A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Three

Posted on December 21, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

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The clinic office was dim and cool when Patrick entered moments later. Zakhele Obi and Myra Fitzsimmons sat across from each other, the scene more closely resembling a negotiation than a medical examination.

“You must excuse the secrecy, Doctor Turner. I thought it best that people think Zakhele needed medical attention. The fewer people that know we’re talking to him at all, the better.”

Patrick’s eyes glittered. “I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Obi. I–I don’t have the words, sir. You saved my daughter’s life today; I will always be in your debt.” Patrick reached out his hand, glad the firm grasp he had kept on his control as he stood by his wife had not slipped.

“You save lives every day, Doctor. We do what we must to work together. That is why I have come today.” He unfolded a large piece of paper upon the desk. “I have been trying to think of a way to come here since you arrived, and the old lion gave me the excuse.

“You have seen first-hand that my friends do not trust you. For so long we have been tricked and by the white man, yet perhaps the worst of all is that we have come to believe the government’s lies. We have come to believe that we are less than the white man, that our black brothers and sisters are our enemy.

“Many of my friends would stay away from the clinic and the school at Hope Mission rather than accept your help, but my Steven has helped me to understand that we must find trust, that we must work together with the Xhosa and people like Doctor Fitzsimmons if we are ever to regain our dignity and rights. The Zulu are a warrior people, it will not be easy for us to work for peace.”

He paused for a moment. “When I was a young man I was an engineer, Doctor. You may be surprised to learn that several of my brothers were skilled men, learned men before the government took that from us. It is why so many from the settlement will not send their children to school.”

He smoothed his hands over the diagram before him. “I have drawn a plan for a well that will supply both the mission hospital and the school. Your plans have not worked because they do not take into account the rock bed just beneath the surface. With dynamite, we could break through in one day, but you see the problem with that.” He glanced up at Patrick.

“DuPlessis would never allow its use.”

“Yes, and if we were to try it, you would be sent to prison for arming the natives.” Zakhele sat back in his chair.

“So then how can we possibly break through the rock to water?” Patrick leant over the drawing.

“It is all about knowing which rock to break. Forgive me for saying so, but the Missionary Society is run by clerics, not scientists.”

Patrick rubbed his face briskly. “We’ve been digging in the wrong places.”

“Yes. You came to tell us how you could help us. You forgot to ask how we can help you.”

Myra shook her head. “Why now, Zakhele? Why do you come to help us now?”

“The Xhosa have tried to speak to the government, to use reason. The Zulus have used resistance and violence. Neither has worked. Our only way to freedom is by combining the two. Steven will soon be a man. He has been accepted to the college, he can be a great man. Steven Obi is my great hope.”

“I must go, before people begin to ask questions. Give these plans to Mr. Makepeace, he will know what to do. If we do this right, we will begin to make change.” The man stood to go.

Patrick stretched out his hand once more. “It’s a privilege, sir. I hope that one day I can be of service to you.” A look of understanding passed between the two fathers, and the kernel of an idea began to form.

“I can’t believe we never thought of it before.” Myra Fitzsimmons considered. “If it works, we could do so much.”

“That’s the question,” Henry Makepeace rubbed his forehead. “As arrogant and blind DuPlessis is, he’s no fool. If he gets so much as a whiff of this, he’ll see right through it.”

“It’s a chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Makepeace. The old well could fail any day now, and without a ready water supply, the Mission cannot possibly survive. We have to try.”

After dinner, the table was cleared and Zakhele’s plans spread out. The site chosen for the new well was two hundred yards from the Mission, a high shale rock surrounded by low green bushes and grass. According to the plan, teams of men would use the few pick axes allowed the Mission for the project to break beneath the surface. Once beyond, the augur provided by the Mission Society would drill down to the aquifer and create a space for the new well pump.

If, as Zakhele promised, men from the settlement would assist in the project, the clinic would be used to shield the working crews from police attention. As men dug the well, and later the ditches for the pipeline, the clinic would be mobile, offering an excuse for people to congregate. DuPlessis would tolerate only so much, they could not give him any reason to shut the project down.

“We never considered a spot so far from the Mission,” Tom Hereward explained. “Between our manpower and the hard earth, it would take us months to lay pipe to the cistern. But if this plan works, we could finish in two weeks. We’d have time to ensure the pump was running before we have to leave.”

“You’re sure we can use this dodge, Myra? Du Plessis seems to be searching for a reason to shut us down.” Patrick dropped into a chair.

“We can try, Patrick. As long as we keep the men separate, we can claim there’s no congregating. It’ll be difficult, but the men will know the risk. The hard part will be to spread the clinic schedule out. People here are not ruled by the clock as you are in England. Few people wear watches–or even have clocks in their homes–and the school bell only travels so far. If there’s even the slightest gap between patients, DuPlessis will shut us down.”

Fred spoke up. “Pardon me, Doctor Fitzsimmons, but what ‘bout that voozievela thing I seen at the football match Jacob and me went to a few weeks back? Right train horn that thing was.”

“A vuvuzela? Yes, that could work, Fred. We’ll need several, and put them at intervals. You’ll need to use your best scrounging powers to find enough.”

“Never fear, Doctor,” Fred puffed out his chest. “You may know your medicine, but when it comes to scrounging, Fred Buckle is your man.”

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Ten

Posted on June 20, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

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A large Range Rover pull in front of the hospital, stirring up great clouds of dust. A man in uniform jumped nimbly down from the driver seat and called out a sharp command. Immediately, a young woman appeared at the mission entrance. Her eyes never met his as she answered him in Afrikaans and gestured to the east wing of the building.

The man had all the bearings of one confident in his own authority. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform as an emblem of dominance. His face was strong-boned, nearly leonine, with a closely cropped moustache and his hair combed severely from his face. His expression did not attempt to hide his disdain for his surroundings.

“The less you all say, the better,” Dr. Fitzsimmons advised the team as they watched him advance up the front steps. Her spine had stiffened more than before as if she were arming for battle. “He is not our friend.”

Clipped footsteps echoed in the hall, coming to a halt at the large glass-paned doors. “Dr. Fitzsimmons! I am so very sorry to have missed your guests when they were in Alice. They must think me so very rude.” The smooth words seemed incongruous with the harsh timbre of his voice, and a chill came over the room.

“Sergeant Du Plessis, how kind of you to come all the way to our Mission to greet our guests. We’re honored.” Dr. Fitzsimmons’ voice was cool.

The police officer cocked his head slightly. “I am glad to hear it, Doctor. I wouldn’t want to think they were avoiding me. They haven’t even met me yet!” A laugh forced itself out. “Let us make up for the…omission… and make a new start.”

He turned towards the group. “If I may introduce myself, gentleman and ladies, “I am Sergeant Willem Du Plessis. I serve as Commandant of the Alice Branch of the South African Police. As such, you can understand why I am most concerned that I was unable to greet you upon your arrival in my jurisdiction.” His eyes swept over the occupants of the room, measuring up each person. He let his eyes rest on Trixie for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to Patrick and extended his hand.

“I’m glad to see another man here to take charge,” he greeted.

Patrick’s eyes were flat as he grasped the hand before him. He had encountered enough misogynistic bullies in his day to know that it was better to manipulate them than antagonize them.

“Dr. Patrick Turner, London. It’s a pleasure to be here, Sergeant. I’m certain we’ll be very grateful for any assistance you can give us during our stay.”

“And exactly how long is your stay, Doctor? I like to keep informed of these things, you understand.”

Dr. Fitzsimmons interrupted. “Dr. Turner and his team will be here only long enough to help us set up a new clinic and then they must return to England, I’m afraid. You’ve caught us just as we were about to move the furniture about, Sergeant.”

The sergeant slowly turned his face back to her. “You’ve asked them to come all the way from England to move furniture?” A threat lingered in the air. “I am aware that your guests came with more than a few trunks of linen suits, Myra.”

She stiffened at the use of her first name. “Some bandages and cotton wool, that’s all, I’m afraid. Times are hard for missionaries, I’m afraid, Sergeant. We’re fortunate to simply have warm bodies to help.”

The policeman bristled. “I have not come all this way to be hoodwinked, Dr. Fitzsimmons. Surely you do not expect me to believe that the Mission Society has gone to such expense to send a few nurses to coddle your…patients. I fully expect you to share the bounty of your visitors with the people who truly have need in our community.”

Sister Julienne stepped forward. “Sergeant Du Plessis, please allow me to extend our most heartfelt thanks for your assistance in our mission. The Reverend Hereward is occupied at the Mission Church, and will be so very disappointed to have missed you this morning. I am Sister Julienne, and this is Sister Winifred. You can be assured that we will remember you in our prayers.”

Unable to ignore the nun, Sergeant Du Plessis gave her his full attention. “Of course, I am honored, Sister. And I would consider it most helpful if you were to turn your efforts to influencing the Mission staff to be as cooperative.”

During this exchange, Shelagh slipped behind Fred, his size shielding her from the police officer’s view. “Fred, don’t move,” she whispered. “Just follow my lead.”

