Previous Chapter

The high drama of dinnertime quickly dissipated into the usual bedtime chaos.

“Patrick, if your patients ever saw you in my apron you’d likely lose half your practice!” Shelagh leaned against the doorway watching her husband and daughter make a mess of her clean kitchen.

“Then it’s a good thing we don’t let my patients have free range of the kitchen at bathtime, isn’t it?” His sing-song question made Angela screech in delight and sent a splash of water over the edge of the sink.

Shelagh reached in front of her husband and soaked up some of the soapy water with a towel. “Really, you two make more of a mess than anything else. You should let me just take care of  the bath, Patrick. Angela would already be in her nightdress, and there’d be no mess.”

Pouring water over the back of the baby’s head, Patrick responded, “No, thank you, Madam Efficiency. This is our time. You go sit and sew or sing or make Tim clean his room or something.”

Knowing Patrick wouldn’t put Angela to bed any more quickly than he bathed her, Shelagh left them to their own devices and went to check on Tim.

Sprawled on his bed reading the latest edition of TinTin, it was hard to believe her son was old enough to have classmates smoking in the lavatory.

“Homework’s packed away? Uniform ready for tomorrow?” she asked.

Tearing his eyes from the page before him, Timothy answered, “Yes. I think I need another jumper, though. That one has a spot on it from lunch.”

“I washed the other one today.” She walked over to the pile of folded clothes still sitting on his desk. “Perhaps it’s here?” Shelagh wondered archly.

Tim smiled sheepishly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Mum? Thanks for helping tonight. Dad was really mad.”

“Yes, well, to tell you the truth, so was I. But I think you learned an important lesson today.” She placed the clean jumper with tomorrow’s uniform.

“Stay away from Gary,” Tim grimaced.

Shelagh kissed his cheek. “Among other things. Goodnight, dearest.”

“‘Night, Mum.”

Coming out of the bedroom, she met her husband and daughter.

“Clean as a whistle,” Patrick told her. “Now it’s time for a change, snuggle and bedtime. Coming?” he asked, leading the way into the nursery.

“No, you two continue your plotting. I’ll clear up your mess.” Picking up two little feet, she pressed her lips to them. “Good night, Angel Girl.”

A quarter of an hour later, Shelagh was finally finished for the night. The kitchen was clean and tidy, again, and Angela’s bottle was ready  for the two a.m. feeding Patrick was somehow always able to sleep through. Shelagh kicked off her slippers and settled on the sofa.

Tonight had not gone according to her plan. Patrick’s strong reaction to Tim’s story made Shelagh hesitate to open up the subject again. She wasn’t completely certain why her husband had reacted so fiercely. Certainly, Timothy was far too young to be getting into such trouble, but she doubted that Patrick had truly believed his son was smoking in school.

She felt the butterflies from earlier in the evening return. She couldn’t ignore Patrick’s cough, but she did not relish the idea of pushing through her husband’s defenses. He did like to be in control of things. Or at least appear to be in charge.

Patrick came into the room and headed to the mantel. Lighting himself a cigarette, he offered her one.

“No, thank you, dear.” Shelagh hadn’t had a cigarette in weeks. She wondered if he had noticed.

For a moment, he squinted at her in concentration, then his face relaxed, and he took a deep inhale of smoke. “She went down almost immediately. Something about her old dad that calms the little angel right down.”

“More likely he exhausts the poor babe.” Shelagh patted the couch. “Sit with me.”

Patrick gave a nod of his tilted head and moved the ashtray stand closer to the sofa. Shelagh made room for him and cuddled up close when he took his seat.

Sliding her hand around his arm, Shelagh caressed his palm with her thumb. She felt his body relax into hers and sighed. Quiet moments like this were rare lately, and she wished she could enjoy it. Patrick turned his head to hers and placed a kiss against her forehead. She hated to ruin the moment, but they had to make a start.

“Patrick?” Her voice was a bit hesitant. That won’t do, Shelagh, she told herself. Be strong.

“Hmm?” Patrick breathed deeply.

