Tag Archives: Turnadette

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 1

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

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

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

“Angela!” grumped her brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Wednesday, Patrick.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

“Patrick.” Her voice grew sharper.

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

“Yes, dear?”

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

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

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

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

“Me,” Patrick said ruefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight they would talk about this.

Next Chapter

Love Fills In

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

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

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

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

Dear Helen,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most sincerely,

Angela Turner

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

“Mum?” she called through the flat.

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

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

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

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

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

Shelagh sighed gently. “Always, Angel Girl.”

 

 

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 4, Honesty

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Previous Chapter

At last! The final chapter!

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The weight lifted from her shoulders and she grew stronger.

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

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

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

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

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

Serenity crept up on her, unnoticed, that autumn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to call Nonnatus House.

It was time to become Shelagh Mannion again.

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 3, Guilt

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A/N: Many thanks to This Unruly Heart for her guidance with this chapter. This is a subject that could easily slide into melodrama, and I thought our poor distraught friend deserved more than that. Unruly’s help has given me new insight into what I’ve been trying to do all along here.

Previous Chapter

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For the first several weeks, she rarely left her room. Nausea and other side effects of the therapy made her weak, unable to do more than lie in her darkened room and sleep. Gradually, as her body grew used to the strong antibiotics of her treatment, the nausea dissipated. She became less tired and more able, though less willing, to participate in the society of her new world. For the first time in her life, hibernation became her preferred state. Claiming to be too weak to leave her room, she remained in seclusion long after necessary.

Unable to concentrate on much and eager to repress her wayward thoughts, she began to notice the details of her temporary home. The room was cheerful with its bright floral wallpaper and sunny window, a window she had for some reason avoided. The warm space was intended to welcome her, make her feel at home. It was so different from her small cell at Nonnatus, yet even after ten years that room had never felt like her own, either. In both places, the rooms had been furnished by others, designed to meet her needs, but showing little of herself.

Her life was not her own. As a nun, she had turned it over to the religious life she vowed to honor in service to others and God. Adjusting to the life of a sanatorium patient should have come easily to her. The doctors had strict rules regarding patients’ activities, offering little individuality. While in earlier years this would have garnered little resistance from her, now she inwardly rebelled.

She swallowed the uncomfortably large pills.  She withstood the painful jabs, the countless blood draws from the collapsed veins of her pale arms, even the prickling rash that spread across her torso. All these afflictions were borne without complaint. She was the model, if taciturn, patient. All attempts to draw the quiet nun out of her shell went unrewarded.

She paced the carpet of the room, trying to understand what had become of her life this past year. Doubts and questions had struggled to the surface despite her efforts to subdue them. Foolish thoughts took the place of her prayers, displacing discipline and structure and she flushed in shame at their memory. She knew ways to redirect such feelings, and yet she had not done so. She was weak to fall victim to such corporeal desires. They would not offer true relief to her soul. Why could she not rein them in?

There were other Orders, stricter, more removed from daily life, which demanded absolute obedience. Straying from the path called for self-punishment. Is that what she needed? Consequences so great so as to prevent straying in the first place?

She could not believe her mentor would demand such recourse from her. Her whole life she had believed in a God of love and understanding, one who recognized human frailties and offered forgiveness.

But forgiveness was only truly granted to those who sought to purge the sin. Perhaps the fact that she had not taken those steps was yet another indication that she wanted to stray.

She had known her feelings, and could put a name to them. In the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, she knew of their depth, had even recognized a glimmer of their return in his eyes. She knew, yet she did nothing but pray over them and for the first time, prayer offered no answers. Such a sign should have warned her that she was in too deep. She could not, or would not, confess her transgressions to Sister Julienne. To do so would have forced her from her stasis; her mentor would have required some action. She should have left Nonnatus on her own, putting all temptation away from her.

She did nothing, and continued in this state of disobedience. She rarely spoke to him, only working with him when required to do so, but this tacit acceptance of the status quo was nearly as bad as if she had shouted her feelings to all. And now God had sent her a forceful reminder to reconsider her priorities.

