Sixty-Minute Challenge, Prompt One: Sitting Pretty

Posted on April 25, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

This is part of what will be a 3-part exercise in insanity. I write slowly, and need to push some of my boundaries. So, with a free Saturday, I decided to ask my Tumblr friends (come join us- follow the Call the Midwife tag, we’re there) to send in prompts for me to write responses to in 60 minutes. One down, two to go.

This prompt technically breaks the “No Turnadette” rule, but hey, give the people what they want.

Turnadettefangirl said: Okay, a fic where a piece of furniture is the main POV 😉 The gold sofa, the hatch, the bed. Those have witnessed a lotta Turner family drama (and joy)

I used to have it easy. I was a lucky sofa, and I knew it. Years ago, in the furniture store, the old second hand furniture would tell tales of terror and abuse.

“Look at my back leg,” the tallboy moaned. “Two brothers fighting took that one. I’ve had this old board to hold me up since.”

“My scratches,” wailed the dining room table. “I’ll never be glossy and polished again!”

But it was the old sofa on the corner that earned the most pity. Its upholstery torn and stained, cotton wool peeping out and missing an entire cushion, the old couch had seen it all.

“A family of thirteen,” the old voice croaked. “One beast jumped on me and broke my spine, another pulled out the horsehair for a school project, and I won’t even tell you the details of the season the entire bunch of them had the stomach flu.”

When I was purchased by a quiet couple, starting out their marriage, I considered myself lucky. The man was out all the time, and the woman seemed to prefer to spend her time with the piano bench.

I didn’t mind. Life was easy.

The day they brought home a baby, I worried. “My bright covers! My arms! This child will be the ruin of me!”

But the boy left me alone. The floor was his domain. Each day he would amass a collection of blocks and cars and small animals and build great cities. Each day he would spill something, too. I never spent much effort getting to know the carpets in those years. They never stayed long enough.

By the time the boy became slightly less clumsy, he had moved to the table and chairs near me. He was a serious boy, and rarely had any friends over. He would sit quietly and do schoolwork or read. I wondered why he looked so sad.

Then the man began to spend his nights on the couch. I never saw the woman, though I could hear her talking quietly with the others in the private rooms. I wasn’t a proper place for a grown man to sleep, though I must admit he did rarely spend a full night stretched out over me. His nights were spent out of the flat, or pacing the floor. Even the nights he spent in the bedroom, I doubt he got any rest.

Eventually, he returned to the bedroom. The flat was silent through the day and I was left to my thoughts. In the evenings, the boy would stay at his place at the table, whilst the man sat in one of the matching chairs, silently smoking.

They didn’t talk much, not really, though it felt as if there was so much to be said. The man worked and smoked, the boy read and played his music. Sometimes, I would see one watch the other, a helpless expression on his face. Neither ever sat upon me, and after ten years, I looked as good as new.

I was grateful; I was a handsome couch, and could last for decades. There was little chance I would end up old and worn out at a second-hand shop. The few times a visitor came by, I was always admired. It is possible that I grew vain.

After months of no visitors, life in the flat changed very suddenly. The boy and the man had a new friend. A quiet, small young woman, she soon found a comfortable spot on the handsome gold sofa near the lamp. Her visits became frequent, and though I began to see much more use, she was careful to care for me properly. She made sure my cushions were rotated, and soon after she came to live in the flat, I was vacuumed frequently.

It seemed that I was, if you’ll pardon the expression, “sitting pretty.”

Oh, how wrong I was. The woman was little, and took excellent care of me. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough for the man to be home, he sat upon me, as well. And not on his proper cushion on the other half. No, the man insisted on sitting as close as possible to his new favorite. Right over two cushions. At the same time! The man had no thought for symmetry or wear! I began to show signs of use.

Perhaps if the man and woman had been content to sit still, it would not have been so defeating. But they never seemed to be settled in one spot for long. Once the boy left of an evening, they would shift and nudge and thump. Their giggles and sighs only infuriated me more.

And shoes! They completely forgot themselves and for the first time ever, shoes scraped against my beautiful cushions. I was furious. The shoes had to go.

And then the shoes went.

My friend, I blush to tell you that the shoes were only to first of many items to be removed. More than one morning I was awakened by the presence of a cufflink poking through my fabric. The deep corners and recesses of my shape became the lost and found of the detritus of their shenanigans.

So now, no longer the proud, handsome showpiece, fit for the display window of the best furniture retailers, I am an ordinary, faded gold sofa.

