Tag Archives: Patrick Turner

The Heart Wants What the Heart wants

Posted on by

2

My inspiration is from the trailer and some press-kit talk about a subject Call the Midwife will deal with this season. I’ve used a snippet of Peter Noakes dealing with a case concerning homosexuality, and built on that. In this story, Patrick was somehow involved in the reporting of the case.

***   ***

The scratch of the phonograph player drew Shelagh’s attention away from her novel and she glanced over at her husband. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the music had ended. With a curious look, she closed her book and got up to turn the player off, then moved and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Alerted by her gentle touch, he looked up at her.

“Everything all right, Patrick? You look very serious.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I was just thinking.” He took her hand in his and placed a kiss on her fingers.

Smiling in response, Shelagh teased, “Well, then. That’s where the trouble begins!” With a caress of his cheek she sat down next to him on the sofa.

“Doesn’t it just?” Patrick lifted his arm to draw her in closer. They sat together in companionable silence, their fingers playing together.

Shelagh knew enough to be patient. There was clearly something Patrick needed to ponder through, and pushing too hard would lead to nothing. She knew he was thinking, and he knew she knew. Soon enough he would open up.

“Shall I make some tea?” she asked.

With another deep breath, he answered. “No, thanks. No tea. Just sit with me.” His thumb began to rub at his forefinger, a sure sign that Patrick was ready to speak.

“That case today? With Sergeant Noakes?” He paused, and Shelagh turned her eyes towards him. He released a breath and continued. “We didn’t make mention of the man’s …homosexuality… in the documents we had to file regarding the accident. We didn’t exactly falsify the record, we just…kept that part out.”

“Oh,” came her reply. “Will that be a problem? I mean, if it comes out in court that you hid-”

“Likely not. We were able to find a way to present the information without making reference to it.” He turned to face her. “If we hadn’t, he would have gone to prison, most certainly. Are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed? Why on earth would I be disappointed?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “The Church hasn’t had a particularly…understanding point of view on the subject.”

Shelagh sat up straight. “Patrick Turner, the Church is run by humans, and humans haven’t always been as compassionate towards one another as we should. I should hope that the Church will realize this one day and make amends.”

Patrick stared at his wife for a long moment, then laughed quietly. “The women of Nonnatus always surprise me. Such deep faith, yet so understanding,” he admitted.

“Good,” Shelagh retorted. She turned to nestle in again. “I like to keep you on your toes. Besides, Patrick, I should know better than anyone that you can’t help where you love. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Yes, love,” he responded, and proceeded to show her exactly what his heart wanted.

Timothy’s Kaleidoscope

Posted on by

6

The front door slammed as Timothy rushed in after school.

“Sorry, Mum. The wind took the door,” he whispered from the hallway. He tiptoed through the hall and peered around the sitting room door to see his new baby sister cuddled in his father’s arms. “Did I wake her?”

“No, good thing for you. She’s been awake and talking for my whole visit,” Patrick spoke in a sing-song voice.

“Why are you home now, anyway?” Timothy asked. “Don’t you have calls today? It’s Monday.” Timothy began to rummage through the pantry, in search of food. “Where’s Mum?” he asked through a mouthful of biscuits.

“Here I am,” Shelagh answered, coming down the hall with yet another basket of laundry. “I thought I’d take advantage of your dad’s drop-in to get ahead of this.” She held out the basket filled with the smocked cotton dresses that dominated Angela’s wardrobe.

“You should be resting, sweetheart,” Patrick admonished. “You’re not getting enough sleep.That last thing we need is for you to get ill.”

“Oh, pish. I can get by on just a little sleep as you, Patrick Turner. Less, probably. Timmy, what would you like for a snack? Dinner will be a bit later than usual, I’m afraid. Angela’s bottles are sterilizing, so I’ll have to wait to use the stove.”

“I’m fine. Just stopping, I’m on my way out, anyway. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Oh,” Shelagh answered, “I suppose that’s fine.”

“Hold on, young man, what about your schoolwork?” Patrick looked up from the game of peek-a-boo.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I stayed in during recess to do some. And Mr. Feeney let me work on my theme while the rest of the class was still finishing maths. He said since I probably wasn’t getting any sleep at night, he should give me a hand and let me get work done at school.” He bounced Angela’s foot in his hand. “He never lets pupils do that, so that’s something Angela’s good for,” he finished, a smirk gracing his face.

“I’m sure your sister’s thrilled to hear that she gets you out of work, son. Don’t be late.” Angela’s coo redirected his attention back to her and Patrick resumed their game.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Shelagh put the laundry down.

“Patrick,” she asked, in the way she had that made a statement a question, “Timothy’s gone out after school every day this week. And he goes right up to his room after dinner.”

Patrick looked up. Shelagh was gripping her hands, and the crease on her forehead was starting to show, but he had no idea what could be bothering her. “And?” he asked.

“He doesn’t seem to want to spend any time with us. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” The crease was getting deeper.

Patrick stood and placed the baby in her moses basket. “Shelagh, he’s about to turn twelve. It would be strange if he did want to spend time with his parents.” Even so, he pulled her into his arms.

Shelagh nestled her head under his chin. “I know, it’s just that…well, he used to sit with me after school, and tell me about his day, or what ridiculous thing happened on the way home. Every day. Until…”

Patrick tilted his head to better see her face. “Until?”

Shelagh sighed. “Well, until Angela came home. Do you think, perhaps…could he be jealous?” She looked up into her husband’s eyes. “Before, I was able to give him all of my attention, and now, I never seem to have any time for him. Even dinner will have to be late tonight because of Angela’s needs.” She hid her face in his chest. “Do you think he feels as if I don’t love him anymore?”

Patrick laughed softly. “Shelagh, love, that is most definitely not how he feels. Timothy knows how much you love him. And he is thrilled about Angela, too.”

“I know you think I worry too much, Patrick, but it doesn’t feel right to me. Something’s different.”

His arms tightened around her and he rubbed his chin against her hair. “All right, my love. I’ll keep an eye out, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s more likely that we have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

Shelagh looked up, alarmed.

Patrick kissed her “worry crease.” “I’m afraid Timothy is starting to show signs of…adolescence!”

 

The next morning was a particular rush. Both Patrick and Timothy needed to leave early, and Angela’s nocturnal fussing put them all on edge. Timothy rushed about, packing his school bag.

“Mum, where’s my gym kit? You promised to wash it. The hockey tournament begins today. I have to have it!”

Shelagh grimaced. “I’m sure I washed it, Timothy. Did you look in the pile of laundry I left for you to put away yesterday?”

“Yes. It is definitely not there. Mr. Pigeon said no one can play without it.”

Patrick came around the corner, the half-finished basket of Angela’s dresses and soiled clothes in his arms. “It’s in here, Tim. You can just wear it today, and Mum will wash it this weekend. Problem solved.” The days of being a single father had given Patrick a laissez-faire attitude towards the wearability of soiled clothes.

Timothy growled and took the offending gym kit from his father, stuffing them into his bag.

“I’m sorry, Timothy, dear. I must have forgotten all about it. I promise to clean them first thing when you get home today.” Shelagh gave him a weak smile.

Timothy shook his head. “I’m not coming home after school, didn’t I tell you? I have to go to… the library. There’s a new project coming up. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Oh, alright, then. And I’m sorry about your clothes.”

“S’alright. Gotta run.” Timothy made for the door.

“Timothy,” his father called him back. “Say goodbye to your mother.”

“Bye!” his son shouted back and let the front door slam behind him.

Quiet descended over the little kitchen. “I really must take a look at that door,” Patrick joked, trying to lighten the mood. “That boy will knock it off its hinges one of these days.”

Shelagh turned away to the sink.

“Shelagh, you’re thinking too hard about this. He’s just being a boy. There’s no need to worry.”

She shook her head, but her answer was cut off by the baby’s cries.

 

By the end of the week, even Patrick was starting to think there was something amiss. He and Shelagh agreed that for dinner that night, he would take Timothy to Capriani’s Cafe for a Friday night fry-up, just the boys. It was time for a talk.

As he had all week, Tim ran out right after school, and with the dinner hour fast approaching, still had not returned home. Patrick and Shelagh grew anxious. Patrick sat with the baby, her bottle almost finished, and said, “He’s just lost track of time. It’s all right, Shelagh.” His words showed little of his growing anger, however. Shelagh was miserable, and Tim would have a much sterner talking-to than Patrick had originally planned.

