Tag Archives: call the midwife fanfiction

Blooming All Around

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The late afternoon sun poked through the stone lattice of the verandah, creating bouquets of light on the wooden table.  Shelagh traced one of the irregular flowers and sighed. She lifted her teacup to her lips and hastily put in back in distaste.  

“You practically begged Patrick to take the children out so you could have an afternoon’s peace, and all you’ve done is moan about how lonely you are,” she muttered to herself.  

It was true, she had made all sorts of hints to her husband that he should have an afternoon with the children all to himself.  She had even prided herself on how subtle she was. At least, she thought she was subtle. As Tim fled to a cricket match with his chums, he drawled, “Nice one, Mum.  Mentioning how Sergeant Noakes takes the children to the zoo every Saturday instead of watching the games all afternoon was inspired psychological manipulation.”

“Hush, now,” she warned, as he escaped up the lavender-scented path, “or I’ll say something about how helpful Reggie is to Mr. and Mrs. Buckle!”

She turned back to the children running about the kitchen.  “Alright then, girls, spit spot!”

“Spit spot,” Angela and May giggled back to her.  Mary Poppins was their current favorite bedtime read, and the silly phrase, as well as a gallery of chalk drawings on the patio and drive, were a testament to its appeal for the little girls.  

Patrick bounded down the last of the stairs, Teddy aloft in his arms.  “Well, then, ladies, shall we take this little man out for the afternoon?”

More giggles followed.  “Teddy’s not a man, Daddy,” Angela chortled.  “He’s a boy!”

“He’s a boy!”  parrotted May, and she tugged lightly on Teddy’s little shoe.

Shelagh shook her head in mock annoyance.  “Well, this little man-boy is going to run Daddy off his feet if we don’t get him into his pushchair.  Girls, be sure to be Daddy’s helpers this afternoon!”

***

Four hours later, Shelagh was tired of the quiet.  She missed the laughter and noise of three little ones, and even the cacophony blaring on Tim’s record player.  Her solitary childhood had passed so seamlessly into the silence of the religious life that she never expected that her own peace would require the commotion of a happy family.  Without them about, she felt lonely.

Her teacup rattled in its saucer as she crossed to the kitchen sink.  Another glance at the clock brought the little crease between her brows.  “Where on earth could they be? Teddy will be a bear without his nap!” Even the family joke, unconsciously spoken, did not make her smile.

The front door swung open,and the silence was gone.  Angela and May ran in ahead of their father, laughing so that their words were a confused jumble.  Patrick came in behind them, a cheery Teddy eager to be released to run around the house after the little girls.  

Shelagh couldn’t help smiling, her eyes catching it all.  “I missed you! What have you been up to?”

Angela bounced on her toes.  “Mummy, Mummy, we’ve been to the cinema!  We had choc ices and Daddy let us each have a lolly and oh, Mummy!! You’ll never guess what we saw!”

As Angela’s words tumbled out of her, Shelagh felt a sting of tears.  Always so quiet, Angela had become much less shy in the months since May had joined their family, and Shelagh worried, not for the first time, that if May did leave them, after all, it would be Angela that felt the parting the keenest.  She twirled a pigtail in her fingers.

“I can hardly imagine, Angel girl,” she responded, her throat tight.

“Mummy, we went to see–” the little girl paused for effect, and then turned to let May finish.

“Mary Poppins!” May squealed.

Shelagh looked up at her husband, shocked.  “Mary Poppins! But it’s not set to run ‘til Christmas!”

Patrick scooped Teddy up just before the tot pulled the model ship down from the corner cabinet.  “We were walking past the Hippodrome, on our way to the park, and the manager was outside offering tickets for  a special showing. It’s set to release in America next week, and Disney wanted to get promotional stills of English children enjoying the film.  You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, concern furrowing his brow.

Shelagh thought of the nights reading the story aloud to the girls, and for a moment felt a pang of jealousy.  She had been looking forward to seeing the movie with the family at Christmas.

“Mamma,” Teddy stretched out, and Shelagh took him in her arms and buried her face in his curls, using the moment to master her feelings.

“Teddy slept through nearly the whole picture,”  Patrick told her. “It couldn’t have worked out better.”

Shelagh swallowed the lump in her throat.  It was good for Patrick to build special memories for the children on his own.  There’s be plenty of films and family days ahead. She was completely certain, however, that she wasn’t likely to send them off again for quite some time.

“Mary Poppins was just like you, Mummy!”  Angela announced.

“How so?”  Shelagh was already beginning to feel better.

“She was pretty…”. May interjected.

“And clever, and she sang all the time!”

“I love Mary Poppins!” May crowed.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid I might have some competition!  Well, then, what was everyone’s favourite song?” she asked.

Patrick’s eyes lit up with mischief.  “We were hoping you’d ask that! The music was wonderful, Shelagh, you’ll want the record, but there was one song we all loved the most.”  He winked at the girls. “We practiced it all the way home. Ready?”

Two pigtailed heads bobbed in the air in response.  “We changed some of the words, but I don’t think you’ll mind,” Patrick teased.

“Oh!! It’s a (come on, then girls!)…”

The girls joined his chorus, skipping words to laugh, but Patrick forged on.

“Oh, it’s a Jolly Holiday with Mummy!

Mummy makes your heart so light!

When the la la lala lala la la (I can’t remember all of it, he whispered)

Lala la la la la la

Oh, when Mummy takes your hand, you feel so grand,”. Patrick lifted her fingers to his lips, the rested them against his heart.

“Your heart starts beating like a big brass band!

Oh it’s a jolly holiday with Mummy,

No wonder that it’s Mummy that we love!!”

Tim walked in a moment later to peaks of laughter.  “What did I miss?”

***

In the evening, as they stood watching the littles settle to sleep after hours of singing their new favorite song, Patrick slid an arm about Shelagh’s waist and pulled her close.  She tucked her head under his chin and warned, “There’s an excellent chance they’ll be wanting a tea party on the ceiling tomorrow, dearest.”

He pressed a kiss to her shining hair, then tugged her around into his arms.  “We’ll all go again at Christmas, Shelagh, as a family.” He frowned as a shadow passed over her face.  “No matter where she is, Shelagh, May will always be part of our family.”

Shelagh sighed and pressed her palm to his cheek.  She stroked the roughened skin there and smiled tenderly.  Ever a quick study, she sang softly, “No wonder that it’s Patrick that I love!”

Happy Birthday to FourteenTeaups, a good friend who is mildly obsessed with Mary Poppins, but wildly obsessed with Call the Midwife.

Cricket in the Morning

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I wrote this bit of fluff for Tumblr last June (2018) and forgot to post it here.  In an effort to assist those who require a full catalog of my obsession, I am now correcting that error.

That being said, here’s some kettle-y Turnadette fluff. Not quite 4 kettles “as written by me,” but as many as you want “as read by you.”

And yeah. It’s got cricket in it. So, sue me.  I don’t choose the fic, the fic chooses me.

Do not blame me that there is no image to go with this fic.  If TPTB had any compassion for my pain, they would remedy that and have Patrick decked out in cricket whites.

She tilts her face to the sun, warmth filtering through her body.  There are birds somewhere, just close enough to tease her with their song, and she opens her eyes.  All around her is green, lush and fertile, and she wonders where she is.

Footsteps softened by the turf draw her attention and she turns to see him walking towards her across the cricket pitch.

He is tall and lean, and looks relaxed in his cricket whites. He stops before her and settles on the faded quilt.  She knows somehow that they are alone, or she must know, because she doesn’t hesitate.

She stretches up on her knees and places a languid kiss against his lips, slow and teasing, her arms wrapped tightly about his shoulders.  She presses her lips to the length of throat bared by his open collar, flicking her tongue to taste his skin. He moans deep in his chest and she smiles as she nips at the sinew of his neck.

Her hands trace the fine woolen cables of his jumper, then slip to the hem and with a swift motion she pulls it over his head.  His shirt comes away from the smart white trousers and she must feel his skin there.  Beneath her palms, the skin of his midriff is smooth and she wants more.

