Caught Yellow-Handed

Posted on October 21, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

If you give a Nonnatun a Granny Parker post, she’s going to want a Shelagh painting fic.

This one goes out to MissOuiser, whose twisted mind took us from discussing the complicated relationship between a widower and his mother-in-law to Shelagh prancing around in entirely un-Shelagh-like trousers, determined to redecorate that ridiculous flat. I begged her to let me do this when calls for a fic started to make their inevitable appearance on Tumblr. Thanks for the inspiration, Weezy, and the permission to write this ridiculous bit of fluff.

For most families, the hours between five and seven in the evening bring a level of barely controlled chaos that should be studied by military strategists. Dinner preparations, schoolwork, and cranky youngsters, all convening within a ten foot radius of one particular person, require a delicate balance of attention to avoid complete pandemonium. On this particular evening, the Turner household was dangerously close to such an end.

“Timothy, please clear away your things from the table, I need to get dinner settled quickly if we’re going to make it to the Science Fair on time tonight. And no jokes about your father being late. You lost all mocking privileges when you left finishing your project to the last minute.” Shelagh grimaced as she lifted the pot of boiling potatoes to the sink. If she hurried, she would have just enough time to re-do her hair before they would sit down to a hasty meal.

“It’s only the silly poster I had left to do. I don’t know why they make such a big deal about a piece of cardboard. It’s the project that’s important, isn’t it? You’d think Mr. Fitzpatrick would be more interested in the fact that I’ve figured a new way to sanitize the bathroom sink than how many colors I use on my poster. I hate using these new markers, they get all over my-” Timothy’s voice cut off quickly, a sharp gasp finishing his sentence.

Shelagh turned, her vision fogged by the steaming potatoes. “What is it?”

“Angela! No!” Timothy cried. He rushed around to the table. “Thank goodness,” he breathed. “The poster’s fine.”

The pot clattered on the cooker and Shelagh joined him in the sitting room. “What was that all about?” she asked.

“Angela had my red marker, I thought she’d scribbled on my-” This time, Timothy’s voice disappeared altogether and Shelagh’s eyes followed his.

Now, remember. It’s the witching hour in a family’s day. Under usual circumstances, the sight of a two-year old happily keeping herself occupied as her mother scrambled to the climax of the afternoon would bring a sigh of contentment from said maternal figure. Dinner would come together, books would be closed and the family would sit down to enjoy a cheerful end to the day.

Alas, when said toddler’s employment involved a large, red, permanent marker and a sitting room wall, little cheer would come of it.

“Angela Julienne!” cried her thunderstruck mother.

The little girl glanced up innocently. “Painting, Mummy!” She turned back to the task at hand.

Timothy acted quickly, and plucked the offending tool from his sister’s plump little hand. “At least she didn’t paint herself, Mum. Then we’d never make the Science Fair on time.”

The front door opened. “I told you I’d make it on time!” called Patrick. He turned the corner into the sitting room, a smile on his good-natured face. Now that Shelagh had his practice in fine working order, family nights were a source of delight and not yet another strain on his limited time. Shelagh’s dinner and an evening showcasing his son’s academic success were a very satisfying way to end the day.

Unaware of the scene he had missed, Patrick lifted his daughter up in his arms. “Hello, Angel Girl! How was your day? Were you a good girl for Mummy?”

He accepted her little arms tight around his neck and turned to his wife and son. “Why do I have the feeling I’ve made a mess?” he wondered aloud.

For a week, Shelagh struggled to remove her daughter’s graffiti. She tried scrubbing. She tried solvents. Utterly baffled by the resilience of Timothy’s poster-making supplies, she finally gave in and made a plan.

Simply painting the sitting room would never do, of course. Once completed, the new decor would make the kitchen seem shabby, and if they were painting the kitchen too, they might as well paint the hallway. Shelagh knew she couldn’t press her luck, and restricted her plans to the public rooms. Patrick would resist, but if she handled this wisely, he’d be in it before he even knew it had begun.

At the breakfast table Friday morning she announced, “We’re going to have to paint the flat. I’m sorry, dearest, it can’t be helped.”

Patrick sighed. “Surely not, Shelagh. I’m certain we have a can of the old paint in one of the storage closets. We’ll simply paint over the…artwork. It will be fine.” There were few jobs Patrick Turner hated more than painting.

“It will not be fine, Patrick. The ink is too strong, and that paint is too old. It’ll bleed straight through. We’ll have to paint the whole room.” Shelagh was not going to back down.

Patrick knew when he was beaten. “I suppose.” He tossed his napkin to his plate and stood. “I’ll call Len Warren and see what he can do.”

“Mr. Warren can’t help us, I’m afraid. I’ve seen him and he’s booked solid through the autumn. And don’t suggest Fred. I do love him, but he’s never been much in the way of a careful painter. Besides, Mrs. Buckle has him busy building new shelves for the shop’s addition. We’ll have to do it ourselves.”

Patrick’s face flooded with color. “Oh, no, Shelagh,” he shook his finger. “I am not using the few hours I get off to paint. No. I won’t do it, Shelagh.”

“Nice try, Dad. I said the same thing when she told me I was going with Angela to Nonnatus for the entire weekend. Mum has a way of getting us to do exactly what she wants.”

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

Saturday morning dawned on a Turner flat transformed by canvas sheets and newspapers spread out on the floor. A grumpy Patrick stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on his hips. Breakfast on Saturday was supposed to be a grand affair, even on clinic days, not a quick gobble and a trip to Nonnatus to drop the children. “I’m feeling a bit managed, Shelagh,” he complained. “I thought we were painting the sitting room.”

“If we’re painting the sitting room, we might as well paint the rest, dearest.” She patted his forearm. “I know it looks like a lot, but Fred’s paint rollers will make the walls fly right by, you’ll see.”

Patrick was unconvinced. “Hmmm,” he muttered. “More likely the weekend will fly right by. First Saturday in months that I haven’t had to take morning clinic, and I get to spend it painting.”

He watched as Shelagh finished putting away the breakfast dishes, her hair pulled back in a jaunty ponytail. She looked young and fresh and happy. That was a new outfit, he noticed. Shelagh never wore trousers of any sort, and these pedal pushers were a complete surprise. Closely fitted and tapered to reveal her trim ankles, they showed off her curves in ways that distracted his mind from the task at hand.

An idea occurred to him, and he stepped closer to his wife. “Seems a shame to waste such a fetching outfit on a paint job. A shame to waste a weekend without the children, too.” He nuzzled behind her ear.

Shelagh giggled. “Patrick, behave. We’re painting today and that’s final. Besides, I’m wearing these trousers to paint because I’ll never wear them outside the flat. I have no idea how I let myself be convinced to buy them in the first place. If I get paint all over them, I won’t feel so guilty leaving them in the wardrobe.”

His hands travelled to rest on her hips. “Maybe just a little warm up?” His voice was husky. “Half an hour in our room and I’ll give you the rest of the day in here.” His lips slid along the length of her jaw. “An hour, most.”

But Shelagh was not to be deterred. “I know you, Patrick Turner. An hour will turn into the entire morning, and then the early afternoon, and before I know it this will never get done.” She pushed against his shoulders. “I will let you pick the best roller, though.”

“Wonderful,” the disappointed man groused. “Not exactly what I’d call a fair trade.”

Shelagh moved to the cans of paint on the table and opened the largest one.

“Yellow? For the sitting room? Won’t that be a bit much?” Patrick questioned. His brow furrowed in bewilderment.

“No. Yellow will be perfect, dear. I did ask for your input, you’ll remember. You said whatever I liked was fine with you.” The pale yellow emulsion poured like sunshine into the paint tray.

“That’s because I knew you’d pick whatever color you wanted anyway,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

“What’s that dear?”

Patrick lifted a paint roller and felt its weight in his hand. “Won’t yellow clash with the furniture? It’s a grand color choice, Shelagh, but won’t that be a bit…much?”

“No, I’ve got that settled. We’ve talked about replacing that old suite from your mother’s house for a long time. Now’s our chance. I’ve ordered a new sofa, in navy blue, and two new chairs. Brown leather. I’m sure you’ll love them.”

Holding the tray of paint aloft, Shelagh glided past her husband into the sitting room.

Shaking himself from his surprise, Patrick followed. “Shelagh,” he grumbled. “ I am being managed, aren’t I?”