The front door slammed again, followed by the sound of Timothy’s feet bounding to his room. Patrick stood angrily and handed the baby off to Shelagh. “That’s it. We’ll have it out here and now.”

“Patrick, don’t be angry with him. It’s my fault. I haven’t been able to pay enough attention to him. If we just explain to him that we’d like to know more about his whereabouts…”

“No, Shelagh. This is about him being selfish. He has to learn he’s not always going to be the center of attention.” With Angela in her arms, Shelagh followed as Patrick strode towards his son’s room. A knock at the front door stopped them in their tracks. Throwing a frustrated glance up the steps, he opened it to reveal Sister Julienne.

“Sister!”

“Hello, Dr. Turner, Shelagh. Please forgive my intrusion so close to dinner.”

Shelagh stepped up, “Sister, come in, please.”

“No, thank you, Shelagh. I can only stop for a moment. I just wanted to help Timothy with his parcels.” Smiling, the nun held out a square box. “He’ll need this for his project.”

Stunned, Patrick asked, “His project?”

“Yes, well, it was to be a surprise, but we were forced to take a rather long way round. The construction work on the Chrisp Street Market has closed several of the quicker routes to Stepney from Nonnatus House, I’m afraid. Timothy had hoped to get this home before you returned from your calls, which is why he ran on ahead with the ‘bones’ of the project.”

“Sister, we had no idea Timothy was bothering you. I’m so very sorry-” Patrick apologized.

“He was no bother, I was delighted to help. You have a very lovely young man, both of you. You should be very proud. And now, I’m afraid, I must continue my journey. Mrs. Flint’s incision is causing her considerable pain, and as Mrs. B has left a cold repast this evening, I thought to get the visit in sooner rather than later. Enjoy your evening,” she farewelled and climbed back on her bicycle.

Stunned, Patrick and Shelagh watched as the nun made her way back into the streets of Poplar. They turned to each other, then looked down the hall.

“I think I may have jumped to conclusions,” Patrick admitted. He followed his wife back into the flat.

“I think perhaps we both have,” Shelagh agreed. Together they followed after their son. Surprised to see his bedroom empty, a sound from their own bedroom guided them to him and Patrick pushed the door open. Timothy stood over Angela’s cot at the foot of their bed, attaching some sort of mechanism above it.

“Tim,” his father called.

Timothy dropped his arms, and looked across the room at his parents. He let out a deep sigh of resignation. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but the stupid roadwork made me late.” He stepped over and took the box from Patrick. “You may as well open the box. It’s spoiled, now.”

Shelagh smiled. “No, Timothy. Patrick, leave the box. We’ll be in the sitting room.  Call us when you want us.” Patrick returned her smile, and grinned at his son. “After you, Mrs. Turner.” With his hand at her back, he escorted his wife and daughter out to the landing.

Closing the door behind him, he raised his hands to her face. “I think we’ll be fine.” Patrick lowered his head and kissed her gently, careful of the now sleeping baby in her arms. His fingers moved to her hair and caressed her just behind her ears. Shelagh pushed up on her tippy toes to kiss him back. Relief had made her giddy, and she was happy to show Patrick.

Sooner than they thought possible, Timothy interrupted them.

“Really? I ask for five minutes?” Tim complained, unable to hide his grin. “If you’re finished, you can come in now.”

Patrick and Shelagh stepped in to the room, their eyes drawn to the cot and they both gasped. Fluttering above was a cluster of butterflies, each one a kaleidoscope of color. Shelagh slowly made her way toward the flight of color, her eyes filled with wonder. “Oh, Timothy!” she whispered. “You made this?” She looked to her son. “It’s beautiful.” Her eyes gleamed with tears.

“Well done, son,” admired Patrick, who would later claim that the room had been dusty, and his eyes were reacting to the motes.

“I didn’t do it all by myself,” Tim told them and the story rushed out of him. “I had lots of help. It was Nurse Franklin’s idea at first. She knew how much you liked that butterfly I sent you when you were in sanatorium. Bagheera helped me make the dangly-frame thing, and Sister Julienne and I made the butterflies. See? They’re watercolor paper. We experimented with all sorts of designs. I liked this one. We dripped color on to the damp paper and let it all blend together, sort of. Then I cut out the shapes-Dad, that’s how I got that blister the other day-and today Nurse Noakes and Nurse Miller and Sister Winifred helped me tie them on. Sister Monica Joan helped by finding the fishing line we used-how does she know how to get fishing line, Mum?-and Sister Evangelina hid everything in her room. She said you’d never go in there, no matter what. She was right, wasn’t she? You had no idea?” Tim stopped to catch his breath.

His mother sighed quietly. “No, Timothy, dearest, I had absolutely no idea.”  She tapped a bright blue and purple butterfly, sending the whole flight in motion.

“You’ve been doing this all week?” Patrick asked.

Timothy nodded. “I started planning it last week, at Nurse Lee’s party, but I’ve been going to Nonnatus everyday this week. That’s why I was skipping recess, too.” He looked nervous. “Do you like it? The nurses all told me it’d be safe. Angela can’t get hurt by it. It’s really secure, Fred and I tested it out on Freddie’s cot.”

Shelagh placed the sleeping Angela into her cot, again gently tapping a butterfly. “It’s perfect,” she breathed. “Angela’s very lucky to have a brother like you. I’m afraid I have a confession to make,” Shelagh said, turning to face the young boy. “I thought you were staying away from the house because you were unhappy about the baby.”

Tim stared in amazement. “Unhappy? Angela’s brilliant! It’d be nice if she didn’t make so much noise at night, and sometimes she does smell pretty bad, but that stuff doesn’t last too long, and before you know it she’ll be a real person.”

“So you’re sure we’re paying enough attention to you? We’re not spending too much time with Angela?” Shelah wondered.

“Of course you are. She’s a baby, after all. She can’t do anything yet. Besides,” he winked, “before she came, I couldn’t get away with anything. Now, I have all sorts of plans.”

“What sort of plans?” his father asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing really-”

He was interrupted when Angela startled and let out a sharp cry, and in that moment, Timothy knew he was no longer an only child. An alliance had been forged that would be the only force capable of facing their parents.

The power had shifted.

The Fit and Proper Use of a Swivel Chair

Posted on by

6

With one last scratch of ink, Dr. Patrick Turner finished his patient’s notes for the day. He capped his pen and stacked the forms neatly on his desk, as per Shelagh’s instructions. It was the least he could do, he smiled. Since her return to the surgery, his days went like clockwork.

Out in the waiting room, he could hear her humming quietly as she finished her own work. Shelagh was happy to be back as well, he knew. The babysitter they hired to care for Angela was working out well, after a few early bumps in the road.

Patrick leant back in his chair, quite at peace with his world. His surgery filled him with pride. Bright and airy, it held none of the drudgery of his former office in the old maternity home; Shelagh had seen to that.

Even his chair suited him. The wooden swivel chair had been a bit of a luxury expense, but Shelagh had insisted. Truth be told, Patrick was thrilled not to be sitting in his old noisy, uncomfortable steel chair.

He glanced over at the doorway and could hear his wife opening and closing the file drawers. Gingerly, he slowly pivoted the chair, checking for squeaks. Hearing none, he rolled away from his desk, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

With the skill of long practice, Dr. Patrick Turner pushed off with his left foot and began to spin the chair around. Building momentum with each step, he picked up speed and was soon spinning like a Christmas top.

The euphoria prevented him from thinking straight, so he did not hear the click of Shelagh’s heels as she came down the hall to meet him.

“Patrick! What on earth-” her sweet Scottish burr was strong in her surprise.

Instantly, Patrick dropped both feet to the floor, halting the spin of the chair. The force carried him around away from her, and he sheepishly took little steps to face his surprised wife.

Shelagh stood disapprovingly, her hands on her hips, mouth pursed. Shaking her head, she remonstrated, “Patrick Turner, precisely how old do you think you are?”

“Shelagh-” he attempted.

“Don’t you ‘Shelagh’ me, Patrick. That’s an office chair, not a carnival ride. What if I had been a patient?” She huffed, “Patrick, I thought I could expect you to behave as an adult.”