“Do you remember the Carter twins? That birth we attended together?”

With a chuckle, Patrick answered, “I’m not likely to forget that one, am I? Possibly the strangest birth I ever supervised. And,” he smiled at her, “it was pretty special for us, as well.”

“Yes.” Shelagh paused, letting the memories come back.

“You told me a secret for the first time,” Patrick reminisced. His hand tightened over hers. “I think that was when I knew it wasn’t just me. You were feeling something, too.”

Shelagh sighed, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. “I was terrified. I should have stayed with Trixie, to help with the settling in, but I wanted to be near you a bit longer. I told myself it was just friendly feeling, but I knew. I just wasn’t admitting it to myself.”

Patrick looked at the cigarette in his hand. “We shared our first, then.”

There it was. He gave her the opening she needed. Shelagh drew a shaky breath and agreed. “Yes. I felt so bold, then. I wondered what you must think of me: I had just confessed to stealing cigarettes from my father’s drawer, and there I was, smoking in a back alley with you!”

Patrick laughed. “My bold girl.” He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, then lowered his head to hers, pressing a kiss to her mouth.

Stay strong, Shelagh, she whispered to herself. It would be easier to yield to his unspoken question, to postpone this discussion until later, but that didn’t feel right. It was one thing to try to smooth the way with a nice dinner, and quite another to use the bedroom to get her way.

Slowly, she pulled away. “Patrick?” she swallowed, then charged on. “Why would you say that?”

From the base of her neck, she heard Patrick’s muffled voice. “Say what?”

“Why would you call me a “bold girl” for that?” She pushed gently at his shoulders, bringing his eyes back to hers.

Confused, Patrick sat back. “What are you talking about?”

“In that alley, when I told you I had smoked my father’s cigarettes. I was only fourteen, Patrick.” Here goes, she thought. Jump in with both feet.

Patrick’s eyes shuttered. Shelagh took a shaky breath. “I was only fourteen, but you just called me a bold girl for it.”

“Shelagh-” Patrick’s voice had a warning. Still she pushed on.

“Timothy’s only eleven. You didn’t think it was ‘naughty’ when you believed he might have been smoking.” She held the shaky breath in her lungs.

Patrick brought his arm out from behind her and stared ahead at the electric fire. “It’s completely different, Shelagh. Timothy’s my son. You were…I see what you’re trying to do, Shelagh.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Patrick. I just want to talk about this.”

Patrick got up and went to the mantel. This time when he started another cigarette, he did not offer her one. The silence grew as he inhaled deeply, his eyes squinting with the effort. After what seemed like hours, he started again.

“Timothy’s a boy. He knows how I -we-expect him to behave. Smoking in the lav, or even hanging around while Gary does, is not going to instill confidence in his judgement.” His voice was even, controlled. Shelagh had the feeling he had slipped behind his GP mask.

Shelagh grew uncomfortable with the strain. Trying to appease him, she asked, “So tonight, at the table, that was because he might have broken the rules? It wasn’t about the cigarette?”

He took another long inhale, gathering his thoughts. “If Tim wants to go to a top school, he’ll need to keep his nose clean. I’ve been telling him he should mind whom he spends time with; Gary’s headed for trouble.

“I’m tired. It’s been a long, day, Shelagh. I’m for a bath, then bed.”  He stepped over to her and pressed a quick kiss on her forehead, then was gone from the room.

Next Chapter

(Author’s Note: Apologies for any errors, most especially concerning Tim’s school age. I am assuming that Tim is in his last year of primary school, and about to move up. It wouldn’t be the first-or last-time I’ve been wrong, so if I am, let’s just chalk it up to alternate universe stuff. Thanks for your patience.)

Previous Chapter

Ten years spent living with Sister Monica Joan taught Shelagh that sometimes you couldn’t play fair. She wasn’t manipulating Patrick, precisely, but if she could soften him up a bit, make him more amenable to talk, well then, she would. He had made strides in the area, but discussing personal problems still did not come easily to her husband. Shelagh was hopeful that her steak and kidney pie and a chocolate sponge would smooth the road.