The Sergeant continued, his voice now more controlled. “The Mission is quite fortunate to have such support from the English. Of course, I would not begrudge you any assistance, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We are fortunate to have all the medical personnel we require for our goals in Alice. As you can imagine, however, we can always use medical supplies.” His eyes fell on the clipboard clasped in Shelagh’s arms and held out his hand. “Surely there is something here you could share with us?”

Reluctantly, Shelagh passed the paperwork to him. Long moments went by as they all watched the man scan the sheets of inventory. He looked up and handed the clipboard back to Shelagh. “There, you see? Plenty of medical supplies here for us all. You certainly wouldn’t mind sharing some of your bounty, would you, Nurse–?” His eyes passed over Shelagh insolently.

“Nurse Turner, and of course, we’ll be happy to share, Sergeant. Fred, will you please help Sergeant Du Plessis with one or two of those boxes?”

Doctor Fitzsimmons stiffened with shock. Du Plessis smirked triumphantly, and his voice oozed into pleasantness. “That won’t be necessary, Nurse Turner. There are plenty of kaf–”

“I’ll call Jacob to help, Sergeant,” Myra Fitzsimmons’ voice broke in.

He turned quickly back to face her, their eyes locked in a challenge. After a moment, Du Plessis’s eyes blinked slowly and an unpleasant smile crossed his face. “Of course, Myra. Jacob will do just as well. Doctor Turner, I look forward to working with you again.” He gave a sharp salute and left the building. Without being called, Jacob Arens and two young women slipped into the room and carried the boxes out to the vehicle.

The truck roared as is left the yard. “Well,” Trixie breathed, “That was rather an unfriendly welcome committee.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be the last time you see him, especially if we’re giving away precious supplies. We’ll never get antibiotics from the government, and now Du Plessis knows the Mission is sending them, he’ll be on every shipment.” Doctor Fitzsimmons face was tight with anger.

“I offered no medications to the Sergeant, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We’ve sent him off with a few crates of bandages, that’s all.” Shelagh crossed the room and held out the clipboard. Accepting it, the mission doctor rifled through the pages, then gave it back in distaste. “I rather thought you were bringing more than a few plasters and cotton wool, Patrick.”

“I’m a bit confused,” Phyllis Crane wondered aloud. “Why was he content to leave the antibiotics behind?”

Fred sauntered up to the front of the group. “Perhaps because he didn’t know they were there?” He drew a sheaf of papers from his back pocket and put them back on the clipboard.

“Fred? How on earth–” Patrick asked.

He grinned at Shelagh. “Mrs. Turner’s quick thinkin’, Doc. While his nibs was yammerin’ on, yer wife slipped the papers in me back pocket.”

“Shelagh! What if you’d been caught? Du Plessis is a dangerous man. If he finds out you kept antibiotics from him, there’ll be hell to pay. You promised there’d be no danger, and our first day, you walk right into it.” His eyes glittered with concern.

“No one here will say anything, Doctor Turner,” Phyllis’s brisk voice blanketed the room in calm. “I rather think we all know what we’re up against now.”

Next Chapter

Historical note:

*The South African Police served as more than the police force of South Africa in the years 1913-1994. “Beyond the conventional police functions of upholding order and solving crime, the SAP employed counter-insurgency and intimidation tactics against anti-apartheid activists and critics of the white minority government.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_Police

Please see the following websites for more information:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_Police

http://www.nytimes.com/1997/03/25/world/apartheid-s-feared-police-prove-inept-and-corrupt.html?pagewanted=all

http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/06/world/africa/mandela-life-under-apartheid/

Sergeant Du Plessis is based on this tweet from location filming in South Africa:

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Nine

Posted on June 8, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

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Previous Chapter

At precisely ten minutes before eight that morning, a young boy scampered up the stone steps to the Mission. He peeked in the entrance, then called out a few words in his native tongue. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to his assigned task and unwound a length of rope from a cleat on the stuccoed wall. He stayed there motionless until he heard a voice call out, then with a swift yank of the rope, he used his four-stone weight to ring the morning bell.

Almost instantly, children came running into the open yard from every direction, their voices filling the air with cheerful chatter. By the time the last bell had sounded, the children were lined up in orderly rows, smallest to tallest, and stood silently as they awaited the start of the day.

The newest student watched from the side, nerves beginning to show. He glanced at his mother. “I’m older than all of them,” Timothy muttered.

“It does seem that way,” Patrick answered. “But you’ll be working on your own assignments, it won’t matter much anyway.”

“Yes, but Dad, we’re here for so long. I thought maybe I’d meet some people my own age. I can’t spend all my time with Angela and Nurse Crane.” He shifted his bookbag on his thin shoulder.

An elderly man shuffled out from the dim school building. His white hair and beard stood in stark contrast to the darkness of his skin and despite his slow gait, he held himself erect.

“Good morning, children,” he called out in a deep and melodious voice.

“Good morning, Utitshala!” Twenty young voices called in return.

The teacher stood to one side of the doorway. “You may come in now.”

Obediently, the children proceeded into the little school house. As the last child entered,the old man turned to Timothy. “You must be my new charge,” the man said. “I am Philip Nkosi, but you may call me “Utitshala,” which means ‘teacher.’” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I must say I am very excited to have you here, young friend. We shall learn much from each other, I am certain.”

His easy manner seemed to relax Timothy, and the boy smiled. “I’m sure I have much more to learn from you, sir.”

Utitshala smiled, revealing strong white teeth. “You will do, Timothy Turner. And soon, you shall meet my young friend Stephen. He will come soon, and you shall have a friend.” He turned to Patrick and Shelagh and held out his hand. “Thank you for the gift of your son, Dr. and Mrs. Turner. I shall do my best to stay out of the way of his progress.”

Patrick shook his hand gratefully. “Thank you sir. We appreciate you accommodating our son during our stay.”

“We have much to learn from one another, Doctor, far beyond the academic. But there is a daughter, I was told.” He looked to Shelagh.

“Yes, Utitshala, but she is quite young. Angela will stay with Kholeka whilst I am at the hospital.”

The teacher nodded sagely. “Kholeka is a wise choice. She has raised four of her brothers and sisters already. She was quite a good student herself when she was in my school, but her family’s need was great. Well, then, Timothy Turner, shall we begin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I shall follow you, as all good teachers must. Good day, Dr. Turner, Mrs. Turner.”

They watched as their son entered the building. Patrick glanced at his watch impatiently. “We’ll be late, Shelagh.”

Her clear blue eyes turned their focus to him. He was nervous, she knew. She reached her hand out to his and gripped it tightly. “Then I shall follow you.”

Despite Patrick’s fears, the team had yet to gather in the empty east wing of the hospital. Only Fred and Nurse Crane had arrived, and both had taken the time to settle in according to character. Whilst Nurse Crane stood by the crates of medical supplies taking inventory, Fred had settled himself in a cool corner, his worn pack of cards already spread out before him.

“Mornin’, Doc, Mrs. T,” he called. “Looks like we’ve got our work set out for us, don’t it?”

The room, though clean, had all the hallmarks of a long-abandoned hall. The plaster walls were yellowed with age, the institutional brown paint on the lower half chipping away like an old fresco. Natural light glowed from the large windows and doors, the brown mullions creating a patchwork of glass. Ceiling fans circulated the air.

“It certainly does, Fred. Hopefully, we can get this place sorted and then you can get started on the water supply situation. The Mission Society promised to send a hot water heater, but apparently it’s not yet arrived.” Shelagh walked along the rows of rough-hewn furniture stacked against the back wall, creating a plan as she went.

Patrick lifted the lid of an ancient Red Cross bin and peered inside in distaste. “I’m not sure even you can make something of this place, Shelagh.” He dropped the lid and brushed the rust from his hands.

Shelagh glanced back over her shoulder. “Have no fear, Doctor Turner. This place has good bones, I’m sure we’ll make it work.” She teased, “Remember what I did with you.”

Fred chortled. “I’m afraid she has ya there, Doc.”

Phyllis looked up from the clipboard in her hands. “Between what was here already and the supplies we brought along with us, it seems we have nearly enough to set up as soon as possible, Mrs. Turner.” She handed the papers to Shelagh.

Shelagh nodded and her shoulders lifted with excitement. “We’ll have this place sorted in no time.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Turner,” Trixie’s voice interrupted as she and Barbara Gilbert came through the door. “I simply had to get my “Keep Fit” exercises done this morning, and I convinced Barbara to join me. Just because we’re on a different continent is no excuse to let ourselves go.” A quick giggle took the edge off her words.

“I’m hardly letting myself go, Trixie,” Barbara muttered.

“You always thank me in the end,” came Trixie’s response. She turned about, taking in the room.

“I’m always thankful that it’s over, anyway.” Barbara dropped a bag filled with pamphlets on the nearest table.

Trixie turned about in place, taking in the room. “What a perfectly inspiring place. I can imagine Clark Gable wooing Grace Kelly in a place exactly like this.”

“I’m not certain a double feature of Mogambo and The African Queen was a good idea the week before we left, Nurse Franklin,” Phyllis Crane admonished. “We’re not likely to run into any Hollywood types here, I’m sure.”

