Courting Shelagh, Chapter 2

Posted on March 30, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

A/N: No more chess, I’m afraid, but a clever Nonnatun will spy a version of one of Shelagh’s most frequently spoken lines from Series 3.

Oh, sorry about the hand kiss. It seemed “entirely appropriate.”

Chapter 1

The following morning, Patrick stood in the foyer of Shelagh’s boarding house, full of plans. Despite a night spent more in plans than in sleep, he was brimming with energy.

As he waited for Shelagh to come down, he glanced about the entranceway to the ladies’ boarding home. The strict rules of the house demanded he go no farther than this, and after over three months of residence here, Patrick had yet to see any of Shelagh’s temporary home. If he had his way, Patrick thought, this wouldn’t be her home for much longer.

“Patrick!” Shelagh called as she came down the final flight of stairs. “I never expected to see you here this morning. Last night, you didn’t say…” A little flustered, Shelagh’s hair was pulled back in a hasty knot, a few damp tendrils escaping around her neck.

She’s just had a bath, Patrick thought. He could feel his own pulse begin to race as he fought the urge to step closer to better breathe her in. He cleared his throat and straightened. A warm, fresh-from-the-bath Shelagh was a new experience, and a man could only withstand so much.

“I thought I’d surprise you.” Bringing his hand from behind his back, he presented her with a bouquet of freesias. Fortunately, he had been able to convince the neighborhood florist to open early.

Shelagh made a small sound of surprise in her throat. “Patrick, how lovely.” She hid her blushing face in the sweet-smelling blooms. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Smiling, he tilted his head as he gazed down at his fiance. “I wanted to. You do so much for me, and I wanted to thank you.”

Shelagh’s eyes met his. “Please don’t think you have to thank me, Patrick. I want to be there for both you and Timothy. You’ve given me so much.”

“We’re the grateful ones, my love.” He took a step closer. “Before you came, Tim and I were afraid to be happy. I’m sure we would have never managed this last month without you.”

A brief shadow of guilt crossed Shelagh’s face, chased away by his next words. “We both love you so very much, Shelagh.”

For a moment, they stood facing each other in silence, happy just to be near each other. Patrick’s lips lifted in a crooked smile. “Don’t go back to the hospital this afternoon. I want to take you out tonight. A proper date.”

The blush returned to Shelagh’s cheeks. “I’m very happy as we are, Patrick. There’s no need to take me out.”

He stepped closer to her so she had to crane her neck up to see his face. With a slight movement, his hand reached towards hers, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly against hers. “I want to spend time alone with you, Shelagh; treat you as you deserve to be treated.”

He watched as the blush travelled down her neck, past her collarbone. Was this a new dress? He wasn’t sure he had ever seen her collarbone before. If he had, he knew he would have felt this strong compulsion to press his lips against the fine bone, to caress her silky skin and fill his head with her scent.

His own pulse sounded loud in his ears and he tried to resist the urge to pull her close to him. Shelagh was still shy, he knew. He had hoped that by now she would be more comfortable with physical affection. Perhaps Timothy’s time in the hospital had affected them more than he thought.

Time together was becoming more of a necessity with each moment.

“Shelagh,” he whispered, his voice husky.

Her eyes met his, and he was stunned by the emotion pouring from them. Her pupils dilated widely in her pale eyes, and he could sense her own breathing quicken.

Softly, his fingers moved to entwine with hers. “I miss you, Shelagh. Tim will be fine tonight. Fred can visit him, or I can call Jack’s mother. Whichever, he’ll be fine. But I’m desperate to spend time with you.”

In that moment, understanding crossed her face, and Patrick knew she felt the same. His head lowered slowly, and both forgot the dim foyer, the sounds coming from the kitchen fading quickly.

“Oh, Doctor Turner, are you still ‘ere?” The omnipresent landlady tromped through the front door, the scrub brush and pail testament to a front step scrubbed spotless.

The two lovers moved apart quickly, slightly embarrassed and rather a bit more frustrated by the interruption.

Clearing his throat, Patrick answered, “Yes, Mrs. Trevell. I’m off in just a moment.”

The bustling landlady, whose skills of romantic observation had been honed by years of watching residents with their beaus, grinned knowingly. “Well, don’t keep Miss Mannion from ‘er breakfast, then. Ask her what you want, and be off with ya.” She turned and sloshed the bucket back to the kitchen.

The intensity eased for the moment, Patrick and Shelagh grew comfortable again.

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up tonight by seven, I promise. I’ve cancelled all my calls for the late afternoon, and I’ll get Greenwood or Hammond to back up. God knows they both owe me enough favors.” He took her hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers. “I am determined that nothing will get in the way of our date.”

Next Chapte r

Courting Shelagh

Posted on March 26, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

A/N: I haven’t played chess in years, and even then was never very good at it. So, if you know chess, and my strategies are all wrong, let’s just chuck it up to alternate universe stuff.

A children’s ward in a large hospital can be an unusual place. In one corner, a young girl lay quietly, asleep, but not asleep, her nurse anxiously watching. In another, a small play area was set up, a trio of boys dressed in a uniform of illness collectively try to solve a puzzle while another girl wheeled a tricycle in widening circles.

Timothy Turner, a resident of this ward for well over a month, watched as the nurses tried to corral their patients for the evening medication round. Soon, it would be bath time for those mobile enough for such ablutions, and then lights out for the entire floor.

Tim knew he was luckier than most of the other patients on the ward. Visiting hours were long over, but his father and Shelagh were permitted to stay beyond the assigned hours. Shelagh said it was because of his father’s position in the community. She was always saying things like that, Tim thought. It was lovely to see how proud she was of Dad, but Tim knew the extra privileges had more to do with Shelagh’s own helpful nature. Right now, in fact, she was assisting in Teddy Hardstrom’s final physical therapy for the day.

“I wish the nurses would let me have my own lamp,” he groused. A copy of Captains Courageous idly rested on his bedside table, its binding likely to remain unbroken until the morning.

“Sorry, Tim,” his father commiserated. “If Shelagh couldn’t convince them, no one can.” He winked at his son and moved his knight. “Knight fork, Tim. I’m afraid that’s check.”

Tim groaned and rolled his head back. “I liked it better when you let me win.”

Chuckling, Patrick answered, “I liked it better when it was easy to beat you. You’re getting quite good, Tim. I can tell you’ve been practicing, who’s your partner?” He idly placed the black bishop and rook with their fallen brethren.

“Why, Shelagh of course. Who else?” Timothy’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

“Shelagh?” Patrick’s face was a near mirror image of his son’s surprise.

“Of course. Didn’t you know? Shelagh’s brilliant at chess. Her father taught her.” The young boy considered his next move. Save the Queen, but the knight, oh, he hated to lose his final knight. The Queen was strong. He was pretty sure she could defend herself against his dad’s last remaining Bishop. That would leave his King unprotected, though, and Tim was pretty sure the King depended a bit too strongly on the Queen. “She even beat him the last time they played.” There, he’d give up his Knight to save the Queen.

“Shelagh plays chess? I had no idea,” Patrick admitted, looking up from the board.

“Shelagh does lots of things you wouldn’t guess. Did you know she can dance a reel?”

Patrick laughed at the image. “No, I can’t say I did know that. What other dark secrets do you know?”

Patrick was grateful that Shelagh devoted her time to Timothy, and was convinced his son’s rapid recovery was in large part due to her attention. She spent every afternoon on the ward, and had even convinced the Sister that her help was necessary on the ward off of visiting hours.

His own busy schedule kept him away from the ward more often than he liked, but he was usually able to stop in every day to spend some time with his son and fiance. He had to admit, he was a bit lonely. Prior to Christmas, home had become such a welcoming place, Shelagh finishing the dinner as Tim did schoolwork, the two happy to see him complete the family when he returned. And later, all-too-brief time alone with his fiance, time when they were learning the details that would soon fill their life together.

“Nothing too dastardly, unfortunately.” Tim sighed as he studied his next move.

“You sound disappointed. Were you expecting tales of Scottish Highwaymen?” Patrick flushed a bit, remembering a story of a surprisingly bold young Shelagh, and the dreams that story began.

Timothy shrugged. “I reckon not. You know, I’ll bet I know more about Shelagh than you do, Dad. I spend more time with her,” he added a little bit smugly.

Patrick sat back in his chair, his eyes alert. His first instinct was to deny such a thing, but the boy was right.

Concentrating on the board before him, Timothy continued. “Since the nurses won’t let me read at night, I have to listen to them chat before I fall asleep. There’s this one nurse, she’s new, she talks about her boyfriend all the time. How he brings her flowers, takes her on these fancy dates,” he glanced up, “you know, mushy stuff like that. All the other nurses love it. They practically drool over her stories. It’s really quite revolting.”