The fates seemed on her side that evening. Despite being in the middle of flu season, Patrick got home early.  At nearly four months, Angela was entering that charming-baby phase and was as delighted with the extra attention from her father as he was with her. Even Tim worked quickly to finish a theme, and helped set the table without being asked. Shelagh smiled, hoping it was a good omen.

Despite the happy mood, Shelagh was nervous. It was one thing to decide to push for a difficult conversation. It was quite another to carry it out. Patrick was trying to open up, but could still shut down when matters became uncomfortable, and Shelagh wasn’t completely certain of her assertiveness.

Timothy became increasingly animated as dinner progressed. His parents shared amused glances as he kept the family entertained with a long tale of the afternoon’s science club meeting. Shelagh and Patrick weren’t entirely sure what happened, but there was something involving a paper maché volcano, vinegar and bi-carb, and an explosion all over the play yard.

Over his second slice of cake Tim announced, a little too brightly, “Gary got caught smoking in the lav during Library time today.”

Shelagh’s fork fell to her plate. She could sense the change in her husband immediately. Drat that Gary. Somehow his mischief  always seemed to seep into other people’s lives. All her hopeful planning went out the window.

Glancing quickly at his wife, Patrick then turned to his son. “Smoking?” he asked, stunned. “He’s eleven!”

“Uh-uh,” Timothy answered, “Gary’s turned twelve. He’s the oldest in the year.” His eyes shifted away from his father.

Suddenly suspicious, Patrick glowered. “Who was with him?”

Timothy didn’t answer.

“Timothy.” Patrick’s voice demanded a response.

“I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault.” Timothy’s eyes pinkened as he glared back at his father defiantly.

With a deliberateness that set Shelagh on the edge of her seat, Patrick placed his fork next to his plate and took a deep breath. Quietly, he asked, “Timothy, who was with Gary when he got caught smoking cigarettes in the lav?”

Timothy swallowed hard, his throat convulsing with the movement. “Jack…and me. But we weren’t-”

Patrick’s hand shot in the air between them, demanding silence. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you may only answer with one word.” He paused and even Angela seemed to hold her breath. “Were you with Gary in the lavatory today while he was smoking?”

“Yes,” Tim answered, his voice very quiet.

Shelagh wanted to step in to shield Timothy from the anger she could feel growing in her husband, but knew this was a time to stay on the sidelines. Patrick could be very stern but was rarely unfair, and another voice would only complicate things.

Patrick pinched his nose, his shoulders tense. “And do you think this was a good idea?”

Timothy had been on the receiving end of enough lectures from his father to sit quietly. “No, sir.”

“Do you know how important this year is at school?” Patrick sat back in his chair.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is it so important?” Patrick asked calmly. Too calmly, Shelagh thought.

“Because I want to get into a good school. Sir,” he added.

Patrick stood up suddenly and walked out of the room. Timothy’s eyes were wide as he looked to his mother. Shelagh smiled an encouragement she didn’t feel.

Patrick returned, a furious expression on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. Turning, he left the room again, only to return immediately, his hands clenched.

“We have not raised you to lurk in lavs smoking with troublemakers, Tim.” He raised his hand and shook his finger. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t do it, Dad! I didn’t! After gym class we all had too much water, so Mrs. Cleary said as we had picked out our books we could go to the lav. There were  only two-” he glanced at his mother, embarrassed, “-you know-  working, and we turned around and there was Gary lighting a cigarette. He didn’t even smoke it, really. But then I reckon it was taking us a bit too long and Mr. Wilder came in to check up on us.”

Tim’s strident voice upset Angela, and she began to whimper. No one spoke as Shelagh stood and took the baby in her arms, soothing her, then moved to hand the baby to her husband. “Shelagh, not now,” Patrick resisted.

Quietly, Shelagh prevailed upon him. “Yes, Patrick. Give me one minute, please.”

Patrick pressed his lips together tightly and took the baby, willing himself to calm down.

“Timothy, dearest,” she turned to the boy, her calm voice soothing the frayed nerves in the room. “Why haven’t we heard from your teacher? Is there a note we should see?”