Their lips meet again, soft and wet and she lightly strokes her tongue into his mouth.  She loves the velvety feel of it against his. Desire fires up between her legs, and she moves to straddle him, reveling in the hardness pressed against her.  She needs him now.

“That’s my favorite alarm clock,” he whispers.

Startled, she opens her eyes.  She’s pressed to his side, her leg across his, the sheets a tangle about them.

“What were you dreaming of this morning?”  His hand is on her hip, tugging the thin fabric to reveal the silky skin of her legs.

She’s embarrassed, and pulls away to lie on her back.  “Don’t tease, Patrick.”

He laughs.  “You’re one to talk, my love!”  He presses the hard evidence of his morning desire against her hip.  Back and forth, he trails his fingertips across the tops of her thighs, each stroke edging closer to the warm triangle between them.  “What were you dreaming of this morning,” he repeats. His voice is husky.

She shakes her head, trying to resist, trying to shake off the dream.  He reaches his goal and applies light pressure as his fingers curve against her. “Tell me,” he whispers.

Her back arches as her eyelids flutter closed.  She sighs. “The same one.” The whisper escapes on a breath.

He smiles smugly, and rewards her with the attentions of his long finger.  “Cricket?” A second finger joins the first and he strokes the soft skin there.  “You do love me in my cricket whites.”

Breathless, she cannot answer.

 

Buttoned Up

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@ILoveMushyStuff hinted pretty strongly on Tumblr that she’s like to see a fic inspired by this blouse Shelagh wore in s8e3, and considering how much I owe Mushy for all her kindnesses and posts, I jumped at the chance.

It’s a pretty blouse, as you can see, but it’s the buttons down the back that provoked this little bit of fluff. (I can’t get a decent screen shot of that angle, but here’s a pic you’ll like of pretty Shelagh!)Screen Shot 2019-02-03 at 6.34.05 PM

Shelagh huffed and blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.  “Ridiculous blouse,” she muttered. She dropped her arms and glared over her shoulder at the reflection in the dressing mirror.

“That’s a face that’ll scare the children,” Patrick warned as he came to stand behind her, his hands deftly knotting his tie.

“You’re not helping!”  She raised her arms over her head, nearly knocking his chin as she tried to reach her back.  “Oh, bother!”

“Why don’t you simply put on another blouse?”

She dropped her arms again in defeat.  “They all need ironing, and there’s no time.”
“You could ask me, you know,” Patrick tried to hide his grin.  

Shelagh rolled her eyes.  “I’d be better off asking Angela.”  

He clutched at his heart dramatically.  “I’m wounded.”

“Wounded, my granny.  I need to put this blouse on me, not on the floor beside the bed.”

He laughed.  “Alright, turn around.  I’ll try to restrain myself.”

He moved close and smoothed her hair over the nape of her neck, his breath caressing the smooth skin there.  “Not so many buttons,” he murmured, trailing his fingers along the opening and coming to a stop at the bottom button.  “One.”

He stroked his thumb against the silky slip she wore underneath and moved to the second.  “Two.”

Shelagh sighed.

The third button hovered over the clasp of her bra.  Somehow, a finger slipped beneath the strap and stroked the skin there.  “Three.”

This time, it was Patrick that exhaled deeply.

His hands were not quite as sure as he reached the fourth button. He lingered there for a long moment and stared at the small triangle of pale skin above it.  Swallowing thickly, he fumbled but threaded the enameled green disk. “That’s five.”

Shelagh stood stock still, wondering which she wanted more:  for him to finish, or for him not to finish.  When his hands came to rest on her shoulders, she leant back ever so slightly against him.  Long fingers slid under the neckline and caressed her collarbone as his thumbs stroked the back of her neck.  Any thought of resisting him flew from her head and she relaxed against him.

“And that’s me finished”  In an instant, he had the sixth and final button fastened.  With a avuncular squeeze of her shoulders, he turned to leave the bedroom.  At the door he stopped and looked back, a mischievous grin on his face. “No blouse on the floor, then?”

Shelagh turned to face him squarely.  “Well, not now, anyway. But I rather think you’ll be home early tonight.”

 

Reader, he was.

 

How the Brownies Saved Christmas

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IMG-0245Go ahead.  Take a peek.

No, it’s not rude, the family have all gone out for the day, they won’t even know you were here.

The Brownies, on the other hand, might have something to say…..

 

“Fergus! You’re not to be doin’ tha’!  She dinnae ask!” a tiny voice hissed through the air.  

“Ach, ne’er ye mind, ‘tis a wee pot, naught to get yerself up in a lather!”  The gruff voice that answered.

High above the kitchen, the air above a cupboard shimmered, revealing a tiny figure—human-like, but not quite.  Not quite three inches tall, the creature more closely resembled the drawing of an imaginative child than a real person.  Thin and wiry, with a large head covered by a thatch of coarse brown hair and long narrow feet and hands, the creature glared down at the kitchen sink.

Another shimmer of light, and another figure became visible. Stout and sturdier of build than the first, this creature bent over scrubbing a pot.  

“Scorched porridge is nae to be ignored, ye know tha’, Aggie. And I’m nearly done.”

The stout elf straightened and clambered up the edge of the basin.  Behind him, the scorched porridge continued to disappear from the enameled pot.  

“She left it to soak!  She’ll clean it when she gets home!”  Aggie’s voice grew more agitated. “You know the rules, Fergus.  She has to ask for help.”

Fergus sighed. “I know, lass, but the stubborn wifey ne’er does.  A list as long as that boy’s arm, and she ne’er once calls on the Brownies to make quick work of it all.”

Aggie appeared at his side, and put a long fingered hand on his rough-hewn tunic.  “I know, dearie. But if the Grand Council found out we’d been using our magic withou’ invitation, they’d be sending us off to some noisy place where there humans never leave more’n a moment.  I thought ye liked the quiet here during the day.”

“I do, but a few tasks here or there would help keep my skills sharp.”

“You’ll just have to get used to it, Fergus.  I don’t know how she gets it all done, being human an’ all.  Her man is more help than most humans, but that’s a low bar. There’s still so much to do I don’t know how she ever sleeps, especially since the two of ‘em m…” Aggie shuddered.  “I’ll not agin make the mistake of going up to the bedrooms of an evenin’, that’s for certain.”

Fergus flicked his fingers and the pot rose in the air above the sink to settle in the empty drying rack.  “One time breaking the rules shouldn’t alert the Council, but fingers crossed we’ll spark an idea in her shiny head.”

***

Hours later, the front door opened and the still silence of the home was shattered as five Turners burst in.

“But all of them, Shelagh?” Patrick Turner trailed behind his wife, weighed down by a wriggly tot, a heavy medical bag and an unwieldy tangle of Christmas boughs.

“Patrick, we can hardly invite one or two.  Hang your coat up neatly, Angela, dear, and careful not to bend your angel wings.  Besides, it’ll be lovely having a party. This house was made for social gatherings, I said that the first time we saw it!”

Patrick sighed and released his youngest child.  “We just had a party for Angela’s birthday.  Besides, things are busy enough already.  We couldn’t possibly pull together a Christmas luncheon for over a dozen people!”

“Pish!” Shelagh scoffed.  “All a busy week needs is a good list.”  She patted her beleaguered husband’s arm.  “You’ll see, dear. Everything will run like clockwork.”

***

It seemed the clock was running a bit off at the Turner house over the next few days.  Shelagh’s To Do List, written with such care and attention to detail, seemed to grow longer each day, and each day Aggie and Fergus sat by watching helplessly.

“That bairn’ll have all the ornaments crushed under his feet if they don’t move ‘em higher,” grumbled Fergus from a high bow on the Christmas tree.

“It was torture watching ‘er doin’ the ironin’ late last night!  Any self-respectin’ brownie coulda had those linens finished in the work of a moment, and I had to watch her for two hours last night!!”  Aggie wrung her hands. “Fergus, this has got to stop!”

Shaking his head, Fergus replied, “I kno’, Aggie, I kno’.  The Council was firm upon it when I asked. No doing nothin’ on that list until she asks.”

