate universe stuff. I’m just here for the ride.

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Two

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Previous Chapter

The high street teemed with shoppers, mostly women trying to get Christmas shopping done in the few hours left before school let out that day. They moved with the efficiency of a person with too much to do and too little time to do it. Shelagh nodded her head in greeting as she passed friendly faces, grateful no one seemed set on little visits. She had two hours to complete her task and get Angela back to Mrs. Penney before clinic began.

They crossed the street when the scent of baked goods made Shelagh stop. “Oh, Angela!” she cried, “I’ve forgotten the biscuits I meant to bring today.” It was no wonder. Things were already busy at it was. She was mad to even try this.

Angela’s ears perked up at her favorite word. “Bizkit!” She cheered. Shelagh’s brow wrinkled in frustration and she scanned the area. “Oh, alright, we’ll stop and bring some apple fritters with us to Freddy’s house, shall we?” Angela clapped her hands in excitement.

“Got some luvley fritters here, Missus, fresh from me oven,” a voice called. Shelagh turned to see an apron-clad man beside a heavy cart laden with baked goods. He snapped a brown paper bag open. From the look of him, he clearly appreciated the quality of his baked goods. “How many’ll do ya?”

“Half a dozen, please.” Peter Noakes might like one or two as well.

“How ‘bout one fer the li’l princess? This itty bitty one’s not so hot.” The vendor took one from the tray and handed it to Angela. “Sweet fer the sweet, I always say.” He grinned at Shelagh, an appreciative glint in his eye. “One fer her mother, too, eh?”

Shelagh shot a look at the hefty man. “Cheek!” She paid for the pastries and turned the push chair in the direction of the Noakes family’s home.

“Yer husband’s a lucky man, Missus!”

Ordinarily, the baker’s innocent flirting would have cheered her, but for days the letter from South Africa weighed on her mind. Patrick was oddly disinterested, and their discussion that night left Shelagh feeling that there was a larger problem at hand.

“I haven’t heard from Myra in years,” he had said after she finished reading the long letter. “I wonder why she thought to reach out to me? It’s not as if I have the power or connections she needs–or even the skills, for that matter! She’d be better off contacting Jim Pearson, he’s chief of staff at the Liverpool now, or Herbert Crenshaw even. He’s still teaching at St. Thomas’s.” He got up from the sofa and paced the room, his hands threading through his hair. “They’re more likely to be able to send aid.”

Shelagh watched as he opened the case of files he had taken to bringing home each evening. He was nearly finished with a second review, each night searching for connections between patients that had been prescribed Distaval. The late nights were beginning to show on his face.

“Perhaps she thought a general practitioner in the poorest district in London might have some understanding of how to manage in less than ideal surroundings.” Shelagh tried to keep the worry from her voice. While Patrick’s self-confidence had suffered, she was most concerned that he found less fulfillment in his work of late, and less a sense of his own worth.  “Really, Patrick, I should think you’re much more qualified than most. Your ambitions run to helping those most in need of help, not your own advancement.”

He hadn’t turned back to her then, as she had expected. They had a way of accepting compliments from each other, usually with a smile and a wink, but Patrick had ignored her. “I’ll have to answer her of course,” he said, “but I can’t see how we can help. We’ve got enough on our plate here as it is.”

The conversation ended with that, but for the last two days, Shelagh had not been able to forget it. Patrick was right. Things here in Poplar were busy enough as it is, they couldn’t possibly find a way to help, and the thought of Patrick going away for a so long was too much to bear.

Yet the idea kept niggling at the back of her mind. What if, by some miracle, they could do something? What if all the bureaucratic potholes and ordinary realities were all taken care of? There was something in his eyes when he read the letter to her, a gleam of hope she hadn’t seen for weeks.

The effects of the thalidomide scandal weighed heavily upon Patrick’s shoulders, she knew, and he felt the blame sorely. Patrick was more than a doctor. He was a healer and felt a deep connection and responsibility for his patients. It was one of the things she loved the most about him.

It was also the thing that worried her most. Baby Susan Mullucks was always there in his mind, a permanent reminder of his unintentional mistake. While he was able to push through the anguish that caused and continue with his practice, Patrick’s conviction was shaken. Perhaps a trip to Dr. Fitzsimmons’ mission what just what he needed to get it back.

They stopped at the Noakes’ door and Shelagh took a deep breath. “Well, Angela, nothing ever started by staying.” She knocked on the door.

