When the hot blaze of anger goes, it becomes a cold ache.

Shelagh’s probably never had a fight before, don’t you think? Not a real drag-out, emotional battlefield kind of fight, anyway. Love is a risk. Marriage is hard.

It’s a good thing she’s brave.

Here’s a link to Chapter One, ICYMI.

Chapter Two

Shelagh returned from her outing worn and exhausted. For the first time since her days at the sanatorium, she collapsed on the bed in the middle of the day and slept. It was only the sound of Timothy at the door of the flat that finally woke her.

Timothy stood at the sitting room table as she entered the kitchen, her fingers tucking in a stray lock of hair.

“Did you take a nap?” he asked, confused.

She kept her face from him as she went to the sink. “Yes. It’s been a demanding week. I thought a quick doze might prepare me for when you need help with your maths.” Her joke was meant to distract him. Timothy was quite proud of his quick maths skills. She lifted the kettle, eager to avoid his curious eyes. “I’ll start the tea.”

“But you never nap. You like to brag that even when you were a midwife, you could stay all night at a delivery and last the whole day through.” He began to pile his school books on the table.

“Books after tea, Timothy. And I hope I never brag.” She came around the side door. “Here,” she handed him the brown paper sack.

Peering into it, Timothy wondered, “Chocolate? What’s this for?”

“No reason. I thought perhaps you might like a treat, to say thank you for all you’ve done for us these last weeks.” As soon as she said the words, Shelagh felt a stirring in the back of her mind. Clamping it down, she went back to put the kettle on. “Your father’s on call at the maternity hospital, so it’ll be just us two tonight. I thought maybe we’d go and try that new restaurant over near the tube station.”

“The Indian place? I’m not sure. I’ve never tried it. None of my friends have tried it.”

“Neither have I, but it’s always a good idea to keep your mind open to new things. If you really don’t like it we’ll stop and get you some fish and chips after.”

“We wouldn’t try it if Dad were at home,” Timothy said with a smirk.

Shelagh was glad her back was to the boy. “Well, you’re father is perfectly able to get himself his own dinner tonight.” The sharpness had returned to her voice, and she could feel the acrimony return. Timothy was always quick to pick up on her feelings. It wouldn’t do for him to suspect there was something wrong. Shelagh brightened. “If we really like it, then we can try and convince him to join us next time.”

“Not much chance of that. In case you haven’t noticed, Dad’s a bit of a stodgy old man. He doesn’t like change much.”

Before Shelagh could respond, Tim interrupted. “I know, don’t say it. You’re sure you don’t know what I’m talking about

“One last one, I promise. What’s the longest word in the alphabet?”

Shelagh pretended an exasperation she didn’t feel. For a few hours, she had been able to lock away any unsettling thoughts.  “Oh, alright. I don’t know. What is the longest word in the alphabet?”

“Smiles.”

Shelagh stared blankly at the boy. “ I don’t get it, Timothy. How-”

“Because there’s a mile between each ‘S!”

Shelagh groaned. “For that one, you’ll have to do the washing up tonight.”

Timothy grinned widely. “I wish it were as easy every night!” The greasy newspaper wrappings crackled loudly as he crumbled them into a ball then threw them onto the bin. “Even the tea things?” he asked, keeping up the pretense of frustration.

“Oh, your poor thing. Go on with you. I’ll do the washing up. Be sure to put your jumper out for me to wash. I’m not sure if curry stains, so I’d better get to that tonight. I’ll come to say good night in a bit.”

Without Timothy’s cheery voice, the kitchen became quiet very quickly. Ordinary sounds were magnified. The screech of the ironing board’s legs, the thud of the heavy cord as it fell to the floor seemed to echo in the empty sitting room.  Shelagh could feel her discomfort start to grow again. But the hours spent with her son had changed things.

The alarming resentment she carried throughout the day had dissipated. leaving a dull tension in her middle. She still couldn’t understand why Patrick had kept such a thing from her. He had kept a big part of himself from her, carried a secret that must have been separating them all this time.

She wasn’t as naive as he thought. She’d worked closely enough alongside the families of Poplar this last ten years to know that married couples fought. She’d always been surprised by the animosity that could spring up between two people that loved each other, then ease away back into marital harmony.

Whatever was happening between her and Patrick, it barely resembled those loud arguments. A flash of an unexpected temper had burst from her, met only by his withdrawal, both physical and emotional. Could they even call this a fight?  

Timothy’s door stood ajar, his sign that he was ready for bed. The boy was beginning to become a young man, and she was careful of his privacy. A gentle rap on the door jamb was answered by his call to enter.

“I don’t think it’s such a stain, you’re a whiz at laundry.” Timothy gestured to the soiled jumper. He climbed into his bed, adjusting the pillow into the funny lump he preferred. “Colin says his mother can never get the collars right, says his parents argue about it all the time.”

She drew a finger down his cheek, then tweaked his ear. “No telling tales, Timothy dear. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Monk wouldn’t want to hear their business gossiped about in the play yard. Married people are bound to argue over something sometime. You and Colin have arguments, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. But they never last long.”

“There, you see? Things blow over.” She smoothed the blanket over him. “Now get some sleep. And dream of maharaji and the Taj Mahal.”

The door clicked quietly behind her, and she wondered about their chat. Childhood spats with friends seemed to be quite ordinary, but she couldn’t remember having many. Even at Nonnatus she had avoided getting involved in petty arguments. For years she had put it down to strong diplomatic skills. They had unquestionably come in handy living with Sister Monica Joan.

The iron hot, Shelagh reached into the laundry basket for the first of the ironing and stretched out one of Patrick’s shirts on the board. She dampened the fabric and began to press it smooth. A cloud of starchy steam puffed up, filling her nose with its scent. Tears welled up as she was flooded with memories of Patrick’s arms about her, her face pressed to this same shirt.

Roughly, she rubbed the tears away. She was tired of these unsettling feelings. Patrick had lied to her, and their chance for a new baby seemed but a pipe dream. She wouldn’t back down in a wave of sentiment. She was a full partner in this marriage, for better or worse, and would not shrink away to be considered anything else. Perhaps there was something else to consider. For so much of her life she had lived vicariously through the community she served, always on the periphery, never in the middle of things. She was certainly in the thick of things now.

Diplomacy would not be the solution.

Chapter 3