Trixie sighed in resignation. “Yes, I suppose my dating life will be even more disappointing here than it was in Poplar. Oh, well. More energy for this!”

“I can’t imagine you not having energy for anything, Nurse Franklin,” Sister Winifred teased.

“Thank you, Sister. I must say, the two of you look so much cooler in these new linen habits. Can you imagine how frightfully uncomfortable your heavy blue habits would be right now? And it’s still morning!” Trixie continued to chatter, filling the silence.

Sister Julienne smiled enigmatically and changed the subject. “Sister Winifred and I spent some time in hospital this morning. It’s rather bereft of patients at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“That’s precisely our problem, Sister.” Dr. Fitzsimmon’s voice answered. Immediately, the focus of the room shifted. “The community is reluctant to come to us, therefore, we must go out to them, and our resources are stretched beyond their limit. We seem to be putting out fires rather than preventing them in the first place. It’s my hope that by creating this clinic we shall bring the community to the Mission.”

Her face remained impassive as she glanced about the room, measuring each newcomer in a look. Her eyes came to rest upon Shelagh. “Mrs. Turner, I did not realize you would be working with us as well. Though, of course, we are happy to accept any assistance.”

Shelagh felt the air leave her lungs. Conscious of several pairs of eyes upon her, her voice was composed. “Yes, Dr. Fitzsimmons, I’m looking forward to it.”

“I think you’ll find, Dr. Fitzsimmons, that Mrs. Turner is precisely the person you want setting up your clinic. We couldn’t do without her in Poplar.” Sister Julienne’s eyes met Shelagh’s for a quick moment, and for the moment, the tension that had existed between the two women for the last months disappeared.

Further discussion was interrupted by the insistent sound of a horn blaring in the front yard.

“Damn,” Myra Fitzsimmons muttered. “I’d hoped he wouldn’t descend upon us so soon.”

She turned to the team before her. “I’m afraid you are all about to see the dark side of South Africa.”

Next Chapter

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Eight

Posted on May 20, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

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A bright dawn filtered through the louvered shutters of the room, coaxing Shelagh from sleep. New morning sounds, so different from the street hubbub of the East End, rose in a slow crescendo. Strange birds called into the quiet, and an insect droned outside the window as it hovered in the honeysuckle. The familiar sound of Patrick’s breath sussed in her ear and she smiled. He was pressed up against her, his arm over her side and his nose in her hair. This moment was only for her, no demands, no concerns, just the warmth of her husband’s arms.

Her eyes flickered open. The room seemed misty, and between the netting and her own poor vision, the blur intensified the sense of seclusion. After days of near constant company, she wanted to enjoy the self-indulgence of this moment. Soon enough, Angela would stir in her camp bed a few feet away and usher in the demands of the world.

Shelagh felt a return of the anxiety she had felt throughout the previous day. Weeks of planning and preparation had in some ways distracted her from the actual mission, and now she felt uncertainty begin to creep in. Why did she feel the need to prove herself yet again?

Down the hall, the nuns would be preparing to leave for morning Lauds in the small chapel on site. Shelagh considered joining them, the decided against it. Perhaps later. Her own morning routine of meditation and prayer filled that void, whilst allowing her to remain with her family. The privacy of her own prayer had become quite special to her since leaving the sisterhood, a moment of serenity and thankfulness for the gift of her second life.

Slow breaths filled her lungs, flooding her body with oxygen. She let the air reach deep into her body as her mind cleared. Worries about the children, about Patrick, even her own worries for this mission faded as the well-remembered Breviary repeated in her head and she found her serenity.

Her prayers came to a close and she returned to an awareness of her place. Patrick was awake now, waiting for her to finish. “Morning,” he whispered in her ear. His voice had a husky tone in the morning that stirred her in ways she knew would not be fulfilled now, but for a moment, she let herself enjoy the warm glow of anticipation. They would have to find a solution to the dilemma of Angela’s sleeping arrangements.

She turned her head to see him and was kissed for her efforts. His long fingers glanced along the vulnerable line of her throat, stroking the length of her neck as it stretched towards him. The kiss was slow and tender, and for a moment, they were lost to the world.

“Mama, up!” Angela’s voiced piped across the fog of desire, breaking them apart.

Startled, Shelagh turned her head. Under a shock of pale blonde hair, a pair of brown eyes peered over the top of the mattress, two chubby arms outstretched.

“Angela! You startled me!”

“Mama, up!” The little girl demanded. Patrick’s answering groan expressed his displeasure, and Shelagh squeezed his hand in support.

“Mama. Up.” Angela was growing impatient.

“Too little to climb up, are we, my wee girlie,” her mother teased.

“That’s one way to keep her out of our bed,” grumbled Patrick. “She goes back to her room tonight, Shelagh.”

Shelagh tossed a wry grin back at her husband and pulled Angela up from under the mesh netting. The child scrambled under the thin covers and pressed against her mother. Giving in, Patrick raised his arm and pulled them both in close.

“Good morning kisses, Angela?” Shelagh coaxed.

Angela’s lips smacked the air loudly, her real attention on the teddy bear in her hands. “Monkey,” she cooed.

“You don’t have to beg me for kisses, my love,” Patrick teased. Shelagh glanced up, her eyes showing her opinion of his taunt.

“Yes, darling. You’re a monkey.” Shelagh turned back and tapped a gentle finger to the girl’s button nose.

“No, Mama. Monkey.” Angela pointed her finger at the window.

Lazily, their eyes followed her direction. Just outside the window was a monkey nearly the size of Angela herself. It paused in its casual breakfast of palm fronds to turn and look back at them. Shelagh gasped, and moved to block her daughter from the monkey’s sight. Patrick leapt up and released a low growl, and the monkey scampered away.

He turned back to his wife and daughter. “Are you alright?” He asked. He was breathing heavily.

Shelagh began to giggle, and the sound stirred Angela from her silence. “Monkey!” She cheered.

Patrick dropped on the bed. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this!”

A scream rose out from somewhere down the hall.

“Monkey!” Angela crowed again.

Struggling into his dressing gown, Patrick ran out into the hall. Doors along the corridor opened, and tousled heads poked out.

“It came from down there, Dad,” Timothy pointed. He followed his father past nurses and nuns to the last door. About to knock, they were startled when Fred appeared, his face ashen.

“A gorilla! There was a gorilla outside my window!” In his haste to escape some great beast, he had left his dressing gown behind and stood in his unmentionables. He clenched a rolled up copy of the Sporting Life in his hand as if he had discovered its more useful purpose: Safari security.

Patrick blinked and struggled to keep the grin from his face. “A gorilla, Fred? Are you alright?”

The large man sighed heavily and leant against the doorjamb. “My heart is pounding like a train! I had no idea we’d be face to face with King Kong!”

Patrick nodded, his face a study in physician’s calm. “Yes, well, I’m glad you’re not harmed, Fred. I’ll leave you to get dressed, shall I?”

Fred huffed and closed his door.

As Patrick and Timothy returned to their rooms, Timothy muttered, “There aren’t any gorillas for two thousand miles!”

Trixie laughed. “It’s a good thing, too. I have no desire to act the part of Faye Wray, even to save Fred.”

Next Chapter

I think we’re gonna see a bit more of this fellow.

Screenshot 2016-05-20 09.47.47

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Six

Posted on May 5, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

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Previous Chapter

The road to Hope Mission was a relic from the days of British colonialism, a wide byway meant for wagons pulling crops and lumber to the frontier outpost of Alice. Years of neglect had left it barely driveable in parts. The twelve miles to the mission were not kind to any vehicle, and the Mission’s dusty maroon and tan bus did not make the journey gracefully.

“I never thought I’d miss the top of a double-decker barrelling down the commercial road,” Trixie complained. She gripped the seat in front of her fiercely, trying to keep from tumbling to the floor.

“Think of it like this, Trixie,” Barbara advised. “It’s better than that old bus Tom uses for church trips!”

The two exchanged grins, ignoring the cry of protest from the vicar. The alliance between the two nurses had strengthened since the autumn, to the point where poor Tom sometimes felt like he was the third wheel.

“You two young ladies are very ungrateful,” Fred wagged a finger from his seat across the aisle. “That ol’ omnibus has a history!”

“Yes, Fred. It’s Pre-Historic!” Trixie quipped.

The bus lurched in the road and sent up a cloud of dust behind it. “Better than an English rollercoaster,” the driver called out with a cheerful laugh. Small and wiry, Jacob Arends drove with more enthusiasm than skill, but his wide grin and friendly manner had done more to settle nerves as the team completed the final leg of their journey than all the polished manners of the Mission Society escorts.

“Soon we will be at our Mission,” he assured them over his shoulder. “We are most excited to have you stay.”

“I would be most excited if he didn’t drive us into a ditch,” Patrick muttered as he swayed with the bus’s motion.

Shelagh’s lips pressed together and she smoothed Angela’s hair. The poor little girl was near the end of her tether with all the travel. “Almost there, darling, and then we’ll let you have a nice run ‘round. Patrick, you’re just nervous. Dr. Fitzsimmons wrote to you for a reason, dearest, you’re sure to help.”