 

The reception room of the Christian Missionary Society was as dark and imposing as any building Shelagh had ever been in. Walnut paneling covered the walls, rich with the patina of years, it had the imposing effect of making her feel quite insignificant. If it weren’t for the tall woman beside her, she wasn’t completely certain she wouldn’t turn tail and head back to Poplar.

“No need to be nervous, Shelagh. Johnny’s quite a grand chap, really.” Chummy assured her.

“Yes, but Chummy, when you said you had a friend here at the Society that could help, I had no idea you meant the Africa Secretary! He must be dreadfully busy. I hate to waste his time.” Shelagh fretted with the handle of her handbag. 

“Oh, Johnny’s never too busy, you’ll see. My brother used to say he’s never known a fellow to be more energetic about more things!”

The large door opened, and a tall, thin man came out. His eyes immediately fell on the two women.
“Chummy! It’s been too long! You told me you’d bring that boy of yours by again. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him he must be ready for Trinity by now!” The stern words were countered by a twinkle in his eye.

“Not quite, though I will say for a three-year-old boy, he’s quite advanced. We have hopes he’ll be Prime Minister one day!”

Mr. Taylor leaned in conspiratorially. “As long as he sends funds to the Mission Society, he’ll get my vote. Least I could do for the nephew of the man that dived into a rugger scrum to save me from the Oxford Huns.”

Shelagh watched the two with guarded eyes. The two obviously had a long history together and spoke a sort of upper-class parlance that set them apart. This man, as much of the ruling class as Lady Browne, seemed to be more comfortable in it, and less concerned with the dignity of station. Perhaps Chummy was right to bring her here.

“Oh,” Chummy cried. “Where on earth are my manners? Mr. John Taylor, may I present Mrs. Patrick Turner.”

With two sets of eyes turned on her, Shelagh felt her confidence falter. What had started out as a simple inquiry was quickly getting out of hand. She reached deep and put on her best Sister Bernadette face.

“How do you do, Mr. Taylor. I’m very grateful you’ve agreed to meet with us. I hope we’re not interrupting your busy schedule.”

“No, no. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Turner. Indeed, I am thrilled! Chummy’s told me about your request, and I must say, it’s gotten my mind in a whirl!”He gestured towards his office. “Come, let’s sit and have a bit of a chat, shall we? Mrs. Mugworth, if you could call down for a tea tray, please?”

Seeing them settled on the leather sofa, he took a seat in a wing chair.

“Your request couldn’t come at a better time, Mrs. Turner. Things have changed a great deal in South Africa in the last year, and the Christian Mission Society no longer has a presence in the area. This could be precisely the opportunity we’ve been looking for.”

He leaned forward. “I’ve taken the opportunity to look into this Hope Mission, and it does seem to be on the brink of closure. Independent missions are shutting down all over Africa, I’m afraid, and without any assistance from the South African government, I’m afraid your friend’s hospital won’t survive beyond the summer.

“Here’s where we can come in. Thanks to a rather large donation year, we have the funds to keep Hope Mission running. The trouble is, we’re strapped for manpower. There’s no way we can get our people out there in time to make a difference. What we need is an advance team that can go out there and do the dirty work, as it were. A group of about a dozen or so people that can bring in supplies, start an education program, perhaps even do something about the water problem. You have no idea how difficult the water problem can be in these places.”

“I can assure you, Johnny, we’re quite aware of the dilemma caused by poor water and sewage in Poplar,” Chummy interrupted. “Even with the new council flats, we still have people living without running water in some quarters!”

The excitement dimmed from his eyes for a moment. “Yes, you’re quite right, Chummy. Our own government has been moving a bit too slowly to care for British poor. There are problems enough no matter where you go, I suppose.”

“Mr. Taylor, might I ask how likely any of this is to happen?” Shelagh could feel a spark of an idea start to form in her mind.

“Oh, I’d say if we could get a team formed quickly, we could have the team out there before February.”

“February!”

He nodded. “Yes, if this is to work, it needs to happen immediately. Hope Mission is barely hanging on as it is. Much more strain and it will go under completely. And let me say, Mrs. Turner, it’s much simpler to improve something we already have than to start from scratch.”

Author Notes

John Vernon Taylor, Bishop of Winchester, served as the Africa Secretary for the Christian Mission Society in the 1960’s. He was a Cambridge Man, and could very possibly have gone to school with Chummy’s older brother. His obituary is here. I’ve tried to fit my John Taylor into this mold.

