Patrick Turner glanced over his shoulder once again. He looked longingly beyond the dining room door. He knew that staring repeatedly in the direction of the Nonnatus telephone, was not going to make it ring, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
He turned back to the table and suddenly felt ashamed. He was positive everyone knew what he was hoping for. Timothy sat to his left, he certainly knew, he could see it in the boy's eyes. He had grown up so much, in such a relatively short time. Wise beyond his years. Honed through the illness and eventual loss of his mother. Followed by almost a year of what? Grief, struggle, survival? Patrick tried to shake himself from his melancholy and self destructive thoughts. He was so proud of Marianne's son, sat in his best tie and blazer.
The boy was animatedly talking to Sister Evangelina. He was glad Sister Julienne had sat Timothy between himself and the bustling nun. She was never short of conversation and had a soft spot for his son, as she also once had for the boy's mother.
Opposite the doctor sat three of the young nurses, he worked with on a daily basis. Nurse Franklin was dressed a little bit like she was having Christmas dinner at the Ritz, but he though she carried it off. Nurse Lee a little less flashy, he could see Marianne in something like that. He knew the more diminutive Nurse Miller would also be wearing a new dress. Marianne always insisted a woman needed a new dress for Christmas Day, apart from last year, last Christmas she asked for a new nightdress.
Absentmindedly he glanced again in the direction of the still frustratingly silent telephone. What was wrong with him? He had accepted this kind invitation for Timothy's sake. Granny Parker always spent Christmas with Timothy's cousins in Liverpool and he hadn't wanted her to change her plans, there had been too much change. He had to snap out of this wave of self pity.
Please let the next call be a woman in labour, possibly breech or twins. A safe, but long labour, but get me out of here please! Let no harm come too anyone, just free me from this odious obligation. Timothy is in good, safe hands. No need to feel guilty or selfish. Was there?
"Would you care for some more stuffing, Doctor?"
The sudden question directed to him in a warm Scottish lilt, shook him out of his malaise.
"No, no thank you Sister, I have ample."
"Mrs B has dared to be a tad adventurous this year and made two types of stuffing. I must say Dr Turner, I prefer the traditional sage and onion myself."
"I wasn't aware Sister, until today that there was more than one type of stuffing." He interjected, trying to crack a weak The poor girl, what had she done to be sat next to such a miserable, boring old sod at Christmas, Patrick chastised himself internally.
He looked around the table, the nurses sat together and whispered and chatted. Although Trixie couldn't be accused of whispering at present.
Sister Evangelina sat next to Timothy, the pair gently trying to heal each other's wounds. Sister Julienne at the head of the table as her position allowed, watching over her family, with a careful eye on Sister Monica Joan at the other end. Poor kind hearted, devoted Sister Bernadette had got the fuzzy end of the lollipop, when it came to the seating plan and was stuck next to him.
"More wine Doctor? I must say Constable and Mrs Noakes have been very generous in supplying us with beverages, before they decided to spend Christmas with Constable Noakes' mother."
"Erm, not much more for me Sister, I know Dr Enys is on call. Which is very kind of him, in the circumstances."
They both glance at Timothy. The boy takes a good slurp of his Dandelion and Burdock, another treat from the Noakes'. Sister Bernadette starts to wonder if the Fortescue-Cholmondeley-Browne empire has been built on off-licenses.
Patrick continues, "He is a fine young GP, but I did say I would be available, if you know…he gets snowed under, or may need my guidance in a complicated maternity case. I gave him this number and told him not to hesitate to call…" He was interrupted.
"I see, Doctor."
Patrick looked at those piercing blue eyes. Oh yes, even as a very happily married man and devoted husband, he noticed the blue eyes. Even when she was a 22 year old postulant and he an enthusiastic new father and war veteran, he noticed the blue blue eyes. They saw right through him at that moment, the blue eyes knew he would rather be tending to a bad case of haemorrhoids than pulling a Christmas cracker, containing a very bad joke, with an increasingly giggly Trixie.
Sister Bernadette glanced behind her once again, looking longingly beyond the dining room door. She knew that staring repeatedly in the direction of the Nonnatus telephone, was not going to make it ring, but she couldn't seem to help herself.