And the worst of all, further proof of my disastrous decline, I have discovered the fact that will most assuredly put me in the back corner of the saddest of all charity shops.

Now they have a baby.

Courting Shelagh, Epilogue

Posted on April 23, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Prior Chapter

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

My head canon has the Turners out of that flat and in a cozy house on a square (Maybe one like Rockbird86‘s Moving Day? Actually, exactly like that one). And some dropped-in lines from along the way, too.

Climbing the steps to his front door, Patrick Turner sighed wearily. A week of night duty, plus a long Saturday surgery, and he was weary to the bone. A quick meal, then he’d take the newspaper out into the back garden, cover his face and sleep.

As he turned his key in the lock he was startled by a ball striking against the door, narrowly missing his head. He turned to see the source of his near assault.

“Oi, Dr. Turner! Sorry, sir!” A bright-faced boy of ten ran up to the steps. “Glad I missed yer head!”

Patrick wanted to scold, but the boy’s remorse made him hold back. “Be more careful, Eddie,” Patrick warned. “If you break another window on the street you’ll be in a fix. Is Angela with you children in the park?”

“Yes, sir. She’s…” the boy’s voice trailed off, unwilling to tattle on a playmate.

Patrick nodded. Angela was up to something, but at this moment, he’d rather not know.

“Just make sure she doesn’t break an arm or anything, please? I’d rather sign off for the day.”

The boy laughed. His ball under his elbow, he ran off. “Righto, Dr. Turner!”

The house was quiet as he entered. “Shelagh?” he called. He dropped his medical bag in its place on the hall table and made his way to the kitchen. There was no sign of her, other than a covered plate and a bottle of brown sauce. He peeked under the towel. A bacon buddy, piled nearly as high as he liked with bacon. He smiled. Shelagh did not approve of his tremendous affinity for bacon and rationed his servings. She no doubt assumed (correctly) he had enough out in the cafes and sandwich shops around the East End.

Shelagh also knew what a terribly long week this had been. Calls every night, long clinics and a tedious medical board meeting over the fate of the inoculation program had consumed his time. This sandwich was her gentle way of helping him relax.

Three bites into his lunch, he wandered over to the window and scanned the garden. There she was, weeding in the vegetable patch, her knees resting on an old kitchen mat. Patrick leant up against the sink, admiring the view. Still just shy of forty, his wife was a beauty. The summer sun always lightened her hair just a bit now they had this house and garden, and he loved the few freckles that appeared on her nose for a few brief weeks. A smirk crossed his face. It wasn’t the freckles he was appreciating at the moment. Patrick wondered if Shelagh had any idea what that skirt did to her form as she knelt over her work.

Despite his fatigue, he could feel his body respond to the sight. He missed Shelagh. How long had it been? Patrick considered for a moment. He’d been out every night this week, and the weekend before Angela had been ill with a stomach ‘flu… He started. Nine days!

Nine days was completely ridiculous. He would be certain not to make it run to ten.

Shelagh stood and removed her gloves, brushing the dust from her skirt. With a twist of her hips, she bent to lift the basket of weeds to toss, then headed inside. Patrick turned on the tap, warming the water for her to wash up.

“Patrick! I didn’t hear you come in, dearest. How was the clinic?” She reached up to kiss his cheek before moving to the sink to wash her hands. Patrick smiled. He could practically hear her thinking, ‘Briskly, beyond the wrists…’

Shelagh continued, “I’ve made you some lunch. Sorry it’s not warm, but it will be a busy afternoon and I needed to clean up.”

Patrick moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Burying his face in her hair he murmured, “It’s eaten. Let me thank you properly.”

Shelagh laughed and reached for the tea towel. Turning in his arms, she answered, “That won’t be necessary, Patrick. A thank you is quite enough, It was just a bacon sandwich.”

“Not just for the food. Let me thank you properly for everything.” His hands travelled down to her hips, and his eyes gleamed.

“Patrick,” Shelagh scolded mildly.

“Shelagh,” Patrick coaxed. “The children are out, we have the afternoon…”

Shelagh placed her hands on his shoulders. “Patrick, you’ve forgotten. We promised Tim we’d go to his cricket game this afternoon. It’s the last one before he leaves for university.”

Patrick groaned. “When do we leave?”

“We have to be there by two, so we should leave in an hour, perhaps?” She pushed against the counter and made to move.

“An hour? That’s plenty of time for now.” He nibbled on her ear and whispered. “A refresher? To warm us up for later?”

“I have to make up a basket of food. I promised,” Shelagh protested half-heartedly.