“Some boxes of supplies and a few weeks service. What do I know about bush medicine? I’m a place-filler until the Mission Society can get a trained mission doctor here, that’s all.” His crossed arms and pursed lips gave him a petulant look.

“Patrick,” Shelagh soothed. Sometimes her husband was his own worst enemy. He needed to be busy, and the forced idleness of these days of travel had left him to worry more than she liked. “You’re more than trained for this. Certainly we’ll have challenges, but it’s not just your medical skills that will be of help here, dearest. You want to help people; you want to make their lives better. Dr. Fitzsimmons couldn’t have made a better choice when she sent you that letter.”

He glanced down at her bright blue eyes, full of encouragement and a reluctant grin tugged at the side of his mouth. “What would I do without you, Shelagh?”

“For one thing, you’d eat yourself sick. You certainly made a feast of the bobotie at the hotel last night!” Shelagh teased. Patrick was not the most adventurous of eaters, but their first official meal in South Africa had been a success.

His eyes lit up. “I only ate two servings last night! It’s not my fault is was so much like your shepherd’s pie.”

“Flatterer, you had three servings, and you finished Angela’s, too.”

“I was simply making sure she didn’t let the sultanas go to waste.”

“And the mince, and the crust, too, I’m certain.” A dimple peeked out from Shelagh’s suppressed grin.

Leaning in conspiratorially, Patrick whispered loudly, “Angela, I think Mummy’s asking for a kiss.”

“Dad,” groaned the boy seated behind them. “Please don’t embarrass me at the Mission with that mushy stuff. It’s bad enough I have to see it at home.”

Shelagh giggled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timothy dear.”

Timothy rolled his eyes, then sat forward. “Mr. Arends said the next time he goes into Alice, he can take me to look at the University there. It’s the only library in the whole region.”

“We’ll see, Tim,” Patrick answered. “Let’s get settled at the Mission before we make any plans. We’re here for a purpose, not a sightseeing trip.”

Jacob Arends had other ideas, it seemed, and he slowed the bus to point out features along the way. As they drove farther from Alice, the terrain began to change. The lonely thorn trees of the veld gave way to low bushes and tufts of pale grasses that swayed in the breeze, creating hiding places for the grazing animals as they took rest from the heat. Miles ahead, the green deepened, making a gradual climb up an imposing forested ridge.

“Up ahead, you see the mountain? That is Hogsback, most beautiful mountain God made. It is three, maybe four miles from our village, and the most lovely green mountain. The rivers there, they make waterfalls and a lake so deep there is no bottom.”

The bus rumbled through a dense copse of trees, upsetting a flock of bright birds. “There!” called out Tom Hereward. “In the tree–monkeys!”

“Those are vervets, Mr. Vicar. They pose no danger to you, but they will steal the food from your hand if you are not careful,” the driver advised.

“It’ll be just like have Sister Monica Joan with us,” laughed Trixie.

“Mr. Arends, what are those funny round buildings? We’ve seen them from the train, but could not place them,” piped in Sister Winifred. A cluster of round buildings, bright with a white stucco and thatched roofs sat upon a swell in the plain.

“Those are rondavels. They are Xhosa homes,” his voice clicked on the name.

“But why are they round?” Sister Winifred asked. “It seems a funny sort of shape for a building.”

“Why would they not be round? A square house, it has too many corners for snakes to hide.”

A low groan came from the back of the bus. A self-appointed quartermaster, Fred kept watch over the fragile boxes of medical equipment. “Snakes? ” his voice was high. “I hate snakes!”

Jacob Arends shook his head sagely as he looked back in the rearview mirror. “Then I am very sorry for you, my new friend.”

Another turn and the road moved north from the river. The bus groaned, demanding its rest, and lumbered another hundred yards before it passed under an old iron gate. Blaring the horn, Jacob read the sign aloud, “Welcome to Hope Mission!”

A collection of one-storey buildings, the mission nestled in a large clearing guarded by two gnarled olive trees. The stucco of its white stone walls gleamed brightly in the sun, topped by a steeply sloped tin roof, and was bookended by two symmetrical additions. Tall casement windows segmented the facade, high off the ground. A set of stone steps led up to a low belfry, welcoming visitors.

To the left of the main building, a long dormitory stretched to the back of the clearing, a row of windows chasing down its length. On the other side of the main building stood several smaller, squat buildings, each with a clear purpose. Located closest to the well-pump, these buildings housed the kitchens, a laundry, and a generator room.

Eleven sets of anxious eyes peered out the bus windows. Six weeks of preparation suddenly did not seem like such a long time. “It’s square,” gulped Sister Winifred.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick stood and approached the front of the bus. “Thank you, Mr. Arendt. You’ve been most kind.” He turned to the team before him. “I want to thank you all, as well. I couldn’t possibly here manage without you.”

“We are all behind you, Doctor Turner,” Sister Julienne assured him. “If I might say a small prayer?”

He nodded. “Of course, Sister.”

Sister Julienne stood at her place and began, “Oh. Lord, guide us as we strive to carry out your work. Help us to bring healing and mercy to those in need, and give us the wisdom to learn more than we can teach. Amen.”

Jacob hopped down the bus steps and called out to the people that had begun to gather outside the bus, his voice clicking with sounds still strange to those used to the pattern of English, and a young boy ran to ring the mission bell.

One by one, the weary team stepped down from the bus into the bright sunlight, nervous smiles answering the dark cheerful faces before them.

Jacob turned his attention back to the group. “I am told Dr. Fitzsimmons is in the ward, she will be here quite soon, doctor,” Jacob announced. “Please, you must all follow me.” He stepped toward the main building, but before he could lead the group in, a woman rushed down the front steps.

“Patrick Turner!” she called. “I knew you were the man to count on!”

Next Chapter

A/N: The image I’ve used to base my Mission is that of a missionary school for Bantus near Middelburg, Transvaal, taken in September of 1964. You can find it here.

Xhosa (pronounced Kosa in English) in a South African language that features clicks as part of its phonetics. This video will give you an idea of how the sounds are made. Careful, though. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself practicing for hours!

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Five

Posted on April 29, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

BBN9PK A/N: I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible with this chapter in order to explain some of the questions I have about how a team of nuns and medics from the poorest part of London could get to South Africa. (Hint: it involves a great deal of suspension of disbelief, a generous benefactor, two planes, a train and a bus, and two nights in hotels–What? you don’t think that’s realistic?? It’s AU, baby!!).

Also, I’ve introduced apartheid and Homelands in this chapter and have tried to do so in a correct historical context of early 1962. Any errors are innocently meant. There are links below that will offer clarity.

One last thing. Did you know that a group of giraffes has two different collective nouns? A group of standing giraffes is called a “tower,” while a group of running giraffes is called a “jenny.”

Sometimes I really love English.

Previous Chapter

A battered train chugged through the pale yellow bushveld, lacking any of the urgency and determination of its European brethren. Miles distant, the blue shadows of the Great Escarpment jutted out from the veld, sequestering the Eastern Cape from the world. The sky glowed with a bright blue never seen in London, an enormous dome that refused admittance to any clouds.

It was as if God had used an entirely different palette of colors when He created this part of the world. Yellow and blue shimmered here in a way never seen on the sunniest day in England, challenging the eye to see more than it could. Green was deeper, darker and more mysterious than the pale greens of the English oak. Even the greys were different from London greys.

Within the first class carriage, Shelagh watched the scenery pass unchanged for miles. The pale gold of the mid-summer grasses was dotted with clumps of bushes and the occasional sinewy tree. The heat of the midday sun forced animals into shady spots, unseen from the train. In all, the effect was hypnotizing.

Shelagh shook herself from her quiet and stretched lightly. In the bench across from her, Angela lay curled up on Patrick’s lap, the two lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the train. Shelagh smiled as she watched them breathe in tandem, Angela gently sucking her thumb as her father snored.

Not all of the passengers slept in the compartment. Sisters Julienne and Winifred both read from their Bibles. A catch-as-catch-can sort of schedule had been adopted for their daily offices, but both nuns were used to irregular schedules. Fred sat at an end of the car, a game of Solitaire spread out on the seat next to him. Trixie and Barbara sat across from Tom Hereward, a curious sort of trio. Timothy and Phyllis Crane sat in the first row of seats, eyes out the window as they catalogued everything they could see.

Shelagh rose and began to pace along the length of the car. No other passengers had joined them in this car since they had left the port city of East London, despite the activity at each stop. She paused for a moment to observe Fred’s game, then tapped a card. He glanced up, then sheepishly shifted a stack. A moment with the sisters, another quiet conversation with the nurses, and she took a seat with her son.

“It’s hard to believe we were having tea in Nonnatus house only three days ago,” remarked Nurse Crane over the sound of the engine.

“It would have been much longer if we didn’t have the Missionary Society escorting us everywhere,” Timothy replied. Indeed, John Taylor had pulled enough strings to make the team from Poplar feel more like dignitaries than a travelling medical team. Missionary agents met the party each step of the way, paving over the arduous task of international travel. Acclimating new missionaries was a top priority of the Christian Missionary Society. There were struggles enough ahead that could cause attrition, getting the help to Africa was the very least that could be done.