For a moment, Patrick looked back sheepishly, but caught a tiny gleam in her eye. This was about to get interesting.

Slapping his hands down on the arms of the chair, he stood. “You’re right of course. I was being rather silly.” He schooled his features into a proper look of remorse.

Shelagh stepped closer to him, for once not catching his glint of mischief. Patrick turned to move the chair, placing it strategically near his wife.

“I don’t mean to sound so stern, dearest, but-”

Deftly, Patrick reached out, scooped his wife in his arms and placed her in the chair. He bent to bring his face close to hers and breathed, “You don’t look so very stern to me now.”

Effectively trapped by his arms on the chair, his body blocking any route to escape, Shelagh tried valiantly to maintain her dignity, despite the desire to break out in giggles. Really, she thought. This man!

“Very funny, Patrick. Now let me back up, please.”

Squinting his eyes, her peered at her face closely. “No dice, I’m afraid. You have to pay the fee first.”

“Patrick, I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight.” By now, she couldn’t smother her smile any longer, and a charming dimple appeared.

“Five spins. Five spins and then I’ll let you up,” Patrick teased her.

“Patrick…”

His eyebrows climbed up his own forehead. “Five spins, sweetheart. Unless you’re afraid…”

Shelagh rolled her eyes at him, pressed her lips together primly and agreed. “Ridiculous man. All right. Five spins. Do I have your promise?” She held out her hand to be shaken.

“If you want me to stop, I promise I’ll stop.”

Patrick released her hand and placed his own on the arms of the chair. “Lift your feet.”

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh complied, and soon felt herself spinning slowly.

“Now that’s not so bad, is it?” Patrick said as he began to push the chair more quickly. By the third time around, Shelagh’s head was thrown back, a joyful smile on her face. Four spins, then five, and Patrick slowed the chair until she faced him again.

For the first time ever, Patrick could see the child she had been. Her face glowed with happiness, her hair, loosened from its pins, fell in locks about her face. She looked like a five-year-old girl on Christmas morning.

His grin smoothed into a lopsided smile as his eyes glittered with love. He lifted his hand to her face, pushed a dark blond tress behind her ear.

“Do you want me to stop,” he whispered, his face very close to hers.

“Never stop, dearest,” she murmured in return, her own hands sliding up around his neck.

Moving heart-stoppingly slowly, their lips met, the exhilaration of the last moments replaced by a quick passion.

“Dad, I hope you’re ready to get home. If I don’t have something to eat soon-”

Poor Timothy, tired and hungry after a long day of school and cricket practice, turned the corner of the doorway and stopped short. Patrick stood straight up quickly as Shelagh slowly turned the chair to face their son.

“Hello, Timothy,” she said with a false calm, “Your father was just showing me-”

“I don’t want to know. I’m going out to the car. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep me waiting, thank you.”

He turned, and rolled his eyes Heavenward. “Parents!” He muttered.

Snow Globe

Posted on by

6

2017-12-17

The snow crunched loudly underfoot as the solitary man made his way home. Under the dim light of the street lamps, snowflakes swirled in the air around him, buffeted by the light breeze. The pavement was blanketed with snow, its hard cobbles disguised and tree branches swayed heavily as if wrapped with layers of cotton wool.

Dr. Patrick Turner looked up at the sky and smiled. He loved the snow. They didn’t see it often in London, but for a short time, it changed everything. The worn edges of battered buildings were softened and the last of wartime rubble was disguised. In the snowy moonlight, even Poplar became a winter wonderland.

Patrick laughed to himself and shook his head. “Better not let Tim hear me say that, or I’ll be making a battalion of snowmen!”

He wondered if a year or two ago he would have felt the same about the cold stuff.

Probably not, he admitted. Inclement weather would have been one more inconvenience to deal with; misplaced gloves and forgotten boots certainly would have made for a more uncomfortable experience.

He had Shelagh this year though, and the boots were remembered, the gloves found. He was certainly grateful for the extra clothing now. Baby Hayes had decided to take his time tonight, despite all of Sister Winifred’s efforts to coax him along. By the time they were all done and dusted, nearly three inches of the white stuff had settled on Poplar.

Having made sure of the young nun’s safe arrival home, Patrick had made his careful way back to his family. Hopefully, there would be no more calls tonight, and then two days at home to enjoy.

He glanced down at his watch, knowing what he would see. Just past midnight. He grinned. It was Christmas Eve.

Shelagh Turner, surrounded by the detritus of an evening spent wrapping Christmas gifts, cast a satisfied look upon the results. She couldn’t remember ever taking part in such a generous display. A childhood spent with a detached father, followed by years in the Order had accustomed her to a far more Spartan holiday.

Last year had been…She paused for a moment, remembering the hectic preparations for both the holiday and her marriage to Patrick. But last year, Christmas had not gone according to plan and was doled out slowly over weeks as Timothy recovered.

This time, Shelagh was determined to make Christmas a time to remember for happier reasons. Every possible tradition was to be honored: a lovely Christmas tree, paper chains, baking, singing, to say nothing of the shopping!

The children were long in bed, Angela settled after her last bottle and Tim feigning exhaustion for fear that his mother would put him to work. Shelagh half-suspected that Patrick had arranged to be called out in order to avoid the gift wrapping they had left for tonight.

She stretched, then began to clear up. The click of the front door alerted her to her husband’s return, and she rose to meet him in the hall. Unbuttoning his coat, Patrick smiled as he stood under his own favorite tradition, and waited for her mistletoe kiss.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you look like a snowman, Patrick! Is it snowing so very hard? I had no idea!” Shelagh laughed. The draperies, drawn to keep out the cold, had revealed nothing.

Patrick placed his medical bag next to the hat rack. “There must be three inches already. You should see it, Shelagh. It’s wonderful!”

“I’ll take a peek out the window. Now let’s get these things off you before you melt all over the carpet.”

He stepped closer, pressing his cold cheek to her warm, soft one. “Come outside with me, Shelagh. Just for a moment,” he whispered in her ear. “The children will be fine. We’ll just be downstairs.”

Shelagh looked up, skeptical. “Patrick, it’s late. It’s just a little snow.”

Patrick pulled her gently along the hallway. “Come on, sweetheart. We’ve never seen snow together. Last year was so mild. Please?” He smiled the lopsided grin he knew she found difficult to resist. “Put Tim’s boots on, they’re right here.” He tilted his head to the side, cajoling, “Just a quick dash.”

There was a childish joy in his eyes she found contagious. Rolling her eyes Heavenward, Shelagh decided to humor him. “All right, then. Just a quick moment.”

Quickly wrapped in her coat and wearing Timothy’s already too-large boots, she took her husband’s extended hand and followed him down the stairs. At the door, Patrick leaned in close and whispered, “Close your eyes.”

“Patrick, it’s late-”

“Shelagh, close your eyes.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to hide her smile as her eyelids fluttered shut. Patrick squeezed her hand, guiding her out and down the step. A few paces more and he turned her around. “Now open them.”

Shelagh did not expect the scene before her eyes. Her breath caught and she turned to seek his eyes. “Patrick,” she whispered in amazement. “It’s wonderful!”

Her look swept the courtyard, glistening in the layers of snow. Standing now at the center of the courtyard, they were surrounded by castles of snow, windows winking with frosty glass. The midnight sky, flecked by pinpoints of starlight, created a dome above them. “It’s like we’re in a snow globe of our very own,” she said in an awed whisper.

She turned back to her husband, and he took in the snowflakes in her hair, her cheeks glowing pink. His cold hands slipped up to her warm neck and he bent to kiss her forehead.

“It’s Christmas Eve, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” Tiny clouds of breath mingled.

“Last year, we should have…So much has happened, Shelagh, since last Christmas Eve. I’m the luckiest man on earth.” His nose nudged hers and his lips moved to caress her cheek.

A laugh escaped her throat. “Then we certainly belong together, dearest, because I must be the luckiest woman on earth.” His open jacket was an invitation for her to slide her hands around his back and press herself against him. Their lips found each other, and the snow, the starlight, everything was forgotten as they shared their love.

“Happy Christmas, Patrick,” she murmured, her smile content.

“Happy Christmas, darling.”

For precious moments they stood there, two lovers in a special world of their own, certain in the joy of Christmas.