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter One

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I’ve decided to jump into the world of AU, and write about something that’s not canon. This fic has nothing to do with what’s likely to happen in Series 6 of Call the Midwife, and is more an exercise in combining my love of the characters, history and movies.

I will play with timelines, use some dramatic license with locations, and test the laws of physics. Well, I’ll avoid physics, but I might test your sense of disbelief. My main goal is to explore and understand some well-loved characters. As always, these characters do not belong to me, but I am grateful for all they have taught me.

Forgive me my self -indulgence.

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Chapter One

In the weeks since the thalidomide scandal broke out, a strange melancholy had come over the Kenilworth Row Maternity Home and its staff. While no new babies had been born afflicted by the ravages of the cruel drug, every day brought with it the worry that today, another would appear. Even the start of the holiday season did little to dissipate the grim mood.

The drug had been officially banned in the United Kingdom, and calls came up through the medical profession demanding new standards in pharmaceutical testing. If there was any good that could come from this terrible chapter, it would be stronger regulations to prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. But that was little comfort to mothers like Rhoda Mullocks.

Patrick Turner stepped from his car, turning the key to lock the door and headed up the stone steps from street level to the flat’s entrance. To keep the spirit of Christmas up for the children, Shelagh had insisted they decorate for the holiday. Today, she had hung a wreath on the door. He did appreciate all Shelagh was doing to maintain some sense of normal, even if he found it hard to assist. He would have to make a greater effort. He swallowed heavily and entered the flat.

The sounds of carols on the radio greeted him as he hung his coat in the hall, the scent of mince pies filling the air. He suspected the early baking was more to keep his wife’s mind occupied that a desire to stock up on holiday pastry. More than anyone else, Shelagh understood his sense of guilt and even felt a sense of her own culpability. Both knew they had acted in the best interests of their patients, that there had been no malpractice, but the knowledge that is was their misplaced trust in modern medicine made it all the harder to continue caring for the poor of Poplar. He pushed forward and went to meet his family.

Timothy sat in an armchair, his Biology text balanced on his knees as he copied a diagram. He didn’t look completely happy about his position, having been ejected from his preferred spot at the table. The boy had a desk in his room but preferred to sit with his mother and sister as he worked on his studies. Patrick wondered how the boy could get anything done now that Angela refused to stay within the confines of her play yard. She seemed to take great delight from piling her toys on her brother as he worked.

Shelagh looked up from the washing she was folding. “Hello, dear,” she greeted him, raising her cheek for his light kiss.

“Dad, there’s a letter for you postmarked from South Africa!” Tim announced.

“South Africa?” he wondered, his brow furrowing.

Before he could give the letter any more attention, he felt a tug on his trouser leg and looked down to see two-year-old Angela’s  bright eyes and saucy smile. Pushing aside the sting of guilt he felt each time he pushed away his burdens, he crouched down to her level. “Hello, Miss Angela. It’s a pleasure to see you.” He picked up her soft hand, lifted it to his lips and was rewarded with the same shy smile of delight he so often saw play across his wife’s face.

Wrapping his daughter in his arms, he stood. “What’s that about a letter, Tim?’ he asked. His eyes squinted as Angela patted his cheeks.

“It’s got a stamp from South Africa. Who do you know from there?” Tim asked. He handed the letter up, avoiding his sister’s inquisitive fingers.

Patrick turned the letter over in his hands. “Hope Mission,” he read aloud. “M. Fitzsimmons.” He thought for a moment, remembering. “We went to medical school together. She went down there sometime after the war, I think. I wonder what she has to say to me?”

“There was a woman in your medical school class, Dad?” Tim was amazed.

“Women can become doctors, Timothy,” Shelagh admonished from beyond the kitchen hatch.

“They can now, Mum. But Dad went to school so long ago, I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Mind your cheek, Tim, “ Patrick warned, his grin hidden by Angela’s hands. “There were three in my class when we started, I’ll have you know.” He caught his son’s eyes, halting any further response. “And no, it wasn’t so long ago that one of them was named ‘Eve.’”

“Can the letter wait a bit longer, dearest? Dinner’s just ready.” Shelagh carried in a bowl of roasted sprouts.

Patrick placed the letter on the mantle. “I suppose it won’t hurt to wait until later. I’m famished.”