With a saucy grin, Shelagh loaded her roller with paint and considered the best place to begin.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, dearest.”

Six hours, three tea breaks and a quick lunch later, Patrick and Shelagh stood back and admired their handiwork.

“I have to hand it to you, sweetheart,” Patrick admitted. “The yellow was an excellent choice. I’m even starting to like it with the grey mouldings.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it to the table.

Shelagh turned to face her husband, shocked.

“If this medical line doesn’t work out, we should consider giving Len Warren a run for his business. Two coats of paint throughout in less than a day? We’d make a fortune! And look at you, not a drop of paint on those trousers.” Patrick grinned mischievously, and pulled her to him. “I quite like them, actually. I’m not so sure I’d like the rest of the world to see my gorgeous wife in all her curves, but here at home…” The expression on his wife’s face finally broke through his cheerfulness. “What is it now?” he asked warily.

“We’re not finished, Patrick,” Shelagh admonished. “That was just the wall paint. We’re painting all the mouldings, as well.” Really, Shelagh thought. How on earth could the man think the colors suited each other?

Patrick’s face went blank with shock. “All the mouldings? Shelagh, you can’t be serious. That will take us days!”

“Yes, Patrick. Why on earth else would I send the children to Nonnatus for the entire weekend?”

Patrick sat down on the ladder’s step, dejected, his cheek resting against his fist. He looked up at his wife and waited for her to figure the puzzle out.

Shelagh stared about the room, clearly only half-finished. What on earth did the man think they were going to—

“Patrick!” she cried, astounded. “You didn’t think I planned this whole thing just to get you into bed?”

“A man can hope, can’t he?” he responded ruefully.

Really, Shelagh thought. The man was ridiculous! As if the mere mention of their bedroom door wasn’t enough to get Patrick in the mood. Why on earth would she need to go to such lengths? She shook her head, exasperated.

But he did look awfully attractive, sitting there against the ladder. The sleeves of his old shirt were rolled up, revealing his forearms. She did have a weakness for Patrick’s forearms. Not to mention how his hair flopped very rakishly over his right eye. Despite his confident assurances, there was a smudge of paint there, just at his temple, begging for her to rub off.

The mouldings did need to be painted, of course. But perhaps it would be best if they waited an hour for the walls to dry? Or more? Shelagh was certain she had heard once that sometimes paint could take as many as three hours to dry.

She stepped over to the ladder, her body just a little bit closer to him than necessary. Her fingers slid through the dark hair above his ear, her thumb stroking his brow.

Patrick’s eyes flashed to hers, instantly recognizing the change in mood.

“Maybe we should wait a bit?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Mh-hmm,” Shelagh answered, as her head lowered to his. “Patrick?” she whispered.

His reply was more of a groan. “You know exactly how to manage me, don’t you?”

Her lips smiled against his. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luck, or the Ryan baby, were on Patrick’s side later that evening, for just as the happy painters were about to crack open the can of white paint, a call came in from Nonnatus. Mrs. Ryan, newly admitted to the Maternity Hospital for showing signs of spending too much time on her feet, was likely to need a doctor’s care, and both Drs. Greenwood and Hammond were out on calls.

“I didn’t plan this, Shelagh,” Patrick laughed as he came into the kitchen to say goodbye.

Shelagh placed her paintbrush in the bucket of white paint on the top of the ladder. She hopped lightly down from the ladder, her ponytail again bouncing behind her as she leant up to his kiss. “Of course you didn’t. But you’re certainly not complaining, are you?”

He shook his head. “Not if you insist on painting.” He tugged gently at her new hairstyle. “I do like this, love. Oh, you’ve got a smudge,” he noted, tapping her cheek.

“Where?” Shelagh stepped to the sink and reached for a rag. Just a bit out of her reach. she shifted her body, pressing her hands against the counter as she reached for it. Unfortunately, in their rush to clean up the paint from the walls a few hours earlier, neither she nor Patrick had noticed a smear of yellow paint was left behind. Shelagh’s hands did.

Patrick laughed and taking the rag, wiped her pink cheek clean. “Painting’s not so bad,” he breathed, and pressed his lips to hers. Passion flickered, then quickly flared up. They moved together, arms pulling each other close as the kiss deepened. Long moments went by, then Patrick pulled away.

“Duty calls,” he murmured.

Shelagh sighed heavily. “I understand,” she answered.

Determined to get on with the painting, she turned away and climbed back up the ladder as Patrick shrugged into his jacket.

“Don’t feel you have to save some for me,” he called as he closed the flat door behind him.

The Maternity Hospital was quite a flurry of activity when Patrick arrived. Sister Evangelina, Nurse Franklin and a nervous Sister Winifred tended to the women as he stopped in the ward to review the cases. Mrs. Ryan, grateful for the time off her feet, had settled down nicely, and the worrisome swelling in her ankles would soon lessen.

Assured that all was as it should be, Patrick stood in the doorway.

“Your medical coat, Dr. Turner?” Sister Winifred, never one to like protocol broken, held out his white jacket.

“Yes, thank you, Sister.” He shrugged out of his jacket and turned to accept his uniform.

A twitter broke out among the women, quickly spreading around the ward. Patrick’s eyes darted around the room, confused.

“Mrs. Turner chose yellow for the sitting room walls, I see,” snapped Sister Evangelina. The room burst into laughter.

More than a little confused, Patrick looked for some explanation. Trixie Franklin caught his eye and pointed to his back. Aghast, Patrick lifted his arms and looked behind. There, just below his hips, in a place he could not possibly explain as an innocent mistake, was the evidence.

“My!” exclaimed a very embarrassed Sister Winifred. “Mrs Turner has very small hands!”

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Four

Posted on September 24, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Shelagh’s talk with dear old Fred may have helped her understand more about the complexities of her marriage, but righting the ship will take a bit of time. She’s starting to understand her own emotions, but there are two in a marriage.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

Any other time, the choir’s efforts to tackle such a difficult arrangement would have thrilled Shelagh. In such a short time the women had tackled the difficult task of reaching the high notes of Ave Verum Corpus whilst following her directions for sotto voce. The Bass section was coming along nicely, but the Tenors were still one short, and she could hear a weakness in that void.

The last notes bounced around the community center and Shelagh dropped her hands.

“Very well done, thank you. We’re well on our way to being ready for the competition. I think that will be all tonight, ladies and gentlemen. If you could all be here next week, seven o’clock, we’ll work on our timing.” She turned to Timothy. “Thank you, Timothy, dear. That was quite excellent this evening.”

The boy smiled back, but she could see the worry in his eyes. She glanced away. It wouldn’t do for Timothy to read too much into the situation. Patrick had clearly forgotten about their regular choir practice when he interrupted with Reverend Hereward Men’s Group earlier, despite having been one of the earliest members to join.

But that had been weeks ago, when Shelagh needed him to help rebuild the choir. Patrick’s chair was left empty soon afterward, a victim to his busy schedule. The choir was no longer a priority for him, and she understood.

With a deep breath, Shelagh faced the choir. “As usual, we’ll need to stack the chairs, neatly, if you please, and I’m afraid last time someone left several tea cups in the kitchen sink. I don’t think Timothy will thank you if he has to stay behind to wash up.”

A laugh came up from the group and Shelagh began to gather her score. Mrs. Sills, a rather enthusiastic alto and notorious gossip, joined her at the stage.

“Bit of a surprise to see Doctor Turner show up tonight, Mrs. Turner. I’d’ve thought him, of all people, would know the choir practices here once a week, what with his wife and son here.” Her sly voice did not trick Shelagh.

“Doctor Turner is a very busy man, Mrs. Sills, with many demands on his time. You can understand, of course, that a thing like this might slip his mind.” She kept her eyes on the sheet music she was sorting. Mrs. Sills was not going to get a rise out of her.

“Funny, I reckon you looked surprised when he waltzed in. Sounded a bit put out, too, if I may say.”

Shelagh placed the sheaf of papers on the stage and took a deep breath. Years of handling the mercurial nature of Sister Monica Joan had taught her to keep cool and collected. “Is there anything else, Mrs. Sills? I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

The busybody frowned, unsatisfied. Over her shoulder, she took a parting shot. “It’s so generous of Dr. Turner to give so much of his time to the community. It’s just too bad he doesn’t have time for the choir anymore.”