Patrick laughed. “Women!” he huffed semi-mockingly.

“Absolutely,” agreed his son. “But I was thinking Dad, you might want to try that with Shelagh. I think she’d like it.”

Startled, Patrick looked at his son’s innocent face. What exactly was Tim trying to say? “I see Shelagh nearly every day, son.” His fingers touched his knight, then moved away.

“Here at the hospital, or when you drive her home, maybe.” Timothy’s eyes watched nervously as his father considered his next move. “But maybe you should take her out alone sometimes. You can miss a night here, I won’t mind.”

Patrick’s hand lay in his lap, his eyes on his son as he considered his words. Tim was right, he had never really courted Shelagh. Suddenly, they just were. Months of desperate loneliness and silence miraculously resolved in a moment on a misty road. Afterwards, the weeks leading up to the original wedding date were filled with becoming acquainted with each other, finding ways to fit together as a couple and a family. Nearly all their time had been spent at the flat, quiet and isolated from the world.

Patrick was certain Shelagh had wanted it that way. Her new life needed some getting used to, and prying eyes had made her wary. To find her new self, Shelagh left her old life behind only to realize that she could find a way to unite her old life with her new one.

Since the polio, they spent nearly all their time with Timothy in hospital. Shelagh had found her feet, but had not had the chance to try them out. Tim was right. Shelagh deserved a proper courtship. Patrick grinned, his face relaxing. They deserved a proper courtship.

Absently, he moved his knight across the board and was startled by his son’s shout.

“Checkmate!” Tim cried. “I won!” Ignoring the hushes from the nurse at the nearby desk, Tim crowed, “I beat you, Dad. Fair and square. You moved your Bishop to protect your King, but you left my Queen, and she took down your King! I finally beat you!”

Leaning back in his chair, Patrick mused, “So you did, son. So you did.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Timothy consoled. “I was trying to distract you. I knew you’d break concentration if I talked about Shelagh. You always do.”

Patrick shook his head and rubbed his hand across his tired face. “All’s fair, Tim.” He leant in and whispered conspiratorially, “You’ll have to find someone else to beat tomorrow, Tim, my boy. Shelagh and I are going out.”

Beaming, Timothy advised, “Not fish and chips, though, Dad. From what the nurses say, chip shops are definitely not romantic.”

“Don’t you worry, Tim. The old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve. Shelagh will-”

Timothy’s hand shot up in the air, his face desperate. “Dad, no. Please. It’s bad enough I have to hear about the mushy stuff from the nurses. No boy should have to put up with it from his own parents.”

Patrick laughed and tousled his son’s hair. “Sorry, Tim. I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“Ugh,” Timothy groaned as he threw himself against his pillow, outmaneuvered. “Strategy in chess is much easier than love.”

Next Chapter

Writing Her Own Rules, Epilogue

Posted on March 21, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Author’s note: Apologies for the “Dad Dancing” reference. I’ve been trying to get that one in for a very long time.

Previous Chapter

Late afternoon sun poured through the window above the kitchen sink as gurgles of infant laughter filled the room. A blue plastic infant tub converted the typical white porcelain basin into an indoor water playground.

“Well, that’s certainly a happy sound, little Miss. I suppose we’ve made friends again?” Shelagh Turner cooed. “I always say, a bath can fix everything!” Offering up a toy giraffe of indeterminate age, she watched as the baby kicked and splashed. Two towels sat at the ready, one for baby, one for clean-up.

Down the hall, she heard the doorbell, followed by the still-brisk steps of her husband. “Guess who’s here, dearest,” she asked the baby.

Moments later, Angela Turner entered the kitchen. “Mum, you didn’t have to give her a bath,” she declared.

“I know, dear. But there was a bit of a disagreement over the peas for her ladyship’s tea. Besides, you know I don’t mind, and it will be one less thing for you to do tonight.” Shelagh unfolded a towel and offered it to her daughter. “Since I’ve had the bath time honors, would you like to dress the little princess?”

Angela sighed and moved to the pantry closet. “No, you can do it, Mum. I’ll put out the tea.”

Years of practice made Shelagh a dab hand at changing wet, slippery babies, and in the work of a moment, her granddaughter clean, dry and dressed.

“Dad was on his way out to the garden when he let me in. He looks good,” Angela commented as she scooped tea into her mother’s favorite teapot.

“Your father always looks good, dear. He’s a very handsome man.”

The spoon clanged on the countertop. “Ugh, Mum. You’ll put me off my dinner.”

They both laughed. “Your father is doing quite well, actually,” Shelagh answered as she placed the baby into the nearby playpen. “Tim came by and asked that he do a seminar at the college on patient care next month. Don’t tell your father I said so, but he’s really quite thrilled to be back in the field. His practice was too much, I think, but his work with the medical students has revitalized him since his retirement. He wants to go dancing tomorrow night!” Shelagh’s cheeks pinkened.

“Dad dancing? Sorry, Mum.” Angela grimaced.

Shelagh waved her daughter’s sympathy away. “Not that ridiculous disco nonsense you do-”

“Mum, disco’s been dead for a decade!”

“Proper ballroom dancing, Angela, at the Dorchester. They’ll even have a band!” Shelagh’s eyes glowed.

No longer satisfied with the companionship of a toy giraffe, Julienne reached for her mother. Angela reached into the playpen and lifted her daughter into her arms.

Shelagh smiled to herself as she watched mother and child settle into each other, and turned to finish the tea.

“You look a bit tired, dearest,” she remarked gently. “Would you like us to take Angela tonight? With your final boards coming up, you’ll need your rest.”

“Not tonight, Mum, thanks. I just want to bring Julie home and snuggle her. I haven’t had a night home with her and Charlie all week. Tonight’s the first night in weeks Charlie isn’t teaching a class, and we need a bit of family time.”

Three generations of Turner women settled quietly into their tea. After a long moment, Angela spoke up.

“I am tired, though. I knew this would be hard, having a baby while I’m still qualifying for my obstetrics license while Charlie finishes his doctorare, and I could never have gotten this far without you and Dad and Charlie supporting me. But sometimes I think maybe I should just give in and wait until after Julie’s grown to finish.”

She looked up at her mother. “I must seem very cowardly to you.”

“Cowardly?” Shelagh asked, stunned.

Angela sighed deeply. “Thinking about giving up. I have so much help, and I can barely manage. Some days I don’t manage at all.” She rubbed her cheek against her daughter’s head, her eyes damp. “You did it. You did it back when there was no such thing as on-site day care, or working mothers groups. You didn’t even have your mother to help.” Angela looked up, sad and confused. “How did you? You raised Tim and me, you ran Dad’s surgery, served as a nurse and midwife, all by yourself.”

Shelagh smiled. “It was hardly by myself, dearest, and there were many days when I didn’t think I could manage. But you’re wrong, you know. I had so much help. I had your father. Back then, most fathers did very little in the way of child care, but I could always count on your father to try,” she giggled. “Dinners were a mess, and he never could do the laundry correctly, but he always made the effort. Your father knew I needed to help make a difference in the world outside our family, and he wasn’t afraid to pitch in when necessary. So, we wrote our own rules.” Leaning in, Shelagh added, “He was quite good at getting the nuns to lend a hand, too. One word from him, and I never had to mend another pair of your brother’s trousers again!”

Angela gave a watery chuckle. Gratefully taking the hanky her mother held out, she wiped her eyes. “I remember when Dad had to help me with my hair before hockey practice when I was nine. “A” for effort, but that’s why I learned to do my own plaits before anyone else on the team!” She kissed the sleeping baby’s head.

“Yes, and Tim mastered shepherd’s pie just to avoid your father’s cooking!” Shelagh reached over and caressed her daughter’s arm. “Marriage, motherhood, they’re hard, Angela. It’s hard for everyone, but it’ll get easier. You’ll write your own rules, I’m sure of it. The world doesn’t usually see change overnight. It changes nearly unnoticed, one woman at a time.”

“One woman at a time what?” asked Patrick as he entered the kitchen, a bundle of freshly cut blooms in his hand. “I should think one woman would be enough for anyone!”

Shelagh got up from the table and took a vase from under the sink as Patrick began to trim the stems. “The hydrangeas,” Shelagh admired. “The soil’s so funny this year, I didn’t think we’d ever see them turn pink.”

Patrick grinned, “I know the right things to say, my love. You just have to make them blush.”

“Right, then. That’s my cue.” Angela stood, shifted her sleeping child in her arms and crossed to kiss her mother goodbye. Heading for the door, she grumbled, “Why we never wrote a rule against that sort of thing I’ll never know!”

