Tag Archives: Shelagh Turner

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 6

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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.”

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The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 5

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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

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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

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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

Unexpected Intimacies

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The pre-dawn light was only just beginning to break through the heavy curtains, a sliver of grey in the deep darkness of the bedroom. Wide awake, Shelagh lay as still as possible, listening to the even, deep breaths of her sleeping husband.

She stared at the ceiling, unsure of what to do. For her entire adult life, she had begun each morning with prayers and devotions. These last few mornings since their marriage, however, she had awakened to find Patrick watching her. She smiled as she remembered the look in his eyes, their invitation easily accepted.  Prayers had come later.

This morning she found she lacked the concentration necessary for prayer and Shelagh turned her head to watch her husband’s face as he slept. He looked different, younger. The lines were smoother, his face tranquil. He looked content. She liked to think she knew the reason for this; that she was the reason for this.

During their extended courtship Patrick had shown a tenderness and patience with her, giving her the time she needed to become comfortable with the physical side of their relationship. Ignorant of passion for so long, she had been too preoccupied with the dawning awareness of her own desires to note his response.

Since their marriage, she was more aware of his eagerness for her and finally understood how he must have held back. His desire for her gave her a sense of power she never expected. It excited her, made her feel things she never had before. Patrick needed her, and she was happy let him take fulfilment in her.

He stirred, and the movement drew her eyes to the column of his neck. She watched as his pulse throbbed rhythmically, her breathing growing heavier as she imagined pressing her lips there. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she tore her eyes from that spot. The path they took along the length of his throat, shadowed by the night’s growth of beard, only increased the growing urgency she felt and was unable to ease.

She closed her eyes again, willing her body to calm. If she could just focus her mind on her meditations, she thought, she could get these feelings under control. It had worked in the past, those long months when she tried to deny her feelings for Patrick, and even during their courtship, when she was learning the physical symptoms of her love.

She resisted the urge to stretch her legs, recalling the delight of the unexpected intimacy of the soles of her feet pressed to the smooth skin at the top of his. She was surprised by the things that triggered her response to him. The feel of the sharp wings of his scapula under her fingers, the long plane of his back, even the sound of his exhale after he drew on a cigarette made her body thrill. His voice would hit a certain timbre, and suddenly her heart would pound.

Trying to calm herself, Shelagh breathed deeply and inhaled his scent. His body, so close, warmed her. Her eyes flickered open, and she shyly studied the firm rounded muscle of his shoulder, the smooth contours of his chest. If he were awake, she knew he would reach for her, make her aware of his desire and gratify her own.

Would he be shocked if he knew what she was feeling right now, she wondered. In the pale light, she blushed at the thought of initiating lovemaking. She couldn’t. Not yet. For so long she had sublimated physical desire into meditation and prayer, service to others. She wasn’t ready to consider this new role.

“Good morning,” he whispered. His hand came up to tangle in her hair, tilting her mouth up for his kiss.

Shelagh exhaled, a sigh of relief, and followed his lead.

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 3

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Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay away from Gary,” Tim grimaced.

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

“‘Night, Mum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?” Patrick breathed deeply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

The Paper Anniversay, Chapter 2

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

Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Timothy didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 1

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

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

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

“Angela!” grumped her brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Wednesday, Patrick.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

“Patrick.” Her voice grew sharper.

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

“Yes, dear?”

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

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

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

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

“Me,” Patrick said ruefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight they would talk about this.

Next Chapter

Love Fills In

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

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

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

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

Dear Helen,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most sincerely,

Angela Turner

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

“Mum?” she called through the flat.

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

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

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

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

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

Shelagh sighed gently. “Always, Angel Girl.”

 

 

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 4, Honesty

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Previous Chapter

At last! The final chapter!

 

Before long, her self-confinement became stifling, and she ventured out of her room. Still unwilling to join in with the others, she turned to the outdoors to find solace. Soon the gardens became her favorite spot. The moment she stepped out of the building breathing became easier, her head came up higher. In the garden she could finally open her mind.