The miserable silence went on between them for long moments, when Aggie jumped up. “The list!” She skipped down the feathery branches, her weight setting off a tiny tinkle of ornaments.  “The Council said we cannae do anything on the list, not that we couldn’t do anything to the list…”

“Ach, clever lass!”  In a bound, Fergus was beside his wife helping to push a pen across the sheet of notepaper.  “A few new items to tick off here and there…She’ll be begging for us to help in no time!”

 

***

“How on earth!” Shelagh muttered.  “Patrick, have you been adding to my To Do List?”

Patrick looked up from underneath a tangle of gift wrap and ribbons. “It’s more than my life’s worth to mess with my wife’s system, Shelagh.”  He grimaced as the roll of bright red paper tore away from the microscope he was wrapping.

“Never mind,” Shelagh said, handing him another piece of tape.  “Tim won’t mind if it’s not perfect.”

A pair of dark eyebrows shot up.  “That’s a change,” he teased. “Does this new laissez-faire attitude to wrapping mean I don’t have to put a bow on it?”

“It most certainly does not.  We have to have some standards!”  She giggled, then returned to her list.  “It’s my handwriting, of course, but I can’t recall adding these items to the list.  ‘Find Timothy’s red jumper…choir practice…laundry…’ Now why on earth would I put laundry on my to do list?”

Patrick was befuddled.  “Because there’s laundry to be done?”

“There’s always laundry to be done—no need to put it on the list!”  She struggled to hold in a yawn. “I’m starting to think maybe you were right, dear.  There’s so much to do, and as soon as I’ve finished one task, a new one appears. Oh!!  More firewood!”

Hidden by Angela’s costume hanging by the door, Fergus and Aggie nodded in excitement.

***

In the morning, the list had grown even longer.  Angela announced she’d need a photograph of the family for crafts in school, and Tim’s revising group was looking for a place to work together as the library was closing for the weekend. Patrick needed help finding his keys, and Teddy had decided that he was not happy strapped in his chair.  Getting her family out the door was proving to be more of a challenge than usual, and Shelagh was starting to show signs of weariness.  

“Why does the porridge always stick when there’s the most to do?” She grumbled.  “Oh, Patrick, can you stop at the Butcher’s on the way home? I forgot we’ll need a roast for Granny Parker’s visit on Christmas Eve.  I hope Teddy’s in a cooperative mood today, as soon as I’ve ticked off one thing, two more appear!”

***

Christmas was three days away.  Well, two days and twenty-three hours, to be precise.  On call for the past week in order to be home with the family at Christmas, Patrick had not been able to get to the butcher’s after all, nor had he been much help in making the pastry for the mince pies he so loved for the holiday feast, yet had somehow he had found the nerve to add “mistletoe” to her list.  Timothy offered some support, but his A-levels weighed heavily in him, and Shelagh did not want to add additional stress to the young man’s load.

So here she sat, exhausted and cranky, wrapping gifts in the cooling kitchen.  She stretched and let out a very in-Shelagh-like groan. “I’ll never be ready!”

She reached for the cellophane tape, but the edge had disappeared on the roll.  Running her finger nails along the surface over and over, she struggled to find the starting point without luck.  In a burst of temper, she tossed the roll at the pile of laundry that sat unfolded in the basket beside the stairs.  Immediately embarrassed, she stood and made for the teapot.

“Empty. Of course.”

She leant back against the kitchen counter and tried to regain her composure.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimmer just above the Christmas tree.  Instinctively, she tiptoed across the room to stand beside the brightly lit pine and peered up into the space.  There was the glimmer again!!

“Shelagh Turner, you have got to get some sleep!”  she whispered. “What’s gotten into you?” Bending down, she unplugged the fairy lights.  “There, now it was just your imagination!”

Unwilling to look back up at the place on the tree that had brought her across the room, Shelagh turned to the stairs.  “The old Scottish stories are starting to trick your eyes, Shelagh Turner. Best get to bed and start fresh in the morning.”

She looked about the chaos of the house and decided Patrick would understand.  She’d set her alarm for an hour early and straighten the mess before the children woke.  She allowed herself one last glance at the tree, then giggled.

“Well, Brownies, if you are there, have at it!”

***

The morning light of the last Sunday of Advent was weak as it snuck in between the bedroom curtains, slowly waking Shelagh.  She breathed in deeply, then woke with a start. Sitting up quickly, she tossed the covers aside and jumped from the bed. It was nearly seven! The children would wake any moment and she’d left Christmas gifts out for all to see!!  Oh, how had she forgotten to set the alarm?!!

Patrick murmured in protest as the cool air hit, and struggled to pull the covers back over himself.  “It’s too early, Shelagh, come back to bed.”

“Patrick! I’ve left everything!! You stay up here and mind the children don’t come down until I’ve handled the mess.”  She tore from the room tugging her fuzzy blue robe over her shoulders and left her slippers behind.

“Shelagh, Shelagh!” She muttered in irritation.  “You’ve taken on too much and now everyone will be disappointed—“

She came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, stunned by the sight before her.  All signs of Christmas wrapping were gone, the laundry was neatly folded in its basket (was that Tim’s red jumper on top, she wondered?), and Angela’s costume hung from a hanger neatly pressed and ready for the afternoon Nativity Play.

“Shelagh?”  Patrick came up behind her.  “Everything alright?”

Aware that her mouth was frozen in an Oh! of surprise, Shelagh struggled to regain her composure.  She turned to ask him a question, but he spoke first.

“You were busy last night!  All the gifts wrapped and hidden in the upstairs cupboard, the mince pies are done—I had one or two, I hope you don’t mind—and there must be miles of paper chains ready to be hung!”

Shelagh nodded and struggled to find words.  

“There can’t possibly be anything else to do this early.  Come back to bed, the children will be asleep for a bit longer” Patrick coaxed, his hand on her elbow, a wolfish grin on his face.  “There’s one thing we need to add to your To Do List.”

Shelagh turned back to the tree one last time as she headed up the stairs.  Yes, the glimmer was still there. “Thank you,” she whispered.

***

“Ach, no good deed goes unpunished,” Fergus groused.  “They’ll be off knockin’ boots before ye know it!”

Aggie slipped her hand in her husband’s.  “Now, Fergus, we’ll just be sure to keep down here, then, there’s still plenty to be done.  Have ye seen where they keep the good China dishes?”

Wishing you joy and peace in 2019.

 

A Moment’s Peace

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This fic is set soon after the Carter birth and the shared cigarette.  Thanks to my betas for making this more than I thought it could be.

Sister Bernadette cycled sluggishly through the streets, the late morning sun already hot against her back.  She was grateful the rattle of the wheels against the cobbles drowned out the rumble of her empty tummy. A late night delivery had called her from her bed out to one of the poorest of the neighborhoods Nonnatus covered, and the tea and sandwich she’d packed for sustenance through the long hours had been more needed by the young woman’s family.  It was too bad today was Tuesday. She’d have to settle for cold cereal or toast until the unsatisfying cold lunch they’d set out for themselves several hours from now.

Ahead, she saw a Lyon’s Tea House, and impulsively pulled up to the window.  The room was empty, its early morning rush over, and she felt drawn by the luxury of a quiet cup of tea made by someone else.  The emergency shilling buried at the bottom of her pocket felt heavy against her thigh, and without letting herself think, she pushed open the door.

The bell tinkled as she entered, and the proprietress called out from behind the kitchen hatch, “Mornin’, Sista’! What kin I get ya?”

“Just some tea and dry toast, if you please,” she replied, and she tried to ignore the lingering scent of bacon in the air.  There was no need to compound her transgression with gluttony.

“Just a cuppa?  Comin’ right up, Sister.  You take a seat and I’ll be wif ya in two ticks.”

True to her word, the spry old woman soon placed a steaming cup and toast before her.  “You look done in, Sister. You just put yer feet up and take a nice long break. Me morning rush is finished, but I’ve me taters to peel for me pies.  Anyfink else you need, just give a holler.”