The Paper Anniversary, Epilogue

Posted on by

7

Previous Chapter

For a week, Patrick was a cheerful non-smoker, perhaps even a bit smug. The family was amazed at his determination and positive attitude. He would pontificate largely on the wonders of his sharpened sense of smell and  taste, how he felt free from the tyranny of the cigarette.

“Since medical school, Tim. Over thirty years,” he reminded his son more than once. “I was a smoker for over thirty years. Kicked it straight off.”

Even a supportive son has his limits, though, and Timothy started spending a bit more time outside.

Shelagh was made of sterner stuff, and was happy to hear Patrick’s tales of conversion. His cough hadn’t stopped completely, but was improving enough to ease her worries.

However, the sense of triumph may have blinded her to what was to come.

The eighth day cigarette-free, Patrick seemed distracted. During clinic he was subjected to a stern lecture from Sister Evangelina on the merits of paying attention to a patient. On his calls, old Mr. Talbot had to remind him twice that it was his leg the good doctor was there to see, and not his ear.

By the time he arrived home for dinner, even later than usual, Patrick was a bit irritable.

The tenth day, Patrick woke late, forgot he was to make calls at the London Hospital, and picked a fight with Timothy about the length of his pants.

Shelagh reminded Timothy that the road ahead would be a bit rocky, and his father deserved their patience.

Even Angela was not immune to his irritation. After a week and a half of no cigarettes, Patrick became less understanding of the infant’s night time waking habits.

Through all this, Shelagh was the soul of patience. She had asked a great deal of him, the very least she could do was fulfill her promise to stand by his side.

So, how to help? Obviously, Patrick needed some distractions. She brought him some gum to chew. She encouraged walks. She thought of projects to keep him busy. Patrick would succeed, she was determined.

By the second Saturday, it seemed as if nothing would help. Home early from a slow day at the surgery, Patrick was tired, bored and cranky. And apparently, looking for a fight.

Shelagh knew better than to rise to the bait, but Timothy…Well, Timothy was a growing boy, after all, eager to prove himself a man.

After a lunch featuring sniping and passive-aggressive arguments, the poor woman had had enough. She dressed Angela in her warmest sweater, wrapped her in the favorite pink blanket and announced, “Timothy, it’s time for you to take your sister for a very long walk.”

Normally, Tim would balk at such a task on a Saturday afternoon, but the idea of spending the day working on his history theme as his father prowled about the flat was enough to make the boy jump at the chance to get out.

“Can I go to Nonnatus? See if anyone’s there?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. Here’s a bottle just in case. She’s changed and fed, so you should be fine for at least an hour.” Shelagh glanced back down the hall. “Yes. I’ll need at least an hour. Maybe two. Trust me, Tim. I have a plan.”

She returned to find Patrick still at the table, drumming his fingers on its surface. “Don’t start, Shelagh. He was just as difficult as-”

“Yes, dear,” Shelagh interrupted. “I know. You’re a wee bit out of sorts today.” She smiled brightly at him. “You just need a distraction, that’s all.”

Patrick’s head craned to the ceiling, his eyes rolling in disgust. “Shelagh, I am not fixing another squeaky hinge or helping you transpose another tenor part for the choir. If you think-”

“Shh. I know,” Shelagh stepped closer to him and cradled his cheek. She bent down and placed a warm kiss on his unresponsive lips.

“Shelagh,” he complained. “I will not be manipulated like this. If you think you can…what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Patrick. Certainly not manipulating you.” Her dress fell to the floor.

“Shelagh!”

“I promised I would help, Patrick. So I’m helping.” Placing one foot on the chair across from him, she unsnapped the suspenders to her left stocking and slid it down her leg. “Don’t you want my help, dearest?” she asked innocently.

For a long moment Patrick stared at his wife. Then he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, releasing the bad mood with it. His hand reached over and glided up the length of her calf.

“So everytime I want a cigarette you’re going to seduce me?”

“Is there a problem with that?” Standing before him, Shelagh’s innocent smile became rather saucy.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He swiftly flicked the suspenders on the other leg and tossed the stocking on the floor with its mate. “I smoked for a very long time, Shelagh. I think I’m going to need a lot of distractions.”

Pulling him to his feet, Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck to bring his face to hers. “Whatever it takes, Patrick. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

The Paper Anniversary , Chapter 7

Posted on by

5

Previous Chapter

Over the next week, the family saw little of  Patrick. The demands of his practice seemed quite high, and even Tuesday, his one night a week guaranteed to be off, he had to go to the London.  Shelagh was growing concerned that the plans for their first wedding anniversary would have to be postponed.

“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Patrick promised when she told him of her fears. He pulled her away from the sink and whispered in her ear, “I have every intention of celebrating our anniversary. I’m looking forward to unwrapping my present tomorrow night. After the children go to bed.”

“Patrick,” Shelagh flirted. “You’re very greedy. How do you know I’ve gotten you anything at all?”

Nuzzling her neck, her answered, “Hmm, I’ve got my present right here in my arms. It’s my favorite gift ever.” His fingers trailed along her back, making her knees weak. “I particularly enjoy unwrapping it again and again.”

“Dad,” Timothy’s voice interrupted them as he entered the kitchen. “Please let Mum go. You’ll put me off my breakfast.”

Patrick’s head came around. “Sorry, son. I should think you’d have developed a stronger stomach by now.” Reluctantly, he released his wife and picked up his case. “I’m off. Late again tonight, I’m afraid. But tomorrow, it’s family time at the Observatory, then Tim, you’re off to a night at Colin’s and my little Angel will spend the night with Nonnatus.” With a quick tickle of the baby’s tummy, he was gone.

“Dad sure is chipper today,” Timothy grumbled.

Shelagh’s eyes danced as she tried to hide a dimple.

“Don’t you start, too,” the poor boy groused.

 

Fortunately, by the big day Patrick’s schedule settled back to normal, and after a chilly picnic at the observatory as a family, the no-longer-newlyweds were able to enjoy their dinner out. By nine o’clock that night, Patrick unlocked the door and ushered his wife into their home. The scent from the large bouquet of hyacinths and stephanotis wafted through the flat, welcoming them.

“I think it’s lovely you brought me the same flowers as our wedding, Patrick. You’re very romantic,” Shelagh confessed. She turned her back to him and let him slide her coat from her shoulders, and then reached up to remove her new pretty blue cap.

“Oh!” she cried as Patrick shifted from chivalrous to libidinous and pressed her body up against the wall. Not one to complain about her husband’s attentions, Shelagh happily responded.

Long moments later, Patrick rubbed his nose to hers. “As I recall, you didn’t give me a chance to make the first move a year ago.”

Shelagh couldn’t stop the blush that spread across her cheeks. “I was so nervous, dearest. I thought if I didn’t do something, I wouldn’t be able to do anything!”

He laughed and bent to lift her in his arms, heading to the bedroom door. “Oh, we would’ve figured something out, sweetheart. If I am certain of only one thing, that’s it.”

Sometime later, light filtered in through the open door, revealing a tangle of sheets and limbs. The passion that had raged only moments ago satisfied, their bodies slowly calming. Gingerly,  Shelagh moved her weight from above her husband and slid down alongside him. Patrick shifted to face her, propped up on his elbow.

He watched as her breathing slowed, and the flush faded from her cheeks. A year, he thought. One year ago tonight they had been so new to each other. He had known that being her husband was all he could hope for, that simply sharing his life with her would make him the happiest of men.

He never guessed that his prim wife, so long apart from the corporeal world, would be so ardent, so enthusiastic in their bedroom. Then again, he chuckled to himself, his Shelagh never did anything by halves. The joy of loving brought them even closer.

He kissed her lightly, and she smiled against his mouth. They lingered; glancing touches of lips and tongues fired more by intimacy than passion. Shelagh stretched contentedly and nuzzled her head against his shoulder.

Suddenly, Patrick sat up, sending Shelagh to the edge of the bed.

“I nearly forgot! Wait here,” he climbed out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown.

“No, Patrick. Stay,” his soft wife tempted.

He grinned wickedly. “I’ll just be a moment, love. Stay exactly as you are,” he told her as he headed out the door.

Shelagh sat up, pulling the sheets up as high as she could for modesty and reached for her glasses. The noises coming from the sitting room were strange, indeed. “Patrick, are you in the piano?” she laughed. He was definitely up to something, she thought. Spying his abandoned shirt on the floor, she scooped it up and slipped it on.