Patrick pressed closer to her lithe body. “We’ll stop at the chip shop. We haven’t spent any time together in weeks.”

“Weeks! Patrick, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shelagh laughed.

He growled lightly in her ear.

“Patrick, it has NOT been weeks. It was…” she considered. “It was a week Thursday. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Last Thursday? As long ago as that? Shelagh, that’s forever.” He stood, his face serious. “We spend so little time together now, between my practice, you working, the children. Shelagh, I miss you.”

Abruptly, the front door slammed open, followed by noisy footsteps. Frustrated, Patrick turned to reprimand his daughter, only to be interrupted by his wife.

“Angela Julienne Turner! Whatever on earth have you been up to?”

The youngest member of the household stood before them, covered with mud and grass. Angela bit her lip and looked at the floor. “There was a puddle near the old tree, and I bet Jimmy Feeney I could jump it in one leap.”

Patrick felt his temper rise. Fortunately, Shelagh intervened. “We’ll deal with that later. Right now, we have to get you out of these filthy clothes. Don’t move. It’ll be easier to clean the kitchen floor than the carpets.” She began on the buttons on their daughter’s blouse. “Patrick, dear, you go out to the garden and rest. I’ve got this.”

“No, I’ll clean up this mess. You see to the beast,” Patrick responded resignedly.

Angela giggled. “I am a beast, aren’t I?”

“You’re most certainly not a beauty right now, madam.” He opened the cupboard and took out the mop and pail. “And make sure you help your mother clean up the mess you’ll leave behind in the bath.”

The late afternoon sun barely lit up the Turner’s hallway when they arrived at home a few hours later.

“We forgot to leave the light on again. I hate coming home to a dark house,” Patrick groused.

“That’s easily managed,” Shelagh answered cheerfully, and flicked the switch.

“Daddy, you really need a nap.” Angela piped in.

Determinedly, he ignored her. “When’s dinner?”

“Soon. Why don’t you go have a rest whilst I get things ready? Angela can help me. Come back down in an hour or so.” Shelagh leant up and kissed his cheek.

“It’s probably for the best. I’ve been a bear today.” He patted her shoulder and turned to go up the stairs.

The bed creaked mildly as he sat to remove his shoes. “A nap. It’s like I’m another child in this house.”

He shook his head. He was being unfair. It was his own mood that brought him up here, Shelagh was only trying to help. The afternoon at the cricket pitch would have been a disaster if not for her. Angela’s scrape had made them nearly late, something Tim was quick to blame his father for. Only Shelagh’s gentle handling had prevented the two males from having a row right then and there.

He could feel himself start to relax. Maybe he was simply overtired. Mentally, he reviewed the calendar for the next week. Night duty at the maternity ward on Tuesday, but the rest of the week wasn’t so bad. Thank goodness there were no more meetings anticipated with Mr. Hargrove. The inoculation program was safe for the time being.

Hopefully, Angela’s shenanigans and the preparations for Tim’s departure wouldn’t consume them. Poor Tim. Shelagh had shopped and stacked and packed the boy to the end of his patience. With two weeks to go, little else remained on her to-do list. The chaos should settle down.

He would ask Tim to sit with Angela one night. He and Shelagh hadn’t been out alone together for months. Whatever happened to their plan of making time to go out once a week?

As he drifted to sleep, the answer came to him.

Life.

Two hours later, Patrick woke to darkened room. He glanced at his watch, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see the small dials in such dim light, and sat up. It couldn’t be that late, he could hear noise from downstairs. He stood and stretched. Time to rejoin the world.

On his way down to the kitchen he paused. There was music coming from the sitting room, yet the room seemed dark. He pulled the doors open and stopped, stunned. In the far corner, the small table usually reserved for homework or crafts glowed under candlelight, draped by a crisp white linen tablecloth and set with the good china. Beside it, stood Shelagh in her favorite going-out dress.

Patrick stepped quietly to his wife. “What’s all this?” he wondered aloud.

“I thought perhaps we could make an evening of it. I’ve shipped Angela off to Charlotte’s for the night, and Tim won’t be home until quite late.” She reached for his hands.

“We’ve barely had any time together these last weeks, and it’s time to make a change. We can’t let life get in the way all the time, dearest. Sometimes we have to come first.”

Patrick smiled. With certainty of long practice, he removed her glasses to his shirt pocket and pulled her close. They let the music surround them as they began to move to the music.

“What would I do without you, Shelagh?” he murmured in her ear. “You always know how to make everything better.”