Connecting flights had been arranged between Heathrow, Nairobi and East London, South Africa, effectively minimizing delays. At each stop along the way, a different Society representative greeted them and handled arrangements for nightly accommodations, as evening travel was unreliable. After an early flight to East London, they were escorted to a small hotel near the sea for the night. Worn out from the travel, they were grateful for a day of rest before boarding a train to Alice, situated twelve miles south of the Hope Mission.

Shelagh stretched her back and looked at the stack of books between her son and the no-nonsense nurse. Over the past weeks, Timothy and Phyllis Crane had formed an unexpected bond. While the others spent the last month of preparation in accumulating and packing supplies for the mission, they gathered every book, travel brochure and periodical they could, resulting in a collection of knowledge fit for the British High Commission in Pretoria. Timothy focussed on the flora and fauna of the region. Phyllis Crane was an expert in the unusual laws of the South African people.

“Though I suppose we’ll be spending most of our time in Ciskei, what they call a ‘homeland,’ and not ‘South Africa,’ to be precise,” Phyllis had informed the group at one of the gatherings before the departure. There was so much to organize in such a short time that semi-weekly meetings had been deemed necessary. Nonnatus House became a sort of home base for these meetings and a temporary center for the donations and medical supplies they would bring to Africa.

Patrick had looked up from the large box of medical syringes on the dining room table. “What do you mean, not ‘South Africa’?”

“Just, that, doctor. Officially, we are not going to be working in South Africa. Last year, the government of South Africa created specific areas within the nation with the express purpose of settling blacks within those borders. They’re technically independent.” She walked over to the map she had requisitioned from the Mission Society. “Hope Mission is located here,” using her pen she pointed to a small area of the canvas. A rough outline had been marked in ink on the outdated map. “Just within the eastern border of Ciskei.”

“The government forced people to leave their homes and settle somewhere else?” Trixie’s voice showed her outrage.

“Yes.” Phyllis capped her pen and faced the group.

“But why would they move people in the first place?” Patrick abandoned the syringes. “Why would they go to the effort of moving such a large number of people from their homes? It doesn’t make sense.”

Phyllis sighed, and folded her glasses back up, slipping them into her uniform pocket. “It seems the official stance on the subject is to grant a sort of autonomy for the Blacks. The argument is that by keeping language groups together, with similar traditions, they will be able to govern themselves. However, from what I can determine, there’s a much darker reason, I’m afraid.”

“How do you mean?” Patrick questioned. By now, the attention of everyone in the room had shifted to Phyllis.

“South Africa has a rather difficult history, as you know. The apartheid system,” she glanced around the room and saw the nods of understanding–everyone had done their homework it seemed— “has been in effect in fact if not official doctrine for a very long time. From what I can gather, the resettlement has more to do with sequestering the Blacks away from the Whites than granting independence. Technically, these four regions are independent, and not the responsibility of the South African government. By pretending these regions are no longer part of the official nation, the government can justify eliminating the few remaining political rights Blacks have within South Africa. Not to mention, if they can claim the homelands are not South African territory, the government has no reason to financially support the regions whatsoever.”

“That would explain why Dr. Fitzsimmons sent out the call for help,” mused Patrick. “A growing population and diminishing resources. We’re all too familiar with that set of problems.”

Phyllis looked about the room once more. “Doctor Turner is correct, I’m afraid. The problems of the Hope Mission are likely to be similar to problems we have encountered in Poplar, but I’m afraid that the scale will be on a level none of us have ever seen.”

Less than a day after their arrival in South Africa, the rightness of Nurse Crane’s words was becoming apparent. Signs hung above doors to businesses, hotels and even train carriages directing people along racial lines. Their train compartment was empty but for their party, as few whites were travelling, but the three cars in the rear were near overflowing. And while the medical team from Poplar enjoyed comfortable cushions and a clean car, the cars set aside for the Non-Whites were crowded and uncomfortable. Segregated by the invisible fence of custom and law, the tension here was certainly greater than back home.

Timothy glanced back at his sleeping father and sister. “Dad’s snoring.” he mocked. “He always snores when he sleeps sitting up. I don’t know how Angela can always nap on his lap with that noise.”

Shelagh grimaced. “Timothy, be nice. Your father works very hard. And I think your sister is delighted to spend time with him any way she can.” She poked his shoulder and teased, “Just for that, Mr. Always, you’re on Angela duty when she wakes.”

“I’d mind your mother, Timothy,” Phyllis nudged. “I recall you were none to happy to be following your sister up and down the aisle on that aeroplane to Nairobi. My, that girl does have energy!”

Shelagh stood. “I’d better get back in case she does wake. Timothy, I have the last few biscuits if you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” he quipped.

The scenery outside her window had not varied since her walk, so Shelagh turned her attention to the sleeping pair before her. Angela’s skin was already pink from her afternoon at the ocean yesterday. Hopefully, she would be more willing to keep her dress on when there were no ocean waves to tempt her. One day in the surf and sand had convinced the little girl she should be a mermaid, and they were still finding contraband seashells in her pockets.

Patrick’s face had some color too, and in his sleep, the stress of the last months eased. The new lightweight linen clothes suited him, his lean figure cool and elegant in the pale tan material. Of all the tasks she had completed in preparation for the journey, shopping for a warm weather wardrobe for her family had been her favorite. Shelagh sighed lightly, and her eyes traveled back up to her husband’s face.

His eyes were open, bright with a gleam meant for her alone. The slow smirk that crossed his face showed her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he winked. In an instant, Shelagh’s dimple appeared and she shook her head at him coyly. She glanced about the carriage nervously, then seemed to make a decision. Her eyes on his, she slowly stretched across the space dividing them and skimmed his shin with her foot.

His eyes widened in surprise as he considered a response, but a snuffle from Angela broke the mood. “I’ll remember that later, my love” Patrick whispered.

“Angela,” Tim cried from his bench at the front of the car.

“Timothy,” Shelagh shushed him. She turned to see the members of their group standing to look out the train windows on one side of the carriage. “What on earth?”

“Giraffes! Wake Angela! She’ll want to see them!” Tim called over his shoulder.

Patrick carried his slowly rousing daughter to the wide window across the train. In the distance, marula trees bowed over the bush, their wide crowns of leaves creating pools of shade on the sun-baked land.

“Look, Angela! What do you see?” Like the others, Patrick’s voice was child-like with excitement.

“Raffe!” the little girl shouted. “Raffe!” She began to look about her frantically.

“Here you go, darling,” Shelagh cooed, holding out a small wooden giraffe in her palm.

Angela clutched the figurine in her chubby hand and gave it a noisy kiss. “Raffe, Dada. See?” She pointed her hand at the tower of giraffes lazily nibbling on the bulbous fruit hanging from the branches. Patrick lowered her to stand on the seat next to her brother. “Raffes eating!” Her happy squeal was infectious.

“Yes, Angel girl, the giraffes are eating. And do you know who knows more about giraffes than anyone on this train, sweetheart?” Patrick’s eyes widened in encouragement.

“Timofee!” Angela cheered. None but Timothy would do, now, and the boy pretended a groan.

Fred hunkered down on the next bench and adjusted the window to keep the excited two-year old within the train. “Well, little miss, I gotta tell ya. This sure ain’t Poplar.”

Next Chapter

Here are some links to sites that may make this all make a bit more sense:

Photo: The Great Escarpment and the Bushveld

Map: South Africa

East London beach

South African Homelands

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Four

Posted on April 19, 2016 by My Little Yellowbird

BBN9PK

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

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Three

Posted on September 20, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Shelagh turns to an old friend for some advice.

Special thanks to Rockbird86 and Soph25388 for their help translating my American English into Cockney Fred.

Chapter One Chapter Two

The large open space of the Poplar Community Centre was never more necessary than at the bi-weekly Mother and Baby clinic. Every chair was filled, every toy in hand. After several long, crowded hours, the roar died down, until it only remained for the exhausted staff to prepare for the next one.

Shelagh sat primly at her desk, organizing the last of the files. Despite the controlled chaos and mayhem of the crowded clinic, she seemed as serene as ever. If perhaps she was a bit quieter than usual, no one seemed to notice. She looked up as Fred Buckle, solid and sure, approached the intake desk, tool box in hand.

“Greetings, Fred, we’re so very glad you could come by and help today.” Shelagh stood and placed a long, thin box on the desk. The height charts Patrick had ordered months ago had finally arrived.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Turner. Little bit of a job’ll take me no time at all.” Huffing, he glanced about the hall. “Have a special spot in mind?” he asked.

Shelagh turned and gestured to the corner behind her. “Yes, actually, we’ll need to put them up near the weighing station, but I’m afraid Nurse Franklin is still working there for the moment. Why don’t you go fix yourself a cup of tea, and we can get to work in a few moments?”

“Right you are, Mrs. T. Back in two shakes.” He dropped the toolbox next the desk and sauntered happily to the kitchen.

Shelagh turned back to her files and closed up the typewriter. In no time, the Community Center was a blank slate, ready for Youth Club, Historical Society or even a dance.