Surely she had brought this upon herself. This illness must be a direct result of God’s displeasure.

Part of her brain rejected this idea. She did not believe God was so unforgiving. All she had been taught supported the notion of a God that did not mete out punishments or vengeance in this way. Her illness was the result of exposure, she reminded herself. Isolation was a necessary step towards not only her own cure, but towards eliminating the disease from her community entirely.

Yet the feelings stirring in her heart reminded her of her complicity and guilt and fear won out. In the not-so-distant past, those lucky enough to have survived did so only through terrifying surgeries and years-long isolation from all they held dear. She had not removed herself from her temptations, so God would do so for her.

Her gaze was pulled to the dresser, a lone unopened envelope mocking her. She remembered the long, silent car ride from Poplar, the air between them thick with her shame. She could not so much as glance at him, for even then she did not trust herself to remain silent. Her stiff response to his attempts to reassure her was all she could muster. She knew he was not blind to her weakness, that his empathetic soul would try to heal her even then.

She should tear the letter up. His gesture of friendship would not soothe but exacerbate her pain. All contact must be stopped. God had shown his displeasure.

Guiltily, she took the envelope in her hands, caressing the very places he must have touched. Was this letter a test? Did her penance demand its destruction? Long moments passed, her mind lost in indecision. The light in the room changed and the late afternoon sun poured through the window, warming her face. She looked up and felt her lungs fill with air. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she slid the letter underneath her sole box of personal items.

She would not destroy the letter today.

She knelt on the cold hard floor and tried to pray.

Next Chapter

Trying to Hear God: Chapter 2, Confusion

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Previous Chapter

Her body ached with exhaustion. The long night had required all her stamina, and at its end she felt as if layers had been stripped away. There had been difficult births over the years, too many to count, and she had experienced such joy at the display of love and human perseverance each time. For too long now she left the birthing room feeling empty, with less and less desire to ever return.

Kneeling at her bedside in her narrow cell, she sighed deeply and clenched her hands together. Focus, she needed to focus. But the deep breath did not help to clear her mind, it did not soothe her body. The prayers would not come. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the edge of the bed and struggled to keep from vocalizing the pain she felt. She was broken, lost and forgotten, and it was her own doing.

A sob shook through her small body, stifled in the covers of the hard mattress. Even after her mother’s death she had never felt so abandoned. The long, terrible illness had given them time to prepare, if one could in fact prepare for the death of a beloved mother. While devastated and stunned when the inevitable finally happened, there were loved ones to share her pain. There had been no reason to hide.

There was no one now. Even God seemed to have forsaken her. Desperate for the comfort the love of God had afforded her, she recited the prayers, recalled the Bible passages that had always refreshed her faith. She worked harder, longer hours than ever and made every offer of help possible. Through service she had hoped she could return to her previous state of serenity, but somehow, she still felt empty. Purple-gray shadows appeared beneath her eyes and she began to fade from view.

There was no one to listen, no one to understand. If she spoke, there would only be condemnation and abandonment. She had tried to reach out, but each time was prevented by circumstance. Perhaps that was for the best. How could another understand when she could not understand herself? Even more, would her confusion be seen as a rejection of all the promises she had vowed to honor?

Shaking, she rose from her knees and slid into bed, hiding her face in her pillow. Why had this happened? She wasn’t even sure what this was, she simply knew there was something there. She had been solitary for so much of her life; it had been many years since she had felt the need to connect with another. Her sisters afforded her the love and quiet companionship she thought was enough. Even Sister Julienne, her mentor and guide, did not arouse a need for more.

Now her heart ached for it. The warm friendship enjoyed by the nurses evoked a slash of envy. They were not much younger than she, confident in their belief that the world was their oyster, while she could have been an old woman, separate as she was.