Shelagh pressed herself even closer, her smooth cheek grazing his rough one. “Hmmm…” she purred. “Perhaps it would be best if we discuss what you’ll do with me?”

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.

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 4

Posted on February 16, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

Hours later in the quiet flat, Shelagh put the last of the dishes away. With a tired sigh, she looked around the pristine kitchen, then took off her apron. She could hear the bathtub drain as Timothy finished in the bath, his night nearly over.

Patrick would come home after a difficult night and would need something in his stomach to help him sleep. She set the tea try, leaving a slice of her ham and egg pie under a dampened serviette to prevent it from drying, and left the kitchen.

The sight of Timothy, fresh-faced and pink under the blankets on his bed, made her smile tenderly. His hair was still plastered wetly to his head, and his pyjama top was misbuttoned. It was at times like this it was easy to see the young boy he was so rapidly leaving behind.

Picking up the towel left on the lid of his clothes bin, she chuckled. “There now, you’ll catch your death going to bed with a wet head like that. Sit up, I’ll dry it for you.” Settling on the side of his bed, she waited as he shifted into position.

“There’s some doubt now that being cold actually causes a cold, you know. A cold is caused by a virus, Mum, and a virus isn’t looking for a cold spot. Going to bed with wet hair is highly unlikely to give me a head cold.” In one sentence, the emerging adolescent reappeared.

“Well, it will certainly give you a wet pillow, young man,” Shelagh laughed as she vigorously rubbed at his head. “Be still for two minutes and make your mother happy.”

She finished with a flourish, and reached for the comb on his bedside table.

“Mum,” Timothy complained. “I can do that.”

“If you’re sure,” she teased. She ran her fingers through the lightly damp hair falling over his forehead. “Don’t stay up too late tonight. The medical world needs your insight.”

The flat was quiet again, and Shelagh returned to the sitting room. No matter how hard she tried, she didn’t seem able to keep ahead of the mess in there. Laundry spilled over from its basket, a pile of school books scattered across the table, and Angela’s toys were simply everywhere.

Starting her clockwise turn around the room, Shelagh organized books into Tim’s school bag and signed a forgotten permission slip. The laundry was next, a never-ending task that made Shelagh long for the new-fangled machines they were seeing in the paper.

“I doubt those machines will fold and put away,” she muttered. “But if a man were in charge of … Oh, for goodness’ sake, Shelagh! Will you stop with that today?” She sat down on the sofa in frustration and rested her chin in her hands. Why was she in such a mood? she wondered.

Today wasn’t so different from most days. She spent her time caring for her family, and she loved it. She relished in the fact that Patrick needed her so, and her family was everything to her. Daily life certainly wasn’t glamorous, or even exciting sometimes, but there were moments of such joy.

Shelagh stood and rolled her shoulders back. Just under the curio cabinet she could spy that giraffe they’d been searching for since dinner.

Finally finished for the evening, Shelagh sat at her vanity brushing her hair. Her thoughts travelled back to her conversation with Trixie. She would have to check back to see if she had been correct in her diagnosis of Mrs. Young. Humility aside, she was certain she had not been mistaken.

For years, she had been the midwife called in for the rare and difficult cases, and she felt the glory of God through her work. Now, her life in midwifery seemed so far away, and so intrinsically tied to her former life as a nun. Perhaps that was why she had never considered continuing her work once she left the order.

She shook her head. No, she thought. When she chose her new life, she was deciding not just to marry, but to be a mother to Tim, and any other babies God would give them. Her heart tugged for a moment for that lost chance. She had been so hopeful.

God had found another way to answer her prayers, and she was truly grateful. Angela filled in her heart, just as Timothy and Patrick did. Placing her hairbrush on the table, she moved to the cot next to her bed.

No matter how many times she put Angela on her back, her daughter always found her way into her favorite position. Shelagh ever-so-lightly ran her hand down the length of the little back, coming to rest on the little bottom jutting up in the air.

“Precious Angel Girl,” Shelagh whispered. The baby sighed and found her thumb, settling back to sleep. Shelagh sat on the edge of the bed, her head resting on the cot’s rail. “How could I ever consider leaving you, even for a little while?” Her hand caressed the downy pale hair that covered the baby’s head. Just two short months ago, there was so little, the baby still appeared bald, and in another few months, it would be long enough to curl about her ears.

There were so many changes ahead. Baby to toddler, toddler to child; Shelagh didn’t want to miss a moment. She was completely certain that nothing could bring her the joy that her family did. But there was still that nagging feeling, just in the back of her mind. Not quite a thought, just…a feeling. A feeling that there was something else to consider.