His Safety Net

Posted on February 20, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Author’s note: This fic is set at the end of Series 4 Episode 5. Patrick has begun his recovery from his near-breakdown, and Shelagh has found resources within she hadn’t known existed.

I’m going to give this a Three Kettle rating, primarily because of the story’s setting (a bath). However, I think the kettles better reflect a level of intimacy rather than steam, which I think is actually kind of hot.

*** ***

It was like they were courting again. Walking together along the cobbled streets, lit only by street lamp, Shelagh couldn’t remember a time in recent months when they had walked alone together, no children in tow, no hurry to be somewhere. They walked together, happy and relaxed, as they talked about the whirlwind of events of the last few hours.

Serious conversation would come later, in private. For now, they just enjoyed each others company. Shelagh smiled softly as Patrick shifted his medical bag from his right to left hand, and edged more closely to him. A flash of memory passed before her eyes, of another time walking with Patrick, their hands so close, yet not touching. How confused she had been then, uncertain of her feelings and afraid of what her tortured thoughts might mean.

She moved an inch closer and threaded her fingers with his. Together, they took the long way home.

It wasn’t so terribly late when they returned to the flat. Timothy greeted them in the hallway, his sister in his arms.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick cooed as he reached out for his daughter. The bleak lines of fatigue faded from his face as he held his baby to his heart.

“It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type,” Shelagh countered. She reached over and kissed Timothy’s cheek. “Thank you for managing without us, dearest. You’ve been so completely dependable, and we’re very grateful. Your father and I have spoken about it, and we can’t ask you to do so much. We’re going to have to work out some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Penney if this is going to work for everybody.” She smoothed his shirt across his shoulders. “ Have you eaten?”

Glancing around the bounty of food left as thanks during Patrick’s illness, she asked, “Well, it looks like I won’t have to cook for quite a while, certainly. What will it be tonight? Steak and Kidney pie or pasties?”

Patrick followed her. “I’m starving, I can eat anything, even that frightening looking pan from Mrs. Everett, if no one else wants it,” he grimaced at the offending casserole. “Eating that well-meaning yet revolting mess is the least I could do after all you two have done for me. I owe you both so much.”

“It’s alright, Dad. Just remember this when it comes time for me to borrow the car.” The boy stretched. “I’ve eaten already. Mostly Mrs. B’s cake, but I’m fairly certain neither of you will kick up a fuss about it. I’m for bed. Taking care of Angela is exhausting!”

Timothy started out the door and turned back. “I like the uniform, Mum. It suits you.”

Shelagh hummed the gentle lullaby she used to coax her daughter to sleep each night, and began to shed her uniform. The steps were logical and short, and she found herself remembering another uniform from another time. The fine cotton replaced the worsted wool, but the starched cotton smelled just the same. She found a home for the uniform in the wardrobe and slipped into her nightclothes.

Silently closing the door on her sleeping child, she moved to check on Timothy. His light was out, and for once he was not sitting up late with a book. The lad had surely put in his time this week. They would need to find a way to make it up to him. Perhaps a day trip to the seaside. The family would have to miss Church, but she doubted Timothy would mind.

The poor boy had been such a responsible young man these last few days. Shelagh knew she hadn’t been able to keep all of her worries to herself, and Timothy seemed to read her distress so clearly. But he trusted her, and had faith in his father. Timothy’s unwavering belief in his father had given her strength, too. She pressed a light kiss to his forehead, grateful for her son.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and she nudged it open. Patrick stood before the mirror over the sink, his shirt discarded and vest tossed in the clothes bin, braces hanging loosely at his sides. He lathered up, and looked back at his wife over his shoulder.

“I thought I’d get cleaned up. I’m not sure when I last gave myself a decent shave.”

“That’s alright. I like you a little bit bristly.” Shelagh moved to draw him a bath. “You should have a nice long soak, too. Just the thing to help you sleep.”

Patrick turned to face her. “You take the bath, sweetheart. It’s been a long few days for you, too. Or better yet…” his eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

Shelagh pressed her lips together, feigning a prim expression. “Really, Patrick. After all Timothy’s done for us, the last thing that boy needs is to be awakened by us splashing in the tub like a pair of selkies.” She ran her hand under the tap to check the temperature. Satisfied, she placed the stopper, then teasingly flicked a few drops of water in his direction.

With a grin, Patrick turned back towards the mirror. For a moment, Shelagh regarded his long back and the way his shoulders flexed as he shaved his face clean of the care of the last days. She stood and walked to him, pressing herself against his back, her arms wrapped about his waist. “I will wash your hair. though,” she murmured into his skin. “I’ll get you a towel. They’re still in the basket waiting to be folded.”

When she returned a few moments later, Patrick was in the bath, his head tilted back against the rolled edge. He looked tired, she thought, but the bone-weary exhaustion seemed to have left his face.

Opening one eye, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me? No monkey business, I promise. I’m not even sure I could, I’m so tired.” He held his hand out for her to grasp.

“We’ll make sure you get some good rest tonight. No surgery tomorrow-” she held up her hand when he began to protest. “One more day off, Patrick, There’s nothing so pressing right now, and you could use a day. We all could. Let’s get out of the city, go for a drive, have a picnic. Some time as a family.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Yes, Nurse Turner. Whatever you say.”

Their eyes held for a long moment, understanding passing between them. Shelagh stood and turned away.

“I thought you were going to wash my hair?” he complained.

“I am.” Shelagh slid the pretty blue flowered dressing gown from her shoulders. “You’ll see.”

The nightgown joined the dressing gown on the hook on the door before she motioned for him to move forward. “Make room. Just to keep my clothes dry, mind you.”

A breath of laughter escaped from his lungs. Shelagh knew she was certainly a far cry from the shy, self-conscious bride of their early months of marriage. She stood before him confident in their love and partnership, happy to revel in the closeness they had built together.

He slid forward in the tub and she slipped her slight form in the space behind him. The water was warm, but not uncomfortably so, considering the warmth of the night. She shifted, and let her body surround his.

They lay together in the soothing water, each releasing the stresses built up in their bodies. Slowly, Shelagh wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck. “Hand me the soap, if you please,” she requested politely.

A deep chuckle spread through his chest and he offered the white bar to her. “Yes, Nurse Turner,” he repeated.

Shelagh began to create a lather across his chest, but stopped to ask, “Patrick, did you mind me not telling you?”

He rested his head back, turning slightly to see her. “Mind? Why should I mind? You know my feelings about your nursing skills.”

She scooped up water to rinse his skin. “Yes, I know, but it…changes things. It makes a bit of a statement.”

“I’ll say. If I hadn’t had a desperately ill patient waiting when I saw you in uniform, I would have taken you into my office to make that statement. In fact, I’m fairly certain that several of the patients in the waiting room had a pretty good idea what was in my head at that moment.”

She blushed. Turning his head away, she poured a dram of shampoo in her hand and began to lather his head. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Wearing that uniform says something about my identity, who I am in the community.” Her fingers began to rub his scalp, finding the spot, just behind his ears, that he always responded to.

“I know. It says ‘Nurse Turner is here to take care of you,’” He groaned slightly as her fingers rubbed a bit harder. “Shelagh, if you want to go back to nursing, we can find a way. We’ll solve the childcare issue, and make a place for you wherever you want to be. We can do this.”

Her hands slid over his soapy head. “Rinse,” she ordered. He slid even farther front and lowered his head in the water before her. For a quick moment, their eyes met before he closed his eyes and she pushed water over his hair, rinsing away the last remains of sweat and Brylcreem and exhaustion.

“All done,” she tapped his shoulder. Rising to the surface like the selkie he had promised not to become, he shook the water out of his eyes. Automatically, he reached out and she placed a fresh washcloth into his hand. He dried his face, and then returned to his relaxed position against her.

“I’m not crushing you, am I?” he asked, He sighed deeply and ran his hand over her knee.

“I’m fine. I like you pressing against me.”

Shelagh’s hand moved up to his hair, and her fingertips began to comb through his unruly locks. She preferred his hair a bit longer, his fringe askew across his forehead, though she knew he struggled to control it. Now, with his hair smoothed back from his forehead like that, he looked different. No one else saw him like that, she thought possessively. He was hers.

She knew she belonged to him completely, as well. Her fears for him had waned, but she knew that even if he had not emerged from his…depression, she would have been just as tightly tied to him as she was at this moment.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders again and pressed her face into his neck. She couldn’t say the words in her heart, but he must have sensed them. He turned his head towards her, “Shelagh,” he whispered.