Perhaps it was the sudden change of mood, but the tears Timothy had been struggling to hold back fell down his cheeks. He shook his head. “No. Honest. I wanted to tell you myself because you always say things will go better if you hear something from me first. Mr. Wilder believed us.” Tim sniffed and glanced at his father.

Before Patrick could respond, Shelagh said, “We do believe you, Timothy. Don’t we, Patrick?” her eyes encouraged her husband to follow her lead. Meeting her look, Patrick nodded.

“You do? You believe me?” Timothy sniffed, trying to stop his tears.

Patrick sighed. Handing the baby back to his wife, he answered. “Timothy, we trust you. But we also know you’re still a child. You’re going to do foolish things.” He sat in his chair and looked his son in the eyes. “You promise you had no idea what Gary was up to?”

Timothy nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. Patrick hid a grin at the childish gesture.

“All right, then. And do you promise-”

“I’m not going to smoke, Dad,” Timothy interrupted, “I promise. And I’ve told Gary that I won’t play with him anymore. I’m tired of getting into trouble because of him.”

Patrick considered his son for a moment, then nodded his head. He reached over and gently tousled the boy’s hair.

“Dad, don’t!” Timothy moaned, but his smile was wide.

“Well, if you’re done here,” Patrick answered, “you’d better start to clear the table.” The drama over,  he was eager for things to return to normal.

For effect, Tim rolled his eyes. “I suppose I can’t say I’ve still got too much homework?”

“No dice, I’m afraid. You owe your mother.”

Timothy grinned. “Don’t I know it?” Stacking the dessert plates, he moved into the kitchen.

Patrick got up and went to his cigarette case on the mantle. Lighting one up, he said, “Clever use of the baby, sweetheart.”

Shelagh smiled. “We all have a part to play in the family, dearest.”

Next Chapter

“C’mon, Ange. I just picked it up,” moaned Timothy Turner. He bent to scoop the toy giraffe from the floor. “Every time I pick it up for her, she drops it again.”

His mother giggled. “So why do you suppose she does it, then?” Shelagh’s eyes danced over the rim of her tea cup. Glancing at the clock she added, “Finish your breakfast, it’s almost time to go.”

Tim picked up his spoon, but Angela had other ideas. With another squeal, she released the giraffe over the side of her high chair, delighted by the thunk it made as it hit the floor.

“Angela!” grumped her brother.

“What is it this time?” Patrick came into the room, kissing his wife good morning. He tilted his head to the side, offering his son a look of some sympathy, while tickling behind the baby’s ear. “My little Angel isn’t throwing food at you again, is she?”

With a pained expression, Tim answered. “No. She keeps dropping my old giraffe to the floor. Every time I pick it up, she drops it again.”

“So why do you suppose she does it, then?” Patrick smiled.

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Timothy looked up to the ceiling. “Do you two practice things like that? It’s really quite irritating.”

“I think it just comes naturally, son.” Patrick’s eyes went to his watch, and he warned, “You’ll be late if you don’t hurry, Tim.

With the air of suffering mastered only by an adolescent, Tim went to retrieve his bag from his room.

“So what’s in store for my two girls today?” Patrick asked, spooning sugar into his tea. He sneaked a look at his wife, busy wiping Angela’s cheeks, and slipped in another spoonful. Patrick Turner liked his tea the way he liked his women, light and sweet.

“It’s Wednesday, Patrick.”

“Oh, right. Washing.” He opened the morning news. “They should set Greenwich by you, love.”

“Patrick,” Shelagh’s voice came around the paper, concerned.

“Hmm?”

“Patrick.” Her voice grew sharper.

He looked up, guilty. He recognized that tone. He better step lively.

“Yes, dear?”

“Your cough sounded quite terrible this morning. It’s been getting worse for weeks.”

“It’s just a cough, Shelagh. I’m around sick people all the time, and I never catch anything. It’ll pass.”