 

Evenings were the easiest time to forget about the troubles within the practice, when self-reproach gave way to love. There was a tacit agreement to put the focus on family for the few hours they had before the children went to bed. The lively chatter of a bright young man and the happy little girl kept the mood light and made preparations for the holiday possible.

Patrick stood in doorway of the bath and watched as Shelagh gave Angela’s hair a final rinse. The little girl sputtered and squealed with laughter.

“She’ll turn into a mermaid one day,” he laughed. He opened the towel and put out his arms, scooping up the slippery child. “I’ll dress her tonight.”

He passed by Tim’s room on the way to the nursery. “Ready for the Biology exam tomorrow, Tim?”

“I think so. I’m fairly certain I know my all the enzymes.”

Patrick shifted the wiggly girl on his hip. “Enzymes aren’t all that hard, Tim. Just remember to break it down.”

Timothy rolled his eyes at the terrible pun. “Can I have the stamp when you’ve finished your letter?”

“Right. I nearly forgot.”

Shelagh joined them in the hallway. “You go read your letter, Patrick. I’ll get Angela to sleep tonight,” she suggested.

With a kiss on Angela’s little nose and a quick one on his wife’s cheek, Patrick left his family to settle in for the night.

 

He sat staring into space, absently tapping the letter against his chin when Shelagh returned.

“Good news, I hope,” she said as she settled on the couch next to him. Her hand slid around his arm, finding his hand. They’d have one last cup of tea and set to wrapping gifts.

He sat up a bit and put the letter on her lap. “Interesting news, anyway. Myra Fitzsimmons was always…she’s an unusual person. She wasn’t the only woman in our class, but she was the most ambitious, maybe more ambitious than any of us. She was older and had years of medical training before she came to school–she lied about her age to be accepted as a nurse in the First World War, then went on to serve in Liverpool Hospital for another ten years or so.” He laughed softly. “I don’t suppose she relished the idea of listening to anyone, much less a man, so she left nursing and joined our class. Some of the old instructors were pretty rough on her, but she held firm. I think she was the only one to never faint in anatomy class!”

Shelagh lifted the letter to exaine it more closely. “It must have been difficult for her. In my experience, most doctors can be …condescending… when treating women as patients. In the classroom, they must’ve been insufferable!”

Patrick turned to her in mock outrage.

“Present company excepted, dearest.” She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “Were you friends?”

“Not friends, exactly. Myra Fitzsimmons didn’t make friends easily, but she was an excellent lab partner. No nonsense, and the quickest diagnostician I ever knew. She signed up with the RAMC during the World War II and got stationed in Cape Town, and decided to stay.”

“So why did she write you? Is she coming back to England? We could use someone like her here in Poplar.” Shelagh stifled a yawn.

“Actually, no. She runs a mission on the East Cape, and it looks like they’re in trouble.” He turned to face Shelagh. “She wants us to go down there.”

Next Chapter

 

A Perfect Fit

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Definitely time for some steam. Probably about three kettles, I’d say.

 

Shelagh Turner woke slowly, the sound of her new husband’s breathing in her ear. She smiled. His arm lay heavy across her waist, pinning her to him. Barely a week married, she was growing used to his warm body close as she slept.

The early light was already streaming through the net curtains. They had forgotten to draw the drapes closed last night. Shelagh blushed, remembering why, and was grateful they had at least remembered the lock on the door.

“Good morning,” Patrick whispered in her ear.

Shelagh turned her head to see his face close to hers. Before she had a chance to respond, he kissed her, his mouth sleepy and tender. She could feel her body start to awaken.

Pushing away, she sat up, struggling to keep the bedclothes against her body.

“What are you doing?” Her husband asked, leaning back against his pillows.

Shelagh twisted to the edge of the bed, looking over its side. “I’m trying to find my dressing gown.” Her voice was flustered.

Patrick grinned, tugging at the sheet she held so tightly. “You don’t need a dressing gown now. Tim won’t be up for at least an hour.”

“Yes, well now I’m up, I’m up. Best start the day.”

“That’s not the best way to start the day,” Patrick reached around and brought her back next to him, peeling layers of her cocoon from her.

Shelagh felt his hand move over her skin. Surely he didn’t expect anything to happen between them now. It was morning, for goodness sake. “Patrick, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t do that.”

His face pressed against her throat, and Patrick smiled. Without looking up, he could tell she was blushing. He loved that he was learning the signals her body gave, signals she herself was still learning.