She looked up, then took his lips with hers. They kissed slowly, tender kisses that spoke more of devotion than passion. Her hands slid over his chest, stopping to rest over his heart. He shifted on his side slightly, his own hand cradling her head. As they pulled apart, he whispered, “I’m so very lucky to have you.”

She pressed her forehead to his cheek. “We’re lucky to have each other, dearest.”

He let out a small breath, a crooked smile crossing his face. “I don’t know what I would have done if not for you, sweetheart. I’m certain I wouldn’t have taken a break when I should have done,” His face grew very serious. “It would have been so much worse without you. You understood what I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit. Shelagh, without you I could have lost everything.”

“Pish,” Shelagh scoffed. “All you needed was a good rest.”

“No.” He lifted her chin, meeting her eyes. “I needed more than a rest. I needed a safety net. I have that now, because of you.” His fingers tangled in the hair pushed behind her ear. “I’m better now.” He stopped abruptly, some old memory flitting across his face. He shook his head ruefully.

“I think I’ve said that before.” His eyebrows climbed up his forehead, wrinkling his brow. “I should say, I’m getting better. It’ll take more than just a few days off, I’m afraid. I’ll need to make some changes. I’ve got to learn to say no sometimes.”

Shelagh smiled. “One day at a time, then?”

He nodded. “Yes. We’ll start with tomorrow. A trip to the seaside, perhaps? A nice family day.” he settled back against her. “I think I’m going to like taking it easy.”

“Yes, well don’t take it too easy, if you please. You’re starting to get heavy, and it’s getting late. Time for you to get some sleep.” She pushed at his shoulders. “Bath time is over.”

Later, after Shelagh cleared the mess, she slipped into their bedroom. Patrick, full of hopes for the evening only minutes ago, lay sprawled on his back, asleep and already snoring. A quick look at the baby assured her that she, too, was in the land of nod.

Shelagh slid under the covers next to her husband and wrapped herself around him. He was still cool from the bath, and his scent filled her head. Patrick had once again returned from that grey place of isolation and fear, and once again, he was stronger for it. Their marriage would be stronger, too. Trust had taken its place beside their love.

Wise Words

Posted on February 10, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Watching Parks and Recreation with Eagle last week, I heard a line that just seemed to fit Call the Midwife (yes, I know I may be too involved). I foolishly posted something about it on Tumblr, and it got a little crazy.

I’ve used a few lines from P&R, and they appear in bold.

None of my friends from Poplar nor Pawnee belong to me, I’m sorry to say.

*** ***

In the busy late afternoon, a tall young man walked along the pavement outside the Poplar Community Center. Buses drove by, children ran and shouted as their mothers called to them. The young man smiled crookedly as he took the steps up to the door. Times changed, he thought, but Poplar stayed the same.

He pushed open the doors to the wide, bright room, longing for the old pinks and oranges of the room. In the latest reno, the Council had opted for a more durable beige and blue color scheme. Durable, yes. Appealing, no.

“Timothy!” he heard a woman call. Turning, he saw his mother trotting across the room to greet him.

“Timothy! It’s lovely to see you, dearest,” she turned her cheek up for his kiss. “but we weren’t expecting you until Saturday dinner!” She smiled at her son widely. Still on the greener side of fifty, Shelagh Turner was one of those fortunate women who had kept her figure, and her bright hair bore little evidence of dulling.

“I know. I had a few hours today and I thought I’d pop by for a chat with Dad. I’m off-duty at the hospital until tomorrow.”

His mother’s eyes grew shrewd, searching for something wrong. “Well, your father’s knee deep in inoculations today, I’m afraid.” If she noticed anything, she was keeping her own counsel. She glanced over towards the far cubicle. “No doubt he can’t hear anything after the din made by the newest Dixon baby. Why don’t you wait in the kitchen, have a cup of tea? I think Angela may be finished taking inventory, she could join you.”

Tim laughed. “Aren’t there laws against child labor? You had me stocking the bandages every Tuesday for as long as I can remember.”

“We started you at sixteen, Timmy; Angela’s nearly that. Besides, she loves it. I can’t keep her away.”

“Still wants to go into the family business, then?”

“Yes, and why not? If her brother can do it, I’m sure Angela can.” her eyes winked behind her frames.

A loud wail came up from beyond the far curtain, and Shelagh pursed her lips. “On second thought, why don’t you go and give your father a hand in there? No one should have to take on that whole crew without assistance. Here’s a tin of humbugs. Bribe them if you must. It’s getting late!”

Patrick’s voice came from around the corner. “Shelagh, do you have any more of those sweets? If I don’t get these children-Tim!”

“Hello, Dad,” Timothy reached out his hand for his father’s firm grip. A good, strong handshake between two fellows well met, that’s what Dad taught him, he thought. Dad’s handshake was as strong as ever, despite the other signs of aging that were making themselves apparent. His hair more salt than pepper these days, Patrick Turner had finally accepted the pot belly years of living with a good cook had led to. “Can I help with the monkeys?”

“Definitely. You’d think I was leading them to the chopping block, the way Mrs. Mitchell goes on. It’s like Sister Evangelina used to say-”

“You’ve had yer sweets now it’s time for yer sours!” returned his son. “Sister Evangelina was never one for letting a little stick keep her from getting the job done.”

Directing her boys back to the inoculation table, Shelagh suggested, “Patrick, why don’t you and Timothy stop for dinner after clinic? Angela and I could use some girl time tonight. I need to hem that dress for school, and the two of you would just get in the way.” Her eyes met her husband’s and something quick communicated between them. Patrick nodded in agreement. “If you won’t miss us too much, dear. What do you say, Tim? Capriano’s?”
Shelagh sighed. “I should have known you’d go straight for a fry-up.”

*** ***

The sight of the cafe somehow calmed Timothy’s nerves. Capriano’s was nearly as familiar as home, in its way. The site of many man-to-man talks, it seemed entirely appropriate they should come here tonight.

The bell on the door tinkled as it always did when they entered.

“A bit Pavlovian, that sound,” he commented. “Now I’m starving! Why would anybody eat anything besides breakfast food, Dad?”

His father smiled and nodded his head as he made for their favorite table: far away from the window like always, and Dad with his back to the entrance. Too often a meal out was interrupted by a worried patient eager to get a quick bit of advice. Near the kitchen door, Doctor Turner was sure to eat in the shelter of the proprietor’s defense.

No menus were handed out at Capriani’s. The owner didn’t believe in them, he said. His customers knew what he had, and didn’t need a fancy piece of paper to order a good old-fashioned fry-up.

Capriani’s was a funny place that way. Established after the war by a returning soldier, the cafe was named for the owner’s Italian war bride but never served so much as a plate of spaghetti. Requests for Italian food by unwitting new customers were roundly denied. It was a firmly held belief that a man could call his cafe what he liked and serve what he liked.

Their host approached from the kitchen. Burly and easily recognized for his prominent facial hair, Mr. Swanson greeted them cordially, though it was difficult to tell. With a square face segmented by heavy brows and a full mustache, the man seemed to wear a perpetual scowl. Long immune to those false signs of displeasure, the Turner men were not concerned.

“Good evening, Doctor Turner, Young Mister Turner. It is good to see you both.”

Timothy smiled at the man’s stiff and formal manner. “Hello, Mr. Swanson.”

“Good evening, Mr. Swanson,” Patrick answered. “I’m afraid we’re on the early side for your dinner crowd tonight.”

“Of course not. I’m always happy to serve a fellow hungry man. I’ve some most excellent tomatoes today. Might I interest you gentlemen in some with your meal?”

Tim teased, “I’m always surprised you leave a place on the plate for tomatoes, Mr. Swanson. I thought you didn’t hold with vegetables!”

A serious frown pulled the broad mustache down. “I’m surprised at you, young Turner. A tomato is a fruit, and most certainly not a vegetable. One would think they would teach you that in medical school.” Abruptly he turned back to the kitchen.

“It’s nice to know some things never change,” Tim remarked. He looked around the small room, their table mere feet from the open kitchen hatch. Mr. Swanson worked in silence, his head coming in to view then and again as he sorted out their meal.

Tucking his serviette into his shirtfront, Patrick settled in for his favorite meal. “Tim, there’s obviously something on your mind. We can talk about it now, or you can wait until Saturday dinner. Your mother won’t let whatever it is go beyond then.” Patrick grinned, his head tilted as it did when he was trying to figure a person out. “Shall we do what we did in the old days? I won’t look at you, I promise.”

Tim slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong, Dad. My registrar is a bit demanding, but nothing I didn’t expect. He’s actually quite fair, just a bit…unfriendly.”

Patrick laughed. “You didn’t expect to become mates with him, I’m sure.”

“Hardly,” Tim’s eyes went wide. “I’m not sure he recognizes me as one of the same species!”

