Hands
Patrick Turner sat down in his living room, and lit a cigarette, having put his son Timothy to bed. Even though it was only 8.30 pm he felt exhausted and considered going to bed, but eventually could not decide to move. He knew if he went to bed now, he would probably lie awake for hours, even though his body felt tired to the bone. He had had a long day at his surgery, skipped his lunch break because of a beginning flu epidemic, and had hardly gotten any sleep the previous night because he had been attending a difficult birth until the wee hours.
Even though he constantly felt exhausted, sleep did not come easily to him these days. Since a couple of weeks he had a recurring dream about hands. A woman's small and tender but also strong hands, gently touching his hands, his cheeks, the nape of his neck. He intensely felt these hands running through his hair and touching his bare forearms in a firm but affectionate grip. More recently, the image of these hands also appeared more and more frequently in front of his eyes during the day, causing him to drift off into daydreams while sitting over paperwork or waiting for the autoclave to finish.
Right now, the hands were there again, in front of his inner eye, when it came to him in a flash: He had seen these hands last night during Mave Carter's delivery. Tender but strong small hands that had turned the second of the twin girls inside her mothers' womb. Caring and gentle hands, that had rocked this tiny baby up and down until it started to breath and let out its first cry. The experienced hands of one of the most accomplished midwives he had been working with during his 20-odd years of medical practice. Sister Bernadette.
He gasped. Why would he keep thinking about Sister's hands in this way? She was a nun, and one he respected highly not only for her skill in midwifery but also for her calm and friendly manner towards patients and anyone else, himself and his young son included.
Patrick sighed. After last night's intense birth, his admiration for Sister Bernadette's medical skills had again increased. And if that had not been enough, just afterwards, when they had briefly stood together outside the Carter's flat, catching their breath in the early morning sun before leaving into different directions, he had suddenly realized that he had become rather interested in the woman behind the habit.
More out of politeness than truly expecting her acceptance, he had offered her a cigarette. He was more than surprised when she indeed asked for just a puff of his Henley. Patrick still shivered thinking of her dragging the cigarette to her mouth where his own had been only seconds before, their hands slightly touching while passing the cigarette back and forth. It thrilled Patrick thinking about the small episode and he replayed it in his mind over and over.
To date, Patrick had hardly ever thought of the nuns of Nonnatus House as women with lives like everyone else. With the nurses, he sometimes wondered about their background or what they might to during their free time, occasionally getting sentimental thinking about himself as a medical student going out with a young nurse, many years ago. The sisters however he considered purely under professional terms. He had never ever dared to speculate about anything like a private life.
Thinking about her right now, he did remember though wondering about young Sister Bernadette. It must have been not long after Timothy's birth, he had been a GP in Poplar for no longer than two years, when she had joined Nonnatus House as the then youngest sister. He remembered talking to his late wife once or twice about how he could not understand what drew such a young beautiful girl to leading a religious life. Marianne, too, had been wondering about the young sister's motives. "Maybe she had a sweetheart that did not come back from the war. Quite a few came to chose religious life that way, I suppose", she had said.
He soon had come to appreciate Sister Bernadette as a highly professional midwife and colleague and did no further speculating about her motives to join a religious order. He never – before or after – had worked with a young nurse barely out of training possessing her level of skill. She was a born caregiver and midwife. Very soon, she had been the one assigned to the difficult cases and he felt glad to have her present during a delivery. Because hardly anything might go wrong if Sister Bernadette was in control, he had learned quickly.
Patrick opened his cigarette case, slowly took out another Henley and lit it. The sensation of touching Sister Bernadette's hand when handing her the cigarette this morning came to his mind. A wave of warmth crept up his spine and spread into his belly. He shook his head, shocked by his inappropriate thoughts.
How could he think about her in such an appropriate way - a nun after all. Nuns very likely did not have thoughts of this kind and he felt ashamed to even dare think about her this way once.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck 9 pm. "Time for bed" he murmured to himself. He was not on call tonight and for once had the chance of a full night's sleep and decided he should make the best of it.
Patrick and Sister Bernadette looked at each other, eyes locked, time standing still. Her left hand approached his cheek and touched it gently. He held his breath, not sure what to do. He wanted to touch her but was afraid to do so; he did not want to frighten her, causing her to pull back her hand. Her soft and warm and strong and tiny hand on his cheek, a feeling he so desired and wanted to indulge in for a while. She smiled at him shyly and firmly looked into his eyes. He could not resist. He bent down to kiss her.
Just when their lips were to touch, Patrick woke up, shocked. He felt all sweaty and confused, his breath shallow. How could he dream this dream again. Over the past weeks dreams of this kind, dreams where Sister Bernadette's beautiful hands had touched him all over his body and when he had not been able to resist the urge to kiss her, had become more frequent.