“Why not,” he murmured, his lips tasting her throat.

“Patrick,” she scolded, her voice barely a whisper.

“Shelagh,” his voice teased. He had found his way under the final layer of cotton.

Shelagh’s breath caught. “Patrick, it’s morning.” Clearly he must understand what she meant.

“So?”

Apparently he did not.

Embarrassment brought out her bossy side. “Patrick, you’re being ridiculous. You know perfectly well that you’ll have to wait until tonight.”

But Bossy Shelagh was not going to win so easily. Patrick lifted his face to hers and smiled lopsidedly. There was a spark in his eye, and he saw her respond, even as she tried to deny it. He kissed her again, this time not so sleepily, and perhaps not quite so tenderly as before. Shelagh’s body began to yield, but still her mind resisted.

She broke the kiss and said, “If you must,” -Patrick grinned at her shifting the emphasis on acceding to his needs-“you’ll have to close the drapes.”

Patrick’s head came up, his brows came down over his eyes, confused. “Whatever for?”

“Patrick,” again her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her. “The light.”

“What about it?”

“You’ll see.”

Understanding spread over his face. He tucked his finger under her chin, coaxing her to meet his eyes. “Yes,” he answered. “I’ll see my beautiful wife.”

Shelagh turned her face away, her cheeks blooming an even deeper pink. “Patrick…”

“Shelagh, you know I think you’re beautiful. You must. I’ve said it a thousand times.”

“Yes, you’re very kind, dearest.” Still, she would not  look at him.

Patrick lifted his body up on his elbow to better look at his wife. “Shelagh Turner, I am not being kind. Shelagh, look at me.”

Shelagh’s eyelashes fluttered as she tried to control her breathing. Biting her lower lip, she finally turned her face towards his.

“Shelagh, I think you’re so beautiful.” His eyes glittered, as they always did at times of high emotion.

Shelagh smiled, breathing deeply. She slipped her hand out from under the sheets and touched his lined cheek. “You’re very sweet, Patrick. It’s lovely to hear you say such things. But I’m not beautiful.”

He sat back, stunned.

“It’s all the sweeter to hear you say such things because you love me.” Shelagh’s fingers pushed at the fringe falling over his forehead.

“Shelagh, you really must be joking. You have to know how… Shelagh, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Her voice changed. “Patrick, thank you, but that’s not so. I’ve been told my face is a bit pretty, but that’s because I have good skin and people think my eyes are unusual. I’m too small to be beautiful.”

Patrick’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “What on earth are you talking about? Too small?”

Shelagh took his hand in hers and placed them palm to palm, the tips of her fingers barely higher than his second knuckle. “Here. Look at my hand. Timothy‘s hand is bigger than mine. Everything about me is too small. Beautiful women are…well, they’re…womanly. Like Marilyn Monroe or-or- Jane Russell. I’m not at all like that type of woman.”

Patrick had learned a few things about women in his time and was beginning to see where the problem lay.

“And you think that a woman needs to be of…more generous proportions… to be beautiful?” His hand squeezed around hers.

“Patrick-” she stopped then, unable to voice her thought.

Patrick threaded his fingers with hers and held their hands up for her to see. “See?” he smiled, bringing the back of her hand to his lips. “They fit perfectly.” He slid his hand down past her waist to rest on her hip. “Shelagh, you may never have noticed how lovely you are, but the rest of the world has. God, Shelagh, your legs!” His hand slipped along the length of her thigh.

“Patrick, you’re not–my legs are too short!” She squirmed as his fingers caressed the smooth skin of the back of her knee.

“Don’t you dare tell me they’re too short, Shelagh, they’re lovely. When you wrap your legs around me it makes me wild.” He paused, nuzzling his face against her hair as he tried to calm his passion. The thought of her soft curves pressed against him inflamed him. One day, soon, he would feel her weight above him and watch her as they loved each other. Shelagh wasn’t quite ready to be quite so bold, but he had faith in his wife. He drew in a ragged breath. He needed to have her, and soon, but there was still one more thing.

He cupped her cheek and bent to kiss her, slowly and intimately. His hand trailed down her neck, gliding across the smooth skin. Shelagh opened herself to him, her tongue meeting his, lost to the sensation of closeness. She slid her arms around his neck, turning closer to his body. She was surprised when he parted his lips from hers, and protested. She moved to kiss him again when she felt his hand, warm and strong, on her breast. Patrick met her eyes and said, “See? They fit perfectly.”