“So if it isn’t the hospital, what is it? You’re alright for rent and such?” Patrick reached into his jacket pocket.

“No, no, Dad, money’s fine. Not pouring out of my pockets, but I’m quite flush at the moment. I’ve been saving, actually. Have to if I want to ever-
A large teapot appeared before them. “Nothing like strong tea to get a meal started,” Mr. Swanson’s voice rumbled. “Plates will be up in just a few moments.”

The interruption seemed to change Timothy’s direction. He swallowed nervously as if making a decision. Finally, he asked, “Dad, how did you do it? One day we were just us two, and the next we were chasing after Mum. I know the story, the letters and all that, but how did it even happen in the first place?”

Patrick Turner sat back in his seat, surprised. After a moment he answered, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, son. How did what happen? Mum called me from the sanitorium, and we went to go get her.”

“I know, but what made her call? The letters? Why did you write her to begin with?”

Patrick stared at his son, his discomposure showing in his face. “I wrote to her because I had to, I suppose.”

“But she was a nun. How did you dare?”

A small smile lifted one corner of his father’s mouth. “I’m not sure I was as daring as you think, Tim. I wrote to her first to apologize for something I’d done, something I shouldn’t have. I was afraid that in my foolishness I had given her more to worry about, that I had done something that could get in the way of her recovery. I wanted to try to be her friend.” His smile widened. “I never expected my letters to have the effect they did.”

Sounds from the kitchen filled the room as Tim absorbed his father’s words. “You’d done something that might have upset her?” He hadn’t considered that possibility.

“Yes.” Patrick’s face grew serious again. “I did something I had no right to do, and I…I wanted to make it right. It was supposed to be only one letter, you know. I was going to apologize, and leave it at that.”

“But Mum never answered your letters. Why did you keep writing?” Timothy leaned over the table.

“I was lonely, and it helped, I think. It was like I was talking to her. We’d never talked much, mostly over patients, but a few times…” Patrick sighed, fidgeting with the handle of his mug. “Writing to her helped me to understand how I felt, what I wanted.”

Timothy’s face flushed. “That’s the thing, Dad. You kept writing all those months, even when you didn’t think Mum was even reading your letters.”

“I had to, son. I needed to say how I felt, even if nothing ever came of it.”

A long moment of silence built up between them, broken only by the clatter of plates and cutlery. Father and son sat quietly as the import of this conversation made itself understood.

“I knew I loved her, and though I didn’t think she could return my feelings, I had to tell her.”

“But if you thought nothing could come of it, why do it? Why make yourself…vulnerable like that?” Tim shook his head. “I…I just don’t think I could do that, Dad.”

The two men sat at the table, neither speaking, each considering Tim’s words.

Mr. Swanson appeared at their table and set two platefuls designed to make an Englishman proud before them. In silence, he pulled bottles of brown sauce and ketchup from his apron pocket and placed them on the table, then turned away.

With quick strides, Mr. Swanson returned to their table, his brows low in his face. “Under normal circumstances, I would never meddle in a person’s private life. The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. But I must say this: there is no shame in declaring how you feel to a person you cherish, young sir. Real love is never an embarrassment; it is an honor and a privilege to be loved by someone. Forgive me for intervening. I only did so because I feared your meal would grow cold, and it would be a terrible thing to waste such an opportunity for culinary satisfaction.

“Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have thirty pounds of bacon that requires smoking.”

And with that sudden pronouncement, he returned to his kitchen.

Father and son stared at each other, eyebrows to the sky.

“Eat!” came a shout from behind the hatch.

It was better to follow his order, and both tucked into their mammoth piles of food. Perhaps it was the bacon, or maybe it was just the time they let their thoughts percolate through their brains, but soon both men were at ease again. Patrick took a piece of his fried bread and sopped up gravy from his plate.

“Remember, don’t tell your mother I do this,” he winked.

“Do what?” Tim asked, mirroring his father’s actions.

Full and content, Patrick sat back in his chair and glanced around the now crowded room. “He’s right, you know, Tim. Even if your mother hadn’t returned my feelings, I still would have been glad I told her. Loving her has made me a better man.”

Timothy’s face was serious. “I always though unrequited love was supposed to be so miserable. I never thought just to love someone might be enough. I’m glad, Dad. I’m more glad she said yes, of course.” For just a moment, he looked eleven again.

Patrick grinned back at his son, holding his mug up in a toast. “Me, too, son. Me too.”

*** ***

The walk back to the car passed in companionable silence. The riverfront was quiet now, all the dock workers gone home, and they stopped along the embankment to enjoy the relative quiet.

Breathing deeply, Patrick turned away from his son. “You didn’t come by in the middle of the week just to talk about old times, Tim. You’ve been distracted for weeks now. What’s on your mind, son?”

Timothy rolled his eyes. Dad’s tricks were never subtle. He shifted nervously, his knee against the railing. “I’m not sure…I just needed some advice, that’s all. You and mum are so right for each other, but it amazes me you ended up together at all. There were so many obstacles. For Pete’s sake, she was a nun, Dad!”

Patrick crossed his arms and leant back, looking up at the early stars. “It was just meant to be, I suppose. We had a chance, and we took it.” He pushed off the railing and turned to the river. “I thank God every day we did.”

“And you weren’t scared? Putting it all on the line like that?” Timothy’s face was tight.

“Terrified. That drive in the mist was the longest trip I’ve ever taken. What if I’d misunderstood?” He glanced over at his son. “I had to do it, Tim. I couldn’t not do it.

Is it a girl, Tim? Someone you care about?” Patrick held his breath.

Long moments went by before Timothy nodded. “Yes. She’s a nurse, Children’s Ward. We’ve worked several cases together, but I…”

“You don’t know how she feels.”

Timothy sighed heavily, nodding his head. “I’ve never really liked anyone like this, Dad. All the girls I’ve dated have been friends, really. Nothing really special.” He paused for a moment. “This one’s different. I don’t know how. I don’t know what even makes her different. I just know she is.”

Patrick looked across the river thoughtfully. “Here’s what I know, Tim. Don’t look for the girl you want to be with; look for the one you can’t bear to be without. That’s the one. That’s the girl for you.”

Tim let out a rueful laugh. “I’m probably just wasting my time. She probably doesn’t think about me that way at all.”

It was time to lighten the mood. Patrick reached out and tousled his son’s hair. “I’m not so sure about that, son. You’re a pretty good catch, I’d say. Your mum says so all the time.”

“Dad!” Timothy groused, embarrassed.

Patrick laughed. His head tilted to the side as he advised, “You’ll never know unless you try. It’s like Mr. Swanson said. There’s no shame in telling someone you care. Wise words, son.”

Four days later, Patrick sat at the kitchen table, crossword in hand, his forehead was furrowed in concentration. One more clue and he’d beat Shelagh to the finish.

“Patrick,” she said as she returned from the hallway. “That was Timothy on the telephone. He called to say he was bringing someone to dinner tonight, and that he was sorry for the short notice.” She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. “He told me to blame you.”

Her husband’s eyes grew wide and his eyebrows climbed to his hairline. Then he started to laugh. Standing, he reached for his wife. “Sweetheart, you should sit down. I’ve got something to tell you…”

The Tale of the Guard’s Armour, or Patrick Tells a Story

Posted on February 2, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

By the look of things, an outside viewer would never have guessed that it was nearly bedtime at the Turner home. Every lamp was lit and music blared from the phonograph player. The supper dishes sat piled in the sink, greasy newspapers from the chip shop covered the table, and a basket of laundry sat in the hallway. Perhaps most extraordinary of all was the winding row of dominos that snaked through the entire sitting room.

While this same observer might not recognize the evening routine, they could be certain of one thing: Mrs. Turner was not at home.

“Please, Daddy, please let me put the last one down,” cajoled the junior member of the construction crew. “I’ve been so patient. Please?”

Patrick Turner lay on the floor, his legs at awkward angles so as to not disturb the tiled masterpiece. His chin was pressed to the floor, and one eye was squinted shut. “I’ll tell you what, sweetheart. Let me set the last one, and when we’ve both moved you can start the show. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Patrick finished placing the tile and gingerly rose to his feet with a groan. “I might pay for that tomorrow,” he muttered. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the serpentine that had taken over the room. With a satisfied smile, he clapped his hands together enthusiastically and announced, “Ready, Angela?”

“Ready, Dad!”Angela deftly tiptoed over to her father. She held out her hand.

“Good luck, Dad,” she smiled.

“Good luck, Angela,” and they dramatically shook hands.

“Drum roll, please, Dad.”

And with the roll of an imaginary snare drum, she sent the first tile down.