Shelagh pursed her lips, but before she could respond Patrick interrupted. “No, I am not tempting Fate. I’m fine, Shelagh.” He picked up his paper, eager to end the discussion. “You’re fussing,” he teased.

“Who’s Mum fussing over?” Tim asked, returning for his lunch.

“Me,” Patrick said ruefully.

“Good. If she’s fussing over you, she can’t fuss over me.” He dangled the toy giraffe in front of his sister’s eyes, waited for her complete attention, then dropped it to the tray. It became immediately apparent that the darling of the family was more than happy to revisit her favorite game.

“Tim!” cried Patrick at his son’s retreating back. “You did that on purpose!”
A few hours later, Shelagh was up to her elbows in whites. Patrick and Tim were off on their day, and Angela napped in her cot.

The quiet repetition of the laundry appealed to Shelagh. The water, the smell of the soap, even the physical force needed to wring clothes through the mangle,  all helped her clear her mind. Patrick wanted to invest in an electric washer, and she knew the time was near that it would be necessary. Angela’s clothes were only getting larger, and Tim was at an age when he went through clean clothes faster than she could wash them. But for now, she liked the old rituals.

She reviewed the breakfast conversation with Patrick. Obviously, he did not want to talk about that cough, but there was something there that gnawed at Shelagh. She had spent enough time as a nurse, and too much time as a tuberculosis patient to know that was no ordinary sound.

Each morning for much of this winter Patrick rose to a tight, hacking cough. After long moments, the spell would pass, and he would seem his old self. Usually, the cough would not return at all during the day, and it was easy to forget its existence. But there was something in its sound that triggered an alarm in Shelagh.

She had learned enough of herself in these last few years to know that her subconscious had a way of alerting her to a problem. For a long time she ignored that voice, fearful of what she might face. Pretending a problem didn’t exist would only make matters worse.

Tonight they would talk about this.

Next Chapter

Angela Turner sat at her desk, a cup of tea cooling at her elbow. Through the closed door she could hear the faint strains of the kitchen radio and the sounds of her mother singing along as she baked a cake for tea.  Dad would be sitting at the table pretending to read the paper while he watched his wife. They were like that, she knew. They’d rather be together than apart.

She stared down at the crisp white note paper, unsure of where to start. How strange, she thought. She had been planning this letter for months now, ever since she had begun the process, and now her mind was blank.

More to settle her nerves than from thirst, she sipped at her tea and looked around the room. Practically a museum to her life, the walls were adorned with photographs and posters, the bed covered by the yellow and pink pillows her mother had taught her to sew. On the bookshelves stood copies of her old books and a row of old dolls still wrapped in bandages from her last doll hospital. She knew her parents liked to keep the room just as she left it two years ago for university. Mum probably came in each day just to bring some life to the room. Dad probably teased her for it.

Taking a deep breath, Angela straightened her shoulders and put the tea cup down. Best to get on with the task, she told herself. Procrastinating would only make it harder.

Dear Helen,

Please be assured that I mean you no pain. I have no motives in contacting you other than a simple desire to let you know how I’ve turned out. I will not pester you with letters nor invade your privacy. I understand that this must be painful to you, opening up old wounds. Rest assured that I will understand if this is the only contact we ever have.

I want you to know that I understand, and I have no resentment towards you. I can hardly imagine the pain you went through. You were a child yourself. Faced with such a choice, no one could blame you.

I’ve had a happy life. I’ve grown up in a family filled with love and support, with all of my needs met. I’ve known for as long as far back as I can remember that I was adopted. Even as a child, Mum would tell me stories of how I grew inside another mummy, that God put our family together in a different way. She’s always told me how very lucky she was to have me.

Mum isn’t a fan of secrets. Secrets have a way of eating away at a person or a relationship, and where there is love, there must be trust. She’s quite funny about it, actually. Besides, she says, if the neighbors knew I was adopted, then I should, too. Perhaps that’s why she is supporting me now.