Practically dancing as he returned, Patrick sat on the bed beside his wife. “I’ll have to find a new hiding place. Tim wanted to know why the piano sounded so strange.” He stopped and took in the sight of his wife, hair tousled, lips swollen. “I like you in my shirt, my bold girl.” He held out his surprise.

“You already gave me a present, Patrick. The flowers are lovely.” Her eyes were on the inexpertly wrapped packages Patrick had set before her.

“That was for in front of the children.” With a lopsided grin, he reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear.

They had exchanged gifts at breakfast, Patrick receiving a formal portrait of Shelagh and the children; one copy for home, another for his surgery.

“I thought photographs, Patrick, for paper,” Shelagh had told him as she poured out more tea.

He had looked at her quizzically, seeming to not understand her meaning. Shelagh had continued, “Gifts are supposed to follow a theme. The first anniversary is paper. You know, like silver for twenty-five…”

“I reckon you’ll have to count the paper the flowers are wrapped in, Dad,” Timothy had teased.

Now, settling next to her on the bed, Patrick confided, “This is private, just between us. Open the little one first.”

Shelagh smiled, puzzled by his nervous state. The first package was small enough to fit in her hand and very light. She turned it over and untied the green ribbon, then began to peel the paper away.

Her breath caught in her throat, closing her lungs. The paper fell to the bed, revealing a new packet of cigarettes. Stunned, she looked up at him. “Patrick?”

His words rushed out. “Paper. I knew it was paper, Shelagh. The cigarettes, the packet, they’re paper.”

“But I don’t understand.” Surely Patrick wasn’t giving her cigarettes, not after Sunday’s talk?

“I’ve given them up, Shelagh. Cigarettes. I’m quitting for good this time.” His eyes glittered, anxiously searching her face. “I’ll need your help, Shelagh. I can’t do this without you.”

Shelagh stared at him; her pale eyes huge as the meaning of his words sank in, then let out a cry of joy. She sat up and wrapped her arms about his neck and clung tightly to him.

“Yes, Patrick. Oh, yes. Dearest, of course I’ll help. Anything.” She covered his face with kisses, laughing and crying all at once.

Laughing with her, Patrick held her away. “That’s not all. There’s one more present.”

Shelagh placed her hands on his cheeks. “I don’t need anything else, dearest. You’ve given me so much already.” She pressed her lips to his in a slow kiss.

Her body was warm pressed against his, and his hands slid under his shirt along her bare back, holding her tightly to him. His body stirred with his need for her again, but that would wait until after she opened the second gift. Coming to his senses, he returned his hands to her arms, making space between them. “Shelagh, open it.”

Wiping the tears from her face, Shelagh picked up the last gift. An extra large envelope tied with another bow, it gave no hint as to its contents. She slid her hand under the flap and pulled out its contents.

Few women are ever given an x-ray as a gift, and even Shelagh, with her own unusual history with the films, was confused.

Patrick waved a long finger in the air. “More light. You need to see it properly.”

He reached past her and flicked on the overhead fixture. Light flooded the room, and Shelagh took a moment to let her eyes adapt. Was this her x-ray from her time away, she wondered. She peered at the page and saw Patricks name, not hers across the top. Blood pounded in her ears as she felt a slow wave of panic come over her.

“Tuesday, when I said I was seeing a patient at the London? I was having this done. I’ve been to pulmonology this week.” He slid the film from her fingers, noticing how cold they had become.

“My lungs are clear, Shelagh. Between these and the tests done on the TB van, Dr. Parton is convinced there is no sign of any abnormalities in either lung, not even a shadow of an anything. Though he did give me a thorough lecture in the ‘Physician, Heal thyself” model.” He stopped speaking. Shelagh had gone very quiet.“Sweetheart?” He tucked his forefinger under her chin, coaxing her face to meet his.

Patrick knew Shelagh was a beautiful woman. It was a fact that his wife was empirically a truly beautiful woman. This knowledge wasn’t simply biased on his own observation; others were aware of it as well. The rest of the world could see her beauty: the glowing eyes and clear skin, her warm smile  and perfect form and more all added up to a loveliness unmatched.

He knew he was particularly attuned to her beauty because he loved her. He had known she was beautiful even when so little of her was exposed to him. When she became his Shelagh, he was astounded by her loveliness. She took his breath away when she smiled her answer to his proposal. She stunned him when he had turned to see her approaching him in the church.

He knew, more than anyone, how very lovely she truly was. He saw her beauty in her smiles at their children, as she lay asleep in their bed. The lovely serenity that crossed her face as she made their home, the winsome grace of her form as she walked, or did even the most mundane of tasks. And he alone had the privilege of seeing the beauty of her face when he loved her, sharing the joy of her body.

He knew right then that he had never seen her so glorious as at that moment, when she lifted her eyes to him, shining with love.

Next Chapter

 

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 6

Posted on by

5

Previous Chapter

A/N: The direct connection between lung cancer and cigarette smoking was proven in 1957 by the Medical Research Council, near the time of the terminal diagnosis (as per my head canon) of Patrick’s first wife. We now know that lung cancer can be the actual source of several other cancers, including brain, liver, and bone. For the purpose of my story, I have made medical understanding of the nature of lung cancer metastasis unclear at the time.

True to her word, Shelagh had not mentioned the subject of cigarettes since their last discussion. She knew she he needed time and could be patient, for now there was a sense of inevitability regarding the topic. Her concerns were out in the open, and as much as Patrick preferred to bury his own problems; he wouldn’t ignore her fears. Shelagh was willing to wait, and in the meantime, if the air was a bit awkward each time he lit up, neither mentioned it.

Settling on the sofa, she wrapped her cardigan closer and watched as Patrick paced in front of the mantle. Shelagh tried to tamp down a feeling of unease. Patrick was not comfortable with uncertainty, she knew, but she had only recently discovered her own dependence on his confidence.

He turned away, pacing to the window. “Marianne was a smoker, did you know?”

She nodded. “I remember.” While not a regular fixture at clinics, there had been occasions when the vibrant and healthy Marianne crossed her path. To the shy young nun, Marianne Turner had seemed confident and sure of her place in the world. Even as the cancer withered her, she was brave and strong for her family. Shelagh thought it had been no wonder Patrick and Timothy had been devastated by her loss.

He drew a shallow breath. “I think that’s what caused her illness.”

“Patrick, I helped nurse Marianne a few times. Her doctors diagnosed bone can-” Shelagh stopped, stunned. “It metastasized,” she whispered, the realization making her pale.

“Yes. We didn’t know then. All her symptoms were related to her back, so that was her doctor’s focus. The pain, the weakness in her spine; her symptoms all pointed toward bone cancer. We didn’t know then that it likely spread from the lungs first.

“After she…died…I needed to do something. I felt so useless.” He moved to the sofa, taking his place next to her. His eyes glittered as he met hers; the lines on his face had somehow deeper. She reached out and gripped his big hand in her small one.

Patrick’s lips twisted in a sad smile. “I convinced the doctors to let me see her files. I poured over them every night, trying to figure out what had happened, what we missed. She was so healthy, Shelagh. She never got sick. We used to joke that she couldn’t, that I had too many patients already.

“One night, I was reviewing her first set of x-rays again when I…I noticed something different. There was one film of her upper spine where a bit more of the lungs showed. I’m not sure why I even looked there.

“I could make out, just barely, a lesion on the lower left lobe. God, Shelagh,” he rasped. “I’d never thought-even after the MRC report. We never suspected that the cancer started in her lungs.”

His hand turned in hers, squeezing it, holding on tight. “I never saw it. Who knows how long the tumors were growing inside her before we noticed anything? Even the back pain, we just thought…her grandmother had a bad back. We thought, maybe it was just that. She didn’t tell me, but she must have had pain for months and never said.”

Gathering herself, Shelagh spoke gently. “She didn’t want you to worry, dearest. You, yourself said Marianne thought the pain was nothing out of the ordinary.” Her free hand slipped up to caress his cheek. “Patrick, you know lung cancer can go undetected for a very long time. Marianne had no symptoms; I remember. No cough, no breathing difficulties, nothing. There was nothing to point you in that direction. Even if you had guessed when the back pain started, it’s likely it would have been too late.”