He caught himself secretly observing her during clinics or during births they both attended. She had so delicately taken care of Timothy some weeks ago after he had come to clinic with a bruised arm. Patrick had watched her taking care of numerous mothers and babies and found himself taking special interest in the cases she was involved with, even if they were standard cases where a doctor's opinion was not necessary. He could not help it, he was smitten with her and could not resist the urge to be near her, to watch her every move.
He somehow had the feeling that Sister Bernadette, too, seemed to watch him sometimes, though he could not pin down how he came to this conclusion. Whenever he glanced at her, she turned away and left her position immediately. The day before, they had met in the parish hall kitchen to discuss clinic equipment. For a brief moment they had looked at each other, eyes locked and through his mind had flashed the very quickest thought of kissing her before Timothy stormed in, looking for his father who was needed in the surgery.
This was the moment Patrick had dreamt about, he realized. Had Timothy not come in, he did not know what might have happened. He sighed. She was a nun, nothing could, nothing should have happened or happen for that matter.
A look at his alarm clock told him that it was barely 5 am. He decided to get up and do some reading to occupy his mind. On his way to the bathroom, his thoughts, however, quickly wandered off to Sister Bernadette again. She probably was already up, too, he thought. He was not too familiar with the daily routine of the nuns but he knew that they had prayer time early in the morning and he guessed that they must be up by 5 or even earlier.
Somehow the thought of Sister Bernadette being awake, too, comforted him. He imagined what it was like to meet her over breakfast. A silly idea, more than silly. Whatever he did, he had begun to wonder how it would be like with her being present. Breakfast shared with Timothy and her. Discussing the day's tasks with her after sending Tim off to school in the morning. Working along with her at the surgery and sharing their most interesting or difficult cases. Eating sandwiches at lunchtime, driving over to the clinic together, coming home to his flat where she was already waiting for him, greeting him with her warm smile and a touch of her gentle hands.
Patrick splashed cold water into his face and looked at himself in the mirror. Approaching 50, he did not yet feel old but also not particularly young anymore. Having a young son kept him somehow active, he figured, so did having a demanding but also fulfilling job. He realized that he still looked tired but that the weariness and sadness that had accompanied since Marianne's death had begun to wane off. When exactly he could not pin. He assumed it might have to do with the ever more frequent appearance of Sister Bernadette's hands and face in his mind, his dreams and daydreams.
He had never seriously considered remarrying. After all, it was barely one and a half years since Marianne's death. She had asked him to remarry during one of their conversations shortly before her death. "Please promise me that you will find another wife soon. I am worried about you. You always work so hard. You need someone to take care of you. And Tim needs someone to take care of him. You are a wonderful father but you have so much on your hand already", she had said. He now remembered. "And Tim will be gone off to live his own life some day soon. And what then with you? I don't want you to remain alone. You need a companion and a wife to love you." "To love you" he murmured to his image in the mirror and sighed. To love Sister Bernadette…
He knew then and now that Marianne was right. He and Tim got along but they missed someone that took care of them. Not in a way their housekeeper did; someone who tended to their emotional needs. And at the same time they both missed someone they could care of and love.
Until very recently he could not have imagined anyone to fill the gap that Marianne had left. And now: Sister Bernadette – probably the least likely person to do just that. She was young and beautiful. Patrick wondered how old she might be – in her early thirties probably. She must have been in her early twenties when she had come to Nonnatus. That made her almost 20 years his junior. "She would never have an old man like you" he scolded himself in the mirror, suddenly feeling much older than he had just five minutes before. "And for god's sake, she is a nun, she can't get married".
"Dad, are you talking to yourself?" he heard Timothy's sleepy voice when the boy walked into the bathroom, still in his pyjamas, hair standing into all directions. "Just reminding myself of something", Patrick quickly said. "What are you doing up already? You still have some time left to lie in."
"Why are you up so early?" answered Timothy. "Could not sleep anymore. Comes with old age, I suppose". "Oh come on dad, don't make yourself older than you are." "Tim", Patrick smiled and ruffled his son's hair, "I love you." "What's that about, dad?" asked Timothy? "Just a little sentimental in the wee hours, I guess", his father replied. "Now get ready and then let's have a decent breakfast, shall we?" "Oh yes", the boy answered enthusiastically.
Patrick entered the dark entrance hall of his flat. He felt tired and exhausted, more than he had for a long time. It was one of the hardest days he had had since his wife had died. He was late finishing his rounds after having driven Sister Bernadette to St. Anne's Sanatorium. Because he had spent the morning with her at the London, waiting for the results of her TB exams, he had to catch up on quite a bit of work at the surgery, too, so that it now was almost 11 pm.
