TITLE: The Spirit of a Happy Home
AUTHOR: ginchy (thatginchygal)
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Call the Midwife or the wonderful characters. I'm just an old fangirl with a lot of love in my heart for fictional characters.
SUMMARY: The Turner family adjusts to their new home.
NOTES: The idea for this fanfic came to me in a dream that was so vivid that I had to write it down. Thanks so much to my-little-yellowbird for being so kind, for betaing, and helping me with the title and with adding additional layers! You are fantastic and I'm glad to have gotten to know you! In fact, I'm so glad to have met so many of you in this lovely and sweet fandom. I hope you enjoy this story. It was not what I expected to publish first in this fandom, but one must write as the muse wills!
The Spirit of a Happy Home
The keys on the piano are beginning to stick. Timothy is frustrated over the sluggish notes, and slams has hands down on the bench. "Calm down, Timothy," Patrick says, coming to stand by the piano. "The tuner recommended a dehumidifier. The new house is different from the flat. We're all adjusting." He presses one key, which plays a clear, even note. "Even this old thing."
...
Angela tucks into her bacon, nearly knocking over her glass of juice.
"Careful, dearest." Shelagh moves the glass, and glances toward the stairs, shifting Teddy in her arms. "Your father and big brother are going to miss breakfast if they don't hurry down."
Patrick arrives at the table first, kissing Angela's temple. "How's my girl?"
"There was a lady in my room last night," Angela answers, as Timothy rushes into his seat.
Timothy stops his fork halfway to his mouth. "There wasn't anyone in your room last night."
"Yes there was! She was tall and nice. But I could see through her."
Patrick exchanges a look with Shelagh over his newspaper. "It sounds like you had a lovely dream, sweetheart."
"It wasn't a dream," Angela says, folding her arms. "She said I was a good sister."
...
A box arrives from Granny Parker. Timothy stands from the piano and watches as it's opened. He frowns, pulling from it a pale blue matinee jacket. "Did Granny make these for Teddy?"
Patrick reaches for the jacket, rubbing his thumb over the soft fabric. "Marianne made this jacket." He pulls a few more items from the box. "They're some of your baby clothes, Timothy."
Shelagh takes the tiny outfit and holds it up to Teddy's back. "What do you think?"
Patrick smiles fondly at his youngest. "I never thought I'd see these again."
"It's like Mummy's come to the new house," Timothy says.
A piano key clinks, and Angela moves hastily away from the instrument.
"Angela." Patrick is stern. "The piano is not a toy. Come look in the box. I think there's something for you." She grins at the little doll he hands to her, cradling it as if it is precious.
"Was that Mummy's?" Timothy reaches out to touch the doll's cheek.
Patrick shrugs. "I'm not sure."
Shelagh admires the doll. "It was nice of Mrs. Parker to send it."
...
Patrick lets himself into the house just as dawn is beginning to break. It's still and quiet as he sits on the piano bench to remove his shoes and tie. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his eye before pinching the bridge of his nose. Cardiac arrest during labor. A seemingly healthy primigravida and now both she and her daughter are gone. Nurse Anderson wept as the bodies were removed. Patrick felt a few tears leak now, in the safety of his home. He pictured the anguished husband, now a widower, without even his child to ease the blow.
He stands on shaky legs, moving slowly toward the stairs to head to bed, to Shelagh. A familiar scent stops him in his tracks and he turns, looking out into the just brightening room. He closes his eyes, remembering dark hair and a lovely smile.
When he opens his eyes he sees the box of baby clothes, and Angela's little doll. He takes the doll to Angela's room, smiling at his daughter spread haphazardly across her bed. He tucks the doll in with her before entering his bedroom. He smiles at Teddy, fast asleep with his tiny fist resting on his lips, having broken himself from his swaddle. Patrick removes his shirt and trousers, too tired to continue undressing. Morning surgery is in a few hours, but he slips into bed and nuzzles against his wife. Shelagh doesn't wake as he takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, before clutching it to his heart He falls quickly into a dreamless sleep.
...
"The lady in my room says the dolly was hers," Angela announces, holding the doll to her shoulder. "But that it's mine now."
Timothy stops mid-tune. "Angela, there's not a lady in your room. And even if there was, she wouldn't be the owner of that doll. Don't you remember? That dolly came to you from Granny Parker. It was my Mummy's doll."
"Your Mummy is in Heaven." Angela looks at the doll. "Does she miss her baby?"
"Angela." Shelagh kneels and looks her daughter in the eye. "Timmy's mummy is in Heaven, but I'm sure she would be very glad that you are taking such good care of her dolly."
Timothy doesn't answer, but begins to play again. Another key sticks and he groans. "Mum, the dehumidifier isn't working."
