In the weeks since the thalidomide scandal broke out, a strange melancholy had come over the Kenilworth Row Maternity Home and its staff. While no new babies had been born afflicted by the ravages of the cruel drug, every day brought with it the worry that today, another would appear. Even the start of the holiday season did little to dissipate the grim mood.

The drug had been officially banned in the United Kingdom, and calls came up through the medical profession demanding new standards in pharmaceutical testing. If there was any good that could come from this terrible chapter, it would be stronger regulations to prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. But that was little comfort to mothers like Rhoda Mullocks.

Patrick Turner stepped from his car, turning the key to lock the door and headed up the stone steps from street level to the flat's entrance. To keep the spirit of Christmas up for the children, Shelagh had insisted they decorate for the holiday. Today, she had hung a wreath on the door. He did appreciate all Shelagh was doing to maintain some sense of normal, even if he found it hard to assist. He would have to make a greater effort. He swallowed heavily and entered the flat.

The sounds of carols on the radio greeted him as he hung his coat in the hall, the scent of mince pies filling the air. He suspected the early baking was more to keep his wife's mind occupied that a desire to stock up on holiday pastry. More than anyone else, Shelagh understood his sense of guilt and even felt a sense of her own culpability. Both knew they had acted in the best interests of their patients, that there had been no malpractice, but the knowledge that is was their misplaced trust in modern medicine made it all the harder to continue caring for the poor of Poplar. He pushed forward and went to meet his family.

Timothy sat in an armchair, his Biology text balanced on his knees as he copied a diagram. He didn't look completely happy about his position, having been ejected from his preferred spot at the table. The boy had a desk in his room but preferred to sit with his mother and sister as he worked on his studies. Patrick wondered how the boy could get anything done now that Angela refused to stay within the confines of her play yard. She seemed to take great delight from piling her toys on her brother as he worked.

Shelagh looked up from the washing she was folding. "Hello, dear," she greeted him, raising her cheek for his light kiss.

"Dad, there's a letter for you postmarked from South Africa!" Tim announced.

"South Africa?" he wondered, his brow furrowing.

Before he could give the letter any more attention, he felt a tug on his trouser leg and looked down to see two-year-old Angela's bright eyes and saucy smile. Pushing aside the sting of guilt he felt each time he pushed away his burdens, he crouched down to her level. "Hello, Miss Angela. It's a pleasure to see you." He picked up her soft hand, lifted it to his lips and was rewarded with the same shy smile of delight he so often saw play across his wife's face.

Wrapping his daughter in his arms, he stood. "What's that about a letter, Tim?' he asked. His eyes squinted as Angela patted his cheeks.

"It's got a stamp from South Africa. Who do you know from there?" Tim asked. He handed the letter up, avoiding his sister's inquisitive fingers.

Patrick turned the letter over in his hands. "Hope Mission," he read aloud. "M. Fitzsimmons." He thought for a moment, remembering. "We went to medical school together. She went down there sometime after the war, I think. I wonder what she has to say to me?"

"There was a woman in your medical school class, Dad?" Tim was amazed.

"Women can become doctors, Timothy," Shelagh admonished from beyond the kitchen hatch.

"They can now, Mum. But Dad went to school so long ago, I didn't think it was possible."

"Mind your cheek, Tim, " Patrick warned, his grin hidden by Angela's hands. "There were three in my class when we started, I'll have you know." He caught his son's eyes, halting any further response. "And no, it wasn't so long ago that one of them was named 'Eve.'"

"Can the letter wait a bit longer, dearest? Dinner's just ready." Shelagh carried in a bowl of roasted sprouts.

Patrick placed the letter on the mantle. "I suppose it won't hurt to wait until later. I'm famished."

Evenings were the easiest time to forget about the troubles within the practice, when self-reproach gave way to love. There was a tacit agreement to put the focus on family for the few hours they had before the children went to bed. The lively chatter of a bright young man and the happy little girl kept the mood light and made preparations for the holiday possible.

Patrick stood in doorway of the bath and watched as Shelagh gave Angela's hair a final rinse. The little girl sputtered and squealed with laughter.

"She'll turn into a mermaid one day," he laughed. He opened the towel and put out his arms, scooping up the slippery child. "I'll dress her tonight."

He passed by Tim's room on the way to the nursery. "Ready for the Biology exam tomorrow, Tim?"

"I think so. I'm fairly certain I know my all the enzymes."

Patrick shifted the wiggly girl on his hip. "Enzymes aren't all that hard, Tim. Just remember to break it down."

Timothy rolled his eyes at the terrible pun. "Can I have the stamp when you've finished your letter?"

"Right. I nearly forgot."

Shelagh joined them in the hallway. "You go read your letter, Patrick. I'll get Angela to sleep tonight," she suggested.

With a kiss on Angela's little nose and a quick one on his wife's cheek, Patrick left his family to settle in for the night.

He sat staring into space, absently tapping the letter against his chin when Shelagh returned.

"Good news, I hope," she said as she settled on the couch next to him. Her hand slid around his arm, finding his hand. They'd have one last cup of tea and set to wrapping gifts.

He sat up a bit and put the letter on her lap. "Interesting news, anyway. Myra Fitzsimmons was always...she's an unusual person. She wasn't the only woman in our class, but she was the most ambitious, maybe more ambitious than any of us. She was older and had years of medical training before she came to school-she lied about her age to be accepted as a nurse in the First World War, then went on to serve in Liverpool Hospital for another ten years or so." He laughed softly. "I don't suppose she relished the idea of listening to anyone, much less a man, so she left nursing and joined our class. Some of the old instructors were pretty rough on her, but she held firm. I think she was the only one to never faint in anatomy class!"

Shelagh lifted the letter to exaine it more closely. "It must have been difficult for her. In my experience, most doctors can be ...condescending... when treating women as patients. In the classroom, they must've been insufferable!"

Patrick turned to her in mock outrage.

"Present company excepted, dearest." She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "Were you friends?"

"Not friends, exactly. Myra Fitzsimmons didn't make friends easily, but she was an excellent lab partner. No nonsense, and the quickest diagnostician I ever knew. She signed up with the RAMC during the World War II and got stationed in Cape Town, and decided to stay."

"So why did she write you? Is she coming back to England? We could use someone like her here in Poplar." Shelagh stifled a yawn.

"Actually, no. She runs a mission on the East Cape, and it looks like they're in trouble." He turned to face Shelagh. "She wants us to go down there."