Patrick approached Shelagh, his coat draped over his arm, medical bag in his grip. “I’m afraid there’s a backlog of paperwork at the maternity hospital. I’ll need to go back there straight away if I’m ever going to get on top of it. I can drop you at home now if you’re ready to leave, Shelagh.” His eyes darted nervously towards the nurses on their way out past the desk.

Shelagh’s face stiffened almost imperceptibly as she turned away from her husband. “Good afternoon, ladies, that was very well managed today. Fifty-seven patients in four hours. It might be a new record,” she called after the younger women. Her voice lowered, and without looking back at Patrick, she continued, “I won’t be ready to go for another while, I’m afraid. I’ve asked Fred to install the new growth charts you ordered. You go on ahead. I’ll get myself home.”

On cue, Fred wandered back out of the kitchen, a green teacup in his hand and biscuit crumbs clinging to his sweater.

Extending the white coat to his wife, Patrick responded, “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m quite sure. I’ll finish up with Fred and walk home. I can take care of myself, certainly. Will you be home for dinner?” The coat was neatly folded and placed in the bag set for the laundry.

Patrick looked away, and shrugged into his dark jacket. “I’ll be late. Just leave a plate warming for me. I’ll be fine on my own tonight.” With a quick glance at the handyman, Patrick made a quick farewell and was gone.

Shelagh seemed to deflate as she watched her husband leave the centre. Fred clapped his hands together, then rubbed them together. “Well then, Mrs. Turner, just like the good old days, innit? I await your command!”

Shelagh smiled weakly and led him to the back corner of the hall. “Right here, if you please, Fred. I’ll help you measure and you can put the growth chart in its proper place. We’ll have to be very precise. The National Health has very strict guidelines on units of measurement.”

Years of working together on odd repairs at Nonnatus had created an understanding between the two. Exchanging few words, Shelagh marked the measurements whilst Fred settled the chart in place. With his other hand he took the nail from his teeth and began to tap it into place.

“You and the doctor having a bit of a barney?” he asked, his eyes on the chart.

Shelagh’s eyes flew to him, her face pale with surprise. She sought excuses, but could think of none. Finally, she asked quietly, “Were we that obvious?”

Fred turned back, his face full of compassion. “The others, they didn’t see it,” he reassured her. “I’ve been married, remember. I know the signs. Polite enough to meet the Queen, not really looking at each other, oh, all the tell-tale hints.” He reached into his pocket for another nail. “I loved my wife, none better, but we could throw down something fierce. Stayed angry for days sometimes, not speak more than three words altogether. Then somefink’d happen and we’d remember what we were together for.”

Shelagh pressed her lips together in confusion. Part of her wanted to end this conversation quickly. She knew dear Fred meant well, but it really wasn’t anyone’s business. She was sure that Patrick would not want her discussing their private affairs with someone else.

The handyman reached into his toolbox for a small spirit guide. Shelagh knew he would put no pressure on her to continue. Patrick might not want her to talk with Fred, but she needed to speak with someone. This rift with her husband had her thoughts in a tangle. In a quiet voice, Shelagh confided, “We’ve never fought before; we don’t even bicker.” The crease between her eyebrows deepened.

“‘Course you don’t. You’re newlyweds. On yer best behavior, ain’t ya?” He turned around, giving his attention to the wall chart. “You and the doc, yer still gettin’ to know each other. A year ago, where were you? Still Sister Bernadette, in that sanatorium, and now look at ya. A wife and mother, livin’ a whole new life. That’s a long way to come in a twelvemonth.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t know him at all, Fred. I thought…” She breathed heavily, a catch in her voice. “He knows all there is to me, and there’s still so much he’s never told me.”

Fred scratched the back of his head, a look of concentration on his face. “Is there? I reckon there are plenty of things you haven’t said, neither. It’s alright. Things take time. Yer still gettin’ to know each other.”

The anger she had quelled throughout the day with busy activity began to grow again. “But he should have told me. That’s what hurts so, Fred. He didn’t care enough or-or trust me enough to share something with me, something that really matters, something that could change everything we ever wanted. And now he wants me to pretend it never happened.”

Finished with the wall chart, the large man turned his attention to his toolbox. After a few moments, he began, “I want you to consider this. It took a rare courage to leave your old life behind, start fresh with Dr. Turner. You think he doesn’t trust you? Fiddle. That man knows your worth more’n anyone.

“There’s a reason he didn’t tell you somefink. I’m not sayin’ he was right, but I know, and you know that your husband is the best of men. And men want to be the hero, even if it’s just for their lady. Especially for their lady.”

“I didn’t marry Patrick because I needed him to be my hero, Fred.” Frustrated by the tears that began to fall, she pulled a handkerchief from her bag.

He smiled wisely. “No, it’s been my experience few ladies do. That doesn’t stop us from wantin’ to be one, though, does it? The important thing is to let the bad feelings go. Me and the missus never had a fight where we both weren’t to blame.”

Shelagh glanced away, ashamed. She had pushed all responsibility for this mess in Patrick’s corner. Patrick had not spoken, true. But had she listened?

“You just bide yer time, madam. You’ll soon remember what you’re together for.” The toolbox snapped closed loudly. “And then you’ll be stronger for it. Mark my words.”

On the steps outside the entrance, Shelagh thanked her old friend for his help.

Fred shook off the gratitude. “My pleasure. Always like to help things measure up.” He started down the steps, then turned back.

“One more thing, Mrs Turner. If you don’t ever fight, you don’t get to make up. And I have to tell ya, the makin’ up’s the best part.” With a tip of his hat, Fred the Handyman went on his way.

Chapter 4

Under the Starry Sky

Posted on August 3, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Author’s Note: My science is off here, friends. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why we call it fanfiction. And all knowledge of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich comes from the internet. But it’s on my list of things to do (certain people should take note).

This story is set very early during Patrick and Shelagh’s engagement.

And apologies for the terrible Cockney accents. Poor Fred deserves better than I give him.

Eight wolf cubs bounced along the sidewalk waiting for the bus to take them across the river to the Royal Observatory. The promise of a field trip, and in the evening no less, made them all particularly boisterous. Watching over the boys, Dr. Patrick Turner turned to Fred Buckle with a pained expression. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Fred? It’s like herding cats!”

“Where’s your courage, Doc? Afraid of a few young boys? Look at Sis-, I mean, Miss Mannion here. Calm in the center of the storm, she is. Always has been.” He leaned in to add, “Sorry, Miss. Hard to break old habits, ain’t it?” Realizing his unintended pun, he reddened.

“That’s quite all right, Fred, really. And please call me Shelagh. I’d like to think we’re friends,” Shelagh smiled at him. Of all those from Nonnatus, Fred seemed to be the easiest to be with since the “Great Change,” as he called it. His ingenuous nature and straightforward approach to life made everyone feel comfortable around him and Shelagh appreciated the complete acceptance he offered. Which was exactly why she volunteered herself and Patrick for tonight’s event.

Fred puffed out his chest, the too-tight uniform stretching over his great belly. “Not tonight, Miss Mannion. On duty, y’know.”

“Alright, lads, single file,” Patrick called out. “The bus is coming ‘round the corner. Gary, you’ll be squashed under the bus if you’re not careful,” he admonished. From the corner of his eye, he noticed an old man pull to the side away from the group. “You can go first, sir.”

“No thanks, guv,” the old man chortled. “Think I’ll wait for the next bus, if you don’t mind.”

“Wise man,” answered Patrick, grinning. He turned to Shelagh. The cubs had all nearly mounted the steps of the bus behind Fred. Smiling, he said quietly, “Ready, Shelagh? It’s not too late to turn back.”

“Ready, Patrick. I’m looking forward to tonight.” Shyly, she smiled up at him and he could feel his heart lurch. The world slipped away when she looked at him like that, her clear eyes revealing depths of her heart only he could see. Swallowing, he held out his hand to help her up the steps and she took it, embracing the chivalric gesture. She climbed the bus, and he regretted the heavy winter coat she wore, disguising her figure. The sight of her lovely legs was a welcome consolation prize, though, and Patrick’s thoughts took a decidedly “un-chaperone-ish” turn.

“Slow down, man,” he told himself. For over ten years Shelagh had devoted herself to the strictures of her Order. He would need to be patient as she grew comfortable with the developing intimacy of their relationship. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to be too patient.

“You comin’ then, mate?” the bus driver called, and Patrick cleared his head and followed her down the aisle.

“Dad! Bagheera says if we look really hard tonight we’ll see three planets!” Timothy called.

The grounds of the Royal Conservatory were quiet, the crowds long gone. Neither Patrick nor Shelagh were completely certain how Fred had managed to organize this trip to complete the Cubs’ Astronomy badge, but his schemes had rarely led to real trouble, and the two were willing to put their faith in the handyman.

Their trust was rewarded when they arrived at the gates to find them open, and a friendly caretaker there to greet them.

“ ‘ello, Fred! I knew ye’d use that marker up one day. Never expected it to be fer a pack o’ Cubs, I must say!” Barry Piper joked.

“Always happy to fill in when I’m needed, Barry, my man. Though to be ‘onest,” the large man leant in secretively, “I’d always planned on using this favor to court a lady!”