Shelagh sighs. "Tim, we'll have the tuner out again."
"The lady in my room says she plays the piano, too."
"Angela, there is no lady in your bedroom. Stop pretending!" Timothy angrily replaces the keyboard cover and leaves the room.
Angela's mouth is set in a mutinous line. "I'm not pretending!" She looks at her baby brother, who is blinking awake in his basket. "Teddy can see her, too."
...
Later Timothy sits on the couch, holding Teddy. The baby's wearing one of the vests that Granny sent, and Timothy tries to imagine himself as small as his brother is now. He thinks of their old flat, and of Mummy and Dad living there with him as the baby of the home.
He knows there is not a woman in Angela's bedroom. She's only three and has a complex imaginary life. The move has unsettled the normal rhythms of their family; Angela is only acting out. He knows all of these things, and other things that Angela will not know: dependency, coping, anniversary syndrome. Grief. Yet he knows that Angela will one day feel a different level of maternal absence, one he will be unable to fully understand.
Again he tries to picture himself as a baby, bundled in his mother's arms. Dad told him that the memories from the flat came with and belonged to them. But some memories were lost; gone forever with Mummy.
A slight brush of air against his brow makes him look up, away from the baby. "Mum?" he calls, looking toward the kitchen. Faintly, in the distance, he hears his Mum laughing with Angela. Teddy's tiny hand raises and jerks. Timothy catches his brother's fist and caresses it with his thumb. "Did you feel that?" He feels foolish asking. The baby gurgles, staring up into the air.
...
A great crash of piano keys awakens Shelagh. She sits up, heart pounding, disoriented. The house is silent. Patrick is still asleep next to her. She reaches for his arm when she sees the blur of a flash of light near Teddy's cot. She fumbles for her glasses, but they fall to the floor. A muffled gasp issues from the cot, a sound she has not heard from the baby before.
She is out of the bed and standing at the cot before she realizes that she has moved. Squinting into the darkness she can barely make out that Teddy's blanket is no longer swaddled around him, but is over his face, covering his mouth and nose. He's struggling, pulling the sheet further over his head. Shelagh yanks it away and grabs him, screaming for Patrick before the baby is fully in her arms.
Patrick takes one look and runs for his medical bag even as Teddy begins to wail. Shelagh's legs collapse beneath her, and she falls onto the edge of the bed, clutching her son. Patrick skids back into the room with Timothy falling in behind him.
...
Shelagh sits on the bed and holds Teddy. She stares at the cot, moved closer to her side of the bed. Only now can she bear to let him sleep in it again. He's getting to be too big for his basket.
She looks down at her son, breathing deeply in his slumber. She listens to her children and their laughter, floating up the stairs, as Timothy plays a silly tune for his sister. She thinks of Patrick and how he will soon be home, and will greet each child in turn: a kiss for Angela, a tummy tickle for Teddy, and a wry comment for Timothy. He will then turn to her, and she will be comforted. Her family will be together. Complete. She is thankful.
She thinks of the woman in Angela's room. Angela has not mentioned her for weeks, moving on to stories of the cat that lives in the back garden. The smooth melody of the piano, the keys of which are once more in perfect working order, beacons to her, but she cuddles Teddy close and hums along softly with the music. She looks again to where the cot once stood and down at her son, outfitted in the pale blue matinee jacket Mrs. Parker sent. She remembers that night: the crash of the piano keys, the light, the terror and relief. She knows that someone was watching over her child. "Thank you, Marianne," she whispers, looking toward the ceiling, unsure of where to train her eyes to make such a declaration of gratitude. "Thank you for saving my son."
There is no answer, but she did not expect one.
...
"This was Mummy's favorite song," Timothy says, starting a new tune. Shelagh smiles and sings along, rocking Teddy in-time to the music. Angela dances about with her doll and tries to mimic her mother's voice.
Patrick returns home, grinning at all of them from just inside the door. "What's all this?" He places his bag on the table and picks up Angela for a quick kiss. He places her back on the floor to keep dancing, while he tickles Teddy's belly and coos baby-talk to him. He pulls back to listen to the music for a moment, and smiles down at Timothy. "Mummy would approve," he says, and Timothy grins. Patrick can't help but tease, however, and continues, "I reckon the piano needed some "Turnering" more than a tuning." Timothy shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but is smiling as he does so and continues to play.
Turning to Shelagh, Patrick gives her a soft kiss, and runs a hand down her arm to entwine their fingers. "Well, Mrs. Turner," he says, looking at their children, content in their surroundings. "Enjoying your evening?"
Shelagh looks down at Teddy and leans against Patrick, pleased with the joyful chaos that surrounds them. "Enjoying our happy home."
-end