The key to the front door was stuck again. Heaving a sigh of frustration, Shelagh Turner blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes and muttered, “Of course. Tickety-boo and marvelous.” She carefully let the net bag of groceries drop to the floor and shifted the wiggling toddler on her hip. “Angel girl, please stay still for Mummy.”
The day had been difficult from the start. After a restless night, Angela was up well before dawn, ready to play. Shelagh rose with her and spent the next two hours keeping her daughter occupied, but moderately quiet. By the time Timothy and Patrick were up and about, Shelagh was already worn out.
“Just cereal today, I’m afraid,” she apologized. “And there’s only enough sugar for one cup of tea.”
Patrick watched his wife at the sink, her shoulders already drooping. He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, his nose in her loose hair. Shelagh turned quickly and buried her face in his jumper.
“That’s for you. I made it through rationing with no sugar, I reckon I’ll be able to go a day without, Shelagh, love.” He patted her shoulder. “Maybe she’ll take a long nap today. You can rest, too.”
Capable Shelagh stepped back, resolute. “No. Naptime is when I get dinner prepared and straighten up before you come home.” Baby or no baby, there was work to be done.
“You don’t have to straighten up for me,” Timothy chimed in as he entered the kitchen. “And I’m always up for fish and chips.”
“I don’t straighten up for you, dear. I straighten up because of you. And fish and chips is fine for the odd meal, but you’d have frying oil in your veins if we had it as much as you’d like,” his mother rallied.
Now, standing on the landing outside the flat, desperate for a cup of tea, Shelagh wished for the confidence she felt this morning. Another jiggle at the lock proved unsuccessful and she made a face. Lowering Angela to the floor, she said, “Stay here, please, dearest. Mummy has to-”
Angela turned and ran straight for the stairs, her tiny feet thundering on the floor. Fortunately, Mrs. Brooke, the widow from down the hall who occasionally stayed with the little imp, was there in time to stop a headlong flight to the bottom.
“Here, now, dearie, where do yer think you’re going?” She scooped the toddler up and carried her, wriggling and screeching, to her mother. “One of those days, eh, Mrs. Turner?”
“Yes. Indeed.” With a last twist, the door finally opened. “Thank you, Mrs. Brooke. She’s definitely getting a head start on her ‘terrible two’s,’ I’m afraid.” Shelagh leant against the open door jamb. “Angela’s usually so good for me when we have to do some shopping. Today it was all I could do to keep her out of the pickle barrel.”
“That’d be a treat. Pickled Angela!” The widow tickled Angela’s tummy. “Don’t worry so, Mrs. Turner. She’s a sweetheart, this one. Everyone has a bad day.” Handing Angela back to her mother, she added, “And the two’s aren’t what you have to worry about. It’s the three’s. That’s when their little minds get devilish-like!”
With a half-hearted attempt at a smile, Shelagh carried her bundles into the flat.
Lunch didn’t go much better. Angela, it seemed, was not in the mood for reheated leftovers from last night, nevermind that on most days, she loved bangers and mash. The groceries, or more specifically, the pot of raspberry jam, that still sat on the kitchen table waiting to be put away, were much more to her liking.
“No, Angela. No jam. Jam is for Daddy.”
Angela complained mightily and kicked her feet against her chair.. While her vocabulary was somewhat limited, the meaning was clear. Jam was for Angela.
Shelagh sighed. “No, sweeting, no jam for Angela. Now, please let’s finish our lunch?”
After another ten minutes of futile toddler feeding, Shelagh gave up. She looked around the messy kitchen and tried to gather the energy to clear away lunch. Angela whimpered, obviously over-tired, and slipped her thumb into her mouth while her other chubby hand played with her soft blond hair. She blinked, and her heavy eyelids reminded Shelagh of Patrick when he fought a catnap.
She reached over and stroked the baby’s cheek. “Rough day today, isn’t it, Angel girl?” Angela’s thumb popped out of her mouth,pushed out by a squeal of delight.. “Oh, you don’t play fair. A wee beastie all morning and now that smile?” Shelagh grinned back and stiffly stood up.
“Well, then, let’s get you out of that chair. We’ll have this kitchen cleaned up in a jiffy.”
Later, Shelagh would point to that moment as her big mistake. She placed Angela on the floor and handed her the set of measuring cups.”There you are. Now play nicely while Mummy gets to work.”
Shelagh Turner thought that maybe, the day had taken a turn for the better.
She was wrong.
The phone rang and after a quick glance back to ensure that Angela was happily occupied, Shelagh went to answer it.