Impatient to move to their first stop, the Cubs grew noisy. “A’right, lads! Follow me. First stop, the old telescope building!”

The tour took the small group to the site of the Great Equatorial Building, the former home of an enormous 28-inch diameter telescope. Damage to the building during the war had led to the transfer of the Observatory to Herstmonceux the year many of the Cubs were born, and the structure bore little resemblance to its days of glory.

The pack wandered about, closely examining the historic photos on the wall. “It looks like an onion!” exclaimed Billy Wegman, whose father was a greengrocer.

“It does, Billy. The dome had to be wider on the bottom to account for the length of the telescope. And there was a balcony built on top, here,” Patrick pointed to the next photograph.

“Why’d they keep changin’ it?” asked Jack. “They’re as bad as me mum. She’s always movin’ the furniture!”

“Scientists have to keep changing,” a voice piped up from the back. Timothy Turner continued, “We can’t keep doing things the same old way, we’d never learn anything that way. Scientists have to be ready to take risks.”

Patrick caught Shelagh’s eye. “That’s precisely right, Tim. Where would we be if we never had the courage to accept change?” He grinned and was rewarded with the light blush that colored her cheeks. This was fun, Patrick realized. Shelagh was hesitant to draw attention to them as a pair, and throughout the evening they had kept a respectful distance from each other. Now, he thought, he would find more subtle ways to flirt with his new fiance.

The walk along the Meridian offered him another chance. A laughing line of Cubs balanced themselves between two hemispheres, sure that one day they would rule the world. Lanterns and torches flickered as the boys darted around each other playfully in the growing dark.

Bagheera called out, “Right. Who can tell me what an orrery is? No, not you, Timothy, someone else this time. Gary, I’m sure you did yer required readin’ before settin’ out this evening. What is an orrery?”

There was a moment’s pause, then Gary responded, “A model of the universe?”

“Precisely. And don’t think I didn’t see you sneakin’ up behind wif the answer, Timothy Turner. Now, we are goin’ to make a human orrery.”

“I think Fred’s found a new word,” Patrick whispered in Shelagh’s ear.

“Patrick,” she scolded. “Shh!”

Fred continued. “Wif eight cubs, plus me, we make nine. I’ll be Jupiter, for obvious reasons.” He patted his belly and glanced around the group of boys. “Billy, you’ll be Mercury, and Timothy you be Venus…”

“Great. Why do I always have to be the girl?” Timothy muttered.

Soon the nine planets were lined up properly in their orbits, varying sized planets and varying distances. “So you can see how each of the planets lies in relation to the others,” Fred seemed quite proud of his successful plan.

“Sorry, Bagheera, but I think there’s something missing from your solar system,” Patrick pointed out.

Fred looked confused.

“The sun, Fred. The solar system won’t work without its center.” Patrick took Shelagh by the hand and led her to the center of the group. Moving beyond the circles, he explained, “It’s the strength of the sun’s gravity that makes the whole thing work. Without the sun, all the other planets would float aimlessly, cold and barren. The sun lets it all make sense.”

“Your hair is like the sun, a bit, Miss,” winked Tommy Bergen, the flirt of the group.

Patrick almost growled at the boy.

“Right, then, last stop, Mr. Tyson’s telescope. Hands at your sides at all times, I’m sure you’ll remember, Cubs. And wif some luck, we’ll see Billy, Tim and me up in the heavens!”

Mr. Tyson, another old friend of Bagheera’s from other times, stood by a magnificent telescope, high on the hill. Patrick noticed that the handsome astronomer bore little resemblance to Fred’s usual acquaintances. The quick lecture, and the stern warning delivered by their fearless leader reminded each of the boys that the rules regarding the telescope were definitely meant to be followed. One at a time, each Cub would have a turn viewing the visible planets, all conveniently located in the same quadrant of the sky.

“Ladies first, gentlemen,” Mr. Tyson invited Shelagh over to the telescope. Patrick followed her, and when she looked at him curiously, he remarked, “I’ll hold your glasses.”

Which of course alerted Mr. Tyson to the fact that “Miss Mannion” was not a heavenly body to be studied.

Shelagh looked up, delighted by the sight of such natural splendor. “Oh, Patrick. Look! If that’s not enough evidence of God’s power, I don’t know what is!”

He laughed and led her away from the pack. “I’m not quite sure now is the time for existential debate, Shelagh. But no one is looking if you want to show me proof of your own…”

“Patrick,” Shelagh scolded.

“Shelagh,” he answered.

“It’s Timothy’s turn next. Pay attention.”

Despite the darkness, Patrick could sense Shelagh inch closer, then felt the brush of her fingers against his. Heat flushed through his body, demanding he take a deep breath to control himself.

“I’m not an adolescent male. I can control this,” he thought.

Unable to resist, Patrick stole a glance. Despite the darkness, he could clearly see a small smile playing on her lips.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” he whispered.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shelagh whispered in return, her eyes alight with mischief.

He glanced over at the pack of cubs mesmerized by the telescope, fighting for their turn. Certain that their attention was far from their forgotten chaperones, Patrick turned to face Shelagh, but was surprised by her own swift movement. A tug on his tie and his face was pulled down to hers for a quick kiss.

She moved away quickly, only narrowly escaping his arms as they reached to hold her closer. He stood there, stunned, until a slow smile crossed his face.

It didn’t look like he would need to be so very patient, after all.

Later, as they corralled eight tired boys on to the bus home, Fred noted, “Wouldnt’ve thought pink was your color, Doctor Turner.”

Puzzled, Patrick looked at Shelagh. ‘Oh dear,” she fretted.

“What? What is it?”

“Lipstick,” she whispered.

With a sheepish grin, Patrick pulled out his handkerchief and erased the traitorous mark away.

“Patrick,” Shelagh worried. “What if one of the boys had noticed? What if one of them saw us?”

With a grin, he squeezed her hand and leant in to whisper, “They’ll have to get their own lipstick.”

Change Takes Time

Posted on June 4, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Okay, so this one is definitely a solid three kettles.

The new Maternity Home stood at the far end of Kenilworth Row, nearly half a mile from its previous home. The years had not been kind to the old building, and in the burst of energy that came after the Christmas bomb scare, the Borough Council decided it was time for a change.

As chief medical officer of the hospital, Dr. Patrick Turner was expected to find new sites for both the hospital and the local clinics. It seemed the Council has little regard for an already over-full patient list, limited resources and the needs of a recuperating son. Fortunately, Dr. Turner was not in this alone.

It was Shelagh that found the location for the hospital. Her years cycling the roads of Poplar had given her a thorough knowledge of the area, and her sharp mind forgot nothing. Soon after the request was made, an offer was made on an old grammar school up the road and the hospital claimed its new home.

Now married several weeks, with Timothy back at school and Patrick busy as usual, Shelagh devoted much of her days to overseeing the renovations necessary. Choosing paint colors most suited to relaxing nervous patients or expectant mothers, organizing files and furniture, she was in her glory. Her husband teased that she was nesting like a spring robin, and perhaps she was.

The hospital was due to open in just a few days, and with all the large tasks completed, only the finishing touches remained.

Intent upon sorting the last bottles on the shelf in Patrick’s office, she didn’t hear her husband arrive. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking the opportunity to admire his lovely wife. She was wearing his favourite skirt, a soft jumper hugging her curves, and her hair dressed casually. He feared this outfit wouldn’t last long in her rotation. Just this morning she seemed nervous about it. Pushing off against the door jamb, he made a quiet entrance and moved silently behind her.

Shelagh started when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body up against him.

“Oh, goodness, Patrick!” she exclaimed.

“Goodness, indeed,” he agreed. He nuzzled her neck. “I like your hair down like this.”

His voice was husky, and Shelagh tried to steel herself against its effects. “Fred will be along shortly with Timothy, Patrick. You’ll have to behave.”

Laughing softly, he stepped away, giving her room to turn and face him. “Why is Tim with Fred?”

“There are some boxes from home that needed to be picked up, so he stayed at home to let Fred in. Besides, I didn’t want Timothy to walk all that way. He’d be too tired out.”

Rather than argue the point, Patrick moved back closer to her. “So we’re all alone, then?”

“No, Dad.” Timothy’s voice came from the doorway. “Sorry, Fred. I should have warned you. They’re always like this.”

Bearing a large box, Fred beamed at the newlyweds. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, young Tim. So where’d ya want this ‘un, Mrs. Turner?”

The blush receding from her cheeks, Shelagh pointed to the desk in the center of the room. “Right here, Fred, thank you. The other boxes can remain in the waiting area. Did you bring the plant as well?”

“We left it on the chair. Mum, Fred has to run some deliveries for Nonnatus, may I go with him? I promise I won’t lift anything heavy or climb any stairs.” Tim was well versed in his stepmother’s protective streak, and for the time being, did not mind.

Shelagh glanced quickly at Patrick, looking for his reaction. “I suppose if it’s alright with Fred…” Somehow her statement sounded more like a question.

“Absolutely, Mrs. T. I could use the compn’y. ‘Sides, me and Timothy here have a bit o’ catching up to do. Loads to tell.”