She tossed in her bed, attempting  to stop her thoughts from taking what was becoming a well-worn path. In the religious life, she told herself, she would move beyond friendship; the spiritual state she could find by devoting her life to God would supercede ordinary relationships. By not singling out a few, she could devote herself to all. She reminded herself of this again and again, and understood the truth of it. Yet she still could not deny her loneliness.

“You don’t always feel lonely,” a voice beckoned in her heart. A tear slipped out of eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders spasmed. In recent weeks, the whispers that spoke more loudly than her prayers threatened to overtake her. If she could stop their echoes, she could return to the way things were before.

These whispers had changed of late, confusing her even more. While still longing to join in with the others, there was another whose company she preferred, one whose nearness alerted every nerve ending, one who roused an interest she could not ignore.

She knew when he entered a room before she saw him, or even heard him. His weary voice tempted her to soothe his worries. Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to mend his lab coat? To help his lonely son? It was not purely her own empathy for the boy’s motherlessness that pushed her to befriend him and give the comfort of a womanly voice.

She had always respected and admired the devoted doctor who gave so much to the community they both served. Attending so many births together over the years, they had developed an understanding of each other, an ability to anticipate the other’s moves and needs: a connection that made many of the positive outcomes possible.

Last night had been such a delivery. The strange nature of the Carter family, their resistance to medical intervention, and the intensity of the delivery of the twins had required all the resources they could muster to save mother and child. She still trembled at the memory of the lifeless form of the infant in her arms, unable to takes its first breath. Knowing he was there with her gave her strength, and she tried a technique that surprised even her. When the infant’s lungs filled the room with the shrill cry, she lifted her eyes to him in shared joy.

Afterwards, she felt an exhilaration she hadn’t felt from a delivery in some months. Perhaps that was the source of her unexplained, bold behavior later as they prepared to leave. She cringed at the memory. To some, the sharing of a cigarette was simply a result of a professional camaraderie, a normal denouement to a harrowing experience, and she had pretended to herself at the time that it meant nothing. But she knew otherwise. They had shared more than a cigarette. She revealed a private memory, wanting to forge a deeper connection with him, and found she needed to know more of him.

With him, she longed to be herself, someone she hadn’t been in many years. She wanted to talk about the world, her life, learn about him. The hodgepodge she knew of his life was not enough and she felt a pull towards him that was becoming difficult to ignore. With him, in those moments they were alone together, she did not feel alone.

The last rays of light streamed through the tiny window of her cell as finally the demands of her weary body took over and gratefully, she slept.

Next Chapter

Hundred Word Challenge: No Boys Allowed

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“Where’s Angela?” Patrick  asked as he sat to dinner.

“”Bye, Dad!”  Angela Turner appeared at the door, dressed to go out.

Frowning, he said, “Where are you going? It’s a school night. You know the rules.”

“It’s a school event, dear,” Shelagh soothed. “A poetry reading. We didn’t think you’d want to attend.”

“Not likely. But what about-?”

“No worries, Dad. Schoolworks done, and Leslie’s bringing me back. I’m off!”

As the door closed, Patrick proudly turned to his wife. “At least she isn’t boy crazy like that Charlotte.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Wait. Leslie isn’t a girl, is he?”

“Poor Patrick.”

The Hundred Word Challenge: Laundry

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A fun response to a Tumblr challenge to write a fic in 100 words exactly. It was much harder than I thought!

“Oh, will he never pick up his clothes?” Shelagh complained, bending for a rogue sock.

Patrick appeared in the doorway of their room and smiled at the sight of her awkward yet flattering position. “Shelagh, what -”

He stopped himself from finishing as she rose and held out the offending laundry.

Thinking quickly, he apologized. “I know. I’m as bad as Timothy. Worse, probably. I don’t deserve you.” He took the washing from her, dropping it in the waiting basket, then pulled her close. “How can I make it up to you?”

His solution: dropping her clothes on the floor.