All sounds in the house muted but for the click of tiles hitting each other as the line collapsed in slow-motion. The two engineers held their breath, silent prayers going up that the line would collapse uninterrupted.

A mere ten seconds later, every tile was down, and Angela and her father could breathe once more.

“We did it!” the excited six year old cried. “It worked! Just like when Timmy did it! Every tile!”

Patrick grinned, shaking his head. “Every tile! Angela Turner, you may be a domino genius! Wait until we tell Mummy!”

“Oh, poor Mummy. She didn’t get to see. Should we set them up for when she gets home from her class tonight?”

Patrick squinted his eyes as he shook his head with certainty. “No, not tonight, sweetie. In fact, we’d better get these cleaned up right now. It’s nearly bedtime.” Patrick knelt to begin the clean-up. Angela watched, her mouth screwed up in disinterest. “Come on, you,” her father ordered. “You promised, and I’ve got a lot to do before Mummy gets home and sees this disaster. So if you want to read a story tonight…”

Angela sighed heavily, but she knew he was right. If Mummy were to come home to this mess, she might start bringing her to class to be used as a model. “Alright. But its always more fun to make the mess than clean up.”

Half an hour later, the dominos were put away, chip wrappers cleaned up and dishes were washed.

“Not quite up to Mummy’s standards, but it’ll do,” Patrick said. “Now go get ready for bed while I finish up. And pick out a short story tonight. It’s late.”

“Daddy,” Angela pleaded. Her eyes were round as she looked up at her beloved playmate.

Out of necessity Patrick had built up some defenses against his daughter’s wiles. “Don’t even try the big eyes and pout with me, Miss. Short story or no story. Now, get!”

When Patrick came to the doorway of her room, Angela was still in front of her bookshelf, an intent expression that called to mind his wife.“I can’t decide. We’ve read all the storybooks.”

Pushing off from the doorjamb, Patrick asked, “How about we read another chapter from “The Wind in the Willows?” He picked up the tattered copy. Tim had loved that one as a young boy.

“No, not in the mood.” She twisted her hips, making her pink nightie swing.

“So what are you in the mood for, then?”

Angela’s eyes lit up. “You tell me a story, Daddy. Tell me the misty road story.” She climbed up on her bed and slipped under the yellow butterfly quilt.

Patrick’s brows drew together in confusion. “The misty road story? How do you know that story?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Mummy tells me that story all the time. It’s my favorite.” This time, her big eyes did their magic. “Please, Daddy, tell me the misty road story. You remember it, I know you do.”

Patrick rubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath. “Yes, I remember it.” His face softened as the images of that long ago day came to mind.

“See, Daddy, you know it. Just tell me the parts you remember. I’ll fill in everything you forget.”

A laugh burst from his chest. “Oh, you will, will you? Alright, then, scoot over. Make room.”

He sat his length along the bed and Angela snuggled her way under his arm, her head resting against his chest. “I’m ready.”

“Well, then, where does Mummy begin?”

“Mummy begins with Mummy’s story. About how she got sick and decided to change her life so she could be happy. You know, Daddy. I’m sure she’s told you. But you should tell me your story”

Patrick kissed her hair. “Yes, she’s told me. So I just tell you my story?”

“Yes. And don’t forget the part where Timmy was hanging out the car window.” Angela was not going to let any detail slip.

“Noted.” He paused, thinking of where to start. “Alright. Tim and I were in the car, driving to bring Mummy home from the-”

Angela sat up and looked her father in the eye. “Daddy, you have to start at the beginning. That’s nearly the end.”

Patrick’s eyebrows came down in confusion. “I’m not sure how to do this, sweetheart.”

“Daddy, it’s easy. Just think for minute. I can wait.”

Patrick considered. He’d never really told this story to another person. In the beginning, when he had to share the change in his life to family and friends, he kept to the basic facts. The details of the story were too precious to broadcast to the world. But this wasn’t the world he would share his tale with, this was his daughter, who apparently already knew more than he thought.

He glanced around the room, hoping to either find inspiration, or to delay long enough for Angela to fall asleep. Truth to tell, he was a little uncomfortable sharing these emotions aloud. His eyes fell upon the stack of Angela’s favorite fairy tales, and he smiled as an idea started to form in his head. He wondered if Angela would let him get away with this.

“Once upon a time-” he began.

“In a kingdom called Poplar,” Angela chimed in.

“Angel Girl, who is supposed to be telling this story?”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Angela replied, stifling a yawn.

“Well then,” Patrick continued,

Once upon a time, in a land called Poplar, there lived a man and his son. The man was a special guard for the kingdom. It was his job to protect the people from enchantments.

“Oh, evil enchantments!”

“No, not evil enchantments,” Patrick contradicted. “Just…sad.”

He would cross the kingdom each day, giving out potions that would help to bring gladness to the land.

This was a very difficult job, but the King’s Guard was fortunate that there were others to help. In a hidden corner of the kingdom, there lived a family of Fairies. These Fairies were kind and good and beautiful, and they would fly from home to home offering peace and compassion to all those who needed it.

“Did they have wings?” Angela asked.

“Yes. Pretty wings, like a butterfly. They wore blue dresses and had wings of pink and gold.”

“I think I know who the fairies are. Daddy.”

“Well, don’t spoil it for me. May I continue, Miss?

The Guard was very grateful for their help, because each day, the sadness seemed to spread through the kingdom. Each day he saw sickness and pain and wondered if the enchantments would one day take over the entire land. Each day the Guard grew sadder and sadder.

Little did the Guard know, but a sad enchantment was taking hold of him. First, he lost the ability to laugh, and soon he could not smile. The kingdom became darker and greyer. One day, the Guard noticed something strange. Instead of his ordinary robes, he was wearing a suit of armour.

He tried to remove the armour, it would not release. The enchantment was complete.

For a long time, the Guard continued his duties, and felt grateful for the armour. No longer did the sadness of the land touch him. He was safe from the gloom.

But the Guard had a son, a young boy who loved to laugh and play. The boy watched his father lock himself away in his suit of armour, and the boy grew sad, too.

The Fairies saw this, and they worried. The Guard would disappear behind the armour one day they feared, and the gloom would rule the land. The fairies conferred about their fears, but could not solve the problem.

There was one fairy that watched most closely. The smallest of the Fairies, she was gentle and lovely and kindest of them all. She watched the Guard and set out to help.

The littlest Fairy began to follow the Guard on his visits. Together, they worked to ease the suffering they saw. Over time, they grew to be friends.

The Guard began to notice how very heavy his armour was. It grew more and more difficult to lift his arms to hold his son, or to help an old woman or do a kindness. Worst of all, the Guard realized that while the armour could keep the sadness from the world out, it was no protection from the pain in his own heart.

The Guard had grown to love the Littlest Fairy, and knew the armour would keep her away from him. Time passed, and the Guard continued to help the kingdom, and was grateful just to be near the Littlest Fairy. Then one day, when he was busy helping another, an enchantment took the littlest Fairy away.

“Oh, Daddy, this is sad.”

“Yes, it is sad. But let’s wait for the ending to see.”

The Guard was beside himself with worry. As he travelled about the kingdom, he called for her, but had no response. If the littlest Fairy wanted him to save her, she would answer. His armour grew heavier He went home to find his son waiting for him.

“Father,” the boy called. “I’ve heard the littlest Fairy calling. I know where she is.”

“My boy, the Fairy does not want us to find her. I have frightened her with my suit of armour.”

But the boy was determined. “Father, you must listen again.”

The Guard closed his eyes and listened with all his heart. He stopped listening to the creaks and groans of the armour, to the sounds of others seeking his aid. He listened only for the littlest Fairy.

Slowly, he could hear the littlest Fairy calling his name, and his armour was pierced.

The Guard and his boy climbed upon the horse and rode for days to the farthest reaches of the kingdom, through the misty fields and forests, as her voice grew stronger. The boy stood behind his father, urging him on, shouting for her, when suddenly, the mist cleared, and standing before them was the littlest Fairy.

The Guard jumped down from his horse and stumbled towards her. With each step he grew more sure, as pieces of his armour fell to the ground, until finally, the Guard stood before the littlest fairy.

The littlest fairy nodded. “There. We’ve made a start.”

The end.

“I knew Mummy was the little Fairy, Daddy, “ Angela assured him as she tried to stifle a yawn.

“Yes, you’re very smart, Angel Girl.” He shifted from the bed and reached over her to tuck her in. “Did you like my story? Enough mist for you?” He bent to press a kiss to her forehead as he pulled the covers up tight.

“Yes.” the little girl rolled to her side, settling in with her cuddly. Sighing, she said as she drifted off, “I think Mummy liked it, too.”