On the walk home, Shelagh’s attempts at conversation were answered by curt responses, and soon she stopped speaking entirely. Timothy would need help understanding the change in their home, but she would have to wait and follow his lead. She knew he was confused–hurt, even, and she struggled to find a way of comforting him.

The atmosphere at home had not improved, despite her efforts at reconciliation. Patrick was just as distant as ever since the terrible interview, unwilling to bridge the growing chasm between them. Unavoidably, her own anger transmuted into a cold doubt.

Even in their marriage bed he would not lower his walls. For the first time since her surgery, there was no physical intimacy between them at all. She remembered how during the long painful nights after her diagnosis, Patrick had wrapped her in his arms, keeping her close in their own little world. Her heart ached to think of the cold inches that separated them these last nights.

After long moments of unsettled silence, Timothy spoke. “He should have remembered.” His voice was hard and uncompromising.

Shelagh sighed. He was such an intuitive boy, she had known he would recognize tonight’s lapse. Timothy was very protective of her, a thought that made her smile bittersweet. The loss of his mother was always under the surface, and informed so many of his actions. She understood that, and knew it was likely the first link in the chain that bonded them together, but she mustn’t give in to it.

She wouldn’t, she couldn’t replace Marianne. The most she could do was to find her own place as his new mother, but that should not be done at the expense of his relationship with his father. Her own sense of emptiness should not be filled by her step-son. It would be selfish to allow it, and Timothy would suffer for the breach that had formed between his parents.

“Timothy, your father is a very busy man, you know that.” Even to her own ears, the excuse felt feeble.

Tim’s eyes stayed straight ahead. “He’s never too busy for his patients. I thought that…I thought when you got married he’d stay home more, that we’d be a family. Lately, he’s never home, and when he is, he’s practically invisible.” His young body was stiff in its hurt confusion.

Placing her arm on his sleeve, Shelagh paused in their walk. “Timothy, you know your father loves you.”

“I know he says he does,” Timothy countered angrily, “but what good is that if he’s so cold and distant all the time? You spent all that time making a pudding he likes, and he barely tasted it. He doesn’t talk to us, he doesn’t want to be around us at all anymore.”

Days of pretending and smoothing over difficult moments had begun to fatigue her. It was like oil of clove on a sore tooth. It might dull the pain for a bit, but the only way to conquer the pain was to get at its source. Hadn’t she learnt that already?

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh reached out. “Timothy, remember during the summer holidays, when you were so irritated with me?”

His eyes glanced away guiltily. “It wasn’t you. I was frustrated I had those stupid calipers.”

Shelagh smiled. “No, you were frustrated with me. It’s alright, dear, I understand. I was smothering you a bit, I’m afraid.”

“Well, maybe you were, a little,” Timothy’s slightly crooked smile pierced her heart. “But I was a bit of a beast to you. You were only trying to help.”

It would be easy to agree with him. She had been trying to help, after all, and Timothy had been unpleasant. She stopped in her tracks. No, Shelagh thought. It was time to stop playing the part of the helpless victim.

“Yes, I was. But I was trying too hard. I was holding you too tightly. It was perfectly appropriate for you to push back at me. You may still be a child, but you have the right to be considered as a full partner in your own life.

“Your father and I…we’ve hit a rough patch, just like you and I did last summer. And just like that time, it isn’t all one person’s fault. Your Dad and I need to learn…” She paused. Timothy was a child. The work of a marriage was beyond his understanding. It would be better to reassure him, to help him understand that he was loved, and would be cared for.

Linking her arm in his, she turned home. “If I’ve learned anything this last year, it’s that you must earn the life you want. You can’t expect to sit back and let it come to you.”

Patrick’s own words of comfort last summer came back to her. The road ahead wasn’t clear, but they were on it together. Her resolve strengthened. She and Patrick wouldn’t find their way back to each other with puddings or favors. They would have to work together.

“We’ll get through this, dearest. We’ll find a way.”

Chapter 5

The Thing That Matters, Chapter Two

Posted on September 18, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

When the hot blaze of anger goes, it becomes a cold ache.

Shelagh’s probably never had a fight before, don’t you think? Not a real drag-out, emotional battlefield kind of fight, anyway. Love is a risk. Marriage is hard.

It’s a good thing she’s brave.

Here’s a link to Chapter One, ICYMI.

Chapter Two

Shelagh returned from her outing worn and exhausted. For the first time since her days at the sanatorium, she collapsed on the bed in the middle of the day and slept. It was only the sound of Timothy at the door of the flat that finally woke her.

Timothy stood at the sitting room table as she entered the kitchen, her fingers tucking in a stray lock of hair.

“Did you take a nap?” he asked, confused.

She kept her face from him as she went to the sink. “Yes. It’s been a demanding week. I thought a quick doze might prepare me for when you need help with your maths.” Her joke was meant to distract him. Timothy was quite proud of his quick maths skills. She lifted the kettle, eager to avoid his curious eyes. “I’ll start the tea.”

“But you never nap. You like to brag that even when you were a midwife, you could stay all night at a delivery and last the whole day through.” He began to pile his school books on the table.

“Books after tea, Timothy. And I hope I never brag.” She came around the side door. “Here,” she handed him the brown paper sack.

Peering into it, Timothy wondered, “Chocolate? What’s this for?”

“No reason. I thought perhaps you might like a treat, to say thank you for all you’ve done for us these last weeks.” As soon as she said the words, Shelagh felt a stirring in the back of her mind. Clamping it down, she went back to put the kettle on. “Your father’s on call at the maternity hospital, so it’ll be just us two tonight. I thought maybe we’d go and try that new restaurant over near the tube station.”

“The Indian place? I’m not sure. I’ve never tried it. None of my friends have tried it.”

“Neither have I, but it’s always a good idea to keep your mind open to new things. If you really don’t like it we’ll stop and get you some fish and chips after.”

“We wouldn’t try it if Dad were at home,” Timothy said with a smirk.

Shelagh was glad her back was to the boy. “Well, you’re father is perfectly able to get himself his own dinner tonight.” The sharpness had returned to her voice, and she could feel the acrimony return. Timothy was always quick to pick up on her feelings. It wouldn’t do for him to suspect there was something wrong. Shelagh brightened. “If we really like it, then we can try and convince him to join us next time.”

“Not much chance of that. In case you haven’t noticed, Dad’s a bit of a stodgy old man. He doesn’t like change much.”

Before Shelagh could respond, Tim interrupted. “I know, don’t say it. You’re sure you don’t know what I’m talking about

“One last one, I promise. What’s the longest word in the alphabet?”

Shelagh pretended an exasperation she didn’t feel. For a few hours, she had been able to lock away any unsettling thoughts. “Oh, alright. I don’t know. What is the longest word in the alphabet?”

“Smiles.”

Shelagh stared blankly at the boy. “ I don’t get it, Timothy. How-”

“Because there’s a mile between each ‘S!”

Shelagh groaned. “For that one, you’ll have to do the washing up tonight.”

Timothy grinned widely. “I wish it were as easy every night!” The greasy newspaper wrappings crackled loudly as he crumbled them into a ball then threw them onto the bin. “Even the tea things?” he asked, keeping up the pretense of frustration.

“Oh, your poor thing. Go on with you. I’ll do the washing up. Be sure to put your jumper out for me to wash. I’m not sure if curry stains, so I’d better get to that tonight. I’ll come to say good night in a bit.”

Without Timothy’s cheery voice, the kitchen became quiet very quickly. Ordinary sounds were magnified. The screech of the ironing board’s legs, the thud of the heavy cord as it fell to the floor seemed to echo in the empty sitting room. Shelagh could feel her discomfort start to grow again. But the hours spent with her son had changed things.

The alarming resentment she carried throughout the day had dissipated. leaving a dull tension in her middle. She still couldn’t understand why Patrick had kept such a thing from her. He had kept a big part of himself from her, carried a secret that must have been separating them all this time.

She wasn’t as naive as he thought. She’d worked closely enough alongside the families of Poplar this last ten years to know that married couples fought. She’d always been surprised by the animosity that could spring up between two people that loved each other, then ease away back into marital harmony.

Whatever was happening between her and Patrick, it barely resembled those loud arguments. A flash of an unexpected temper had burst from her, met only by his withdrawal, both physical and emotional. Could they even call this a fight?