Trying to Hear God: Chapter 1, Doubt

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For the first time in her life, she couldn’t hear God. She knew He was there, she felt His presence as she went about her duties. Babies were born, the ill were cared for, and God was there for it all. God was there when a neighbor reached across the fence to help an old woman hang out her laundry. He was there when a police constable comforted a boy after his dog had been crushed by a passing lorry. She could see God in the faces of Poplar, ordinary people living ordinary lives.

She had felt His comfort so many times in her own life. As a child, she had turned to God for solace, needing to fill the gaping wound left by her mother’s death. That early lesson had taught her not to expect God to solve her problems, but to look for her own solutions and to find contentment despite the sadness. Her faith had given her serenity and at each crossroad in her life, she could feel God guiding her. Yet now when she prayed, there was only silence.

For months now she felt this void. She recited the prayers, followed the services, but there was no comfort, no connection. Even the music would not soothe. Day after day as she knelt in supplication, she searched for His voice.

Doubt is a part of faith. She knew that raising questions helped to bring beliefs into sharper focus, that blindly accepting the path forged by others would not bring one to understanding. A regular and thorough examination of conscience was necessary to building a healthy and strong relationship with God, for without it, one became a zealot. Now doubt consumed her. It did not clarify, it did not strengthen. She could feel His presence, but not His grace.

She knelt in her cell in the cold night of early spring, evening prayers long over. The Great Silence hung over the convent, taunting her, when before it had calmed her. She tried to open her mind, to allow God to soothe her, but felt only frustration. Where was He? In her weakness had He forsaken her?

When had it begun? For months she had experienced a dissatisfaction she could not name. The death of a young mother and child had rattled her that past autumn. Sent to assist at the Mother House for a week, she had inwardly rebelled at the officiousness of others. At Christmas she had felt the grief of her mother’s death as if it were new. Pain and discontent began to grow in her heart, and she felt the discord deepen through the winter.

Why had these doubts begun to take hold? she grieved. Each day she saw God in the life around her. Why did she not feel his presence in her own life? Shame began to grow in her heart as she examined her sins of vanity and disobedience.

She had found herself too often peering in the small mirror of her cell, its intended use only to ensure that she had properly covered herself, hiding all clues to her individuality. Was she pretty still, she asked as she stole long looks. She had been told, long ago, that young men would not be immune to her physical charms, but had turned from such base feelings, sure in her path of service and chastity. What would have happened if she had listened then, just once? Had she hidden in fear from her womanhood rather than walking beyond such feelings, as the Order taught?

Too often and too eagerly she joined in the chatter of the young nurses these last months, and their talk of romance and evenings out made her long for an unknown. It was exciting, listening to stories of handsome escorts and evenings spent dancing under dim lights.  Never before had these diversions held any appeal for her, but last night she had found herself powerless over dreams of being held by a man, tall and sure, as the music swirled around her. She flushed at the memory of how she woke in the night breathless, her body tense with feelings she could not name.

She could not ignore the irony of the choices of her life; how the vow of chastity required by the Order juxtaposed with the work of a midwife. Those vows which denied the needs of the flesh placed side by side with the everyday evidence of those very same physical demands. Her devotion to God required she accept all His children, and the service of a midwife in such a community gave her more opportunities to challenge and strengthen her faith. As a young woman, she had been proud of this. Naive and untried, her passion for God had superseded the first early stirrings of awareness, leaving her ignorant of its power. Irony no longer offered self-protection, however, and if she found that her frequent presence at the start of life touched parts of her heart she did not know existed, she was not ready to admit it.

There was no one to whom she could turn with these feelings. Her shame kept her from it. Sister Julienne had such worries of her own, and depended upon the younger nun to help keep Nonnatus House running smoothly.

Sister Bernadette bowed her head and began to pray again.

 

Next Chapter

A Man and His Car

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This is a thank you for Rockbird86 for helping us all out with our big NZ  problem today. Oh, the agony of the Nonnatun. I’ve dropped in a reference to her Bare Arms and Engine Oil, too.