“I’ll pretend that’s a good thing. Thanks for your help, Fred,” Patrick responded. “Dinner out tonight, remember, Tim. I won’t ask Mum to cook for us after all the work she’s put in for my surgery.”

“Right then, we’re off. I’ll have him back before tea. Give a shout if there’s anyfink else,” Fred told them as he led the way out.

After a moment, Patrick turned to Shelagh. “You don’t have to look to me for permission, my love. Your Timothy’s mum now, you can make decisions on your own.” His smile was encouraging.

She nodded and sighed. “I know, there’s just so much to get used to. But thank you.”

Patrick shrugged in agreement. “Well, then. What’s in the box?”

“I have no idea, Patrick. I found it in the back of the hall cupboard and thought perhaps you’d need it. It’s labelled “Surgery.”

“You didn’t open it? Why not?”

Shelagh fidgeted with the last bottles to be shelved. “I didn’t want to, Patrick. It was obviously put there a long time ago. I thought you might want to open it on your own.”

Patrick peered at his wife, confusion drawing his eyebrows down. “Shelagh, it’s your home too, I have no secrets from you.” He pulled her to face him. “I understand, sweetheart. You’re afraid there’s something about Marianne in there.”

“Not afraid, exactly, Patrick. But who knows what’s in that box? Or how it will make you feel? Perhaps it would be best if you went through it whilst I organize the files outside.”

His arms tightened about her, pulling her closer. “No. We’ll do this together.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. With his hand caressing her cheek, he continued, “I haven’t forgotten Marianne, Shelagh, but the wound has healed. It’s a bit more scar tissue, perhaps, but I can think of her without pain now. Timothy can, too. What do the nuns always say about love? That it will fill in where it’s needed?”

She chuckled. “You always know the right thing to say, Patrick.”

“You won’t say that when we’ve had our first fight and I won’t speak for days. I’m quite the sulker, I’m afraid.”

“Fight?” she cried, outraged. “Why on earth would we fight?”

A deep laugh broke out from his lungs. “We’re married, Shelagh. We’ll find something, I’m sure. Now, are we ready to open the box? I can’t remember for the life of me what could be in here. When I moved into the old surgery there wasn’t much room for personal items, so I just boxed stuff up and forgot about it. Tim had just been born, there was quite a lot going on. I suppose life got in the way because I never gave it a thought again.”

“Really, Patrick. Life doesn’t get in the way of our possessions, it’s the other way ‘round,” Shelagh admonished. The tenderness of the last few minutes had faded, and shades of Sister Bernadette appeared.

Patrick scoffed, his finger lightly tapping the brooch she wore. “Hah. My love, if I want to give my wife little gifts, I’m going to give her gifts. It makes me happy to find pretty things for you.” He kissed her quickly, then added, “And before we find the topic of our first fight, let’s solve this mystery.”

The box was soft with the effects of time, and after a firm tug, the top pulled away. Patrick lifted a sheet of tissue paper and revealed a collection of frames and knick knacks. Reaching in, he pulled out a dusty clock.

“I loved this clock! It was from my first registrar, Morton Baird. He gave it to me when I qualified, to remind me to take time with all my patients.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to help your tardiness?” Shelagh teased.

Placing the clock on the desk, Patrick said, “This stuff is filthy. I’ll get a cloth to clean off the dust.”

Shelagh began to pull the frames from the box, examining each in turn. The largest, a painting of Patrick’s medical college, she recognized from the label. That would go nicely on the wall. A few other frames held photographs from school and his first surgery, but several photographs were unframed. She looked through the small collection, a small, happy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. At the end of the pile was a image of a university cricket team.

Patrick and Timothy enjoyed the sport, she knew, but she had no idea Patrick had played. She scanned the photograph searching for him, her eyes coming to rest on a tall, slim young man on the end. She breathed in sharply as she took in the sight.

He looked very handsome in his whites, confident and ready to conquer the world. There were none of the lines of care on his face, its very smoothness making him seem a different person. Yet she recognized the boyish grin and felt a stirring when her eyes traced the broad shoulders.

She was so wrapped up in her perusal of the picture that she didn’t hear Patrick return to the office, damp cloth in hand. He paused in the doorway, surprised by the stillness of her back. He moved quietly towards her, curious to see what had her attention.

Still unaware of him, her breathing quickened. Patrick’s eyes glittered as he felt his body respond to her.

“Oh!” she cried, startled. Guiltily, words rushed from her. “Oh, you startled me, Patrick. I’ve-I’ve found some old photographs, perhaps you’ll want them up on the mantlepiece…” her voice trailed off as her blush deepened.

Without speaking, Patrick took the photograph from her nerveless fingers, and turned her around to face him. He removed her glasses, placing them on the desk to her side. His hands slid up her arms, giving her a chance to either control her feelings or give in to them.

Shelagh’s eyes fluttered shut and he bent his head, his lips lightly tracing her jawline. In the few weeks they had been married, he had learnt that his wife was just as shy as he had anticipated, but that if he were patient and gave time for her own passion to bloom, she would meet him desire for desire.

Her breath escaped in tiny shudders, warm and moist against his ear, and he held himself back from taking her lips. His mouth slid down the length of her throat, and he stopped a groan as he tasted her skin with the tip of his tongue.

Shelagh clenched and unclenched her fists, her body tense with emotion. Rational thought had since abandoned her. Their surroundings faded from her mind as her sole focus became the soft spot at the bottom of her throat where his mouth was. More. There had to be more.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him. Her acceptance of him complete, Patrick took her mouth with his own, not rough, but not gentle. They kissed passionately, their breath blending. Shelagh parted her lips, welcoming the intimacy of his tongue as she returned his kiss.

This time, the groan escaped as Patrick slid his hands down along her back, coming to rest on the upper curve of her derriere. “This skirt,” he whispered. He pressed her to him, wanting her to know her effect on him, then moved his hands under the softness of her jumper. Her skin was like silk, and he was desperate to feel more.

But they had reached a point of no return, he knew. Whilst still shy about their “activities,” as she called lovemaking (he laughed each time she whispered the term), once engaged, Shelagh was all in. He could let his fingers continue their path and she would willingly give herself to him.

She moved her arms to his shoulders, and her fingers slipped into the hair behind his ears. He groaned again, as she knew he would. It seemed Patrick was not the only one who had learnt secrets.

“Shelagh,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure if he was asking or telling her something.

Huskily she responded, “I love you, Patrick.”

And it was decided. Patrick pulled his head back away from her lovely mouth and pressed his nose to hers. If they were to go any further, it would have to be with her complete consent. He couldn’t seduce her now and worry about her feelings afterward.

“My love, if we go one inch further, we won’t be able to stop. I’ll have you right here.” He breathed deeply. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Shelagh tried to catch her breath, tried to understand his words. Her body hummed with desire.

“It’s alright if we stop, Shelagh. It’s alright.” Patrick’s own breath was shaky.

The look in her eyes changed, and Patrick smiled softly. He pressed a gentle kiss to her parted lips and moved a step away from her.

“Maybe not on my desk just yet,” he teased.

Disappointment crossed her flushed face. “I am sorry, Patrick. I truly am. I do want to…” She looked around the room nervously. “Oh, Patrick. Here? I can’t believe-”

“Shelagh,” Patrick interrupted. “We didn’t do anything wrong. It’s never wrong between two people that love each other as we do.” He tipped her chin up so she could meet his eyes. “Maybe someday, Shelagh. Maybe not. But no matter what, as long as we’re honest with each other, we’ll be fine. Little steps.”

He reached around her and returned her glasses. “Now maybe we’d better start on those files.”

Having regained her equilibrium, Shelagh smiled widely up into his eyes. “I suppose we should.” At the door, she turned back. “Patrick, I should thank you. I got a bit lost there for a bit, and I’m not sure I would have been comfortable with another outcome.” Her forehead scrunched in confusion. “I don’t mean I wouldn’t have enjoyed…that activity…I’m just not certain I’m ready to…”

“I know, sweetheart. I understand. You don’t have to say.”

“I sometimes think you know me better than I know myself. I’m very lucky to have you.” A glimmer came back in her eyes as she turned to leave. “Maybe tonight I can show you how lucky.”

As the door closed behind her, Patrick took his seat behind the desk. It would be a long time before he stood up comfortably again.

Author’s Note

Okay. I know this is not how (some of) you wanted me to end this story. Believe me, it’s not how I originally wanted it to end. But this is the story I needed to tell.

In Series 3, we saw a Shelagh who was struggling with finding her path. After making the initial leap into her new life (oh! she was so brave to make that call, to go out on that misty road!), it took some time for her to find her balance, and she even slipped backwards a bit. I know I’m in the minority when I say this, but her confusion worked for me. Don’t bother trying to argue with me. I will not budge. 😉

I know what you want to happen here, I just don’t think it would, given where Shelagh is at this time. That’s not to say, AT ALL, that I think it would never happen. Maybe someday I’ll fic that.

	My Little Yellowbird on Courting Shelagh, Chapter…
	My Little Yellowbird on Everything She Asks For
	My Little Yellowbird on A Growing Family
	My Little Yellowbird on The Talk
	My Little Yellowbird on A Moment’s Peace

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