Timothy’s door stood ajar, his sign that he was ready for bed. The boy was beginning to become a young man, and she was careful of his privacy. A gentle rap on the door jamb was answered by his call to enter.

“I don’t think it’s such a stain, you’re a whiz at laundry.” Timothy gestured to the soiled jumper. He climbed into his bed, adjusting the pillow into the funny lump he preferred. “Colin says his mother can never get the collars right, says his parents argue about it all the time.”

She drew a finger down his cheek, then tweaked his ear. “No telling tales, Timothy dear. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Monk wouldn’t want to hear their business gossiped about in the play yard. Married people are bound to argue over something sometime. You and Colin have arguments, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. But they never last long.”

“There, you see? Things blow over.” She smoothed the blanket over him. “Now get some sleep. And dream of maharaji and the Taj Mahal.”

The door clicked quietly behind her, and she wondered about their chat. Childhood spats with friends seemed to be quite ordinary, but she couldn’t remember having many. Even at Nonnatus she had avoided getting involved in petty arguments. For years she had put it down to strong diplomatic skills. They had unquestionably come in handy living with Sister Monica Joan.

The iron hot, Shelagh reached into the laundry basket for the first of the ironing and stretched out one of Patrick’s shirts on the board. She dampened the fabric and began to press it smooth. A cloud of starchy steam puffed up, filling her nose with its scent. Tears welled up as she was flooded with memories of Patrick’s arms about her, her face pressed to this same shirt.

Roughly, she rubbed the tears away. She was tired of these unsettling feelings. Patrick had lied to her, and their chance for a new baby seemed but a pipe dream. She wouldn’t back down in a wave of sentiment. She was a full partner in this marriage, for better or worse, and would not shrink away to be considered anything else. Perhaps there was something else to consider. For so much of her life she had lived vicariously through the community she served, always on the periphery, never in the middle of things. She was certainly in the thick of things now.

Diplomacy would not be the solution.

Chapter 3

Under the Starry Sky

Posted on August 3, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Author’s Note: My science is off here, friends. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why we call it fanfiction. And all knowledge of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich comes from the internet. But it’s on my list of things to do (certain people should take note).

This story is set very early during Patrick and Shelagh’s engagement.

And apologies for the terrible Cockney accents. Poor Fred deserves better than I give him.

Eight wolf cubs bounced along the sidewalk waiting for the bus to take them across the river to the Royal Observatory. The promise of a field trip, and in the evening no less, made them all particularly boisterous. Watching over the boys, Dr. Patrick Turner turned to Fred Buckle with a pained expression. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Fred? It’s like herding cats!”

“Where’s your courage, Doc? Afraid of a few young boys? Look at Sis-, I mean, Miss Mannion here. Calm in the center of the storm, she is. Always has been.” He leaned in to add, “Sorry, Miss. Hard to break old habits, ain’t it?” Realizing his unintended pun, he reddened.

“That’s quite all right, Fred, really. And please call me Shelagh. I’d like to think we’re friends,” Shelagh smiled at him. Of all those from Nonnatus, Fred seemed to be the easiest to be with since the “Great Change,” as he called it. His ingenuous nature and straightforward approach to life made everyone feel comfortable around him and Shelagh appreciated the complete acceptance he offered. Which was exactly why she volunteered herself and Patrick for tonight’s event.

Fred puffed out his chest, the too-tight uniform stretching over his great belly. “Not tonight, Miss Mannion. On duty, y’know.”

“Alright, lads, single file,” Patrick called out. “The bus is coming ‘round the corner. Gary, you’ll be squashed under the bus if you’re not careful,” he admonished. From the corner of his eye, he noticed an old man pull to the side away from the group. “You can go first, sir.”

“No thanks, guv,” the old man chortled. “Think I’ll wait for the next bus, if you don’t mind.”

“Wise man,” answered Patrick, grinning. He turned to Shelagh. The cubs had all nearly mounted the steps of the bus behind Fred. Smiling, he said quietly, “Ready, Shelagh? It’s not too late to turn back.”

“Ready, Patrick. I’m looking forward to tonight.” Shyly, she smiled up at him and he could feel his heart lurch. The world slipped away when she looked at him like that, her clear eyes revealing depths of her heart only he could see. Swallowing, he held out his hand to help her up the steps and she took it, embracing the chivalric gesture. She climbed the bus, and he regretted the heavy winter coat she wore, disguising her figure. The sight of her lovely legs was a welcome consolation prize, though, and Patrick’s thoughts took a decidedly “un-chaperone-ish” turn.

“Slow down, man,” he told himself. For over ten years Shelagh had devoted herself to the strictures of her Order. He would need to be patient as she grew comfortable with the developing intimacy of their relationship. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to be too patient.

“You comin’ then, mate?” the bus driver called, and Patrick cleared his head and followed her down the aisle.

“Dad! Bagheera says if we look really hard tonight we’ll see three planets!” Timothy called.

The grounds of the Royal Conservatory were quiet, the crowds long gone. Neither Patrick nor Shelagh were completely certain how Fred had managed to organize this trip to complete the Cubs’ Astronomy badge, but his schemes had rarely led to real trouble, and the two were willing to put their faith in the handyman.

Their trust was rewarded when they arrived at the gates to find them open, and a friendly caretaker there to greet them.

“ ‘ello, Fred! I knew ye’d use that marker up one day. Never expected it to be fer a pack o’ Cubs, I must say!” Barry Piper joked.

“Always happy to fill in when I’m needed, Barry, my man. Though to be ‘onest,” the large man leant in secretively, “I’d always planned on using this favor to court a lady!”

Impatient to move to their first stop, the Cubs grew noisy. “A’right, lads! Follow me. First stop, the old telescope building!”

The tour took the small group to the site of the Great Equatorial Building, the former home of an enormous 28-inch diameter telescope. Damage to the building during the war had led to the transfer of the Observatory to Herstmonceux the year many of the Cubs were born, and the structure bore little resemblance to its days of glory.

The pack wandered about, closely examining the historic photos on the wall. “It looks like an onion!” exclaimed Billy Wegman, whose father was a greengrocer.

“It does, Billy. The dome had to be wider on the bottom to account for the length of the telescope. And there was a balcony built on top, here,” Patrick pointed to the next photograph.

“Why’d they keep changin’ it?” asked Jack. “They’re as bad as me mum. She’s always movin’ the furniture!”

“Scientists have to keep changing,” a voice piped up from the back. Timothy Turner continued, “We can’t keep doing things the same old way, we’d never learn anything that way. Scientists have to be ready to take risks.”

Patrick caught Shelagh’s eye. “That’s precisely right, Tim. Where would we be if we never had the courage to accept change?” He grinned and was rewarded with the light blush that colored her cheeks. This was fun, Patrick realized. Shelagh was hesitant to draw attention to them as a pair, and throughout the evening they had kept a respectful distance from each other. Now, he thought, he would find more subtle ways to flirt with his new fiance.

The walk along the Meridian offered him another chance. A laughing line of Cubs balanced themselves between two hemispheres, sure that one day they would rule the world. Lanterns and torches flickered as the boys darted around each other playfully in the growing dark.

Bagheera called out, “Right. Who can tell me what an orrery is? No, not you, Timothy, someone else this time. Gary, I’m sure you did yer required readin’ before settin’ out this evening. What is an orrery?”

There was a moment’s pause, then Gary responded, “A model of the universe?”

“Precisely. And don’t think I didn’t see you sneakin’ up behind wif the answer, Timothy Turner. Now, we are goin’ to make a human orrery.”

“I think Fred’s found a new word,” Patrick whispered in Shelagh’s ear.

“Patrick,” she scolded. “Shh!”

Fred continued. “Wif eight cubs, plus me, we make nine. I’ll be Jupiter, for obvious reasons.” He patted his belly and glanced around the group of boys. “Billy, you’ll be Mercury, and Timothy you be Venus…”

“Great. Why do I always have to be the girl?” Timothy muttered.

Soon the nine planets were lined up properly in their orbits, varying sized planets and varying distances. “So you can see how each of the planets lies in relation to the others,” Fred seemed quite proud of his successful plan.

“Sorry, Bagheera, but I think there’s something missing from your solar system,” Patrick pointed out.