The Nonnatuns took turns on Christmas Day to be on call. Sister Julienne always attended the first call. Sister Evangelina the next, Sister Bernadette followed and quite often that order would repeat itself throughout the day. The Sisters understood that Christmas may have a different interpretation for their young colleagues and they would want to mark it in a different way.
It had been Sister Bernadette a few years younger than the others, that had suggested that they took the strain over Christmas and New Year. To serve Him and to have the privilege of delivering a Christmas or New Year baby. Also young enough and generous enough to realize her secular colleagues would greatly appreciate any time off during the holidays.
At this moment Sister Bernadette wasn't contemplating such noble thoughts. Basically she just wanted to get the Hell out of there. Alone in the work environment between the forceps and cursing mothers, she could ask him how Timothy was doing? How he was coping? Here it had to be so polite, so appropriate, she could see he was struggling for breath, for cover, for safety. All she could do in this situation was talk about stuffing.
She needed that phone to ring, this was stifling. Please let the next call be a woman in labour, a very long simple, safe labour, but get me out of here please! Let no harm come to is too anyone, this is too painful and there is so little I can offer in way of comfort.
Relief finally! Just as the plum pudding and brandy sauce was being served-again thanks to Chummy.
Dring,dring,dring! Sister Bernadette and Dr Turner nearly knocked each other over in their urgency to answer the blasted thing. However while the pair of them were untangling chair legs and actually getting themselves more entwined. Sister Julienne beat them to it.
Patrick took a deep breath. Nothing too bad, too cruel on Christmas Day, but something, maybe a lonely old pensioner, just needs some company.
Sister Bernadette took a deep breath. Nothing too bad, a multiple birth, twins, that would take time and be joyous.
Sister Julienne answered, "Mother Jesu Emanuel, Merry Christmas.
Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette returned to their seats and looked their plum pudding square in the face. Silently and slightly sullenly the pair focused on their dessert and rather rich sauce. Suddenly they both dropped their spoons, in response to a rather loud noise.
No this wasn't the telephone, but rather a call of a different nature. With its very own calling card, a rather pungent odour. Someone was suffering from a bout of flatulence.
Dr Turner immediately swivelled in his chair and glared at his son. Timothy who was obviously well aware of why his father was glaring at him, was shaking his head furiously and mouthing, "Not Me," at his dad.
Dr Turner flicked his eyes from his wide-eyed son to the rest of the dining party. They incredibly continued chatting as normal and quite loudly, especially Trixie. He didn't mind, it was nice to see the young nurse enjoying herself and letting her hair down, she was a grafter, she deserved it. But the smell! Well they were nurses after all, probably immune.
He was just about to admonish Timothy again, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
What was she going to say?
Not only had she had to endure Christmas dinner with the dullest man on Earth. Unfortunately they sat only inches apart. She must have just had the same experience as him. His mind was racing, now what must she think?
He turned his head slowly in response to the sleeve tug. The first thing he noticed, was the pale almost opaque skin of Sister Bernadette was pink, very pink indeed. She had a rosy glow across her cheeks. Her eyes, those blue eyes, were throwing off a light show only he could see. When he was able to tear his eyes away from those northern lights, he noticed she was biting her bottom lip and seemed to be shivering.
Suddenly she was able to release her bottom lip for a moment and mouth to him,"Not Timothy." She cast a glance down the table past Timothy. Patrick's eyes followed and so did his son's and the colour returned to Tim's cheeks. Relieved he was off the hook and also because, he wouldn't have to be the one to drop his dining companion in it.
Patrick now aware that he and his family had not disgraced themselves, looked back at Sister Bernadette. Who now seemed to be steadying herself, with her left hand firmly attached to the seat of her chair. Still pink, still quivering. She was in hysterics, silent, hidden hysterics. Trying for the life of her to not show it. He could only be about nine inches away from her. For the first time since Patrick Turner had walked through those convent doors that morning, a genuine ghost of a smile crossed his face.