Everyone can see that Patrick’s beloved car is ready to go off to that old junkyard in the sky. Everyone except Patrick.

***   ***

“He’s late. Again,” Sister Evangelina harumphed. Standing on the steps to the Community Center, she placed her hands on her hips and assumed a belligerent stance.

Shelagh glanced sideways at the irritable nun, and sighed. “Sister, you know he doesn’t do it on purpose. The demands of the community are only getting greater and-”

Sister Evangelina thrust her hand in between them. “Listen. You can hear that car of his from the other side of the river.” A few moments later, the tardy Dr. Turner turned the corner in his adored MG Magnette, its engine no longer the quiet purr of years past but the roar of a cranky old lion.

Struggling with the door, Patrick Turner finally climbed out to the street. “Apologies, ladies. I had to stop at the petro station to put some oil into the engine.” Swinging his medical bag from the trunk, he trotted up the steps to greet his wife, adeptly ignoring the expression on the Sister’s face.

Shelagh turned her cheek up to accept his kiss and worried, “Again? You just changed the oil this weekend.” She blushed, trying not to recall just how an afternoon of automotive maintenance usually turned out at the Turner home. Mrs. Turner did appreciate her husband’s forearms, after all, but it just wouldn’t do to allow those thoughts to wander in present company.

Patrick grinned knowingly and winked at his wife. Spreading his arms wide, he benevolently attempted to escort the two ladies into the clinic, but Sister Evangelina would have none of it. “Doctor Turner, that old jalopy has got to go.”

If she had slapped him standing in the middle of the High Street, Patrick could not have been more stunned.

“You already have an issue with timeliness, Doctor. Breaking down on the side of the road will not get you to your appointments. Mark my words, if that beast survives the spring I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

***   ***

By the beginning of April, the old Magnette had gone through a muffler, a new radiator, twice, and new brakes installed. Yet Patrick was unmoved.

“A few maintenance issues, Tim, that’s all. She’s fine. I’ll be driving that car to Angela’s wedding.” Patrick tweaked the girl’s ponytail.

“No, you most certainly will not,” asserted Shelagh from the stove. “Patrick, Tim’s right. I’m afraid it’s time to replace that car. The transmission is on it’s last legs. Only yesterday it stalled on me three times.” Turning on him, she added, “Don’t even try to say I don’t know how to properly drive that car. A person should not have to pump the clutch three and a half times and lean to the right before switching gears. It’s ridiculous!”

“See, Dad? Mum says it too. Even Sister-”

“Tim, go play outside with Angela. We’ll call you down when tea is ready.” Patrick was feeling cornered.

Picking up on this, Shelagh changed tactics as the children left the house. She turned the heat off under the stew, and turned it up elsewhere. Slowly walking over to her husband, she lowered her voice. “Patrick, I know you love that car. I love that car, but-”

“You should love that car,” he told her. “I found you on that misty road in that car. I taught Tim to drive in her. And we took Angela home from the hospital in that old ‘jalopy,’ you might remember.” His hands moved to rest on his wife’s hips. Patrick was standing firm, but there was no reason why he couldn’t make his point and hold his wife closer at the same time.

“Hmmm,” Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck. “It does have some happy memories.”

Nose to nose, he continued, “We’ve had some good times in that car, sweetheart. That first night I picked you up for a date? Or when we went to the movies to see Dr. Zhivago?”

Shelagh’s fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him down closer to her lips. “I remember. We certainly steamed up those windows, didn’t we? It’s a shame you don’t want to buy a new car, though. I was rather looking forward to making some new memories in the next one.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. Shelagh had played her trump card and won.

***   ***

Two days later, Patrick walked into the sitting room with a gleeful expression on his face.

“Tim, you’ll need to mind your sister tonight.Your mother and I are going out.”

Three sets of eyes turned to him, stunned. Radio 5 was re-broadcasting the afternoon’s game between Liverpool and Sheffield, and the idea of him missing a game this late in the season was inconceivable.