Surprised, Patrick looked up and saw his wife in the doorway. “Shelagh. How long have you been there?”

Shelagh smiled and wrapped her arms around his waist. “From the very start, dearest.”

Writing Her Own Rules

Posted on January 22, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Chapter One

With a click, the front door closed, shutting out the noise and commotion that started each day at the Turner household. No matter how hard she tried, Shelagh was unable to avert the frenetic bedlam that seemed to set Patrick and Timothy on their day. A forgotten lunch or a misplaced stethoscope, every morning there was something else to create chaos. Taking a deep breath, Shelagh pushed off from the door and returned to the kitchen, intent on a fresh cup of tea.

“Well, that’s sorted, Angel Girl,” she told her daughter. “Getting those two out of the house every morning is like moving Montgomery’s army!”

Angela giggled back and raised her arms up in the air, eager to be released from her high chair and taken into her mother’s arms. Shelagh smiled and happily complied.

It was their little ritual. No matter how cranky or tired or silly or happy Angela was, the moment she was in her mother’s arms, her body relaxed, her head nuzzling into the crook of Shelagh’s neck. The two would stay that way, unaware of the world around them, content to be together. Shelagh smoothed her hand over her baby’s velvety head and bent to place a kiss on her forehead. “Sweet girl.” Her eyes closed as she breathed in the sweet smell of baby and formula and clean cotton.

The moment never lasted forever, however, and turning on a dime, Angela’s head was up and she was reaching for the floor.

“Oh, no, wee beastie,” Shelagh laughed. “Once I put you down there’ll be no stopping you.” She grasped the little hand and danced the laughing baby out of the kitchen. “We have errands to get done today if we’re to have tea with Sister Julienne later! It’s off to the cleaners and the Post Office and the butcher’s all before your nap time, so we’d best get started!”

Shelagh took a last glance at the kitchen. “Oh, well. I’ll have to do the washing later while you nap. So much for that fresh cup of tea for me!”

A few hours later, the Turner women had made short work of the to-do list and were heading home for elevenses and a nap. Shelagh pushed the pram, deftly navigating the cobbles as Angela waved to every passerby.

“Quite the little princess, aren’t you, dearest?” Shelagh teased. “It’s no wonder, really, the way your father carries you about. That man will spoil you, Angela!” The scold had little power, though, as Shelagh stopped for a moment to retrieve a toy from her purse. Watching her daughter for a moment, Shelagh was interrupted by a shy voice.

“Mrs. Turner?”

Shelagh looked up and saw a woman, large with child, looking at her with recognition in her eyes. A sudden memory of a birth, fraught with worry for a large baby, came to her and she responded, “Louisa March! Oh, it’s been a long time! How are you, my dear?” Oddly, Shelagh’s voice changed a bit, somehow becoming a bit more assertive.

“I’m well, thank you, Sis-” she stopped suddenly, embarrassed by her mistake. “Sorry, Mrs. Turner. No offense.”

Shelagh smiled warmly. There had been a time when such an error would fluster her, a time when she was still so uncertain about her new self that any reminder of her previous life would upset her. More than a year and a half had passed since her decision to leave the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus and marry Patrick, time spent learning her new path. She had no blueprint to follow and had, with Patrick’s help, created her own plan. Now she was confident in her choices, a happy wife and mother. Sister Bernadette was part of her identity, a part she did not want to forget.

“None taken, dear. It took me a bit of getting used to, as well.” A movement behind the other woman caught her eye. “And who is this? Could this be baby, oh, what was it? Edward?”

The little boy stepped forward. “I’m not a baby. That’s the baby!” He pointed to his mother’s belly.

The women laughed. “Sorry about that, young sir,” Shelagh returned. “You’re absolutely right. You are most definitely not a baby.”

Drawing courage from her friendly voice, the boy stepped out from behind his mother. “Eddie,” Louisa March told him, “this lady helped me to get you out of me tummy. Like I was tellin’ ya with the new baby. Sis-Mrs. Turner was a wonderful midwife. She knew just what to do when you got stuck and needed some coaxing out.”

The boy considered this for a moment, then asked, “Will you help Mummy with the new baby, too?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. But I’m sure whomever helps your mother will take excellent care of her.”

“But why not? If you did me, you should do the new baby, too.”

“Eddie,” his mother scolded.

“No, that’s alright,” Shelagh assured her. “I can’t come and help your mother because I have my own baby to take care of now.”

The boy stopped to consider this. “So you can’t have your own baby and take care of ladies like me mum, then?”

Shelagh paused. How had this small boy found just the right question to ask? She took a small breath and demurred, “Well, we can’t do everything, can we?” She moved back to the pram’s handle. “Well, good luck, Louisa. I’m sure it will all go splendidly. And congratulations to you, too, Eddie. I’m quite sure you’ll be an excellent big brother.”

She pushed the pram to start home and met some resistance. The front wheel had caught in a rut, and she sighed, exasperated. After struggling over the street for nearly a block, Shelagh muttered, “Cobbles. Clearly the architect that designed these streets was a man. Of course he was. How on earth could a woman possibly be an architect?” Her voice had a sharp edge to it. “Don’t mind me, Angela. I’m just-oh, never mind.”

Wisely, Angela stuck her thumb in her mouth and settled to enjoy the bouncy ride.

Next Chapter

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter Two

Posted on January 22, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

Two hours later, Angela was fed, bathed (there had been some disagreement over the necessity of pureed spinach for lunch) and asleep in her cot. Shelagh returned to the kitchen and faced the damage caused by feeding her family two meals. Resignedly, she pulled her apron back over her head and set to work to restore it to its preferred state.

“I used to love the kitchen, really I did,” Shelagh brooded. “Everything had its place, and I could try new recipes, I could bake to my heart’s content. Now if-Oh, really, Shelagh, you’re being ridiculous. Go put the radio on and get to work.”

The smell of the soap bubbles and the hot water in the sink helped to relax her somewhat, and Shelagh started to laugh. “Oh, what have I come to when dish soap and hot water can make me feel better?”

She shook her head and put herself to work. A clean kitchen and a cup of tea and everything would be better. There was her appointment with Sister Julienne to look forward to later at Nonnatus House, and tonight she and Patrick would watch a new episode of Television Playhouse on the telly. A nice quiet day.

The phone rang out shrilly through the flat.

“Oh!” Shelagh muttered. That infernal thing was sure to wake Angela, and a nap cut short never made for an easy afternoon.

“Hello, Turner residence,” she said sharply into the phone.

“Shelagh, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t call during nap time, but I’ve been called out and won’t be able to call later. It’s Mr. Lightman, and it looks like the cancer’s going to take him tonight. I’ll have to stay with him; I most likely won’t be home until late.”

Shelagh held in her disappointment. Patrick’s had been called out three nights in a row this week. She had been looking forward to some time alone with her husband. But, she knew it couldn’t be helped. If Patrick had been less devoted to his calling, she probably never would have fallen in love with him in the first place. The least she could do was to make things easier for him. “Of course, Patrick. Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

“Yes. I know it’s a bother, but could you ask Sister Winifred to bring the morphine supplies from my surgery? I’m sure I don’t have enough in my bag.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her through the phone line. “Alright, Patrick. I’ll call ‘round Nonnatus now.”

“Thanks, Shelagh. Oh, and Shelagh, I’ve left my overcoat at the clinic. Could you pick that up for me and bring it to the cleaners? I spilled a cup of coffee down the front this morning.”

“Yes, Patrick.” Never mind that she had already gone to the cleaners today. Patrick had a lot on his mind, she reminded herself.

“Sweetheart, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ve got to go. See you tonight.” And with that, he signed off.

Sighing, Shelagh allowed herself to feel a moment of frustration. The cleaners shop was blocks away from both Nonnatus House and the surgery. She’d have to rush out soon in order to make her meeting with Sister Julienne in time.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re up, anyway,” she informed her daughter, crying down the hall in her cot.

Sister Winifred was already waiting for Shelagh outside the surgery when Shelagh pushed the pram up to the stairs.

“Hello, Mrs. Turner,” the young nun waved cheerfully. Her wide smile turned to a surprised frown when she saw Angela’s tear-stained cheeks. “Oh, and what on earth could be making you look so blue, little one?”

“I’m afraid we’re a bit out of sorts this afternoon, Sister.” Shelagh lifted the unhappy baby from the pram to carry her inside. “We haven’t had much of a nap, and I think there may be a new tooth coming through.”

“A new tooth!” Sister Winifred cooed happily. “How lovely!”

“Yes, quite.” Shelagh pressed her lips together. The nun’s enthusiasm was not something she was prepared to humor this afternoon. She watched as Sister Winifred tried to distract Angela from her discomfort and felt a pang of guilt. Was there no one safe from her own bad mood today?