She bustled away and Sister Bernadette released a sigh.  Sister Evangelina wouldn’t approve, but she let the thought go.  This was such a little thing. It wasn’t as if she was treating herself to dinner at the Ritz.  One cup of tea and a few pieces of bread wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The bell jangled her from her reverie, and she glanced up.

“Good morning, Sister Bernadette.”  Doctor Turner stood looking down at her.

His voice was husky, as if he’d already smoked too many cigarettes that morning, and she recognized the lines of weariness on his face.  Like her, he’d not seen his bed that night. She felt a flush rise at the thought. Since that odd delivery at the Carter’s, she’d found him too present in her thoughts, and fought for composure.

“Good morning, Doctor Turner,”  she answered, her voice cool. “Another long night with Mr. Tweedy?”  

“Yes.  There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid.  I’ll refer him to hospice, but my receptionist won’t be in until Thursday.  I’m not sure I’ll be near a telephone for the next day or two.”

“I shall tell Sister Julienne, Doctor.  Nonnatus House can manage that for you.”  Equanimity began to return as she focused on the administrative task.  

The café owner appeared at his side.  “Good morning, Doctor Turner, what’ll I get fer ya?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to order anything, I just wanted to—”  he stopped, uncertain, and then a sense of resolve lifted his shoulders.  “Strong coffee, Mrs. Potter. And maybe a plate of your eggs?”

She winked.  “For you, Doc?  The world. Just sit yerself down and have a nice chat with the Sister.  It’ll be right up.”

He smiled awkwardly.  “Do you mind?” His long fingers gestured to the chair across from her.

“Of course not, please, sit.”  She didn’t mind, precisely. The poor man looked run off his feet.  Yet still she felt unnerved. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound louder than she expected.  Perhaps it was the fatigue that made her senses seem sharper?

“It must be Tuesday,” he joked as he spread his paper serviette across his lap.  He tilted his head to meet her questioning glance. “Mrs. B’s day off? I feel the same way when my housekeeper’s away. Tim and I usually end up at Capriano’s.  A good “English” any time of day—Mr. Swanson never serves anything else.  I cut back on work those days, but somehow it’s still  hard to find a moment’s peace.”

Peace.  Is that what she’d been seeking when she came into the café?  An image of the chapel flashed in her mind and she felt a stab of guilt.  She should be kneeling in prayer, not sitting across from this man.

“I suppose you have the chapel for that,” he mused.

Her eyes darted away from his, surprised he could read her thoughts.  She sipped her tea, unwilling to answer.

Mrs. Potter appeared, the plates and mug in her hands a miracle of balance.  “I had to brew fresh, and here’s a plate of eggs fer ya’, too, Sister. Yer looking peaky.  You need takin’ care of, I’m sure. No, no arguments. Eat.” Just as suddenly, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Doctor Turner handed her a fork.  “Best listen to the lady.” His grin was boyish, and for a moment she wondered what he looked like as a child.  She bit her lip to keep the curiosity at bay and did as she was told.

The eggs were warm and soft, and she closed her eyes in delight as she chewed.   “I had no idea I was so hungry,” she said. “It snuck up on me. These eggs are delicious!”

“Good,” he leant in conspiratorily and spoke softly.  “I’ve never been that impressed by Potter’s Cafe, and I have quite a low bar.  But this morning, it’s very good!”

Unable to resist, she smiled back.   The nervousness she’d felt when he arrived had dissipated, replaced by a burgeoning sense of ease.  For several minutes they ate in companionable silence, the low sounds of a popular song on the radio.  

“Marianne hated when I stopped at a café,” he said suddenly.  “She said the greasy food would make me run to fat.” He patted his midsection.  “She may have been right about that.”

Uncertain how to respond, and unwilling to glance at his knobbly jumper, she sat in silence.  Marianne Turner had not spent much time with her husband’s medical practice, busy with her own pursuits, and later, the needs of a young boy.  Sister Bernadette wondered if that had caused friction between husband and wife. Marriage was a mystery to her, she freely admitted. It was just as likely the Turners had found their own set of rules for their marriage.

“I know little of married life, of course, but I’ve seen enough with our patients to know that a wife often teases her husband out of worry.”  She tore her toast into small pieces, discarding them on her plate.

He picked up the last triangle of toast and pointed it at her, his grin returning.  “You’d be surprised how often a nun shone light on the state of my marriage, Sister.  Something about being on the outside, looking in, I suppose.”

He smiled, but she could see traces of sorrow in the lines around his eyes.  

“We were very different, Marianne and I, but we…” he put the uneaten toast down and sighed deeply. “We filled in the lonely places.”

She felt more than saw his hand clench, thumb agitating against forefinger, and she wondered when she had first noticed that symptom of his unease.  It seemed as familiar to her as his dry grin and the forelock of hair that never seemed to stay groomed. Her lungs tightened uncomfortably, silencing any words of comfort she might have uttered to soothe another’s pain.  The breathlessness pitched her into a moment of confusion, and she struggled to muster a sense of detachment.

She could not.  For years, she had been able to meet the rigorous demands of the Order, accepting her vows with joy and devotion, but in these last weeks–months, even–she chafed against them.  The rigorous training could no longer be relied upon to summon universal Christian love. She did not feel that communal connection with all. Rather, she felt a bewildering connection to this man in all his individuality.  

She forced air into her lungs and stood.  “I must go, Doctor Turner. I’ve tarried from my duties long enough, I’m afraid.  I will advise Sister Julienne of Mr. Tweedy’s condition, and we will handle the matter accordingly.”  Without looking she could see his perplexed expression. She placed a coin on the table. “Good day, Doctor.”

Her feet carried her the few steps to the door, her arms pushed the heavy door open, and she found herself in the over-bright sunshine.  The ride to Nonnatus would banish these thoughts, she told herself. Physical exercise would clear her head of these troubling thoughts and prepare her for the hours of prayer she required.  In Chapel, she would search for the sanctuary she once knew and banish her disorderly yearnings.

I was nearly finished with this fic when I was reminded by one of my betsas that I had written a coffee shop fic (of sorts) before.  That time I added the bonus of a bit of an unlikely crossover:  Parks and Recreation.  Not sure what I could possibly mean??  Think I couldn’t possibly be so insane?  Oh, friend, here’s the proof:  Wise Words.

Everything She Asks For

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2018-04-12This fic begins during s6e8, as Shelagh tells Patrick her decision about her labor and delivery.  You’ll see I’ve cribbed that scene for continuity’s sake.  Obviously, the italicized first section of this story does not belong to me.  Nor does the entire world of Call the Midwife.  I’m just happy to spend time there.

Shelagh rested back on her arms as she settled into an awkward sitting position on their bed, her shod foot in his hand.  He knew this may not be quite comfortable, but it was certainly better than taking off her own shoes. Besides, he enjoyed these little moments when he could take care of her.  His brain began to catalog facts as he worked the laces free. The baby had most definitely dropped in the last few days and Patrick wondered if his wife was starting to feel any increased pressure on her bladder.  Her torso was short enough that even this change wouldn’t help much with the difficulty breathing she sometimes felt.

“I do feel so much calmer since I gave up work, she assured him.  There was a hitch in her voice that pinged something in his subconscious, and he tensed as she continued.  “I think you might feel the same if you could just be my husband and not my doctor, too. And I think it…It might be best if you don’t attend the birth.”

His stomach lurched.   “But it never occurred to me that you wouldn’t want me there!”

“I want you there as soon as the baby’s born,” she pacified, “but we’ve been in too many delivery rooms together before today.  Solving problems. Preventing disasters.”

“And we do prevent disasters!  We’re a team.”

She seemed unmoved by his argument, and he tried to read her face.  He knew that expression–he’d seen it often enough when she had to give bad news to a patient or tell Timothy to get back to his studies.

“Patrick, I know that you’re looking at my ankles and thinking that they’re swollen.”

His answer was reflexive.  “If you’re not experiencing headaches, and there’s no sign of proteinuria, then it could just be the normal oedema of late pregnancy.”  Too late, he realized he’d proven her logic.

“See, the minute you look at me, you go to work.,” she rejoined.

