A/N: I’m going to have to stick by my decision in earlier fics. I simply cannot use the label “Aunty Shelagh.” It’s a deliberate break from canon, I know, and generally I stick pretty close to the dogma.
In this, however, I must rebel.
Whistling as he sauntered down the hospital corridor, Patrick felt quite pleased with himself. Since rising, the day had gone precisely according to plan. Mr. Stone, the neighborhood florist and chief died-in-the-wool romantic, had been happy to open his shop to Patrick for his early morning floral surprise. A quick stop at Nonnatus had yielded both the promise of a visit to the hospital by Fred, and also a few pointers regarding the fine art of twirling a lady in just the proper manner to ensure maximum closeness during a foxtrot. Now for a quick visit with Tim, then home to shave, wash and dress before meeting Shelagh with plenty of time.
Timothy sat up in his bed, already well into his copy of Captains Courageous. He smiled smugly at his father. “So, Dad, any special plans tonight?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yes, Tim, full marks to you. Shelagh’s been and told you, I assume?”
“Not that much, really, just that after her morning visit she wouldn’t be back with you in the evening as you were taking her out.” A little embarrassed, eye glanced sideways at his father. “She got all flustered, actually. She must have apologized ten times for not coming tonight.” A sudden cough broke from him, shaking his thin shoulders. Patrick stood, and automatically reached for the missing stethoscope ordinarily draped over his shoulders. When the coughing fit ended, he asked, concerned, “How long have you had that cough, Tim?”
Tim’s color returned. “It’s nothing, Dad.”
“No cough is nothing in a polio patient, son. How long?”
“Just an hour or two,” the boy responded begrudgingly.
Patrick beckoned to the nurse. “Where’s Dr. Carson?” He demanded. The pulmonologist was known to be frequently at hand.
“Likely on the Men’s Ward right now. He’ll be down to look at the children in an hour or so, Dr. Turner.”
Patrick decided now was the time to cash in on some of the good will Shelagh had built up on the ward. “Call him down, please. It’s urgent.”
“Dad-” Timothy began, interrupted by another fit.
As expected, Dr. Carson arrived at Tim’s bedside shortly thereafter, and after a quick listen to the young boy’s lungs, called for an x-ray. “There’s no fever, and the lungs sound clear, but you’re right, Dr. Turner. I don’t like the sound of that cough. Does it hurt, Tim?”
“No, it’s just a little cough.” Timothy refused to look at the two men at his bedside.
Patrick sensed something beyond the cough was troubling his son. “Tim, you have to tell us. You know as well as we do that even a cold could be a setback.”
Tim scowled. “It doesn’t hurt, Dad, honest. It’s just a cough. But now you’re going to stay here all night. You’ll cancel your date with Shelagh and she’ll be so dreadfully disappointed. Again.”
Dr. Carson hid a smile. “Let me see about moving that x-ray along, then. Nobody wants a disappointed Miss Mannion.”
An hour later, the men consulted over the x-ray.
“It all looks clear, Tim. And the cough has settled. We’ll keep an eye on you tonight, though, to be safe,” Dr. Cardon advised.
“You keep an eye on me every night,” Tim answered grumpily. “Privacy is not exactly growing on trees here. Even during my physical therapy this afternoon, after Shelagh left the nurses kept forgetting to close my curtain.”
Patrick’s eyebrows drew into a look of concentration. “Physical therapy? What did you do today?”
“A bunch of really annoying arm exercises. Up and down, stretching wide-I hate those. They make it hard to catch my breath.”
Understanding the problem now, Patrick nodded his head. “That’s it. Your therapy today irritated your lungs a bit. That accounts for the coughing, and it also explains the decrease in the cough’s strength and frequency in the last hour as you’ve recovered.”
Tim dropped his head back on his pillow. “I told you it was nothing, Dad. I’m fine. Now could you please leave? Shelagh’s waiting for you!”
Half an hour later, Patrick was starting to think there was something deliberately trying to ruin the evening. Even with Tim’s coughing scare, there had still been time to make it home, change and meet Shelagh in time to make their reservation. This latest hiccup, however, seemed to make it unlikely.
Standing before the MG with its bonnet up, he shone his torch on the engine. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. The carburetor. Again.
“Evening, Doc,” came a friendly voice.
Patrick turned and met the grinning face of Fred Buckle.
“I was just on me way to visit the young nipper.” The large man clucked his tongue. “The bonnet in such a position does not bode well for the evening’s festivities, if I may say so m’self.”
Patrick exhaled sharply. “No, it does not. It’s the carburetor, I’m afraid. I’ve been meaning to have it replaced, but…”
“Much prettier things to concentrate yer time on, eh?” Fred winked.
“Yes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel my date with Shelagh after all. I’ll never get home for my tools, back to repair it and in time to take her out tonight.” He rubbed his hand over his weary face.
“I’ve me tools in the back of me van, just ’round the corner. You wait right here, and we’ll have this beauty up and running in no time, Doc!”
“Fred, you are a life saver! I’ll run in the hospital to call Shelagh and let her know I’ll be a bit late, and meet you right back here.”
As the two men parted ways, Patrick glanced one more time at his watch. Half six. They’d likely have to give up their dinner reservations, but they could find a quiet cafe somewhere still open. This date would still happen. He’d just have to be more creative.
My Little Yellowbird 