Patrick pulled his hand away and rubbed at his forehead, struggling for words. He dropped his head in his hands, and silence grew loud in the room. Then his voice came to her, muffled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not what I wanted to say. I don’t want you to think-” he stopped abruptly.

The sting of a hidden fear spread through Shelagh’s heart. She knew she wasn’t his first love. He had loved and lived with another before her, made a child with her. She feared Marianne would somehow always be between them.

Uncertainty froze her mind. She wanted to soothe him, to offer words of comfort, but couldn’t. Patrick was opening a part of his heart, but she wasn’t sure she was welcome there. Would his life with Marianne always be behind another barrier? Had she found the limits of his love? An unwilling tear slipped down her cheek.

He stood again, moving to the table as if this were a typical Sunday tea. She watched as he carried out the ordinary steps to pouring out. His back still towards her, he continued, “I didn’t tell you this. After I learned of the lung cancer, I tried to quit again. I did, actually, for three days. But there was Timothy to raise, and work, of course, was so… I had to smoke. It was the only thing that would help.

“Maybe I felt guilty. I was the one that survived. I was the one that would go on, watch Timothy grow up; I would continue my work. It didn’t seem fair that I could use her second chances, that I was given the opportunity to learn from our mistakes.” His shoulders slumped, weary from carrying so much.

“Shelagh, when you became ill… that whole terrible time when I thought I would lose you-” he turned finally, and she was devastated by the agony in his eyes. He crossed to her in two swift strides and knelt before her. “Marianne let me go. Before the end, when she was conscious so little of the time, she told me to keep living, not just for Timothy, but for me. She made me promise to join the world.

“It was hard, but I let her go, too. I didn’t set out to find someone else. When I finally realized what my feelings for you were, I let myself fall in love with you.” He smiled ruefully, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “I don’t think I could have stopped it. I…I just surrendered to it. I never imagined we would be together, not then. It was enough to know that even if I could never be with you, I could love you.” His hands gripped hers even tighter.

Shelagh felt a twinge of shame. She had no idea he had wrestled with his feelings for her. His letters, his confessions since that misty road, had described his acceptance of it, and his concern for her difficulties. She never thought that perhaps Patrick had fears of his own. How selfish she had been from the very start.

His grip tightened convulsively. “When you went to the sanitorium, your lungs could have… You came back to me, healthy; I had a fresh start. But then Timothy…” he stopped, remembering that unbearable pain, and his voice became derisive. “I kept smoking through it all. Oh, God, Shelagh, I kept lying to myself. How many signs will I ignore before I finally face the truth?”

Shelagh’s heart softened. This man had taught her so much of herself. His heart had such deep capacity for love. He was a brilliant doctor, with a great depth of medical knowledge, but it was his compassionate heart that made him a healer. She had to show him the way to accept his flaws and love himself. And love would give them strength to move forward.

She cradled his cheek, her fingers running through the black strands more silver than the year before. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Patrick. You feel things so deeply, you know of pain, yet you push on. I’m so very proud to be your wife. You’ve supported me through so many trials, and you never ask for anything. But I mustn’t be selfish anymore, Patrick. It can’t be all about me. You have to trust me, and I have to open my eyes to you.”

Patrick looked up at her shining face, stunned. This glorious creature accepted him, despite his weaknesses, perhaps in part because of them. He watched as her cheeks flushed with emotion. Her freshness of character and form reminded him that he was too old already. They already had too little time. There would never be enough time. How could he shorten their years together?

“Shelagh, what if I can’t? I’ve failed before.”

“You were alone before, dearest.” Her eyes gleamed with happiness.

He smiled as he felt fear lift from his heart. “Now I’m never alone. I’m married to you.”

Next Chapter

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 5

Posted on by

11

Previous Chapter

The late winter sun washed over the steps of All Saints Church, warding off the chill as Sunday services let out. Somehow, Timothy was very nearly the first one out, despite playing the piano as the choir sang the recessional hymn. He sat down on the bottom stair, next to his sister’s pram and waited as his father joined him.

“Mum lets you run out like that? You don’t need to stay for the talk afterwards?” Patrick shifted the blanket before lowering Angela into the pram.

“No. She said it’s the least she could do after ‘convincing’” -his fingers went up in a simulation of quotation marks- “me to stay with the choir until after the summer. Besides, she’ll have plenty to tell me at home.”

“Poor man. A small price to pay for her cooking, though, isn’t it?” Patrick smirked.

That smirk came back at him. “Not to mention always having clean clothes, Dad.”

“You wound me, son.”

From behind, a voice called out. “Doctor Turner! Always a pleasure to see you here!”

The Turner men turned to see Old Mr. Gipper climbing down the steps one at a time towards them.

“Mr. Gipper!” Patrick answered, swiftly meeting the man and offering his arm. “You should be using your cane when you walk out. We’ve discussed this before.”

The old man waved the arm away. “When I can’t get meself to Church on my own two feet, I’ll be needin’ more’n a cane.”

Arriving at the bottom, he peered into the baby carriage. “That is surely one beautiful baby you’ve got there, Doc. As pretty as yer wife.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to tell Shelagh you said so.” He glanced over to his son, gesturing with his eyebrows.

Quickly, Tim stood up. “Hello, Mr. Gipper. Would you like me to walk you home?” Patrick smiled proudly.

“Morning, Tim. Lovely job with the choir today. Though I’d reckon not your favorite thing, eh?”

“It’s not so bad, sir. Better than sitting with Dad and Angela. She always fusses for Mum when she hears her sing.”

A wheezy laugh passed through the old man’s dentures. “Can’t say as I blame ‘er, young Tim. Yer mum has the voice of an angel. Funny, that.”

“What’s funny, sir?”

“Yer mum. She’s got a way of healing about ‘er, no matter what she does, doesn’t she? Back when she was a midwife, me grand-daughter used to say she always felt safe when Sister Bernadette was near. Now, she’s a nun no more, but she still finds a way to heal us all. I hear her lead the choir and me own troubles go away for a bit.” He placed his cap back on his grizzled head. “Must do you fellas a world o’ good, too. Well, I’m off. Thanks fer the offer, Timothy Turner, but you’d just slow me down.”

They watched as the elderly man made his way up the street, jaunty despite his slow pace. His words echoed in Patrick’s head. He could never measure the amount of good Shelagh had done for them.

“Hello,” Shelagh surprised them. “How is Mr. Gipper?”

“Quite an admirer of yours, I must say.” Patrick placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Tim, push your sister, please.”

Timothy must have been as affected by the old man as his father, for he gave no argument and turned the carriage towards Nonnatus House.

Patrick and Shelagh slowly strolled towards the weekly luncheon, as Timothy avoided the ruts in the old cobblestones.

Quietly, Patrick confided,”You were right, you know. About the other night.”

Shelagh smiled up at him, teasing. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that, dearest. I’m right so often.”

Patrick exhaled a quiet laugh; his smile crooked. “That does seem to be the case, love.” Noticing Timothy was getting farther ahead of them he called, “Not so fast, Tim. It’s a pram, not a Jaguar!”

Timothy turned back with a look of impatience. “Well, come on, then. I’m hungry. If we don’t get to Nonnatus soon, Sister Monica Joan will eat all the pastries!”

Shelagh giggled. “You’ll have to tell me later how I was right, Patrick. It won’t do to let Timothy get the hungry grumpies.”

Quickening his pace, Patrick laughed. “Heaven forbid!”

“Angela always naps so well after a day at Nonnatus,” Shelagh announced as she returned from the nursery. Looking around, she asked, “Where’s Timmy?”

Patrick glanced up from the files he was reviewing. “Something about a big game of Sardines. We won’t see him ’til dark.”

“Well, then, how about some tea?” Shelagh twitched the tablecloth straight.

“Just a cup. Mrs. B’s cake filled me up.”

“You mean two pieces of Mrs. B’s cake filled you up, Patrick.”

Relieved she hadn’t noticed the third slice, he agreed. He followed her into the kitchen, watching as she set about the homey chore.

“I don’t know how you stayed so slim, living there,” he noted.

“Probably because I never let myself have the third piece, dearest.” She placed the kettle on to boil and turned to wink at him.

“Caught!” he laughed and pulled her into his arms. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

Shelagh’s hands played with the buttons of his waistcoat. “I notice everything about you, dearest.” She slid her arms up around his neck. “Now, what to do while the kettle boils?”