“No,” he admitted, his heart swelling.  “The minute I look I you, I’ll give you everything you ask for.”  Discussion over, he slipped the second shoe from her foot.

“There,” Shelagh said, sliding her feet into the slippers her husband held out for her. “Thank you, Patrick.”

He glanced up from under his furrowed brow.  Not be there at the delivery? It didn’t seem he had much choice in the matter.  Shelagh’s bossy streak was in full force these last few weeks. First the new house…then the home birth…now this?  He opened his mouth to protest but closed it in resignation.

Shelagh leant forward and caressed his cheek. “Patrick dear, don’t look so glum.  You’ll see I’m right, I promise.” She leant down and pressed a kiss to his lips. With a ladylike grunt, she extended her arm for assistance. “Up, please.  Those potatoes are not going to boil themselves!”

Patrick watched as she left the room.  Her back must definitely be hurting a bit now, he thought.  The baby was certainly settling lower. He’d have to keep an eye out for any early signs of–

“Patrick,” Shelagh called gently from the door.  “See what I mean? You’re doing it right now!” Her smile was kind.  “Come on then, Doctor. Help your pregnant wife down the stairs like all the other husbands.”

 

The evening air was crisp in the back garden, and Patrick was grateful for the cardigan Shelagh had handed him after dinner.  He stood by the trash bins and looked up at the stars. It’d be clear the next day or so, he thought. Good. The children needed to be outside, needed to get some air and sunshine if they were to head off the influenza outbreak he’d heard of in other parts of London. It wouldn’t do for them to get ill, especially with Shelagh being so far along in her pregnancy.

A laugh drew his attention back to the house, and through the large glass doors, he could see Shelagh and Angela sitting together with the pile of books the little girl had chosen that afternoon at the lending library.  Timothy sat in the corner of the room, finally finished with his studies for the night and flipping through a new comic book. The sight of his family should ease his mind, he knew, but Shelagh’s words this afternoon still stung.

Not be in the room when she delivered? He’d never even thought that was a possibility.   He’d taken for granted that Shelagh would want him there.

God, he wanted a cigarette.  His nerves were close to the surface, and a long slow pull of smoke into his lungs would be just the thing to calm them.  He rubbed the back of his neck and turned away from the glow of the windows.

There were still so many questions about this pregnancy that remained unanswered.  They’d accepted the near-miracle of its conception (though if he were honest, simply applying the Laws of Probability had made it a much more likely event than mere medicine could predict).  Considering the scarring left behind by the TB and the resulting procedure that had given them heartbreaking news three years ago, he wasn’t even convinced the baby should be delivered here at home at all, but Shelagh had been determined.  His maternity hospital–his efficient, comfortable, safe maternity hospital was not the place for her delivery.

She’s just showing her old prejudice for her district nursing days, he groused.  There was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t deliver at the hospital. Maybe she was just a bit shy to be in the regular patient population?  He could promise her a private room. At the hospital, they’d be ready for any possible emergency.

His legs grew a bit unsteady and he dropped onto the nearby bench.  What if there was an emergency?  If he couldn’t be in the room, how could he be certain any and all warning signs would be noted?  Sister Julienne was a talented midwife, but–

The sound of the glass sliders opening sliced through his worried thoughts.  Tim approached and took the place next to him. “Mum’s really getting close now, isn’t she?” The boy’s deepening voice brought a crooked smile to his father’s face.

“Yes, very close.  We should expect things to start changing around here anytime.”

“I suppose.”  Tim’s voice was low.  “Some things aren’t likely to change, I reckon.  Mum’s putting everything in order, planning everything.  She’s just told us that we’re to go to Granny Parker’s when the time comes, and you’ll work at the surgery until it’s all over.  Just like it’s a regular day for you.”

“Yes,” Patrick answered cautiously.  “Your mother prefers it that way.”

“But what about you, what do you prefer?  I should think you’d want to be at the birth of your own child.  You’ve been there for half the births in Poplar for the last twenty-five years.”  He straightened his spine. “I don’t need to be shuttled off to Granny’s as if I were a child, Dad.”

Patrick hesitated.  He’d need to show support for Shelagh, but Tim was no fool.  “Tim, when a woman gives birth, things change a bit for her. It’s rather scary, and your mother copes with that by creating a sense of order.  It’s important that we help her feel safe, and if that means I can’t be with her at her time, I’ll just have to accept that. You know Sister Evangeline wouldn’t let me in the room when you were born, either.”  He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

A look of empathy passed over the young man’s face.  “You’re not too happy about it, are you?”

No, his son was certainly no fool.  “Not at all.”

Two sets of shoulders lifted in parallel sighs of resignation.  “Women can be a mystery, Tim, especially regarding childbirth. You know, when Mummy was getting close, she decided that she needed to bake.  I have no idea why, but she insisted that if she made enough cakes, she’d be ready for you. In that last month, she must have gone through twenty pounds of flour.  We couldn’t eat it all, so she’d give most to Nonnatus.” He leant in conspiratorily. “To be honest, I think Sister Monica Joan was more relieved than I was when you were born.  Your mother was a terrible baker!”

Tim chuckled softly. “I remember her cakes.  I was always glad when Mrs. B sent one over to us on special occasions.”

After a long moment, Tim broke the silence.  “You like that Mum gets so fussy about the details, don’t you?  All her lists and plans?”

“What do you mean?”

Tim screwed his face in concentration, the right words eluding him.  He licked his lips nervously and said, “You like being taken care of.”

Patrick blinked.  “I hope I take care of her, too.”  His voice was guarded.

“Well, yes, but you like being managed by her.  The surgery is never organized when she’s away, and you’re always happy to have her run the house.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Tim.”

Timothy shifted on the bench.  “The words aren’t coming out right.  I mean, I know you married Mum because you love her, but isn’t part of you glad she takes care of all those things?”

Patrick arched his neck and looked up at the night sky.  “I’m not certain I ever really thought of it that way, Tim.  I didn’t fall in love with Mum because I needed someone to help with the washing up.”

“No, I suppose not,” Tim admitted.  “But it got me wondering, that’s all.”

“We’re all on edge, Tim, that’s all this is.  Mum has good reasons to keep the house quiet when the time comes.  We have to respect them.” He leant in again. “Besides, you’re not really interested in being here, are you?  You cringe when we even talk about it. You wouldn’t be able to escape it if you were here!”

Timothy grimaced.  “No, I don’t really want to be here, but do I really have to stay at Granny Parker’s the whole time?”

Patrick’s mouth twisted in a half-smile.  Teasingly, he reached out to rub his son’s head.  “No, I suppose you could spend some of your time out trying to impress the ladies.  I’ll talk to Granny and let her know you’ll be out a bit. How’s that?”

“Dad!” Tim shrugged away, laughing.

Shelagh’s voice broke into their camaraderie. Neither had noticed that she’d come up behind them.  “You two look like you’re having a good time,” she said.

“Now, I hate to be a spoilsport, but it’s getting late, Timothy.  You said you needed to call your friend Alan about a question on your trigonometry.  You don’t want to wait too long. I’m sure his parents would not appreciate a phone call in the middle of the night.”

Patrick studiously avoided his son’s eye as he headed back in the house.  Instead, he extended his arm and Shelagh came up close against him.

“I have a feeling there was something going on out here I don’t quite understand,” Shelagh said.  

Patrick pressed a kiss against her smooth hair.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love,” he teased.  “Just man-talk–nothing to worry about.”

She slid her hand over his waist and toyed with the buttons of his cardigan.  “I think Tim wasn’t very happy about our decision to send the children to Granny Parker’s when the baby comes,” she admitted.

Our decision?  Patrick bit his lip to keep from saying the words.  “I’ve had a talk with him, and he understands better now,” he told her.  

“Truly?  I was so worried you’d both think I was being selfish.”  She looked up into his downturned face. “You’ll see, dearest.  It will be for the best.”

Angela’s voice came through the glass door.  “Mama, I finished my Horlicks!’

“Well, that’s me,” Shelagh pushed off from his side.  “Coming, Angela!”

At the doorway, she turned back.  “Are you coming, Patrick? It’s getting chilly out here.”