Each day she would follow the outer circle of the parterre. The repetition of movement required no concentration and she welcomed the return of activity in her muscles. Guided by the low dark green shrubs, the white stones reflecting light back at her, she felt her body relax and gradually she felt her spirit unclench. The garden became her chapel.

As layers of tension began to unravel in her mind, she could sense her faith resurface. Long buried under the weight of her anxieties, but never truly gone,  she began to again feel the presence of God. The fog of fear and confusion that had consumed her mind cleared and she realized with a grateful heart that she had not been abandoned by Him, after all.

God was with her, all long. His voice had been there, calling to her. Lost in the wilderness, she had stopped listening. Perhaps because of strange new emotions, she had closed herself off from solace when she needed it most. Opening her heart to Him again, she knew should would find her answers.

God had provided her comfort and purpose in her life. His love had consoled her in her grief and helped her understand and forgive the transgressions of others. It was those acts of forgiveness which formed the very foundation of her faith.

Forgiveness. The word crossed in front of her eyes like a banner headline. God’s love was forgiveness. She had seen enough of forgiveness to recognize its power for good, and the pain caused by its absence. Christ taught that forgiveness was the most important gift one could offer and that one must forgive oneself. She knew this, believed it. Surely, then, she must learn to forgive herself?

The weight lifted from her shoulders and she grew stronger.

As the summer began to wane, she shifted her route, her path creating an arabesque. The regular but intricate path skirted the fountain, passing by the fragrant knots of lavender and sage, the glossy green holly. As her feet learned the path, her mind explored her rediscovered faith.

God had not abandoned her. His voice was there, but she had not listened. Losing her way, she allowed feelings of confusion and guilt  blind her to the choice God had placed before her. Guilt which did not come from God, but rather from within herself. Confident in her faith, she shook the guilt off and allowed herself to see the truth.

She had come to a crossroads. For many years, her life had fulfilled her. Caring for others had been her joy. But if she were completely honest with herself, she also knew that with her vocation, she had allowed herself to remain on the fringes of life. She could be of service to people who needed her, but did not have to risk anything of herself. Now, she realized, that was not enough.

Her life was her own and she would devote it to God’s service. But was staying with the Order the only path to do so? The work of a home was just as much God’s work as the religious life. Free from the fear that had frozen her mind, she allowed herself to consider her heart. She had never thought to be a wife and mother, yet now she felt pangs of yearning for that life. To know someone most intimately, to be the focus of their life, was that what she sought? To be a part of life, in all its messiness and passion?

What was it she wanted of her life, then? She thought of the pile of unopened letters in her drawer, hidden away. The strange connection she felt with the author confused her. Were her feelings simply a result of  human attraction? The physical response she felt towards him, while deep, could as yet be temporary. She could not consider them, not until she knew where she was going.

Serenity crept up on her, unnoticed, that autumn.

She welcomed the chill in the air, just enough to stir her blood as she ambled randomly through the garden knot. The last burst of scent from the lavender and sage filled her lungs, and she caressed the glossy leaves of the hollybush. She remembered back to her early days at the sanatorium, terrified and lonely, refusing to join the world and was grateful for her journey.

The path led her to the fountain today, as it did every day, now. She sat upon the stone ledge and drifted her fingers along the surface of the cold water. A cricket chirped nearby, and she suspected that a small frog was peeking up at her from beneath the water lily.

A lazy water bug scooted by, and she thought of Timothy, how he would pepper her with questions, or try to impress her with new-found knowledge of the insect. The young boy was smart, and so curious as to ensure that his mind would always be first rate. Smiling, she felt proud and something else she would not name, yet.

She considered where the path would take her now. God had placed her here to find herself, to decide where she belonged. If she stayed with Nonnatus, she would know His love but not His joy.

It would be difficult to leave the Order. She would hurt many for whom she cared deeply, and would leave behind all she knew to be safe. But this was the path she had chosen.

No matter where this path took her, she was on the right road. She was not sure of whom she would become, but today, she decided, she began to find her way.

It was time to call Nonnatus House.

It was time to become Shelagh Mannion again.