“Sister, would you mind taking Angela for a moment? I can fetch the supplies for you more quickly if you just follow me in.”

“Of course. Here we go, Miss Angela. Do you know, I knew a kitten named Angela once,” she prattled on as Angela reached for her mother. The nun pranced along behind Shelagh, trying to help change the mood. “Oh, Angela was the sweetest puss I ever knew. That is until I met you, of course.”

Shelagh went to the top left drawer in Patrick’s desk and took out a biscuit from his secret stash. Shaking her head, she “You’re lucky this isn’t empty, Patrick Turner.” She turned and offered the biscuit to her daughter.

A moment later, the room was quiet as Angela gnawed wetly on her treat.

“Well, that’s done it!” cheered Sister Winifred. “I suppose you know all sorts of tricks to keep her happy, Mrs. Turner.”

Shelagh sighed. “You do what you must to survive,” she joked. She turned and went to the supply locker.

Nervous that Angela would start up again if she lost sight of her mother, Sister Winifred followed.

“You’re so very efficient, Mrs. Turner. The nurses all go on about how you were the backbone of the midwifery practice. Just yesterday, Trixie was telling us of a thrilling birth she attended with you where you used Eve’s Rocking to save the baby.” She turned her face back to Angela’s. “You know exactly how to take care of everyone. It’s no wonder you have such a happy family.”

Shelagh stopped for a moment. “Why, thank you Sister. Though I’m not so certain I am that efficient. I’m two days behind on the washing, and the kitchen floor hasn’t been the same since my little Angel decided she wanted jam for lunch last week.”

“Oh, well, those things will sort themselves out, won’t they? The important thing is how much you’re able to do for your family.” If Sister Winifred had seen Shelagh’s face at that moment, she might not have been so certain.

Reaching for the morphine, Shelagh stopped for a moment, her forehead creasing over her nose. Pressing her lips together, she thought of all the things she had done for her family just today. She always seemed to be doing something for someone. She turned back, a box of the needed medication in her hand.

“Dr. Turner didn’t say how much he thought he’d need, but given the circumstances, I think it would be best if you took at least a half dozen ampules. That, combined with what he already has, should be enough.” She passed a clipboard to Sister Winifred. “If you’ll sign here, please, for the records.”

Suddenly reminded of her official role, Sister Winifred’s eyes widened. “Of course. If you…if you would,” she stumbled a bit for words.

Shelagh reached out and took Angela, complete with hands a bit gooey with wet biscuit, back in her arms.

(A/N: Regarding the morphine: Have I sent too much, or not enough? Oh well, good thing it’s fiction!)

Next Chapter

An Unexpected Benefit

Posted on January 21, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Quiet came over the flat suddenly, as it did each night. Baths and homework, all the final preparations for the coming day created a such a flurry each night that Shelagh thought would the family would never settle. Then she would turn around and Timothy would be in bed reading, Angela asleep in her cot, and Patrick would be settled in his chair reading.

Once the quiet came, Shelagh slid into her own routine. Lunches were made, laundry sorted for the next day, and baby bottles were sterilized. By nearly nine, she was finally finished.

Patrick came into the kitchen. “You’re always so busy in here in the evenings now. Come sit with me.” He held out a hand to her.

“I will, Patrick, just one more thing. Let me get a bottle ready for Angela’s two a.m. feeding, and then I’ll join you.”

Patrick leant against the door jamb and watched her as she reached up to the cupboard for the formula.

“You don’t have to watch me, Patrick,” Shelagh told him.

His eyes laughed as his eyebrows twitched. “Maybe I like watching you,” he teased.

She glanced back, rolling her eyes. She reached from the collection of perfectly sterilized and stacked bottles. She always hated this part. It was rather like finishing the washing and having to use something right away. Measuring the powder, she grew a bit self-conscious.

“Patrick, stop. You’re making me nervous.”

Pushing off against the door frame, he moved beside her.

“I know what you’re thinking, Shelagh. Don’t.”

Shelagh shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Patrick reached around and took the formula can from her hands. “This can wait.” He slid his hands up her arms and looked down into her eyes. “What you feed Angela doesn’t make a difference. Shelagh, you could feed that child Horlicks and she’d thrive. In fact, I think Sister Monica Joan would prefer it.”

Shelagh wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I know, Patrick, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m letting her down. I want to give her everything.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you can’t give her everything. No parent can. I can’t give Timothy everything he needs, even though he’s my biological son. But we can give our little girl all we have.” He pulled her close. “And you give her so much, sweetheart. Angela is the sweet, lovely baby she is because of you. Not breast milk, not genetics, Shelagh. You.”

Finally, she was able to meet his eyes. “I suppose you’re right, Patrick.” She stepped closer into his arms. “You always make me feel better.”
“Do I?” he asked, his voice deepening. He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes teasing. “Then I suppose you’d better make it up to me.”

The unfinished bottle forgotten, Patrick led his wife to their bedroom.

Some time later, deep in the dark, quiet night, Angela’s cries came through the flat. Shelagh groaned and lifted her head from Patrick’s chest. “Patrick?” she whispered.

“Hmmm?” came the muffled reply.

“Do you know what the best part about bottle feeding is?”

Patrick groaned. He had been out-manuevered.

Shelagh turned to her side, wrapping the blankets tightly around herself. “You get to to take the midnight feedings sometimes, dearest!”

Back On Their Feet

Posted on January 15, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Inspired by this pic, posted by dome-of-silence on her Tumblr blog.

Source: Dome-of-silence.tumblr.com

It was a clumsy embrace, the family clinging together in their moment of pure joy. Each had such high hopes for this moment, such fears that it might not come to be. Hours of exercises, hard work, and prayer had all centered on the moment Timothy could someday step forward on his own, the despised calipers left behind.

Of course Dad was late. Timothy knew not to expect his father to be on time; rounds could not be cancelled that day. Still, the empty seat left beside Mum spoke of her wish that his father would be there.

Timothy was glad Dad didn’t arrive on time. His father would insist on taking off the calipers himself, and Timothy worried that the sight of his father at his feet at just that moment would be too upsetting. He wasn’t a little boy any more. He would have to gather all his courage to do this. Dad didn’t have to see his attempts. Timothy wanted his father to see his success.

Mum would do it efficiently, her years of training as a nurse helping to keep the moment light. She would remove the polished leather and metal matter-of-factly, a supportive smile on her face. They understood one another, needed each other. Timothy knew how much she loved him, and felt lucky that she loved him by choice.

He stood on his weakened legs, supporting himself with his two canes. Step by step he struggled towards the carpet, his determination growing.

“You’re all right, dearest,” he heard his mother whisper, her voice completely certain. With a deep breath, he pushed off. He could feel the carpet tug against his shoe for a moment, and felt irritation rise in his throat. If he were to stumble because of some stupid green carpet…

But he didn’t stumble. He moved the cane forward and continued. With each step he could feel his confidence grow, his legs grow stronger. He looked up, smiling widely, and saw his father enter the hall. Yes, he thought. I can do it.

He dropped a cane and felt his back strengthen. Blood pumped in his ears as he took another step, never noticing the second cane fall away. It felt as if he was running, his heart pounding with pride as he made to meet his father.

Then somehow they were in a huddle, the three of them, stunned, and happy, and together.

“I did it, Dad,” he exclaimed.

“Well done, son,” came his choked reply.

Timothy heard the relief in his father’s voice and his mother’s laugh. His arms clutched at them, overwhelmed for just a moment, and together, Patrick and Shelagh helped their son get back to his feet. Patrick kept his arm around to offer support, but Timothy smiled up at him confidently.

“I can do this, Dad. I can finish.”

Patrick nodded his head quickly, and reached his hand out to his wife. Shelagh moved closer to take it, and the two followed their son back down the carpet.

“Well done, young man,” the cheerful nurse applauded. “That was quick work!”

Timothy grinned. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the way we do things in this family. Once we Turners put our minds to something, it’s done.”

The room broke out in laughter, and Patrick ran his head over his son’s hair. Timothy welcomed the affectionate gesture and grinned wider. He could see tears glistening in Dad’s eyes, his face beaming.

“Well done, son,” Patrick repeated. He ran his hand through his hair, and started to laugh. He turned to his wife, and shook his head. “Shelagh,” he breathed, dazed. Suddenly he reached out, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her.

Now, if poor Timothy Turner had not had such an astonishing day, he might have been embarrassed. He certainly would have complained loudly. And without a doubt he would have berated his father for such an awkward public display of affection.

As it was, when Patrick Turner finally released his startled wife from his kiss, all his son could say was,

“Well done, Dad.”

	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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