His warm lips answered her question, pressing softly against hers. Time stopped for a few moments before they were interrupted by one steamy whistle.

Grudgingly releasing her, Patrick moved to the cupboard for cups and saucers.

“What were you going to say earlier?” Shelagh asked over her shoulder.

Distracted by the sight of his wife’s dress clinging to her hips as she reached up for the tea tin, Patrick had to be asked twice before his mind came back to the kitchen. His face grew serious.

“Patrick? Is something wrong?” Her forehead creased in concern.

“No, nothing’s wrong.” His thumb caressed her “worry crinkles” and he smiled ruefully. “I have a mea culpa; that’s all.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds ominous.” Shelagh’s voice was light. “More serious than the cake?”

Patrick’s finger rubbed against his thumb nervously. “Yes. Shelagh, the other night, when I got so angry with Tim, it wasn’t because he got caught in mischief with Gary and Jack.”

Shelagh turned back to the teapot. She hadn’t expected Patrick to be the one to broach this subject at all, especially so soon. She spooned the tea leaves in, making the tea strong to his taste. “No?”

“No. Tim’s got a good sense for trouble. He knows better than to make such an obvious mistake.” He noticed his twitching fingers and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Let’s bring the tea into the sitting room. Then we can have a chat.”

Next Chapter

A Bath Can Fix Anything

Posted on by

8

The key to the front door was stuck again. Heaving a sigh of frustration, Shelagh Turner blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes and muttered, “Of course. Tickety-boo and marvelous.” She carefully let the net bag of groceries drop to the floor and shifted the wiggling toddler on her hip. “Angel girl, please stay still for Mummy.”

The day had been difficult from the start. After a restless night, Angela was up well before dawn, ready to play. Shelagh rose with her and spent the next two hours keeping her daughter occupied, but moderately quiet. By the time Timothy and Patrick were up and about, Shelagh was already worn out.

“Just cereal today, I’m afraid,” she apologized. “And there’s only enough sugar for one cup of tea.”

Patrick watched his wife at the sink, her shoulders already drooping. He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, his nose in her loose hair. Shelagh turned quickly and buried her face in his jumper.

“That’s for you. I made it through rationing with no sugar, I reckon I’ll be able to go a day without, Shelagh, love.” He patted her shoulder. “Maybe she’ll take a long nap today. You can rest, too.”

Capable Shelagh stepped back, resolute. “No. Naptime is when I get dinner prepared and straighten up before you come home.” Baby or no baby, there was work to be done.

“You don’t have to straighten up for me,” Timothy chimed in as he entered the kitchen. “And I’m always up for fish and chips.”

“I don’t straighten up for you, dear. I straighten up because of  you. And fish and chips is fine for the odd meal, but you’d have frying oil in your veins if we had it as much as you’d like,” his mother rallied.

 

Now, standing on the landing outside the flat, desperate for a cup of tea, Shelagh wished for the confidence she felt this morning. Another jiggle at the lock proved unsuccessful and she made a face. Lowering Angela to the floor, she said, “Stay here, please, dearest. Mummy has to-”

Angela turned and ran straight for the stairs, her tiny feet thundering on the floor. Fortunately, Mrs. Brooke, the widow from down the hall who occasionally stayed with the little imp, was there in time to stop a headlong flight to the bottom.

“Here, now, dearie, where do yer think you’re going?” She scooped the toddler up and carried her, wriggling and screeching, to her mother. “One of those days, eh, Mrs. Turner?”

“Yes. Indeed.” With a last twist, the door finally opened. “Thank you, Mrs. Brooke. She’s definitely getting a head start on her ‘terrible two’s,’ I’m afraid.” Shelagh leant against the open door jamb. “Angela’s usually so good for me when we have to do some shopping. Today it was all I could do to keep her out of the pickle barrel.”

“That’d be a treat. Pickled Angela!” The widow tickled Angela’s tummy. “Don’t worry so, Mrs. Turner. She’s a sweetheart, this one. Everyone has a bad day.” Handing Angela back to her mother, she added, “And the two’s aren’t what you have to worry about. It’s the three’s. That’s when their little minds get devilish-like!”

With a half-hearted attempt at a smile, Shelagh carried her bundles into the flat.

Lunch didn’t go much better. Angela, it seemed, was not in the mood for reheated leftovers from last night, nevermind that on most days, she loved bangers and mash. The groceries, or more specifically, the pot of raspberry jam, that still sat on the kitchen table waiting to be put away, were much more to her liking.

“No, Angela. No jam. Jam is for Daddy.”

Angela complained mightily and kicked her feet against her chair.. While her vocabulary was somewhat limited, the meaning was clear. Jam was for Angela.

Shelagh sighed. “No, sweeting, no jam for Angela. Now, please let’s finish our lunch?”

After another ten minutes of futile toddler feeding, Shelagh gave up. She looked around the messy kitchen and tried to gather the energy to clear away lunch. Angela whimpered, obviously over-tired, and slipped her thumb  into her mouth while her other chubby hand played with her soft blond hair. She blinked, and her heavy eyelids reminded Shelagh of Patrick when he fought a catnap.

She reached over and stroked the baby’s cheek. “Rough day today, isn’t it, Angel girl?” Angela’s thumb popped out of her mouth,pushed out by a squeal of delight.. “Oh, you don’t play fair. A wee beastie all morning and now that smile?” Shelagh grinned back and stiffly stood up.

“Well, then, let’s get you out of that chair. We’ll have this kitchen cleaned up in a jiffy.”

Later, Shelagh would point to that moment as her big mistake. She placed Angela on the floor and handed her the set of measuring cups.”There you are. Now play nicely while Mummy gets to work.”

Shelagh Turner thought that maybe, the day had taken a turn for the better.

She was wrong.

The phone rang and after a quick glance back to ensure that Angela was happily occupied, Shelagh went to answer it.

“Turner residence.”

“Fighting the good fight, sweetheart?” Patrick’s voice warmed her tired body.

“Patrick.,” she sighed.  “Yes. We did the shopping, but I’m afraid we had to come home without stopping at the cleaners. Someone wasn’t very happy about staying in her pram.”

Light laughter came over the phone line. “You’ll look back on this and smile one day, Shelagh, I promise.”

“Well, that’s easy for you to say. You’re safe and sound in your surgery.”

“Yes.  Shelagh, I’ll probably be home late tonight. Walker’s stuck at the London.”

Shelagh closed her eyes, her head down. She was disappointed, but she didn’t want Patrick to feel badly. Timothy could help, of course, but he was just a boy, after all. He shouldn’t have to do so much. Oh, well. The worst day still only had twenty four hours.

“I understand. Duty calls. I’ll leave dinner for you. But dearest, wake me when you get in.” No matter how long the day, she would want to see his face.

“All right.” His voice grew soft. “I know you’re having a bad day, sweetheart, but you doing marvelously at this. You’re a wonderful mother. We all love you so very much.”

Tears pricked behind her eyes. “Thank you, Patrick. Just not so marvelous today.”

“Seems all right now. Nice and quiet,” he observed.

“Yes, I gave her-” Shelagh turned back to the kitchen door. “Oh, Angela! Patrick, I have to go. It’s all right, it’s just-oh, not the-” She hung up the phone.

Standing in the middle of the room, holding the jam pot above her wide open mouth, was the reddest, stickiest, most incredibly jammiest little minx ever before seen on the streets of Poplar. Somehow, the eight ounce pot of jam had multiplied into a veritable ocean of preserves that completely flooded the kitchen (or so it seemed to poor Shelagh).

About to sharply reprimand her daughter, Shelagh’s breath caught in her throat when Angela turned to her mother and laughed joyfully. Shelagh could feel all the tension release from her body with that one sweet expression.

“Look at you!” she teased. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest thing.”

And then the giggles hit. Shelagh started to laugh so hard that she sat on the floor beside her daughter, adeptly side stepping the puddle of the jam. Angela’s jammy hands wrapped around her mother’s neck and she planted a loud, wet, sticky kiss on Shelagh’s cheek.

“Oh, I love you, too, Angel girl. You are the most marvelous, wonderful wee beastie there ever was.” Shelagh rubbed her nose against the gooey cheek and tried to catch her breath.