Fred looked confused.

“The sun, Fred. The solar system won’t work without its center.” Patrick took Shelagh by the hand and led her to the center of the group. Moving beyond the circles, he explained, “It’s the strength of the sun’s gravity that makes the whole thing work. Without the sun, all the other planets would float aimlessly, cold and barren. The sun lets it all make sense.”

“Your hair is like the sun, a bit, Miss,” winked Tommy Bergen, the flirt of the group.

Patrick almost growled at the boy.

“Right, then, last stop, Mr. Tyson’s telescope. Hands at your sides at all times, I’m sure you’ll remember, Cubs. And wif some luck, we’ll see Billy, Tim and me up in the heavens!”

Mr. Tyson, another old friend of Bagheera’s from other times, stood by a magnificent telescope, high on the hill. Patrick noticed that the handsome astronomer bore little resemblance to Fred’s usual acquaintances. The quick lecture, and the stern warning delivered by their fearless leader reminded each of the boys that the rules regarding the telescope were definitely meant to be followed. One at a time, each Cub would have a turn viewing the visible planets, all conveniently located in the same quadrant of the sky.

“Ladies first, gentlemen,” Mr. Tyson invited Shelagh over to the telescope. Patrick followed her, and when she looked at him curiously, he remarked, “I’ll hold your glasses.”

Which of course alerted Mr. Tyson to the fact that “Miss Mannion” was not a heavenly body to be studied.

Shelagh looked up, delighted by the sight of such natural splendor. “Oh, Patrick. Look! If that’s not enough evidence of God’s power, I don’t know what is!”

He laughed and led her away from the pack. “I’m not quite sure now is the time for existential debate, Shelagh. But no one is looking if you want to show me proof of your own…”

“Patrick,” Shelagh scolded.

“Shelagh,” he answered.

“It’s Timothy’s turn next. Pay attention.”

Despite the darkness, Patrick could sense Shelagh inch closer, then felt the brush of her fingers against his. Heat flushed through his body, demanding he take a deep breath to control himself.

“I’m not an adolescent male. I can control this,” he thought.

Unable to resist, Patrick stole a glance. Despite the darkness, he could clearly see a small smile playing on her lips.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” he whispered.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shelagh whispered in return, her eyes alight with mischief.

He glanced over at the pack of cubs mesmerized by the telescope, fighting for their turn. Certain that their attention was far from their forgotten chaperones, Patrick turned to face Shelagh, but was surprised by her own swift movement. A tug on his tie and his face was pulled down to hers for a quick kiss.

She moved away quickly, only narrowly escaping his arms as they reached to hold her closer. He stood there, stunned, until a slow smile crossed his face.

It didn’t look like he would need to be so very patient, after all.

Later, as they corralled eight tired boys on to the bus home, Fred noted, “Wouldnt’ve thought pink was your color, Doctor Turner.”

Puzzled, Patrick looked at Shelagh. ‘Oh dear,” she fretted.

“What? What is it?”

“Lipstick,” she whispered.

With a sheepish grin, Patrick pulled out his handkerchief and erased the traitorous mark away.

“Patrick,” Shelagh worried. “What if one of the boys had noticed? What if one of them saw us?”

With a grin, he squeezed her hand and leant in to whisper, “They’ll have to get their own lipstick.”

Change Takes Time

Posted on June 4, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Okay, so this one is definitely a solid three kettles.

The new Maternity Home stood at the far end of Kenilworth Row, nearly half a mile from its previous home. The years had not been kind to the old building, and in the burst of energy that came after the Christmas bomb scare, the Borough Council decided it was time for a change.

As chief medical officer of the hospital, Dr. Patrick Turner was expected to find new sites for both the hospital and the local clinics. It seemed the Council has little regard for an already over-full patient list, limited resources and the needs of a recuperating son. Fortunately, Dr. Turner was not in this alone.

It was Shelagh that found the location for the hospital. Her years cycling the roads of Poplar had given her a thorough knowledge of the area, and her sharp mind forgot nothing. Soon after the request was made, an offer was made on an old grammar school up the road and the hospital claimed its new home.

Now married several weeks, with Timothy back at school and Patrick busy as usual, Shelagh devoted much of her days to overseeing the renovations necessary. Choosing paint colors most suited to relaxing nervous patients or expectant mothers, organizing files and furniture, she was in her glory. Her husband teased that she was nesting like a spring robin, and perhaps she was.

The hospital was due to open in just a few days, and with all the large tasks completed, only the finishing touches remained.

Intent upon sorting the last bottles on the shelf in Patrick’s office, she didn’t hear her husband arrive. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking the opportunity to admire his lovely wife. She was wearing his favourite skirt, a soft jumper hugging her curves, and her hair dressed casually. He feared this outfit wouldn’t last long in her rotation. Just this morning she seemed nervous about it. Pushing off against the door jamb, he made a quiet entrance and moved silently behind her.

Shelagh started when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body up against him.

“Oh, goodness, Patrick!” she exclaimed.

“Goodness, indeed,” he agreed. He nuzzled her neck. “I like your hair down like this.”

His voice was husky, and Shelagh tried to steel herself against its effects. “Fred will be along shortly with Timothy, Patrick. You’ll have to behave.”

Laughing softly, he stepped away, giving her room to turn and face him. “Why is Tim with Fred?”

“There are some boxes from home that needed to be picked up, so he stayed at home to let Fred in. Besides, I didn’t want Timothy to walk all that way. He’d be too tired out.”

Rather than argue the point, Patrick moved back closer to her. “So we’re all alone, then?”

“No, Dad.” Timothy’s voice came from the doorway. “Sorry, Fred. I should have warned you. They’re always like this.”

Bearing a large box, Fred beamed at the newlyweds. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, young Tim. So where’d ya want this ‘un, Mrs. Turner?”

The blush receding from her cheeks, Shelagh pointed to the desk in the center of the room. “Right here, Fred, thank you. The other boxes can remain in the waiting area. Did you bring the plant as well?”

“We left it on the chair. Mum, Fred has to run some deliveries for Nonnatus, may I go with him? I promise I won’t lift anything heavy or climb any stairs.” Tim was well versed in his stepmother’s protective streak, and for the time being, did not mind.

Shelagh glanced quickly at Patrick, looking for his reaction. “I suppose if it’s alright with Fred…” Somehow her statement sounded more like a question.

“Absolutely, Mrs. T. I could use the compn’y. ‘Sides, me and Timothy here have a bit o’ catching up to do. Loads to tell.”

“I’ll pretend that’s a good thing. Thanks for your help, Fred,” Patrick responded. “Dinner out tonight, remember, Tim. I won’t ask Mum to cook for us after all the work she’s put in for my surgery.”

“Right then, we’re off. I’ll have him back before tea. Give a shout if there’s anyfink else,” Fred told them as he led the way out.

After a moment, Patrick turned to Shelagh. “You don’t have to look to me for permission, my love. Your Timothy’s mum now, you can make decisions on your own.” His smile was encouraging.

She nodded and sighed. “I know, there’s just so much to get used to. But thank you.”

Patrick shrugged in agreement. “Well, then. What’s in the box?”

“I have no idea, Patrick. I found it in the back of the hall cupboard and thought perhaps you’d need it. It’s labelled “Surgery.”

“You didn’t open it? Why not?”

Shelagh fidgeted with the last bottles to be shelved. “I didn’t want to, Patrick. It was obviously put there a long time ago. I thought you might want to open it on your own.”

Patrick peered at his wife, confusion drawing his eyebrows down. “Shelagh, it’s your home too, I have no secrets from you.” He pulled her to face him. “I understand, sweetheart. You’re afraid there’s something about Marianne in there.”

“Not afraid, exactly, Patrick. But who knows what’s in that box? Or how it will make you feel? Perhaps it would be best if you went through it whilst I organize the files outside.”

His arms tightened about her, pulling her closer. “No. We’ll do this together.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. With his hand caressing her cheek, he continued, “I haven’t forgotten Marianne, Shelagh, but the wound has healed. It’s a bit more scar tissue, perhaps, but I can think of her without pain now. Timothy can, too. What do the nuns always say about love? That it will fill in where it’s needed?”

She chuckled. “You always know the right thing to say, Patrick.”