“But Dad,” Tim finally got out, “tonight’s Liverpool-”

“Tim, my boy, not even the league title would keep me in tonight. Come on! Outside everyone. I’ve got something to show you.”

Still speechless with surprise, the Turners filed outside. Parked regally at the front door was a gleaming bright blue Vauxhall Viva.

“Daddy!” cried Angela. “You bought a car!”

Tim shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d ever do it, Dad. But well done.” Dating would be much less embarrassing in this car.

“And what about the Magnette?” Tim asked. “Did they let you trade it in?”

“Well, not exactly. They would have, I’m sure of it, but it was a bit dodgy on the start. But it’s better this way. Now you can share it with your mother.”

“Oh, thank you,” Timothy said sarcastically. “I’ve been given so much.”

“Yes. Well, then. Here’s some cash, take Angela for dinner. Homework done and bed early, I haven’t forgotten about your chemistry test tomorrow. Shelagh, no need to change. There’s no dress code where we’re going tonight.”

***   ***

Much later that night, the new car glided quietly to its new parking space.

Patrick turned to his wife and pulled her close. “So, do you like the new car?”

“Mm-hmm,” Shelagh returned, her hands toying with his poorly buttoned waistcoat. “It’s very comfortable, dearest.” She looked up and smiled contentedly. “And the back seat is so roomy. Not cramped at all.”

Several minutes of blissful quiet passed when they were startled by a knock at the window. Unable to see through the steamed windows, Patrick rolled one down to see the source of their interruption.

“Oh, sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know it was you. New car, sir? Very nice.” Officer Brogan was new to the beat, but had quickly learned the doctor kept odd hours. “Defogger not working? Been a bit misty out-Oh, Mrs. Turner. Didn’t see you there. Evening ma’am. Oh.” The young constable eyes roamed  anywhere but the interior of the car. But he had to be wrong. He couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was. Could he? No, it wasn’t possible.

It simply was not possible that the respected Doctor Turner and his widely admired wife were snogging in the backseat of a car now, was it?

Shelagh Goes to the Ball, Part Three

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Artwork by GreetingsDr. as published on her Tumblr blog

Artwork by GreetingsDr. as published on her Tumblr blog

Previous Chapter

After several dances, Patrick and Shelagh returned to the table to find Timothy and Susan sitting quietly. Around them, the older couples chatted amiably about work, children, recent trips, but the two teenagers seemed stiff and uncomfortable. Shelagh thought quickly.

“Timothy, dear, why don’t you and your father go and get us ladies some refreshments?” She glanced to Susan for agreement. “Lemonade? You know I dislike red punch.”

“Because red punch stains like no one’s business,” her son recited.

“Yes. And perhaps you could corral a waiter with one of those trays of sausage puffs? I’m starving.” She looked at Patrick as she spoke and he leant in. “Talk to him,” she whispered. “He’s miserable.”

Patrick’s eyebrows rose for a moment. “You want me to play matchmaker? Shelagh, there are some limits in the father-son relationship.”

“Not tonight, there aren’t. Just give him a boost. He’s so terribly nervous. Something man-to-manish.” She smiled. “For me, dearest?”

Letting out a breath, he shook his head. “The lengths I will go to impress my girl. I’ll give it a try. But don’t blame me if I muck it all up.”

 

On the way to the refreshments table, Patrick observed his son. Shelagh was right. The poor lad had obviously not lost any his nervousness.

Patrick patted his son on the shoulder. “Relax, Tim. The night’s going well. Susan seems very nice.”

Tim scowled at his dad. “The night’s awful. I can’t think of a single thing to say to her. Susan’s going to think I’m a complete dud.”

“No, she won’t. She agreed to come out with you tonight, didn’t she? That’s always a pretty good indication that a girl is interested.” His head tilted to the side as he pondered his son’s situation. “Do you like her?”