The two sat there in each others arms, Angela sucking her sweet thumb, her raspberry fingers twined in her mother’s hair.

Shelagh looked at the mess and grinned. Clearing up could wait. There were more important things to do. “Well, then. I think it’s time for a midday tubby, don’t you, sweetie?”

Angela’s head popped up. “Tubby!” She cried, clear as a bell.

Hand in hand they walked down the hall. Shelagh smiled down at her daughter. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. A bath can fix anything!”

Two hours later, Patrick met Timothy going up the stairs to the flat.

“What are you doing home?” Tim asked bluntly.

“Nice to see you, too, Tim. I got off my rounds. Mum’s had a day.” As usual, the front door key did not stick for Patrick.

Opening the door quietly, they cautiously entered the flat. If Angela was finally asleep, her mother would not thank them to wake her.

No lamps brightened the late afternoon light of the flat. Patrick frowned. “Their coats are here,” he noted quietly. He stepped down the hall and saw the mess in the kitchen.

“Blood!” whispered Tim, horrified (or delighted? One could never tell with a twelve-year-old boy).

“No, Tim. It’s not blood.” But Patrick was concerned.

“How do you know?” asked the skeptical son.

Patrick grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Stay here,” he ordered.

On quiet tiptoes, Patrick peeked in the empty nursery, then crossed the hall to the master bedroom. Wishing he would finally remember to oil the hinges on the door,  he gingerly pushed the door open a few inches.

Lying on the bed in a cuddle were his wife  and daughter, pink and clean from a bath. Shelagh’s hair lay damply on her shoulders, while Angela’s curled about her ears. Against the blue bedcovers, they looked like angels.

Just as quietly, he returned to the kitchen. Sometimes, he thought, his son was quite thoughtful. Timothy knelt on the floor scrubbing the red mess.

“No jam for tea today,” he complained.

Patrick nodded. “Good lad. Here,” he reached into his pocket and drew out coins, handing them to Tim. “Go down to the chip shop and pick up some dinner.”He shrugged off  his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. “Get extra. I have a feeling they’re going to be very hungry when they wake.”

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 4

Posted on by

9

Previous Chapter

As Shelagh prepared for bed, she tried to ignore the coil of tension she felt growing in her body. Patrick sat up in bed, reading, or at least, she thought, he wanted her to think he was reading. As much as Patrick wanted the discussion closed, she knew it couldn’t be. She wanted to please him, but she could not pretend the matter did not exist.

She pressed her lips together in frustration as she brushed out her hair. It would be much easier if the evening followed her plan. Timothy’s near miss with trouble had added a layer of complication she would have preferred to avoid.

Nervously, she stood to remove her robe and slid into their bed beside him. Almost immediately, Patrick closed his book and reached to turn off his lamp.

“Good night, love,” he said.

Shelagh was not deceived by his light tone. Her husband was starting to build up an invisible wall around himself, one she could almost physically feel. Her mind went back to the dark days of  last autumn, when it felt as if everything was going wrong. Once her own anger subsided, Patrick had slipped into a polite coolness and so much seemed to be lost.

She sighed quietly. She had felt so helpless during the dark weeks of their estrangement. Patrick retreated so far away from her that she worried they wouldn’t find their way back. Her efforts at reconciliation went unheeded, until one night he came home, ready to let her back into his heart. Somehow they had managed to reach across the barrier to find each other.

It had been brave of him, she knew. Now it was her turn to be brave.

Shelagh slid under his arm and pressed herself against him, her head on his chest. Trying to find a crack in his armor, she willed him to accept her gesture. After a momentary pause, Patrick responded and tightened his arm around her. Relief began to ease her stress.

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I didn’t mean to upset you.” she told him. “I hate it when we argue.”

She heard him exhale, his tension unwinding a bit as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t even know what we were arguing about. I think the drama with Tim just wound us up, that’s all. A good night’s sleep and everything’ll be right as rain.”

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “I suppose so.” She rubbed her nose against his chest, breathing him in. Her fingers gently stroked his pyjama top, its soft cotton soothing her.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick murmured.

She’d always loved his pet name for her, how it made her feel cared for, adored. Those first weeks after leaving the convent, when she so felt so desperately adrift, it had given her a place in her new world. Patrick loved her; she was his girl. They belonged to each other.

She loved how he made her feel safe. His self confidence and his ability to take charge had always impressed her. Patrick was a man others turned to for guidance, and he was used to others following his advice.

Shelagh’s brow began to wrinkle. His soft words struck her differently tonight. He almost sounded paternal. Her heart skipped a moment. Is that how he thought of her, a beloved ingenue to be indulged? Did she make it easy for him to slip into this role with her? Is that what he wanted of her?  Is that what she wanted of him?

Shelagh breathed deeply, gathering her strength. “We have to be able to talk of difficult things, dearest. We promised each other we wouldn’t hide behind silence.” She could feel his body go rigid again, the wall getting thicker.

“Shelagh, we’re both tired. Save it for another time.” Patrick’s voice was chilly.

She wanted to heed his words. She wanted to hug him to her, forget her worries. They were so happy. Why let this come between them? He worked so hard, had so many worries. Perhaps she should let the matter rest.

“See, better already,” Patrick’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.

Shelagh pushed up, resting her forearms on his chest. “Patrick, dearest,” she began nervously, “I’m sorry, but it’s not better. We’re simply brushing this aside.” She could feel her courage falter as she met his gaze.

His eyes clouded over, shielding his thoughts. “Shelagh-”

She could see him resisting her, unwilling to open up. He never got angry with her, indeed he rarely showed even mere annoyance. But was there a false safety in that?

The wall between them became unbearable and Shelagh let instinct take over. Above all things, the barrier must come down. She slid up higher on his chest and pulled his head to hers. Her lips pressed to his softly, caressing. She could feel his resistance and pushed beyond it. Between gentle tugs on his lips, she whispered, “I love you, Patrick. Don’t go away from me. Please let me in.”

His mouth softened under hers and she deepened the kiss. She pressed tighter to him, needing to be closer, and her hands slid down his neck to grasp his shoulders. Resistance gone, Patrick’s arms wrapped around her and he turned, pressing her body into their bed.

Later, Patrick chuckled into her ear. “You always surprise me, sweetheart.”

“Hmmm. It’s no surprise, dearest.” Shelagh opened her eyes and smiled. “I love you so very much.” She stretched, her soft body against his, her feet pressing to the tops of his.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, though,” she admitted.

Patrick picked up her hand from his chest, intertwining their fingers. “I’m glad it did.”

She nodded, watching their hands. “Yes. You were so far away.” She released him, pushing up on his chest to meet his eyes squarely. “We have to be able to disagree, Patrick. Wait-let me say this and then we can let it rest for a bit, I promise.”

He sighed heavily, sitting up higher against the pillows.

Shelagh sat up as well. On her knees, she sat just even with him. She took a deep breath and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I think your cough is a problem, dearest, and I think you do, too. I think you were so angry tonight because you don’t want Timothy to smoke, ever.” Patrick made to interrupt. “No, let me finish. It’s the one area you don’t lecture your patients on, but you know as well as I do how very harmful it can be.”

She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. “You know how much I love you, Patrick. I don’t want anything to harm you. Just consider it, that’s all I’m asking.”

Patrick’s eyes ran over her, taking in the tousled hair, her swollen lips, the sheet pulled up as modestly as she could and nodded. “I tried once. To quit. After the war, after-when I came home. I thought if I could stop smoking, it would be another way to leave it all behind me.” He smiled crookedly. “I reckon I can be a bit thick.”

Shelagh smiled back at him and pushed her fingers through his hair. “Perhaps a bit. Patrick dearest, trust me. Don’t hold it in. If we need to, someday we’ll have a full stop shouting match. And we’ll survive.”

Reaching out, he pulled her onto his lap, a tangle of sheets and pillows. “Hmmm,” he groaned into her neck. “Especially if we can make up so nicely.”

“That’s a promise we can definitely keep, lovely man.”

Patrick lifted his face, suddenly serious. “I can’t promise about the smoking, though, Shelagh. It’s been a long time. But I will consider it.”

Her arms slid back around his neck. “I know. And I promise not to nag about it. Just as long as we keep talking.”
“Shhh. You talk too much,” her husband murmured.

Next Chapter