Smiling to himself ruefully, Patrick gave a brisk rub to his arms and followed his wife into the house.

 

Love in Focus

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A special thank you to the Nonnatuns on Tumblr.  For some reason, the idea of Patrick in reading glasses is quite appealing!

It starts out with little things:  a hastily closed drawer, a hidden medical bag. Taken independently, Shelagh would think nothing of it all.  The children and the house take up any time left over from her return to work, and she barely has time to see more than the next task before her.  But after he snaps at her for going through his pockets on laundry day, Shelagh begins to wonder.

“Patrick, are you smoking again,” she confronts him one evening.  She knows it’s not likely.  She hasn’t  picked up on the lingering smell of smoke in his clothes, and his kisses don’t taste of tobacco, but she knows he’s hiding something from her.

He pulls a face.  “Smoking? Of course not.  Why on earth would you ask?”

She immediately regrets her words.  “I’m sorry, dear, it’s just…oh, never mind.  Forget I said anything.”

Another week goes by, and Shelagh makes an effort to pay closer attention.  She’s convinced he’s hiding something from her, and what’s worse, he feels guilty about whatever it is.  She can see it in his face.  When he comes home late from surgery yet again, she decides it’s time to confront him.

Usually, their arguments are quick, irritations more than anything else, but tonight she surprizes him with her suspicious tone.  

“There’s no need to keep secrets, Patrick.  If you need to seek out amusement elsewhere, I’m sure I would sympathize.”  

Understanding lights his face, and he laughs self-consciously.  

“I’m sure I don’t see how you could think this is the slightest bit funny, Patrick.”  Her voice is sharp with betrayal.  “I know I’m–”

He grasps her by the shoulders and turns her towards him, contrition written on his face.  “Shelagh, sweetheart.  It’s not funny at all.  I simply didn’t want you to know–” his voice cuts off and he raises one finger between them.  “Wait here.”

He returns, and it takes Shelagh a few moments to notice the small black case in his hands.

The crease between her eyebrows deepens in confusion.  She glances up, asking for some explanation.

Patrick exhales and begins.  “They’re reading glasses.  I’ve been having trouble reading the fine print in my medical journals lately, and I had to see the eye doctor.  I didn’t want you to see me wearing them, so I’ve been staying at the surgery late to catch up on my paperwork.”

Shelagh reaches out and examines the case in her hand.  “Reading glasses?  Why on earth would you hide reading glasses from me?  I’ve been wearing glasses since I was a girl.”

“I didn’t think you’d make fun,” he explains, “but you’re nearsighted.  You were born that way.  Reading glasses are another thing entirely.  Reading glasses are for…older people.”

She blinks rapidly, trying to understand.   

“I’m fifty-four, Shelagh.  You’re not even near forty!  I’ll be A pensioner before Teddy takes his A-levels.”  He runs the back of his hand along her smooth cheek.  “I didn’t want you to think of me as an old man.”  

Shelagh takes the glasses from their case and slips them onto the bridge of his thin nose.  She bites her lip as a gleam rises in her eyes.  “I think you look very distinguished, dear.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Distinguished?” he sneers.  “That’s a kind way to say decrepit.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Patrick.  Distinguished is very…”

“Very?” he asks.  

Her hands slide up his shoulders and into his hair and she tugs his head a bit closer.  Their breath mingles as she brushes her nose lightly against his.  A giggle rises up between them and up close, he can see her dimples deepen with mischief.  

“Distinguished is very what?” he whispers.  

She leans up on her tiptoes and whispers back.   “I’ll explain later, dearest.  But first, I’d like you to read to me in bed tonight.”

 

Entirely Appropriate Behaviour

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Here’s a fluffy little fic inspired by a gif set MissBergmans posted on Tumblr after S7Ep4.  You can find her blog here.  I’m grateful for both the gifset and her generosity in allowing me to include this here.

This ficlet was so much fun to write I wrote it in (for me)record time!  It’s not all original, I have to admit.  The italicized dialogue is directly from the episode written by Heidi Thomas and Lauren Klee.  The silly nonsense part is all me.

The old wood of the file cabinet drawer closed with a satisfying scrape.  One more task completed, Shelagh thought.  She mentally ticked off another item from her list of tasks to complete and felt a smug smile lift her lips.  She shook the smile off and scolded herself.  “Vanity is a sin, Shelagh Turner.  It’s required of us all to perform to the best of our abilities.”

She heard his footsteps before he came through the door to the maternity home, and she looked up expectantly.  Patrick swung into the room, his arms swinging jauntily.  Oh, he did look quite handsome in his new suit.  This new slim cut did suit him.

And he knew it, she reminded herself.  Apparently, she was not the only one prone to vanity.

He grinned at her and she felt the blush rise in response.  They still enjoyed the connection they felt at work, even after four years of working together at the surgery, but this afternoon she felt a bit more tingly than might be appropriate in the workplace.  

“Here is Sister Monica Joan’s referral letter,” she told him, holding the paper out to him.  “Mr. Greswell doesn’t have a very long waiting list.”

“The sooner, the better, I think.”  He unfolded the letter, checking its contents.  “Before she decides to flee Nonnatus House disguised as a washerwoman.”  He grinned at his own joke.

Shelagh shrugged and tried to disguise a giggle as a sigh.  Confidence was so appealing.  “She needs to be accompanied to hospital by someone she can trust and it sounds as though Sister Julienne is in her bad books.  Let’s see when they can fit her in.  I’ll take her myself is she hasn’t come ‘round to the notion.”

He smiled in approval, and Shelagh relaxed.  She wasn’t sure what he was up to, but she was sure there was some sort of subtext to his demeanour today.  Maybe she was just imagining it.  Patrick’s behaviour was always entirely appropriate.

He reached out to press her forearm, a simple gesture of agreement, but she felt his fingers squeeze her flesh ever so suggestively, and when he step past her on his way to his office she was certain he deliberately brushed up against her breast.  A thrill ran down her spine and she flushed a brighter pink.  

She turned about just in time to watch as he swaggered up the last step.  He turned, catching her staring at him and gave her a Cheshire grin.  

“Well, are you coming, or aren’t you?” he beckoned.

What happened next, behind the locked door of his office, may not have been entirely appropriate after all.

 

Knit Together

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IMG-8598“Finally!” Shelagh thought to herself.  No matter how successful “fifteen minutes on each breast” was during the daytime feeds, baby Teddy did not seem to agree with the strategy in the evenings.  It was just as well, she supposed.  These longer feeds just prior to bedtime seemed to help him sleep longer spells through the night, and if Teddy slept longer spells, then so did she.  What Truby King didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

She placed the dozing infant into his cot and tiptoed from the room.  If she hurried, she could finish that last hem on Angela’s costume and still get a few hours of sleep before Teddy needed her again.  It wasn’t likely to be her best workmanship, but Madam Edith would simply have to lower her expectations.

The air got progressively cooler as she went down the staircase, and she regretted not putting on her fuzzy blue robe.  “Best finish quickly,” she told herself, “or I might freeze my toes off!”  

Patrick sat sat hunched at the kitchen table, his pose familiar from so many nights reviewing patient files at home.  She came down the last steps to stop at his side.  “I’m just being silly,” she told him.  “What’s that you’re doing?  You said you were finished with your work for the night.”  

He lifted his head from his task and stretched his neck from side to side.  “I was hoping to get this finished before you came down.   I’m afraid I’m better at suturing than needlework.”  He held up Angela’s odd little tunic for her inspection.  “Surprise!”  he whispered sheepishly.

A small gasp of surprise filled her lungs.  “Oh, Patrick! That’s lovely!”  

He grinned, an eyebrow lifting in self-mockery.  “It isn’t, really, but at least it’s one less thing for you to do.”  He knotted the last stitch carefully and clipped the thread, then with a quick movement folded it and placed it in Shelagh’s mending bag.  “That’s done and dusted.  Tim can finish the ridiculous Alice band vine for you tomorrow after school.”