“Turner residence.”
“Fighting the good fight, sweetheart?” Patrick’s voice warmed her tired body.
“Patrick.,” she sighed. “Yes. We did the shopping, but I’m afraid we had to come home without stopping at the cleaners. Someone wasn’t very happy about staying in her pram.”
Light laughter came over the phone line. “You’ll look back on this and smile one day, Shelagh, I promise.”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say. You’re safe and sound in your surgery.”
“Yes. Shelagh, I’ll probably be home late tonight. Walker’s stuck at the London.”
Shelagh closed her eyes, her head down. She was disappointed, but she didn’t want Patrick to feel badly. Timothy could help, of course, but he was just a boy, after all. He shouldn’t have to do so much. Oh, well. The worst day still only had twenty four hours.
“I understand. Duty calls. I’ll leave dinner for you. But dearest, wake me when you get in.” No matter how long the day, she would want to see his face.
“All right.” His voice grew soft. “I know you’re having a bad day, sweetheart, but you doing marvelously at this. You’re a wonderful mother. We all love you so very much.”
Tears pricked behind her eyes. “Thank you, Patrick. Just not so marvelous today.”
“Seems all right now. Nice and quiet,” he observed.
“Yes, I gave her-” Shelagh turned back to the kitchen door. “Oh, Angela! Patrick, I have to go. It’s all right, it’s just-oh, not the-” She hung up the phone.
Standing in the middle of the room, holding the jam pot above her wide open mouth, was the reddest, stickiest, most incredibly jammiest little minx ever before seen on the streets of Poplar. Somehow, the eight ounce pot of jam had multiplied into a veritable ocean of preserves that completely flooded the kitchen (or so it seemed to poor Shelagh).
About to sharply reprimand her daughter, Shelagh’s breath caught in her throat when Angela turned to her mother and laughed joyfully. Shelagh could feel all the tension release from her body with that one sweet expression.
“Look at you!” she teased. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest thing.”
And then the giggles hit. Shelagh started to laugh so hard that she sat on the floor beside her daughter, adeptly side stepping the puddle of the jam. Angela’s jammy hands wrapped around her mother’s neck and she planted a loud, wet, sticky kiss on Shelagh’s cheek.
“Oh, I love you, too, Angel girl. You are the most marvelous, wonderful wee beastie there ever was.” Shelagh rubbed her nose against the gooey cheek and tried to catch her breath.
The two sat there in each others arms, Angela sucking her sweet thumb, her raspberry fingers twined in her mother’s hair.
Shelagh looked at the mess and grinned. Clearing up could wait. There were more important things to do. “Well, then. I think it’s time for a midday tubby, don’t you, sweetie?”
Angela’s head popped up. “Tubby!” She cried, clear as a bell.
Hand in hand they walked down the hall. Shelagh smiled down at her daughter. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. A bath can fix anything!”
Two hours later, Patrick met Timothy going up the stairs to the flat.
“What are you doing home?” Tim asked bluntly.
“Nice to see you, too, Tim. I got off my rounds. Mum’s had a day.” As usual, the front door key did not stick for Patrick.
Opening the door quietly, they cautiously entered the flat. If Angela was finally asleep, her mother would not thank them to wake her.
No lamps brightened the late afternoon light of the flat. Patrick frowned. “Their coats are here,” he noted quietly. He stepped down the hall and saw the mess in the kitchen.
“Blood!” whispered Tim, horrified (or delighted? One could never tell with a twelve-year-old boy).
“No, Tim. It’s not blood.” But Patrick was concerned.
“How do you know?” asked the skeptical son.
Patrick grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Stay here,” he ordered.
On quiet tiptoes, Patrick peeked in the empty nursery, then crossed the hall to the master bedroom. Wishing he would finally remember to oil the hinges on the door, he gingerly pushed the door open a few inches.
Lying on the bed in a cuddle were his wife and daughter, pink and clean from a bath. Shelagh’s hair lay damply on her shoulders, while Angela’s curled about her ears. Against the blue bedcovers, they looked like angels.
Just as quietly, he returned to the kitchen. Sometimes, he thought, his son was quite thoughtful. Timothy knelt on the floor scrubbing the red mess.
“No jam for tea today,” he complained.
Patrick nodded. “Good lad. Here,” he reached into his pocket and drew out coins, handing them to Tim. “Go down to the chip shop and pick up some dinner.”He shrugged off his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. “Get extra. I have a feeling they’re going to be very hungry when they wake.”
My Little Yellowbird 