Courting Shelagh, Chapter 3

Posted on April 4, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

A/N: I’m going to have to stick by my decision in earlier fics. I simply cannot use the label “Aunty Shelagh.” It’s a deliberate break from canon, I know, and generally I stick pretty close to the dogma.

In this, however, I must rebel.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Whistling as he sauntered down the hospital corridor, Patrick felt quite pleased with himself. Since rising, the day had gone precisely according to plan. Mr. Stone, the neighborhood florist and chief died-in-the-wool romantic, had been happy to open his shop to Patrick for his early morning floral surprise. A quick stop at Nonnatus had yielded both the promise of a visit to the hospital by Fred, and also a few pointers regarding the fine art of twirling a lady in just the proper manner to ensure maximum closeness during a foxtrot. Now for a quick visit with Tim, then home to shave, wash and dress before meeting Shelagh with plenty of time.

Timothy sat up in his bed, already well into his copy of Captains Courageous. He smiled smugly at his father. “So, Dad, any special plans tonight?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yes, Tim, full marks to you. Shelagh’s been and told you, I assume?”

“Not that much, really, just that after her morning visit she wouldn’t be back with you in the evening as you were taking her out.” A little embarrassed, eye glanced sideways at his father. “She got all flustered, actually. She must have apologized ten times for not coming tonight.” A sudden cough broke from him, shaking his thin shoulders. Patrick stood, and automatically reached for the missing stethoscope ordinarily draped over his shoulders. When the coughing fit ended, he asked, concerned, “How long have you had that cough, Tim?”

Tim’s color returned. “It’s nothing, Dad.”

“No cough is nothing in a polio patient, son. How long?”

“Just an hour or two,” the boy responded begrudgingly.

Patrick beckoned to the nurse. “Where’s Dr. Carson?” He demanded. The pulmonologist was known to be frequently at hand.

“Likely on the Men’s Ward right now. He’ll be down to look at the children in an hour or so, Dr. Turner.”

Patrick decided now was the time to cash in on some of the good will Shelagh had built up on the ward. “Call him down, please. It’s urgent.”

“Dad-” Timothy began, interrupted by another fit.

As expected, Dr. Carson arrived at Tim’s bedside shortly thereafter, and after a quick listen to the young boy’s lungs, called for an x-ray. “There’s no fever, and the lungs sound clear, but you’re right, Dr. Turner. I don’t like the sound of that cough. Does it hurt, Tim?”

“No, it’s just a little cough.” Timothy refused to look at the two men at his bedside.

Patrick sensed something beyond the cough was troubling his son. “Tim, you have to tell us. You know as well as we do that even a cold could be a setback.”

Tim scowled. “It doesn’t hurt, Dad, honest. It’s just a cough. But now you’re going to stay here all night. You’ll cancel your date with Shelagh and she’ll be so dreadfully disappointed. Again.”

Dr. Carson hid a smile. “Let me see about moving that x-ray along, then. Nobody wants a disappointed Miss Mannion.”

An hour later, the men consulted over the x-ray.

“It all looks clear, Tim. And the cough has settled. We’ll keep an eye on you tonight, though, to be safe,” Dr. Cardon advised.

“You keep an eye on me every night,” Tim answered grumpily. “Privacy is not exactly growing on trees here. Even during my physical therapy this afternoon, after Shelagh left the nurses kept forgetting to close my curtain.”

Patrick’s eyebrows drew into a look of concentration. “Physical therapy? What did you do today?”

“A bunch of really annoying arm exercises. Up and down, stretching wide-I hate those. They make it hard to catch my breath.”

Understanding the problem now, Patrick nodded his head. “That’s it. Your therapy today irritated your lungs a bit. That accounts for the coughing, and it also explains the decrease in the cough’s strength and frequency in the last hour as you’ve recovered.”

Tim dropped his head back on his pillow. “I told you it was nothing, Dad. I’m fine. Now could you please leave? Shelagh’s waiting for you!”

Half an hour later, Patrick was starting to think there was something deliberately trying to ruin the evening. Even with Tim’s coughing scare, there had still been time to make it home, change and meet Shelagh in time to make their reservation. This latest hiccup, however, seemed to make it unlikely.

Standing before the MG with its bonnet up, he shone his torch on the engine. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. The carburetor. Again.

“Evening, Doc,” came a friendly voice.

Patrick turned and met the grinning face of Fred Buckle.

“I was just on me way to visit the young nipper.” The large man clucked his tongue. “The bonnet in such a position does not bode well for the evening’s festivities, if I may say so m’self.”

Patrick exhaled sharply. “No, it does not. It’s the carburetor, I’m afraid. I’ve been meaning to have it replaced, but…”

“Much prettier things to concentrate yer time on, eh?” Fred winked.

“Yes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel my date with Shelagh after all. I’ll never get home for my tools, back to repair it and in time to take her out tonight.” He rubbed his hand over his weary face.

“I’ve me tools in the back of me van, just ’round the corner. You wait right here, and we’ll have this beauty up and running in no time, Doc!”

“Fred, you are a life saver! I’ll run in the hospital to call Shelagh and let her know I’ll be a bit late, and meet you right back here.”

As the two men parted ways, Patrick glanced one more time at his watch. Half six. They’d likely have to give up their dinner reservations, but they could find a quiet cafe somewhere still open. This date would still happen. He’d just have to be more creative.

Next Chapter

Courting Shelagh

Posted on March 26, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

His Safety Net

Posted on February 20, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

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

*** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 4

Posted on February 16, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to decide exactly what the questions were.

Epilogue

Wise Words

Posted on February 10, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

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

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

*** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know how she feels.”

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

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

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

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

“Dad!” Timothy groused, embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

Back On Their Feet

Posted on January 15, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

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

Source: Dome-of-silence.tumblr.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did it, Dad,” he exclaimed.

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

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

“I can do this, Dad. I can finish.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well done, Dad.”

Timothy’s Kaleidoscope

Posted on January 6, 2015 by My Little Yellowbird

The front door slammed as Timothy rushed in after school.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shelagh looked up, alarmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shelagh turned away to the sink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sister!”

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

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

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

Stunned, Patrick asked, “His project?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tim,” his father called.

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

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

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

Sooner than they thought possible, Timothy interrupted them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, nothing really-”

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

The power had shifted.

The Paper Anniversary, Epilogue

Posted on December 18, 2014 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shelagh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Paper Anniversary , Chapter 7

Posted on December 13, 2014 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dad sure is chipper today,” Timothy grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 5

Posted on December 1, 2014 by My Little Yellowbird

Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

“You wound me, son.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s funny, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

	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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