Angela put her pen down for a moment, recalling how Dad didn’t like to talk about it much. He felt things quite deeply, she knew, and sometimes struggled to talk about how he felt. Her decision to attend university and pursue a medical degree had filled him with pride. She could only imagine how his waistcoat buttons would burst with pride when she told him of her decision to specialize in obstetrics. He would try to cover it up with long discussions about techniques and the changing state of medicine today, but she would know his heart was full.

I have a brother, eleven years older than I. Tim is a scientist; he studies butterflies, can you imagine? He’s just married a research biologist. Mum’s glad he’s in London, though she still thinks we don’t see enough of him. His mother died when he was quite young, and he tells me he and Dad were quite lonely before Mum came along. Mum says she was the lonely one.

My parents have quite a romantic story. Dad loves to tell the tale, probably because it always makes Mum blush. They had a difficult road with many obstacles to happiness, and had to face many challenges before they could settle into a happy life. I think it was during this time that Mum learned you have to face your problems honestly in order to conquer them.

Her pen started to skip. Frowning, Angela scratched at her desk blotter, her scratch turning into a silly doodle. It used to drive poor Tim crazy when he would get home from classes late, the last to read the paper only to find it covered in odd scribbles by his father and sister. It became a game of theirs, marking up pages with inside jokes and scrawls meant to tease him from his serious studies. Angela had become adept in randomly placing cartoons in the pages, while her father favored caricatures of the family.

I’ve been at uni for two years now. I plan to study medicine, perhaps specialize in obstetrics. I’m quite lucky to have been able to follow this dream. I like to read, novels mostly. Of course I love the classics, Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell, but my favorite right now is Victoria Holt. I am desperate for her books! Thank goodness Tim no longer lives here, he’d tease me relentlessly!

I have some very good friends, two girls especially. Charlotte, my friend since before I can remember, and Peggy, a newer friend from university, whom I hope to set up practice with when the time comes. No serious boyfriends yet, Dad is happy to report. There was a boy a few years ago, but he preferred a more traditional girl, so…that didn’t work out. No broken hearts, just wounded pride, I suppose.

Angela stopped. She had come to the purpose of her letter. Her forehead crinkled in concern. Was she being selfish, she worried? Would this letter cause anguish? Her parents knew of her intent, and had given their blessing, but had she seen tears in Mum’s eyes when they began this process? Dad was fiercely protective of his wife, and always came to her aid when he thought she was suffering. Angela knew her parents wanted her to be happy above all things, and supported her decisions, only occasionally attempting to redirect her. Surely if Dad believed this would be too painful for Mum he would say?

Her mother’s voice came through the flat, the words to an old Mel Torme song bringing comfort. Mum had been such a help gathering the information she needed, contacting the adoption agency, getting the most up-to-date address for the letter Angela hoped to send. Dad had questioned it, wondering if the whole thing were best left alone. But Mum had been adamant in her support of Angela. The scene in the living room was sharp as if it had happened this morning. Mum stood at the mantel, the eyes of her husband and daughter on her. “Patrick, there’s always room for more love, dearest. It fills in where it’s needed. If I can love more than one child, why can’t Angela love more than one mother? I know Angela loves us. There’s no reason why she can’t love someone else, and continue to love us.”

And there it was, Angela knew. Her mother loved her enough to set her free.

I hope you’ve been able to make a good life for yourself.  I hope that you found love, that you have people in your life that love you back. While our paths may never cross, I am so very grateful to you for your sacrifice.

Most sincerely,

Angela Turner

Reaching for her handkerchief, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. With a deep breath, she folded the letter, slid it into an envelope and addressed it.

“Mum?” she called through the flat.

“In the kitchen, dear,” her mother answered. Shelagh Turner came to the doorway of the warm room, drying her hands on a dish towel. She wore a warm smile.

“I have to go out,” Angela informed her. “I’ve finished and I want to post it before I lose courage.”

Shelagh nodded, her eyes understanding. “Of course, dearest. Are you all right?”

Angela smiled in return. “Yes. It feels right.” She moved to the coat rack, reaching for her jacket. Turning back, she looked at her mother.

“Come with me?” She asked, stretching out her hand.

Shelagh sighed gently. “Always, Angel Girl.”