Shelagh smiled knowingly. Life had taught her that she would need to heed the call of her subconscious. Ignoring her feelings before had only led to heartache. As in the past when she had denied her growing need for a family and Patrick to share it with, or buried her fears that Patrick was holding himself back from her, her problems would not disappear because she pretended they did not exist.

Only by facing these questions had she found peace. For now, she would love her family and focus her energies on them. But these questions would need answers.

It was time to decide exactly what the questions were.

Epilogue

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 3

Posted on February 15, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

A/N: There’s a moment at the wedding (oh, you know what wedding I mean), when Chummy hands baby Freddy over to Peter and there is such a look of relief on her face. She loves that baby, but oh, sometimes, you just need someone to take that baby, just for one moment. Of course, two moments later, you’re aching to hold your baby again.)

Previous Chapter

It was a quarter past four when Shelagh finally pushed the pram up to the large door at Nonnatus House. Shelagh hated to be late, and prided herself on not only her own promptness, but in having improved Patrick’s.

With a still cranky Angela in her arms, she started up the stone steps, only to be met by a bustling Sister Evangelina on her way out.

“We could certainly use you today, Mrs. Turner,” the cantankerous nun huffed. “Three of the six midwives all out on a delivery this afternoon, and the rest behind on calls. Can’t be helped, I suppose, but an extra set of hands would not go amiss.” Before Shelagh could respond, the nun was off on her way.

Shelagh sighed, and made her way through the opened door.

“My dear, I’m so glad you’re able to join me this afternoon!” Sister Julienne called in greeting. The nun reached out for her little pet, and Shelagh felt a sigh of relief as she passed her daughter over.

“Good afternoon, Sister. I see you’re having a busy day,” Shelagh glanced after Sister Evangelina.

“Indeed.” Calmly the nun allowed Angela to tug on her wimple. Shelagh resisted the urge to correct her daughter. Sister Julienne would have none of that, she knew. Whilst at Nonnatus, Angela was to be coddled.

Sister Julienne continued, “I do hope our visit isn’t interrupted, but I’m afraid it is a possibility. Mrs. Pound has called to say she’s starting to feel some twinges.”

Following her dear friend to the sitting room, Shelagh responded, “Oh, dear. She’s still got another three weeks, surely?”

“Yes, but it is her first, and as we know, a new mother is bound to be a bit nervous.” Sister Julienne turned her attention back to Angela. “Perhaps we should settle down to tea, just in case.”

As usual, Mrs. B.’s tea was worth the difficulties getting to Nonnatus House. A strong Darjeeling scented the air, and the lightest of almond sponges graced the best cake plate. As Nonnatus had become frequent host to infants of late, a sturdy high chair stood to the side of Sister Julienne’s favored seat, a collection of old wooden spoons for Angela’s amusement on the tray.

Glancing over the rim of her teacup, Sister Julienne remarked, “You seem a bit distracted today, my dear. Would you like to tell me about it?”

Shelagh looked up from the spoon she was retrieving from the floor for the fifth time. She could deny it, pretend that all was as usual, but she knew better. Her old friend would see through her denials, and though she would not comment further, would be concerned.

“Its just been a rather frustrating day, that’s all. I shouldn’t complain really. It’s all just a bit of nonsense.” She did not meet the nun’s eyes, and kept her own on her daughter.

“Shelagh, we all have those days where nothing seems to go right. But simply because we all have them doesn’t mean our own are not important.”

Shelagh glanced up. “I suppose you’re right, Sister, but I feel as if I’m complaining about what I wanted more than anything else.” She stood and moved to retreive Angela’s bottle from her bag.

“Let me feed her,” Sister Julienne requested. “Your tea will cool and you look like you need it.” Her gentle smile took any edge of from her words. She lifted her god-daughter from the chair and settled in comfortably on the worn sofa. “I’ll feed her, and you enjoy your tea as you tell me about your day.”

Knowing she would be better for talking about it, Shelagh agreed. “It was just an ordinary day. Lots of little things, none all that important, but I’ve just got myself in such a mood today. Strange, actually the day started off so well.” She thought back to her morning. “I had to leave the kitchen a mess when we went out to do errands, and Angela didn’t get a very good nap because Patrick needed…Oh, just nonsense, really. I suppose I need a nap myself,” she smiled ruefully. For some reason, an image of the heavily pregnant Louisa March flashed before her eyes.