He felt the urge of pouring himself a glass of Scotch. But before, he went upstairs to check on Timothy. Patrick felt sorry for being so late. Again. How many evenings had Tim to wait for him to come home? While on his rounds, he had quickly stopped at home, taking a bite of the dinner the housekeeper had prepared, explaining to Timothy why he would be late tonight. Since Timothy was very fond of Sister Bernadette, he would understand, Patrick had assumed and his son had proven him right. Timothy had asked many questions about her illness and about when she would be back, but Patrick had only shrugged his shoulders and asked the boy to not inquire any further as for now there were no certainties. And it hurt him to think about her being ill, let alone discuss it with his young son.
Having checked on Timothy soundly sleeping, Patrick poured himself a glass and collapsed onto the settee. He hardly ever drank but after a day like this he felt this was what he needed. It was only yesterday that Sister Bernadette had radiated with joy and energy during the massive success of the TB screening. The night before, he had dreamt how he would kiss her smiling face after she had cupped his face with her soft hands.
He still shivered when thinking of the examination he had had to perform on her. He had never felt so exposed and so sorry at the same time. For weeks, he had longed to touch her in his night- and daydreams. Now standing behind her, touching the silken skin of her back with the stethoscope, he wished he could be miles away. He fought the urge to take her into his arms and whisper words of consolation and support into her ear. Of stroking her hair, her cheek, of holding her hands in silent support.
Patrick sighed. Her hands, her beautiful hands. The hand that had been injured during the church fete and that he had kissed that same day – an action for which he still despised himself, because he must have made her feel compromised, an utterly inappropriate thing to do. In the days afterwards he had thought very hard about how to apologize but had neither found the right words nor the courage. He had approached her several times, only to find her walking away or asking another nurse or Sister to join them.
It was their joint effort in bringing the TB screening van to Poplar which served to take the tension out of their relationship. He sighed and got up to pour himself another glass. Patrick was not a frequent drinker – he had had his last drink the day of Marianne's funeral. Today, he needed it to console him from not being able to help Sister Bernadette.
Patrick had been waiting for all her tests to be completed. After having finished them Dr. Feldman at the London did not want to give a prognosis. Though he was optimistic the Triple Treatment would cure her of the TB, he refrained from giving a guarantee. Also, as for the duration, no estimation was given. It could be weeks, but also months until she was better or even cured.
Patrick then had insisted on driving Sister Bernadette to St. Anne's. At first, she declined politely, but eventually she gave up, as Patrick would not stop insisting. They had spent the drive in silence. Patrick had desperately been looking for words to console her but found none. With any other patient of his, he would have been able to distance himself from the case but not with her. He noticed how she would stare out of the windshield, her hands firmly pressed together, occasionally swallow hard and blinking back tears. He bit his teeth together and tightly gripped the steering wheel feeling helpless because he could not relive her obvious state of shock.
"Thank you doctor. You have been more than kind", were her last words before she turned around and entered the building. Patrick watched her disappear and remained there for another five or ten minutes. He still felt the light brush of her hand against his when he had handed her her suitcase, which had been remarkably light.
He wondered when he would see her again. If he would see her again. He could not stand the thought. There was so much he wanted to tell her. During the drive home he had to stop several times to catch his breath. He had smoked a whole packet of cigarettes during the drive, constantly resisting to shed the tears welling up in his eyes. He felt like a coward. There was so much unspoken of between the two of them. But then, she was a nun, how much could he really say what was appropriate? How much could she accept?
Patrick sighed loudly and lit another cigarette. It was one from the pack he had had to buy while on his way back to Poplar. "Bad day, mate?" the elderly shopkeeper had asked him. "Mm", Patrick had murmured, not willing to discuss his personal matters with some stranger selling cigarettes.
Her hands - how many times had he thought about her beautiful hands. Again, their image came to his mind: How she had tended to Timothy the day he came to the clinic. How carefully she handled the newborns she brought into the world. How he wished she would touch him. Not accidentally while passing a suitcase or a new baby. No, touch him with the passion of a lover - the same kind of love that he, as he had realized weeks ago, felt for her.
Suddenly, a thought came to his mind: He could write to her. Visiting her would certainly considered being inappropriate – though as her GP he might find a reason to justify a visit. But with a letter, he could let her know that he was thinking of her and he could try to say at least some of which he wanted her to know.
He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, got up from his armchair and went to the chest of drawers where he took out some paper. He retrieved his pen from his doctor's bag under the coatrack and sat down at the dining table. He would let her know that he cared about her, that he thought of her and that he was her friend who would never let her down.
It was already midnight when Patrick returned from another late call. He entered his flat and took off his shoes, careful to not make any noise. Timothy had a sound sleep but he had learned quickly that Shelagh, trained by years of being on call, was a light sleeper, especially when he was out.