The breath rushed into her lungs quickly, pushing her more firmly against his palm. He grinned as he watched her eyes flutter shut. She was engulfed in sensation, all concerns about the brightening dawn forgotten.

He gently caressed her breast, his thumb slowly stroking across her sensitive peak. “Your breasts, Shelagh. Your breasts are perfection. Those long months, when I thought I would never have your love, I fought myself. I wouldn’t let myself imagine–but at night, when I slept, I couldn’t stop. I dreamt all these things, but my dreams never came close. You are so much more than I ever dreamt, more than I deserve. So please don’t tell me you’re not beautiful, my love. Let me show you how very beautiful you are.”

 

Later, when time was closing in and the world outside their sanctuary would have to be faced, they lay together, trying to catch their breath. And if the sun was now streaming in through the curtains, and bedclothes were spilled over the edge of their bed, Shelagh did not notice. Her husband thought she was beautiful.

 

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

 

A Small Price to Pay

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“It was the last sunny day of that fateful fall.” A prompt from Like-An-Officer-and-a-Seargent helped get this little fic off the ground.

The air was crisp and clear as Timothy Turner ran through the streets towards home. His violin case banged against his knee in a way that would displease his music instructor, but the boy was undeterred. He wasn’t going to waste one more minute of this day away from home.

Dad would be waiting, Saturday surgery was surely over by now, and Shelagh would be there, too. They had promised him. Nothing would get in the way of their day together, Dad had promised. They would have lunch together, and then take the afternoon to explore the Cutty Sark. An entire day, just the three of them. Timothy picked up his pace.

He tore past Dad’s car, up the stone steps that led to the courtyard outside their flat, and came to a sudden halt outside the oversized door. He dropped the case on the ground and patted his pockets in search of his key. Finally, he was in and made his way through the maze of hallways to the flat, home in record time.

“Hello!” He called out as he hung his jacket up on the lowest hook. Shelagh’s coat was there next to his, her small green hat resting next to the phone.

Dad’s head poked around the corner from the kitchen, his eyes surprised. “Tim! You’re home early!” He disappeared for a moment, then stepped into the hall. “How was your lesson?”

Suspicious, Tim stepped around his father and searching for the source of the strangeness. Entering the kitchen, he saw Shelagh by the stove, her back to him. When she turned to greet him,  her cheeks were a bright pink.

“Shelagh? Are you ill?” He knew Shelagh’s health was still delicate, and while part of him was concerned, another more boyish part was disappointed. What if she had to go home? Their day would be ruined.

“No,” she answered. “Do I look ill?” Her voice was cheery, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Not precisely, but you do look rather flushed.” He glanced at his father. “Doesn’t she look flushed, Dad?”

“Shelagh’s fine, Tim. Now go and put your violin away and clean up for lunch. We want to leave soon, don’t we?”

Distracted by the thought of the day trip, Tim grinned and turned back to his violin. As he passed back by the kitchen door, he heard Shelagh’s soft voice.  “Patrick, not now,” she giggled.

Timothy paused in the hallway, his eyes wide. He shook his head as if to clear an unwelcome thought, and entered his room. No, he thought to himself. It couldn’t be.  All week, Jack had teased him about his father getting engaged. Jack had older sisters, one already married with a baby on the way, so he thought himself quite the expert on “the birds and the bees,” as the older boy called it. Worried, Timothy reminded himself that for all his friend’s bravado, he usually knew as little as everyone else in the play yard. Whatever Jack said, his father and Shelagh would not do any “mushy stuff.” The thought was ridiculous.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, lunch was laid out, and Dad and Shelagh sat across from each other at the small table. The alarming shade of pink had faded from her cheeks, too, thank goodness. They would have their day, after all.

 

“It’s such a lovely day, I thought we’d walk to the ferry today,” Patrick announced as he helped Shelagh on with her coat.

Tim agreed readily. If they didn’t have the car, Dad wouldn’t have his medical bag with him.  No medical bag meant Dad was Dad, and not Dr. Turner.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Dad said, pulling a slip of fabric from his pocket. He unfolded it and held out a bright blue scarf for Shelagh’s inspection. “It’ll be chilly out there today, you should have this.”

Again, Shelagh’s cheeks bloomed a pale pink, sending off a bell in Timothy’s head. “Patrick, you shouldn’t. I’m quite fine as I am.”