“It’s never nonsense, my dear. Aristotle never raised a family. Sometimes, the the sum of its parts is greater than the whole!

“When I was at Nonnatus, there were so many days that were filled with tiny little problems, and it never seemed to bother me. Today couldn’t possibly compare, and it’s completely set me off.” Her fingers worried at a stray string on the sofa pillows. “I have everything I ever dreamed of, there’s no reason for feeling this way.”

Sister Julienne reached out and covered the younger woman’s hand with her own. “Simply because you feel frustration does not mean you are unhappy, my dear, or even ungrateful. I remember my mother used to say, ‘A single day with a child can go on forever, but the years will fly by.’”

Shelagh gave her a watery smile. “That’s it exactly. I look at Timothy, and sometimes all I can see is the small boy he was just a short while ago, and others, he’s a young man, ready to take on the world.” Finished with her bottle, Angela popped up her head up and reached for her mother. Shelagh held out her arms and relaxed visibly as they fit themselves together. “And this little angel changes nearly every day.

“I really am very happy, Sister, but it helps to talk it over with you.”

Sister Julienne nodded widely, her shoulders leaning in. “I’m so very glad, my dear.”

The loud thud of the heavy front door closing caught their attention. A quick clatter of shoes through the hall followed, and in a moment they were joined by a frazzled Trixie Franklin.

“Good afternoon, Shelagh, Sister Julienne,” the typically perky nurse collapsed into the nearby chair. “What a day. Ten calls just this afternoon! Four first-time mothers, two newborns and another four home checks. Honestly, Sister, this community is running us off our feet!

The two older women exchanged knowing glances. “I’m quite certain after a cup of tea, you’ll feel much more yourself. Please, help yourself,” Sister Julienne gestured towards the teapot.

Trixie sat up, suddenly realizing she was intruding. “Thank you, Sister, but I’ll leave you both to your visit.” She stood, eyeing the almond sponge. “But if you wouldn’t mind?” she questioned.

Shelagh smiled. She had talked about her own confusion enough for today. “Trixie, please sit down and take tea. Sister Julienne and I have had our nice, cozy chat. I’m sure we’d both like to hear about your rounds today.”

Grateful, Trixie began to make a plate for herself as Sister Julienne prepared her tea. “Thank you, Shelagh. I did have a question I wanted to review with Sister Julienne, if you don’t mind?”

Shelagh felt another twinge of annoyance, but hid it well. “Of course,” she replied. “Don’t mind us.” She fussed with Angela’s yellow jumper.

Trixie swallowed a gulp of her tea. “Sister, I had the strangest home visit today. Mrs. Young is very nearly thirty-six weeks along with her first, and she’s complaining of the strangest symptoms. Her hands and feet are terribly itchy! It’s quite maddening, really. The poor thing is hardly getting any sleep at all! I’ve never come across anything like it, Sister. I’m not sure if it’s simply a sign of her stress, or something more serious.”

“Itchy hands and feet?” The nun wondered. “How strange. Are there any other symptoms?”

“Everything else seems perfectly normal. I’m quite puzzled.” Trixie sipped her tea. “The poor thing has been a bit nauseous, but that’s nothing unusual.”

“I am sorry to interrupt, but did you notice if perhaps Mrs. Young is looking a bit jaundiced?” Shelagh asked quietly.

“Jaundiced? No, I didn’t notice-but she is a bit more of an olive complexion, perhaps I didn’t look? Why? Could that mean something?” Trixie asked.

“Well, as I haven’t seen Mrs. Young myself, I really couldn’t say. But it could be Cholestasis of pregnancy. It’s possible that the increase in pregnancy hormones — such as occurs in the third trimester — may slow the normal flow of bile out of the liver. Eventually, the buildup of bile in the liver allows bile acids to enter the bloodstream. Bile acids deposited in the mother’s tissues can lead to itching.” Unconsciously, Shelagh had assumed a more precise way of speaking, and would have been surprised to know how closely she resembled Sister Bernadette at that moment. The similarity was not lost on her companions.

“Oh, dear,” Trixie worried. “Should I alert Doctor Turner at once?”

Shelagh shook her head. “No, it’s not an emergency situation. Simply include a note in your write up today, and schedule a follow-up consultation with the doctor. Mrs. Young is in no real danger, but her baby should be monitored. The most likely outcome is that her labor will be induced a bit early to prevent any possible harm to the baby.”

Trixie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness I mentioned it! What would we do without you, Shelagh? We should all be taking classes with you again!”

Next Chapter

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

	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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