Shelagh Mannion looked around the bedroom, the one that had been her home for the last two months. The old battered suitcase she had started to pack four days ago, lay open on the bed. Alongside it sat a new vanity bag filled with makeup and toiletries, that had been bought recently on impulse and were mostly still unopened.
Shelagh unpacked a petrol blue pencil skirt and a lilac jumper. She shrugged off the brown dress she had been wearing for over three days. She had bathed that morning at the flat and put on a smear of pink lipstick and a dusting of powder. These cosmetics had already been in her handbag, when she was ordered to evacuate her lodgings in the dead of the night, what seemed now a lifetime ago.
She stared at the outfit with the labels still attached. She had mainly worn dresses, after she had seen fit to discarded her 1940's suit in October. She looked down at her underwear, she would definitely need to change that. She had managed to rinse her stockings and panties out each night at the flat and discreetly dry them for the morning, out of the sight of Patrick and Timothy. She knew it was foolish, she would be washing all her clothes there soon, along with also washing and ironing her new families things.
She carefully removed the cotton tied labels from her new clothes, with a pair of nail scissors. This outfit had been bought especially for today. Shelagh fingered the new underwear in her suitcase. She had never before owned anything so delicate or pretty. She blushed pushing the offending articles back into the case and searched in vain for a more plain and practical set.
Shelagh flopped on the bed. This was not how things were meant to be. She shouldn't be here, her suitcase shouldn't be here.
She should be with Patrick having breakfast in a West End hotel. He had told her, she could order whatever she wanted to start her Christmas Morning and more significantly first morning as Mrs Turner. A Full English, kippers, poached or scrambled eggs or Scottish salmon. Instead she had eaten a strange combination of pastry and cake.
That morning, when Patrick had said he would make her breakfast in bed; she hadn't expected a plate of Christmas cake and mince pies, she had reneged on the brandy butter.
The peculiar feast had been concocted from among the many items, they had found on his - or was it their?- doorstep, when they had returned to his -or was it their?- home, from The London last night. Left by well wishers in response to the news about Timothy. Shelagh had ravenously tucked into her first Christmas breakfast away from Nonnatus House in 10 years, however unorthodox.
That was until Patrick scolded her for getting crumbs on his - no he had referred to it as our - bed. She had jumped up and started dusting off the sheets. Until she noticed him grinning at her. He was doing it again, she still hadn't got used to him teasing her.
In all the years she had worked with him, she hadn't realized quite how funny he could be, how playful. She thought she would get used to it. She knew she would develop the courage to fight back with some of the retorts that flashed into her mind, but never quite made it to her lips.
Patrick had told her the hotel room - he had booked and then Sister Julienne had cancelled - had a shower. She had never used a shower, she wasn't quite sure if she would like all that water pouring down on top of her head, but Patrick had reassured her that he would take care of her. Which only seemed to add to her concern. Was he teasing her again?
Instead of the West End, she was however, sat in Mrs Penny's spare room. That had been her address for the last 8 weeks. Visiting relations over the holidays, the kindly Turner family housekeeper, wasn't even there to offer her the sage advice that Shelagh had now become accustomed too. Shelagh felt completely alone. She repeatedly flicked her new Ronson lighter. She could smoke a Henley, right now.
Shelagh lifted her shoulders and took a deep breath. Admiring the shiny gold object in her hand, she had never owned a cigarette lighter until now. She read the inscription for the hundredth time that morning.
She knew this was only temporary. Maybe things hadn't gone to plan, but things could be a lot worse. Her husband - no boyfriend - as Tim would say, but only because it irritated his dad and amused his new Aunty Shelagh.
Fiancé? Yes he was still that. Lover? Not a word she had used before.
Patrick would be there soon, to pick her up on his way to the hospital, to spend the day with Timothy. The boy was breathing independently, he was conscious and recovering. Patrick had sorted things out with the officious Sister Gibbs and Shelagh was now being given the same respect afforded to a parent. She had also reconciled with Sister Julienne and Nonnatus. She had a lot to be thankful for including Christmas Eve, but she had to get ready. Patrick would be here soon, he would expect her to be ready, she was never late.
Shelagh didn't look at herself in the full length mirror of the wardrobe door, as she carefully slipped into the new underwear. She had bought it to wear today, so she would and that was that. She did watch herself slip into the new skirt and pull on her sweater. She must have got the wrong size? They were far too clingy she decided. It had been so much easier with the habit - one size fits all - she mused. It was too late to change now, Patrick would be on his way. She would have to get used to walking in the skirt, just like she had wearing a small heel.
She brushed her hair and grabbed her pins, as she twisted it into a knot. She suddenly hesitated. Last night Patrick had made it quite clear he preferred it down. She hadn't worn her hair loose since she was a wee girl. She put the brush through her hair once more and put the pins in her handbag.