“No,” Dad’s voice was gentle. “I should, Shelagh. I like buying you pretty things, Shelagh. I found it in the stalls near the market square this morning, and you do need a scarf. Please?”

For a fleeting moment, Timothy got the sense that neither knew he was there. It was strange, really, and he was reminded of that day they found Shelagh on the misty road. Was this what Jack meant?

Before he could consider that thought further, his Dad looked over at him. “Ready, Tim?”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “I’ve been ready, Dad. I was waiting for you two to stop staring at each other.” He led the way down the hall. “Really, you two do that a lot. It’s a bit weird.”

 

The ferry crossing was chilly, Tim admitted, but not so cold Dad needed to stand so close to Shelagh the whole ride.

“I’m blocking the wind, Tim,” his dad explained.

Later, as they strolled along the quay, Dad tucked Shelagh’s hand into the crook of his elbow. “The quay could be slippery.”

And when they climbed the ladders to visit the ship, Dad put his hands around her waist and lifted her down. “Always help a lady down the steps, Tim,” his father instructed. “It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”

Timothy wasn’t so sure so much chivalry was in order, especially when he came around a masthead to find them standing side by side, Dad’s arm around Shelagh’s shoulder. They were talking quietly as they looked out over the river, oblivious to the crowds.

He was willing to let such odd behavior slide, however. Dad answered all of his questions and seemed to have a boundless patience for all the exploring Timothy wanted to do. Shelagh laughed at his jokes and knew exactly when to offer him a few biscuits from her handbag  later in the day. Sitting in the Lyons tea house that evening, his belly full but willing to try one more cream cake, he couldn’t remember a better day. Not in a long, long time.

 

The trio strolled through the streets on the way home, happy and tired. Unsurprisingly, Dad and Shelagh walked arm in arm again, and Timothy wished for just a moment that he was small enough to fit between them, his hands in each of theirs. But he wasn’t little anymore.

They came to Shelagh’s corner first. Tim tried to keep the disapppointment from his voice.  “You’re going home now?”

Shelagh looked shyly at him, but before she could speak, Dad interrupted. “Come home with us, Shelagh, just a little longer. I’ll drive you home before the door gets locked.”

“Please, Shelagh?” Timothy added. “I could show you how to make those paper boats I was talking about.”

“If you’re certain,” she faltered.

“I am completely certain,” the boy asserted. Her eyes lit up with a secret thought, then met Dad’s for a moment.

“Well, then,”she tucked her arm in Dad’s elbow and reached out her hand. Timothy took it, and hand in hand, the three continued home.

 

Much past his bedtime, Timothy lay awake in his bed, happy with his thoughts. He glanced at the proud paper boat on his desk, ready for its maiden launch if the weather held. A good part of the evening had been spent trying to perfect the craft, with Shelagh tending to two papercuts on his fingers and Dad helping him learn to perfect the crease. All in all, a fine end to a fine day.

He grimaced. At least, it was mostly a fine evening. Now he had cause to worry that perhaps Jack was right after all. Saturday night was bath night, and though he tried to finish as quickly as possible, it seemed to take ages of time. Finally clean, combed and clothed, he returned to the sitting room, eager to spend a bit more time together before Dad took Shelagh back to the boarding house.

What he saw when he entered the room, however, made him stop in his tracks. He had left them straightening up the clutter of paper and tea cups and expected the room to be back in order when he returned. To the poor boy’s disgust, however, he found half-folded boats and crumpled paper scattered on the floor and worse yet, Dad and Shelagh…

They jumped apart, but there was no denying the fact that

They

Were

Kissing.

And not just a peck on the cheek, like he gave Granny Parker when they went for a visit. Dad– his father–was caught in a clinch with Shelagh that would make Jack’s sister blush. A full-on, arms hugging, head tilting, really-lasting-far-too-long kiss.

And Timothy was glad.

There, he had to admit it. He was glad his Dad was kissing Shelagh. Oh, he didn’t want to see it–that was revolting–but he knew that when Dad kissed Shelagh, they were happy. The kind of happy that Timothy had felt all day today.

Dad and Shelagh were going to get married, and everything would be different. Sure, there might be some of the beastly “mushy stuff” to deal with, but it seemed a small price to pay for having a happy family. And to be completely honest, Timothy admitted, it wasn’t so terrible.  Just as long as he didn’t have to see any of it. There were limits, after all.

 

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.