Chapter One: Guilt
Patrick stepped into the back garden, cigarette case in his hand, and headed for the small wrought iron bench in the back corner. Taking a seat, he reached underneath for the old coffee can and gave it a shake. He was afraid to guess how many cigarettes he had smoked out here in the last few weeks. Too many, for certain. Lighting up a fresh one, he glanced around the space, his eyes squinting in the darkness. They had never really gotten around to making it more appealing. Neither he nor Margaret was "nesters." In the early months of living here, other things had occupied them: his practice, Timothy, her music. After his wife became ill their little patch fell off the list of priorities entirely. Now it's only use was to prevent the house from smelling like a factory.
In the first year or so after her death, Patrick would stay up late each night, out on a call or completing paperwork until a wave of fatigue would come over him and finally he would go up to bed. Exhausted, he fell asleep immediately only to wake a few hours later unable to settle again. Sometimes a dream would disturb him, or worries. Try as he might to dispel his concerns, his subconscious kept bringing them back to the surface demanding resolution, and he would find himself sitting on this bench filling the old coffee can with cigarette ends. Here, through that long first year he wrangled his grief into a dull ache, so that the mere thought of Margaret was no longer a piercing pain. He could recall her face, her voice, even her beloved music and feel grateful that they had any time at all.
They met accidentally, at a concert. They probably wouldn't have, if not for the war. The war changed everything for everyone. Engaged to her childhood sweetheart months before Hitler began his march through Europe, Margaret's plans centered on the music school she and her cellist would start and the family that would follow, but her cellist put on a private's uniform and was sent to Trondheim. By the time she should have been holding her first recital, she was alone, almost a widow, and working in a government typing pool.
When they met in mid-1946, Patrick was already an overworked G.P. in the East End. As a young man he had dreamed of a career as a Harley Street surgeon, wealthy, respected and settled, but the horrors of war pointed him in another direction. The glamour of his old dreams was tarnished by the blood and agony of the Front and he turned to a community that needed him as much as he needed it. Healthy again, he threw himself into the lives and cares of the poorest of London.
Patrick inhaled deeply on his cigarette. He and Margaret were very different people. She was an extrovert, eager to be out with people, and he buried himself in his work. Somehow a friendship blossomed, perhaps out of loneliness. But loneliness had made them each willing to adjust for the other and by year's end, they were married. Another year passed and they were parents to a happy boy, a clever blend of them both. Drifting into a satisfied marriage firmly set in a true friendship, they were content.
Knowing he shouldn't, Patrick took out another cigarette and lit it with the end of his last. He hadn't smoked this much since that first winter after Margaret died. Then, his confusion and pain emanated from a specific point, clearly named. Now, he felt as though he was in a constant state of free fall, with no way of righting himself. His pain twisted with anxiety, guilt, even shame, and ate away at him.
At first, he attributed his strange new feelings to loneliness and fatigue. Sister Bernadette was a startlingly beautiful woman, after all, and he was a man; he couldn't help but notice. Her eyes were the clearest he had ever seen and he felt as if he could peer right into her very heart. Just weeks ago, alone in the kitchen of the moldy Parish Hall, Patrick glanced up at her in conversation and the connection arced between them like electricity. Stunned speechless, it was only the sound of his son's cheerful voice calling him that brought him back to reality. Patrick left the Hall feigning a composure he was far from feeling.
His head dropped into his hands, defeated. Another scene in that bright kitchen, one he had tried so very hard to banish, filled him with shame. Night after night he had tried to forget the link he had felt with Sister Bernadette. The busyness of the daytime helped to keep it at bay, but alone in the night, he dreamt of her extraordinary eyes and her porcelain skin. Unable to control where his dreams took him, in his sleep he saw her hair (blonde, he thought, he had seen wisps of it escape her wimple during one long delivery) tumbling over her creamy shoulders. Desire would grow in him and he would wake, panting and sweating, consumed by guilt. His judgment became clouded, propelling him to follow her back to the kitchen during the fete.
He had meant it kindly, he swore to himself. Sister Bernadette had been such a help with Timothy, a motherless boy who needed more attention than his father could offer. She took his place when his son needed someone, and been injured in the process. The very least he could do was to offer help. The moment Patrick took her small hand in his, however, he was lost. All reason, all thought fled, and he slipped into a trance. Her hand was so small yet so capable, and his fingertips glided over the faint lines across her palm and trailed over tiny blue veins in her wrist. Instinct took over, and he raised her hand to his lips.
The suddenness of her movement away from him shook him back to reality and he begged her forgiveness. Now, in the dim garden, he could feel his body flush again with shame. He was no adolescent boy, unable to control his urges. He had broken his own rules of respect and morality and pierced her veil of chastity. In her goodness, she had forgiven him, but he knew he had corrupted their friendship irreversibly.
Patrick lifted his head and looked up at the sky. Free from smog and the clouds of the day's rain, he could see Venus in the early dawn. The planet shone brightly, as if speaking to him. "Keep your focus, man," he muttered to himself. He stubbed out the last cigarette of the night and tossed it in with the others. Day was approaching, and with it the duties and responsibilities that gave him direction. He flexed his shoulders and returned to the house.