“You won’t say that when we’ve had our first fight and I won’t speak for days. I’m quite the sulker, I’m afraid.”

“Fight?” she cried, outraged. “Why on earth would we fight?”

A deep laugh broke out from his lungs. “We’re married, Shelagh. We’ll find something, I’m sure. Now, are we ready to open the box? I can’t remember for the life of me what could be in here. When I moved into the old surgery there wasn’t much room for personal items, so I just boxed stuff up and forgot about it. Tim had just been born, there was quite a lot going on. I suppose life got in the way because I never gave it a thought again.”

“Really, Patrick. Life doesn’t get in the way of our possessions, it’s the other way ‘round,” Shelagh admonished. The tenderness of the last few minutes had faded, and shades of Sister Bernadette appeared.

Patrick scoffed, his finger lightly tapping the brooch she wore. “Hah. My love, if I want to give my wife little gifts, I’m going to give her gifts. It makes me happy to find pretty things for you.” He kissed her quickly, then added, “And before we find the topic of our first fight, let’s solve this mystery.”

The box was soft with the effects of time, and after a firm tug, the top pulled away. Patrick lifted a sheet of tissue paper and revealed a collection of frames and knick knacks. Reaching in, he pulled out a dusty clock.

“I loved this clock! It was from my first registrar, Morton Baird. He gave it to me when I qualified, to remind me to take time with all my patients.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to help your tardiness?” Shelagh teased.

Placing the clock on the desk, Patrick said, “This stuff is filthy. I’ll get a cloth to clean off the dust.”

Shelagh began to pull the frames from the box, examining each in turn. The largest, a painting of Patrick’s medical college, she recognized from the label. That would go nicely on the wall. A few other frames held photographs from school and his first surgery, but several photographs were unframed. She looked through the small collection, a small, happy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. At the end of the pile was a image of a university cricket team.

Patrick and Timothy enjoyed the sport, she knew, but she had no idea Patrick had played. She scanned the photograph searching for him, her eyes coming to rest on a tall, slim young man on the end. She breathed in sharply as she took in the sight.

He looked very handsome in his whites, confident and ready to conquer the world. There were none of the lines of care on his face, its very smoothness making him seem a different person. Yet she recognized the boyish grin and felt a stirring when her eyes traced the broad shoulders.

She was so wrapped up in her perusal of the picture that she didn’t hear Patrick return to the office, damp cloth in hand. He paused in the doorway, surprised by the stillness of her back. He moved quietly towards her, curious to see what had her attention.

Still unaware of him, her breathing quickened. Patrick’s eyes glittered as he felt his body respond to her.

“Oh!” she cried, startled. Guiltily, words rushed from her. “Oh, you startled me, Patrick. I’ve-I’ve found some old photographs, perhaps you’ll want them up on the mantlepiece…” her voice trailed off as her blush deepened.

Without speaking, Patrick took the photograph from her nerveless fingers, and turned her around to face him. He removed her glasses, placing them on the desk to her side. His hands slid up her arms, giving her a chance to either control her feelings or give in to them.

Shelagh’s eyes fluttered shut and he bent his head, his lips lightly tracing her jawline. In the few weeks they had been married, he had learnt that his wife was just as shy as he had anticipated, but that if he were patient and gave time for her own passion to bloom, she would meet him desire for desire.

Her breath escaped in tiny shudders, warm and moist against his ear, and he held himself back from taking her lips. His mouth slid down the length of her throat, and he stopped a groan as he tasted her skin with the tip of his tongue.

Shelagh clenched and unclenched her fists, her body tense with emotion. Rational thought had since abandoned her. Their surroundings faded from her mind as her sole focus became the soft spot at the bottom of her throat where his mouth was. More. There had to be more.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him. Her acceptance of him complete, Patrick took her mouth with his own, not rough, but not gentle. They kissed passionately, their breath blending. Shelagh parted her lips, welcoming the intimacy of his tongue as she returned his kiss.

This time, the groan escaped as Patrick slid his hands down along her back, coming to rest on the upper curve of her derriere. “This skirt,” he whispered. He pressed her to him, wanting her to know her effect on him, then moved his hands under the softness of her jumper. Her skin was like silk, and he was desperate to feel more.

But they had reached a point of no return, he knew. Whilst still shy about their “activities,” as she called lovemaking (he laughed each time she whispered the term), once engaged, Shelagh was all in. He could let his fingers continue their path and she would willingly give herself to him.

She moved her arms to his shoulders, and her fingers slipped into the hair behind his ears. He groaned again, as she knew he would. It seemed Patrick was not the only one who had learnt secrets.

“Shelagh,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure if he was asking or telling her something.

Huskily she responded, “I love you, Patrick.”

And it was decided. Patrick pulled his head back away from her lovely mouth and pressed his nose to hers. If they were to go any further, it would have to be with her complete consent. He couldn’t seduce her now and worry about her feelings afterward.

“My love, if we go one inch further, we won’t be able to stop. I’ll have you right here.” He breathed deeply. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Shelagh tried to catch her breath, tried to understand his words. Her body hummed with desire.

“It’s alright if we stop, Shelagh. It’s alright.” Patrick’s own breath was shaky.

The look in her eyes changed, and Patrick smiled softly. He pressed a gentle kiss to her parted lips and moved a step away from her.

“Maybe not on my desk just yet,” he teased.

Disappointment crossed her flushed face. “I am sorry, Patrick. I truly am. I do want to…” She looked around the room nervously. “Oh, Patrick. Here? I can’t believe-”

“Shelagh,” Patrick interrupted. “We didn’t do anything wrong. It’s never wrong between two people that love each other as we do.” He tipped her chin up so she could meet his eyes. “Maybe someday, Shelagh. Maybe not. But no matter what, as long as we’re honest with each other, we’ll be fine. Little steps.”

He reached around her and returned her glasses. “Now maybe we’d better start on those files.”

Having regained her equilibrium, Shelagh smiled widely up into his eyes. “I suppose we should.” At the door, she turned back. “Patrick, I should thank you. I got a bit lost there for a bit, and I’m not sure I would have been comfortable with another outcome.” Her forehead scrunched in confusion. “I don’t mean I wouldn’t have enjoyed…that activity…I’m just not certain I’m ready to…”

“I know, sweetheart. I understand. You don’t have to say.”

“I sometimes think you know me better than I know myself. I’m very lucky to have you.” A glimmer came back in her eyes as she turned to leave. “Maybe tonight I can show you how lucky.”

As the door closed behind her, Patrick took his seat behind the desk. It would be a long time before he stood up comfortably again.

Author’s Note

Okay. I know this is not how (some of) you wanted me to end this story. Believe me, it’s not how I originally wanted it to end. But this is the story I needed to tell.

In Series 3, we saw a Shelagh who was struggling with finding her path. After making the initial leap into her new life (oh! she was so brave to make that call, to go out on that misty road!), it took some time for her to find her balance, and she even slipped backwards a bit. I know I’m in the minority when I say this, but her confusion worked for me. Don’t bother trying to argue with me. I will not budge. 😉

I know what you want to happen here, I just don’t think it would, given where Shelagh is at this time. That’s not to say, AT ALL, that I think it would never happen. Maybe someday I’ll fic that.

Walking Together

Posted on May 14, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Timothy Turner’s face was set, all his will concentrated on the new crutches under his arms. The weight of the calipers on his legs both stabilized him and shifted his balance. A few days of physical therapy wearing the metal and leather contraptions, and Tim was ready to take to his feet. Step by step, he paced the length of the polio ward, determined to master this important move toward recovery.

“That’s it, Tim, well done,” his father’s voice cheered him on. “Just wait until Shelagh sees you!”

Timothy grinned widely as he clumsily did an about-face. “Well, I’m certainly not going to win any dance competitions, that’s for certain. I must look an absolute oaf thumping around on these things.” His happy face took the edge from the self-deprecating words, however.

Patrick grinned back and reached around to re-adjust the left crutch. “She’ll think you look like Gene Kelly, more likely. Now, don’t let the crutch slip too far forward. It’ll put too much pressure to the front and could put you off balance. Try again.” He stood back and watched proudly. “That’s it,” he repeated. “Just like that.”

A memory flashed by, his son just past his first birthday, wearing that same look of determination on his face. Margaret’s hands held his chubby little fists as the tot wobbled on his short little legs. Without baby Timothy knowing it, his mother slowly released her son’s hands and clasped her own together, holding her breath.