He looked at her, really looked at her, maybe for the first time. She was pretty. Well yes, he knew that, but at this moment, she was simply radiant. She was sat only a few inches away shuddering with joy, trying to suppress an almighty laugh. In almost ten years of working with her, she had always been so proper, always been so professional, always been so self controlled. Right now Sister Bernadette's control was slipping.
This was much more enticing than two types of stuffing. He was that close. He didn't sit him there-that was Sister Julienne's doing-he didn't even want to be there. Did he?
"You know if you hold onto that chair much harder, you are going to break it."
He was close enough, just for only her to hear the soft whisper in her ear. The rose pink turned to scarlet, not just across her cheeks but also down her neck, her shivering turned to a gentle rocking. He knew he should stop, of course he knew….
"If you bite that lip any harder, you might need me to take a look at that."
He didn't quite get the reaction he was looking for. Her head turned to face him, chin-up and she stared straight into his eyes-blue into green.
"Best behaviour please, Doctor." She managed to squeak through gritted teeth.
It was at that point Sister Evangelina's battle with the sprouts came to its climax. Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette were somehow in suspended animation. The game had suddenly changed, they both knew the one to take their eyes away from the other, would be the first one to break into fits of laughter.
Sister Bernadette found herself grasping the chair harder and Dr Turner found he was doing the same thing. Meanwhile Timothy was making the adults to his right, look like primary school children. Hardly batting an eye or losing track in his conversation with his table mate. While she remained as unnerved as ever.
Suddenly the stalemate was broken. Trixie trying to relate a story to a less than attentive Jenny, resorted in wild hand gestures and in doing so knocked over her wine glass. Fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you looked at it, it was only half full.
For the first time the table hushed and focused on one person, well almost everyone that is. Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette eyes flicked to Trixie and then back at each other. Not wanting the now mortally embarrassed nurse, to think they were laughing at her, they hung on to their self control.
The tables focus soon moved to another, when Sister Monica Joan,suddenly exclaimed out of nowhere. "Not only have I been subjected to a stench that would only be outdone by Vesuvius in eruption. Now, that inebriated young woman has just shed her wine all over the mince pies!"
The awkward silence that followed was broken by a sudden loud girlish giggle, that had lost any hope of censure and a deep masculine laugh, that had been begging for air, for too long. An eyebrow or two were raised in the direction of the ridiculous hilarity, but it was fleeting. The release of the built up tension in the pair seemed to influence everyone.
Permission had been given for everyone to forgive, relax, smile and carry on and to clear up the mess. Timothy took on the responsibility of rescuing the mince pies. Relieved that a reason to be excused from the table, had finally presented itself.
What no-one else did see, was that on Sister Monica Joan's outburst, Sister Bernadette's resistance finally broke. She lost all control and could no longer contain the mirth mounting up within herself. Feeling unnerved and unbalanced, she felt unstable in her chair and grabbed the nearest thing available to steady herself. It wasn't until she required her left hand to help her remove her glasses and dry her tear stained eyes. That she became aware, that what she was using to steady herself, was in fact the doctor's leg. Just above the knee.
The one thing she was never able to comprehend, not then, not later that same night, not even in the sanatorium was…Why before removing her hand from the doctor's leg? Did she first look left, to see if Timothy had noticed and then look right, to see if Sister Julienne had noticed. It was only when, she was finally certain that neither had noticed, did she then and only then, remove her hand from its inappropriate mooring.
As people stood to clear the table, the was one person Sister Bernadette was definitely not going to look at. Even though she knew he was looking at her. Sister Bernadette had been searching all night for something to quell her school girl giggles and now she had found it. Grabbing the doctor's knee in the possible full view of his son and her superior certainly did the trick. She had found her cure.
Sister Bernadette's back stiffened, her demeanour changed. She rose steadily from her chair. "Excuse me, Dr Turner," she said without a hint of a smile, eyes completely focused on his shoulder.
"Of course," he replied with just a hint of amusement, which she chose to ignore.
She knew he was watching her walk through to the kitchen, but she wouldn't look back, she would never catch herself looking back for him. She remembered this silent promise, ten months later on a misty road in the Essex countryside.