“I do, Dad. Don’t tease. I like her a lot. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” He looked very young, despite his grown-up suit.

Patrick smiled wryly. “Talk to her. Make her feel important to you. You have to court a lady, Tim.”

“Hmph,” Tim grunted. “You never courted Mum. One day she came home from the Sanatorium and a fortnight later you were engaged.”

Patrick laughed. “I suppose our chronology was a little unconventional. When you know, you know.” He glanced over to the table, a little smile pulling at his mouth. “But I had to learn to court her afterwards. In fact, I’m still courting her today.”

Tim couldn’t help it. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

Patting his manly son on the shoulder, Patrick said, “The fact of the matter is you have to talk to her. It’s the only way you’ll get to know if there really is something there. Well, one of the ways…”

“Dad!”

 

 

At the table, Shelagh was doing her best to salvage the night for the young couple. Her tactics were a little less obvious, however.

“Timothy tells me you’ve just been awarded place at university. Your parents must be very proud, dear.”

“Yes. It’s rather frightening, really. I’ve never been away from home.” Susan fiddled with her napkin nervously.

Shelagh reached out and placed her gloved hand over the young girl’s. “Yes, I know what you mean. I was terrified when I left home. You just have to trust yourself to make the leap, that no matter how things go, you’ll find a way.” Trying to catch her eye, Shelagh continued, “It’s all about self-confidence, though I’ve had my own struggles on that front, too.”

Susan looked up. “You have?”

“Of course. Everyone has. Some are just better at disguising it, that’s all. Take tonight for example. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you seem a bit nervous.” Shelagh’s warm gaze softened the question.

By now, the napkin was a wrinkled mess. “Is it so obvious?” Susan whispered.

“Only to me, dear,” Shelagh consoled. “ I’m a mother. I can’t help but look out for you.”

“My friends always say get a boy to talk about himself, but I can’t seem to get Timothy to say more than two words at a time.”

Shelagh smiled. If he couldn’t find his tongue, Timothy must be terribly nervous. He was going to need some help, and with a little boost to her ego, Susan might be the girl to do it. “Any boy worth his salt will want to know about you, too. Don’t play second fiddle to anyone, Susan, especially if it’s just to impress them, boy or girl.” She leant in. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m a bit shy myself. When I was younger I was very afraid of making mistakes, that people would think less of me. Then one day, I decided that what others thought didn’t matter half as much as what I thought about myself. Once I realized that, things just…fell into place.”

“Was that when you left the Order?” Susan asked artlessly. Realizing what she had just said, she covered her shocked mouth. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Turner. I shouldn’t have said-”

Shelagh chuckled. “Don’t be silly, dear. I know it’s quite a tidbit. Nun gets married and all that. It’s all right, let people talk. But, yes, that is when I left the Order. I decided to trust myself.” She smiled. “And here come our dates.”

Patrick slipped into his seat, placing a plate of hors d’oeuvres in front of his wife. “As you ordered, madam wife.”

Shaking his head in resignation, Tim turned to Susan. “How about we take a walk before dinner? I heard that there’s a fountain in the courtyard. It’s quite loud in here, we could go…talk.”

Susan stood. “Let’s go see if we can find it, then.”

Patrick watched the young couple move off, then turned to his wife, a puzzled expression creasing his forehead. “Did what I think just happen, happen?”

Shelagh giggled. “I think perhaps it has.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a lot more of Susan in the future.”

“Maybe not so much of her tonight, though,” Patrick grinned. “I think I’ll let him take the car home.” He sat back in his seat with the air of a king awarding a fiefdom.

“Patrick!” Shelagh was stunned at the unprecedented offer.

“You wanted me to play matchmaker.” His hand squeezed hers as his eyes took on a rakish smile. “Besides, we haven’t snogged in the back seat of a cab for far too long.”

Shelagh blushed, but met his eyes squarely. “That’s as may be, Patrick. Just remember that Angela may play at Cinderella, but there is no way I’m leaving this Ball before midnight!”