The toddler took one slow step, and a second, then found his momentum and charged towards his father. He crossed the six feet separating them, then threw himself at his father’s legs.

“Well done, son!” Patrick cheered and swung his boy up into his arms.

Margaret crossed to join them, reaching one arm around her husband as the other hand squeezed her son’s foot. “We’ve been practicing with me holding on all day, but he wasn’t interested in going on his own at all until he saw you come in!”

Patrick turned his head and kissed her. “He wanted to have us all together, that’s all.” He hugged the boy a bit tighter but was met with resistance.

“Oh, no,” Patrick joked. “Just look at that stubborn face.” Timothy began to push away, eager to try his legs again. “I’m afraid young Master Turner is off to the races!”

The thumping of the crutches on the hospital linoleum floor brought Patrick back to the present. Timothy had already improved in the few passes across the room, and Patrick laughed quietly. “I was just remembering your first steps. We were so proud of you, toddling across the flat. You didn’t walk for long, though. Almost immediately, you were running circles around the flat. Your mother swore you were going to wear a path in the floor, make your own track oval between the kitchen and the sitting room!” His finger traced circles in the air.

Timothy chuckled. “I remember she used to call me “Thumper,” because of the noise my feet made as I ran through the flat.”

“It was Mrs. Wilkins from next door that started that, I’m afraid,” Patrick reminded him with a grimace.

“Right. Mrs. Wilkins didn’t like children, did she?” Already comfortable with the crutches, Timothy rested his weight on them and let his body hang.

“That’ll hurt if you do it much,” his father pointed out. “But no, I think she preferred her neighbors to be a bit quieter than you. I’m sure she was thrilled when her husband moved them nearer his new job out by the rock quarry.”

Timothy shifted his body up again. “You don’t have to keep going, Tim. You don’t want to tire yourself out.”

“I’m not tired, I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that and then you never are…” Patrick teased.

“Just one more time. I want to be able to really surprise Shelagh when she comes this afternoon.”

As he finished the last pass, Timothy collapsed on his bed. “Well, that’s got me knackered. I’d better rest a bit before Shelagh comes or I won’t be able to show off.”

Patrick helped his son lift his legs up on the bed, then sat on his regular chair next to the bed. “She’ll be thrilled, Tim. Really.”

Timothy reached for the model plane on his bedside table, fiddling with the wing. “Dad, how long will I be on the crutches?”

Patrick considered. “Dr. Carson thinks your arms and back are extremely strong, so maybe a month or two, perhaps.”

“But if I work very hard?” Tim still would not meet his father’s eye.

“Tim, what’s wrong? I thought you were happy to be up and about.”

“I am, of course. If I had to sit any longer I think I was going to go mad! I just… Dr. Carson said back after Christmas that I could go home when I was used to the calipers.” His voice grew quiet.

Nodding. Patrick answered. “Soon, Tim. Probably just a few more weeks, then you’ll be home for good. Is that what you want to know?”

Timothy looked up, his face beaming. “A few weeks! That’s brilliant. I can definitely last a few weeks!” He sat up, eager again, and Patrick smiled widely.

“It will be good to have you home again, son.”

“And…” Tim hinted.

Patrick’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “And?”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “Dad, you said after I came home…Ugh. You have no sense of romance, Dad. Do I have to all the work?”

“Oh, Lord, Tim. That’s right. I was so caught up in your recovery I nearly forgot!” He started to laugh. “Do you reckon she’ll say ‘Yes’ again this time?”

Timothy smiled his wise little smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. I have a plan.”

An hour later, Shelagh entered the ward, her arm filled with a stack of new comic books for Timothy and the others. She was quite proud that in addition to Eagle and Valiant, she had unearthed a copy of an old American superhero magazine. That was sure to keep the children happy for a little while, certainly.

Timothy’s bed stood empty, it’s bedding smooth. “Where on earth?” she wondered aloud. Turning to the boy in the next bed, she asked, “Harry, do you know where Timothy’s got to? I was supposed to meet him and Dr. Turner here tonight.”

Harry tried unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “Not sure, Miss Mannion. Try the hallway outside the nurse’s office, maybe?”

Sighing in her confusion, Shelagh shrugged out of her coat and left her new hat neatly on top. Smoothing her skirt, she set off around the corner.

Patrick stood in the middle of the hallway, a serious smile on his face. “Hello, Shelagh,” he said.

Sensing an undercurrent to his greeting, she answered. “Hello, Patrick.” Why was it becoming hard to breath?

“We have something to show you, my love.” Patrick shifted to one side, revealing Timothy, standing proudly, supported by his calipers and crutches.

Slowly, but with confidence, Timothy and Patrick walked the length of the hall towards her.

“Oh,” she whispered. Emotions crossed her face, confusion and surprise melting into delight, then ripening into tearful joy. As they came to stand before her, her two most beloved of all people, she laughed happily and clasped her hands together.

Words would not come, so Patrick helped her. “We said we’d wait until Timothy was better, Shelagh.”

Timothy chimed in. “I’ll be home in just a few weeks. And if I work very hard, I may even be able to leave the crutches here, too. With my calipers on, I’ll be able to walk in the church all by myself.”

Shelagh’s eyes flew from Patrick’s face to Timothy’s and back again. “Marry me, Shelagh.” Patrick proposed. “In one month’s time. Let’s not wait any longer.”

“Please, Shelagh? Please will you marry my Dad?”

Building Up Through the Cracks, Part One

Posted on May 5, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

A/N: This is set during Series 3, Episode 5. I always think of the third series as a period of trial and error for Shelagh. She’s not completely certain who she wants to be, or how to become that woman. Her only certainty is the “rightness” of her choice to be a wife and mother to Patrick and Timothy.

Also, I’m definitely in the Timothy-calling-Shelagh-Mum-from-Early-On camp. He calls her “Mum” so naturally in episode 8 and wanted so much for the wedding to go forward, that I think he’s much more likely to admit vulnerability than his father. Perhaps a trait from his mother?

The flat seemed too quiet without Timothy and Patrick now. Each had somewhere else to be, out in the world, and Shelagh could feel the walls closing in on her. Patrick was right, Timothy needed time to be a boy, to play out, to get into a bit of mischief. Here in the flat, months after his release from the hospital, he must have felt trapped.

Shelagh shook her head to clear the fog of self-doubt. What was done was done. She would have to apologize to the boy, and move on. Yet somehow, knowing the path she must take did not make it easier to follow. Her hands felt so idle, her mind adrift without Timothy’s time to consider.

What now? she wondered. For so much of her life she had followed a plan, had a purpose. Patrick’s solution, that she help at Nonnatus whilst Sister Julienne rested, seemed the best course. The task of keeping the midwifery and nursing practices going would certainly busy her hands and mind. Perhaps that would be enough, for now.

The door of the flat creaked open slowly, and she could hear the halting steps of her stepson as he quietly returned. Shelagh felt her face relax into an amused smile. She knew Timothy well enough to know he was feeling remorseful for abandoning her this afternoon. She sighed and put her unread book down.

“Hello, Timothy,” she called cheerfully. Best to let him know he wasn’t in trouble from the start.

Cautiously, he appeared at the sitting room door. He swallowed tightly.

“Your father told me you were playing cricket this afternoon. I suppose I’ll finally have to learn the rules, then! I hope you had a pleasant time.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded stiff. She smiled brightly to cover her unease.

“Yes,” Timothy replied. He bit his lip, hesitant. “Dad said I could.”

Shelagh nodded. “Of course. Did you get anything else to eat, you must be hungry. I can reheat dinner unless you’d prefer to wait until your father gets home?” She nervously moved into the kitchen, conscious of the strain between them.

“No, thank you. Dad gave me pocket money for an ice cream. I can wait ‘til he gets back. He said it should be a light list tonight.” He glanced quickly at her, then away. “I think I’ll go to my room now if you don’t mind. I’d like to read for a bit.”

It was as if they were strangers, on their best behavior. Memories of her distant father flooded her mind. Stoic as to character, made even more so by the death of his wife, Douglas Mannion had preferred silence. The physical distance of the convent school Shelagh attended soon after her mother’s death was nothing to the emotional estrangement she felt from her father.