When he entered the kitchen, he noticed a vase with flowers standing on the kitchen hatch. He smiled. It were small things like these - flowers, a new curtain in their bedroom, his ties neatly hung on a separate hanger – that every day reminded him of his newfound luck. Not that he had married Shelagh because he needed or wanted her to take care of the household. He had married her because he loved her, and those small things were signs of their love. Being married for only three months, they still felt like newlyweds.
Patrick drank a glass of water and went upstairs. When he entered the bathroom to take a quick wash, he noticed that Shelagh had laid out his pyjamas, anticipating he would return after she had gone to bed. When he opened the bedroom door, he left the light in the hall switched on so that he could have a look at her sleeping. He loved to see her lie in his bed – their bed. When he saw her like this, he could not help but think that he longed to have a little daughter with her, a little girl looking just like her mother.
Right now, a smile crossed his face. She lay across both of their beds, her head on his pillow. It was only a few days ago that she had confessed how much she enjoyed their bed because it was so large and comfortable, after being used to the uncomfortable beds of nursing homes and convents.
He smiled at the thought. He often sensed how difficult it was for her to adjust to her life outside the convent. Having lived under her vows for ten years did not wane off easily. He needed to remind himself to be patient with her sometimes.
He finally flicked off the light and went to bed, careful to not wake her. When he lay down and pulled the duvet over himself, he felt Shelagh move. "Patrick, what time is it?" she asked sleepily "It's midnight. Go back to sleep", Patrick whispered. "I am sorry, I made my way to your side". "No, stay here, I actually quite like to have you close to me", he replied gently. Both smiled at each other and cuddled closer together.
"How was Mrs. Bell's delivery?" she asked. Patrick said: "Well, she hemorrhaged quite badly but baby and mother are alive and will be alright. We managed to get everything under control, just before the ambulance arrived." "And the baby?" "Little girl. Doing very well. Better than her mother for the next days, I am afraid."
"Poor thing. I remember her first birth", Shelagh sighed, "It was a breech birth with a terribly long labour and stitches required in the end", she said, now fully awake. "I wonder whether she will ever dare to have a third one." "I remember that birth", Patrick replied. "You were there, nothing could go wrong then, I knew." "Oh, Patrick", Shelagh said and from the tone of her voice he knew that she was blushing.
"Shelagh, you know that I always thought very highly of your abilities as a nurse and midwife." "Yes, I know that but I am just not used to being singled out for that. It feels… presumptuous." "There's nothing presumptuous about the truth, dear", Patrick responded. "You remember that Carter birth. That was not long after the first Bell birth. You were marvellous that night, like so many before."
"Yes, I remember", Shelagh said gently. "I also remember how we shared our first cigarette afterwards. I felt so confused when I got back to Nonnatus house. I did not know what had gotten into me sharing a cigarette with you. I felt the touch of your hand on mine for days. And I just could not, … well, I could not stop thinking about you." She paused. "Do you find that embarrassing?"
"No, absolutely not. To tell you the truth, it was after this day when I noticed that I had already been thinking about you for a while in a, well, not entirely chaste manner - without knowing that it was you who was on my mind." He breathed in audibly. "You know, I kept seeing this image of two beautiful hands. And it was only after this birth that I suddenly realized they were your hands. Your hands were really what I was thinking about first before realizing that the whole of you was what occupied my mind", he confessed.
"My hands? Really?" Shelagh raised her right hand and stroked Patrick's cheek. He took it in his hands and kissed it. "Yes, your hands. I love every part and every bit of you, but your hands were what made me realize this in the first place." "Well, this is an interesting conversation late at night, Dr. Turner", Shelagh smiled.
"Well, now that we're on in, what did you think about when you though about me?" Patrick asked her. "Hmm, what did I think of? I don't know really. I think probably your eyes and those little wrinkles around them. They become visible especially when you smile or laugh", she said. "My wrinkles, really? Oh Shelagh, a sign of my old age" he sighed, only partly amused. "Please, Patrick, don't be silly. They make you look so kind and gentle, just the person you are" Shelagh called. "Oh Shelagh", he said again and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"Well, now that we have discussed some new secrets of ours, how about some sleep", Shelagh suggested, snuggling up closer to her husband. "We'll have another early day tomorrow, well, today actually." "Yes, we do, I am afraid", Patrick sighed. "It's Tim's summer holiday soon. We really should get some days off and do something nice together", he said. "How about we dream something up tonight? Shelagh murmured, drifting off to sleep again. Patrick still held her right hand, revelling in the fact that it was no longer just an object of his dreams but a treasure he now held very dearly in his own hands every day.