Shelagh bent and kissed his cheek.  “Thank you, dear.  We’ll be sure to tell Angela her daddy helped.”  She rubbed the coarse ivory wool over his shoulders and rested her head against his.  “I think this jumper is my favourite.”

“I look like a sailor in this old thing,”  he chuckled.  “My grandad would’ve been proud.  He always wanted me to join the Royal Navy.”

“You look very handsome in this old thing.  I’m not sure why you’ve kept it in a drawer.”  Her fingers tapped the intricate knitted cables.

He leant back against her.  “It doesn’t quite fit under my suit jacket, I’m afraid.  I could use it on some of my house calls of late.  The tower blocks may look modern, but those upper storeys take the blast from the wind.”

“Remember how cold the flat could get?” Shelagh shivered at the memory.  She squeezed his hands between hers.  “Your hands are always so warm.”

Patrick’s eyebrows soared.  “And yours are always freezing!  Shelagh, where is your dressing-gown?  It’s far too chilly for you to go about in that thin nightie, you’ll catch your death.  Here, take this.”  He stood to grasp the edge of his jumper and pulled it over his head.

“Patrick, don’t be silly, it was far colder at the old Nonnatus House.  And now you’ve nearly finished Angela’s costume for me, there’s hardly anything left for me to do.  I’ll be up in bed in a jiffy.”

“Shelagh, put it on, please.  Doctor’s orders.”  

Shelagh rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.  “Not fair pulling rank, Doctor Turner.”  She pushed her arms into the sleeves, then poked her head through the neck.  The too-large jumper caught on her, and she wiggled a bit to try to make it fit.  Patrick helped her, his hands smoothing the wool over her body.  It hung large on her small frame, the arms dangling well below her fingertips.  Laughing, she looked up at him through a tangle of hair.    “I must look ridiculous.”  The light giggle brought out her dimples.  

His fingers gently brushed the hair from her face but his eyes did not meet hers. Shelagh watched as a look flickered across his face, then disappeared.  He swallowed thickly, then passed his hand over the back of his head before turning away.  “Right, then,” he proclaimed in a too-cheery voice.  “I’m for bed.  Don’t be long.”

She gazed after his retreating form, the crease appearing above her nose.  That was the first time she had seen such a…hopeful look on her husband’s face in quite some time.  It had passed so quickly, she wasn’t completely certain she had even seen it.  

With a shrug of her shoulders and shake of her head, she turned to the kitchen.  The poor man was tired, that was all.  She fussed for a few moments, recreating her evening routine.  She’d never sleep if she knew the teapot hadn’t been rinsed and the breakfast dishes were not set out.  Bedtime was the only chance she got to see the house in any sense of order.

As she worked, niggling worries began to distract her.  Surely it wasn’t so very long?  Of course, it had to be that long since they’d been intimate–Teddy was already a month and a half old, and those final weeks of her pregnancy had been so tiring–but thinking about it in terms of months just made it seem all the more astounding.

Had they become that couple? she wondered.  After Angela came to them, she and Patrick hadn’t had such a dry spell, as tired as she was with night time feeds and helping Timothy.  They would sit close enough together for Timothy to complain about “mushy stuff,”  and she often caught her husband glancing at her in ways that made her warm.  Intimacy may have been less frequent, but they still had found time for one another.

It couldn’t be helped, she sniffed as she set the table for breakfast.  They were busy now, and getting busier.  What did it matter that she’d been given the go-ahead from an unflappable Nurse Crane only last week?  She knew well enough a healthy postnatal check-up wasn’t an automatic return ticket to marital intimacies.  

Patrick  knew all this, of course.  He hadn’t once brought up the subject since her appointment at the clinic.  He probably hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.  Except…there was that moment.  

Her chilled feet brought her attention back to the cooling room.  Rubbing her arms briskly, she finished her tasks and followed Patrick’s path up to their bedroom.  She peeked in the children’s rooms, smiling over Timothy’s long frame dangling over the edge of his bed and Angela curled up like a kitten in her own “big girl” bed, and she wondered how long until they would bring Teddy in to share with his sister.  Careful to leave Angela’s door ajar, Shelagh padded past the bathroom door just as the tap began to fill the bath.  She’d be asleep by the time Patrick came to bed tonight.

Their room was dimly lit by the light from the cupboard.  She glanced about the space, no longer the chic master bedroom haven she had once dreamt of.  Teddy’s cot stood in the corner near her side of the bed, and a low dresser for baby items stood beside it.  In just six weeks, Teddy had taken over the space.  

With a sigh, she pulled Patrick’s jumper over her head and folded it neatly on the chair.   The cold was still expected to linger for another few weeks; it was likely he would need it again. He did look very attractive wearing it tonight–bulky, and safe, and strong.  It would be lovely to be held close in his arms, warm wool and Patrick.   A blush crept across her cheeks, stirring something she was afraid to name.   

The mirror reflected her form in the dim light and she peered at her image.  Her body had certainly changed since they had married.  She still carried some of her pregnancy weight, and her skin hung loosely around her middle.  She was certain her hips were wider.  The lines on her face weren’t exactly deeper, but at times she wondered if she was showing her age.  Doubt flickered across her face. She wasn’t her most alluring, and certainly not in her tent-like flannel nightie.  She must have imagined the gleam.  

“You’re just being silly, Shelagh,” she muttered to herself.  “It’s perfectly normal, the children simply take up too much of our attention.  It’ll happen when things are easier.”  She turned back to the bed and climbed under the covers.  She should get to sleep as soon as possible.  Teddy would need her soon enough.  Restlessly, she turned to her side.

Their new bed was bigger than the old one in the flat.  They liked the extra space, but Patrick’s pillow seemed so far away tonight.  She ran her hand over the linen, remembering how close his head would be to hers when they slept in their old bed.  They would lie close together in their private world, sharing secrets and dreams and each other, but it felt like such a long time ago now.  It hurt to suddenly realize how she missed that closeness.  

Teddy snuffled, and she rose immediately to check on him.  Taking no notice of his bewildered mother, he rubbed at his nose and settled back to slumber.  Shelagh pressed her lips together and shook her head.  Teddy had been able to settle to sleep for weeks now, all her fussing would set him back.   She didn’t need to continually mother him–or the rest of the family, for that matter.

Understanding struck her, and she took in a sharp breath.  They hadn’t been drifting apart, rather she had been holding him at arms length.  There had been time for the children, time for the surgery, even for Nonnatus, but she never seemed to make time for Patrick.  She had dismissed the notion of his interest because she herself hadn’t considered sex.     

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Enough is enough.”  Shelagh threw the covers back and crossed to her dressing table.  She would make time for him tonight.  

She glanced down at her practical nightgown.  She’d chosen it more for its warmth than its glamour.  It was hardly an invitation.  Her mind went to the boxes in the back corner of their cupboard, forgotten since the move.  Is that were her pretty nightgowns were?  Would they even fit her?  She sighed.  The Bri-nylon would fit, certainly, but she hadn’t seen it since long before the move.  Even if she did find it, would she look silly?  A tired mother masquerading as a bride?

“You’re not helping,” she muttered to herself.  She glanced at her warm blue dressing-gown, but rejected it as well.  She wanted to look sexy, not like matron on Women’s Surgical.  Patrick’s jumper caught her eye.  Shelagh lifted the heavy wool fabric and pressed it to her face.  It did smell of him, and she imagined could still feel the warmth of his body in its fibres.  

The bathroom door clicked open, pushing her into action.  Moving quickly, she pulled her nightie off and slipped into Patrick’s jumper.  Goose flesh rose, making her more sensitive to the coarse wool against her skin.  She felt the chill against her bare legs and stretched up on her toes nervously.  Patrick liked her legs.  Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.  She fluffed her hair and waited.

Patrick entered the room, his hair still damp from his bath.  Closing the door behind him, he stepped around the wall and saw their empty bed.  “Shelagh?”  He twisted his head to search her out.

“Hello, Patrick,” she answered nervously, then in a rush, “I thought perhaps you might be interested, but I…I quite understand if you’re not, of course, I didn’t want you to think that it would be unwelcome, or-” her voice trailed off.