This was not why she left the Order, Shelagh thought. The emotional connection she felt with Patrick and Timothy filled in places in her heart she hadn’t known existed. She would not let misunderstandings and doubt take that joy away from her.

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh tapped on Timothy’s door. A muffled, “Just a moment, please,” came through the wooden door, followed by rustling and a thump.

“Alright, you can come in.”

Timothy sat on the edge of his bed, his calipers in a heap on the floor. His face was tense, and Shelagh nearly lost courage. They had grown so close in this past year. Had she undone that in her desire to mother him?

“Timothy, dear, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.” She swallowed heavily. “I’ve been so anxious to keep you safe that I’m afraid I’ve … smothered you a bit. It’s only right that you should want to be outside with your playmates, and I’m certain they would welcome you. I won’t stand in your way any longer.”

Timothy didn’t respond, his eyes to the floor.

“Well, then,” Shelagh forged on, her voice cheerful. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

The hallway seemed dimmer as she made her way back to the kitchen. She had made the effort, but it seemed the damage was already done.

“Mum?” she heard him call through the flat. Worried, Shelagh returned to his doorway.

Timothy hadn’t moved from his place on the bed, his eyes still on the floor. His voice was hushed. “I’ve been a bit of a beast to you lately. I knew you just wanted to protect me, but it made me angry. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. It wasn’t nice of me to be so rude.”

Shelagh stepped into the room, closer to the bed. “I understand, dearest. You’re not a little boy any longer, nor-” she added certainly, “nor are you an invalid. If we want your legs to get stronger, it’s silly for you to stay inside with me. Sister Evangelina always says “A bored boy is a naughty boy.’”

“Is that why she’s always giving me things to do?” Timothy quipped. “Maybe she should give Gary a list!”

Shelagh chuckled and sat on the bed next to him. “I’m not sure even Sister Evangelina could think of enough things to keep Gary out of trouble!” She reached down, reaching for his calipers. “I suppose these aren’t necessary to wear whilst you’re reading. Call me when you’d like to put them back on, and I can help.”

Tim nodded, but his face clouded over.

“Timothy, is there something the matter? Can I help?”

He fiddled with the leather straps. “I had so much fun today, I really did. The others were brilliant, and no one seemed to mind I was so slow.”

“That’s because you’re smart enough to pick good friends.” She pushed his fringe back from his forehead, waiting for him to say more.

“I know it’s your job to worry about me, but I’m going to be fine. The doctors are all pleased with how well I’m doing, and playing out will only help.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “If I tell you something, you promise not to hold it against me?”

“You sound like a barrister,” she joked.

“Promise?”

Shelagh nodded. They weren’t starting over, but it felt a bit new, somehow.

“I’m glad I went out today. It was great fun, but I’m sorry that I made you feel bad, and I won’t do it again.” He looked up and met her eyes. “I am a bit sore now. That’s why I’ve taken off the calipers. My legs feel rather like when the physical therapy is a bit difficult.”

Of course, Shelagh realized. It would hurt. Pushing out against the old ways always did. But it had to be done.

“Alright, then. Lay back whilst I get the liniment. We’ll get these poor pins rubbed down and ready for tomorrow’s adventures.”

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, Chapter 5

Posted on April 7, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Patrick moved a step back, breaking the contact between them. Shelagh’s eyes fluttered open, revealing still-dilated pupils. He smiled at her slightly dazed expression and slid his hands back up to grasp her upper arms.

“I’m famished,” he whispered mischievously.

A bashful grin swept her face, and Shelagh returned to the moment. “If you’ll follow me, then?” she asked as she led the way down the hallway.

If there was a fabric that loved a woman, Patrick thought, it would be velvet. He watched as Shelagh went before him, the luminous fabric clinging to her lithe form just so. He wondered if she knew how well suited she was to this dress. Not likely. If she had any idea what thoughts the dress conjured in his mind, she’d be tucked up safe and sound in her rented room.

“Get a hold of yourself, man,” he thought to himself and shook his head, following her into the sitting room.

Patrick stopped in the doorway in amazement. The lights were dimmed, and the table set with a crisp white linen cloth and the best plates. Two candles burned warmly, as the low sounds of music came from the record player.

“Shelagh, love. You did all this?”

“I know how much you wanted to go out tonight, Patrick. When you called to say that you’d be late, I thought we could make our own evening. Mrs. Trevell let me borrow a few things from the kitchen and sent along some food. It’s only cold ham and egg pie and a bit of greens, I’m afraid, but Mrs. B gave me some lovely pastries and some bread. We can pretend it’s Cordon Blue.”

He grinned as he took it all in. “You’re splendid, Shelagh. You always know how to make everything better.” He touched the china plate.

“Timothy told me about your mother’s china once. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken it out?” Shelagh’s voice was hurried.

“Mind? Of course not. I don’t think we ever used it. My brother certainly didn’t need it, and Marianne had her own, so it just went to the back of the cupboard. I’d forgotten it, to be honest.” He examined Shelagh’s bent head. “My mother would be proud that we’re using it, Shelagh. She would have loved you.”

Shelagh glanced back up at him, and he captured her gaze. His head tilted as he assured her, “It’s perfect, my love. It’s not the Ritz, but I think it will do just as well,”

“Patrick!” Shelagh gasped. “You never meant for us to go there tonight!”

“Only the best for my girl!” He moved a step closer, his eyes warm. “At least here we don’t have to spend so much time in travel. As it is, we’ll have to hurry if we’re to get you back in time before the door’s locked.”

Shelagh shook her head, blushing. “Mrs. Trevell gave me a key. Just for tonight, mind you. She said she’d hate to see this dress go to waste.”

Patrick’s eyebrows danced on his forehead. “Thank you, Mrs. Trevell!” With a quick kiss on her cheek, he held out her chair. “If Madam would care to be seated?”

Shelagh’s blush grew deeper. “Patrick,” she half-heartedly chided.

Seating himself, Patrick shook out his napkin. “This looks delicious. Tim will be jealous. He says the ham and egg pie in hospital is revolting.”

Shelagh dished out a large portion to Patrick. “How was Timothy this evening? I’m afraid I was too distracted to finish anything more than his maths today. Did he have his physical therapy?”

Unwilling to worry her unnecessarily, Patrick had not mentioned his son’s little health scare. He couldn’t keep it from Shelagh any longer and was grateful he could tell her Tim was fine. Taking a deep breath, he began to explain.

Shelagh’s face showed more disquiet as he went on. “Shelagh, he was fine. I would have called you in if it had been any more serious.”

“Yes, but Patrick, if I had stayed when I usually do, I might have noticed his cough sooner. That Nurse Wilson is too aggressive with his exercises. I suppose I’m simply going to have to extend my visits.” Her face was determined.

“Shelagh,” Patrick interrupted. His hands came down on either side of his plate. “You can’t be with him all the time. Especially while he’s in hospital. we have to trust in the care that he’s receiving. And,” he reached for her fingers, “you have responsibilities elsewhere. Tim doesn’t expect you to be there all your waking hours. He’s thrilled to have you as much as he does.” He tried to catch her eye again. “He was bragging only yesterday how he knows more of your secrets than I do.”

Cautiously, Shelagh met his look and a small smile started. “And you’re certain he isn’t upset that I left him this afternoon?”

“I am completely certain.” He raised her hand up and kissed it gently. “Tonight was his idea in the first place. He’s been listening to the nurses, and it seems a gentleman should woo a lady.”

The blush returned. “That’s not necessary, Patrick, I told you. I’m quite happy as I am spending our evenings with Timothy.”

“He knows that, which is precisely why he won’t mind if you step away for an evening. My love, you and Timothy and me, we’re a family. Even now, before we’re married, we are. That’s important. But you and I, we’re a couple. After Tim, or any future children grow up and leave us, it’ll be us two.” His eyes softened. “I fell in love with you quite apart from the idea that you could be a mother to Timothy, you know.”

Shelagh sat quietly, her eyes on her plate. Even months later, they still didn’t say those words often. Patrick waited as she absorbed his meaning. After a moment, she raised her eyes to his, a smile lighting up her face.

“If you’re going to say such lovely things, dearest, I’m afraid I will have to insist we do this more often.”

A laugh escaped his throat. Picking up his fork, he grinned. “That’s settled then. I am definitely going to like this.”

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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