He stood still, his face stunned.  Shelagh clasped her hands in front of her, then resolutely stepped out of the shadow towards him.  Her confidence grew as she saw his eyes glitter with desire.   “I’d like to borrow your jumper tonight, if you don’t mind.”

He shook his head.  “I…I don’t mind.”  His voice was husky.

Shelagh felt a warm glow rise up through her body.  He wanted her, and the rest of the world, all her worries fell away.  She moved closer, so their bodies were almost touching and breathed his scent in deeply.  “You smell clean.”  Her finger traced the pattern on his pyjama top, then pressed against his heart.  

His hands covered hers and he looked her squarely in the eye.  “Shelagh, you don’t have to do this.  It’s only natural if you need more time.  Your body’s been through so much-”

“All is as it should be,” she answered.  “You’ve been wonderfully patient for so long, darling.  I’d started to forget how important this is.  Not simply the…the sex,” her whisper grew softer on the word,  “but being us, together.  A couple.”  She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest.  “Even if you don’t want to tonight, I’d like to be near you tonight.”

A rumble deep in his chest made her smile.  “I think you know I want to,” he teased.  His voice grew serious again and he bent his head to meet her eyes.  “Are you certain?’

She raised her face to his.  “I am completely certain.”

 

In Favor of a Date

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A/N:  A special thanks to ThatGinchyGirl for her work beta-ing this fic.  Her insight was they key to getting a little bit of nonsense make sense.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the cinema on a Thursday night, Patrick!”  Shelagh could barely contain a giggle.  

Patrick smiled back and squeezed her hand.  “I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?  Now that Tim’s on the mend, we should take a moment to let off some steam.  Before we know it, he’ll be coming home, and a weeknight out will be impossible.”

“He’s so much better now, I can hardly believe it.  All that hard work–I’ve never met a boy with such determination.  To think he’ll be on his feet in a month!”  Her hand slid up around his forearm and she pressed just a bit closer.  

Patrick’s eyes were warm, causing Shelagh to blush ever so little.  “I think he’s nearly as eager for us to get married as I am.”  

The blush deepened.  “There’s plenty of time, Patrick.”

The theatre was quickly filling up with people.  “Where would you like to sit?” Patrick asked as he scanned the large open space.

“Oh, I don’t mind, Patrick.  I’ve not been to enough films these last years to really have much of a preference.  Why not there?” She pointed up the staircase towards the last row, empty of any theatergoers but a couple at the far end.  “Right on the aisle?”  Her question was more a statement of fact.

She climbed the steps, fully expecting Patrick to follow, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he did.  At top row, Shelagh turned to let him help her with her coat.

“I’m starting to notice a bit of a pattern, my love.  You ask me to decide and somehow I end up following you.”

A dimple appeared.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick.”  She smiled archly and settled into her seat.  

He shook his head in resignation.  “I’d like to point out from the very start that you chose these seats.  I had nothing to do with it.”  He shrugged his own coat off and sat beside her.

Two lines of confusion appeared between her eyes.  “Is there anything wrong with these seats, Patrick?  I’m sure we can find something else just as suitable if you like.”

He leaned in, his face close to hers.  “I’m not so sure, my love.”  His voice grew husky.  “You may not realize it my dear, but we’re in the snogging section.”

“The sno–Oh, Patrick you’re teasing me!”  She swatted at his arm playfully.

“I most assuredly am not teasing you, Shelagh.  We are in fact right dab in the center of it.”  His eyes smiled as she blushed fiercely.  “Don’t worry, Shelagh.  Nothing’s going to happen up here.”  He leaned in even closer, and she could feel his breath against her ear.  “I can’t say as much for when we’re alone, however.”

The blush raged to a bright red.  “Patrick!”  She squeezed her hands together tightly in her lap.  

He pulled away and patted her hand.  “I know, I shouldn’t tease, but when you pink up so prettily, I can’t help myself.  I promise.  I’ll behave.”

The lights dimmed and the newsreel started.  News of Cyprus’s Independence flashed by unnoticed as Shelagh tried to regain control of her breathing.  She knew Patrick enjoyed making her blush in the rare moments they were alone, but he would never embarrass her.  Besides, she assured herself, there really weren’t many people this far back in the theater, anyway.

She turned her attention to the screen but was distracted by the pairs of silhouetted couples in the rows before her.  For years, all ideas of courtship had been far from her mind but as the detachment required by the Order began to wane, thoughts of nights just like this one began to sneak into her dreams.  A tingle of awareness ran through her.  This wish had come true.  Tonight, she sat in a darkened theater, not with some man, but with Patrick, the man she loved.    

Shelagh felt her body flush with the thrill.  She twisted her hands together as she tried to concentrate on the screen.  Images reflected off the lenses of her glasses, and she found her focus drifting to Patrick’s hand on the armrest, so close to her.  She knew its touch, loved the feel of his smooth dry palm against her softer hand.  Her eyelids fluttered closed as she remembered the first time he cradled her hand in his, her own pain forgotten even before he pressed his lips to her palm.  That gentle touch felt so right in that moment in the kitchen, even as she fought against it.

Patrick’s hand stretched over and clasped her clenched hands.  He seemed to understand her confusion.  She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.  Their hands seemed to fit just so.  Hers was so much smaller, and yet it didn’t feel swamped in his.  No longer even trying to watch the film, she studied his long fingers with their neatly trimmed nails and large knuckles, the short hairs on his fingers and along the back of his hand leading up under his sleeve.  His wrists were fine, elegant even, and she wished for a moment that she could roll his sleeves up and gaze at his forearms.

A hot blush flooded her cheeks.  What was she thinking?  Roll up his sleeves!!  A crowded movie house was certainly not the place to indulge in such thoughts.  She sat up straight in her seat and felt the tug of his hand as he refused to relinquish hers.  

“It’s alright, Shelagh,” he assured her, his voice a husky whisper.  “We’re only holding hands.”

She resisted the urge to meet his eyes and instead kept hers locked on their entwined fingers.  How could “only holding hands” feel like so much more?  

The warm stillness of his hand soothed her, and in the flickering darkness she gave in.  She spread her fingers wide and delighted when he mimicked the movement.  Her palm shifted against his and she grazed the tips of her fingers against his palm, brushing its coarse surface.  Her hand turned in his and they began an intimate dance, hands stroking, nestling, seeking closeness.

Her breath shuddered again.  Her body felt tense, every nerve ending focussed on their joined hands.  She swallowed thickly, trying to gain control of herself.  For the first time since the picture started, she let herself look at him.  He was nearer than she realized, his face close enough to block out all other images.  His eyes glittered brightly with something she recognized but could not name, and she felt her heart race.  Blood rushed in her ears and all sound was blocked but the quiet sussing of her own breath.  Her gaze travelled lower and came to rest on his mouth.  

Oh! She wanted to kiss him.  She wanted to press her mouth to his, breathe him, taste him.  But they couldn’t, a voice whispered.  Patrick had only been teasing.  Snogging in the cinema was for young lovers, not two mature, reasonable adults.  Even when she had been a teenager herself, she hadn’t done such things.  School had been her single-minded focus in those years, keeping company with the boys from the local school not a priority.

He moved his face closer, not more than an inch, and in that moment, Shelagh forgot she was a mature, reasonable adult.  Their surroundings faded from her attention.   Her free hand slid around his neck and pulled him closer, her fingers lingering against the warm skin above his collar.   For a moment they hesitated, their faces a scant inch apart as their breath mingled.  Unable to resist any longer, Shelagh kissed him.

His lips were soft and gentle, but she felt something in his response that emboldened her.  Her fingers slipped into the short hair at the back of his neck as she deepened the kiss.  His scent filled her head, the roughness of his evening stubble teased her to a state of heightened awareness.  

Gently, Patrick broke the kiss.  With a sigh, he rested his forehead against hers. She had not noticed how his arms wrapped around her as they embraced, but she felt their lack when he withdrew them.  

“I’d like to kiss you all night,” he whispered.  She could hear the regret in his voice.   

Her fingers shifted around to trace his jawline, and she whispered, “I think perhaps it’s time for us to set a date, dearest.”