Once
It was late. The street was quiet and the neighbors didn't have any lights on. He had said he'd be back in time for supper but this week had been an unusually busy one. They had a new stream of immigrant families and the practice was overbooked—there were the usual casualties, well checkups, vaccinations, infection control. He had referred five patients to the sanatorium this week alone and there was yet another twin birth only this morning. He hadn't told Shelagh about the previous one. He snapped shut the cover of his medical bag and exited the car. This was a new one that he had bought—a sky blue Fiat Familiale—along with the new house. Shelagh hadn't been keen. She was content with the familiar, said the sturdy MG saloon was enough. It had sufficed that other time when he had driven her to the sanatorium. At that time, she had stared straight ahead and not said a word. Though he was resolved not to, he had caught her reflection through the rearview mirror. She had not wavered but had kept her way, her eyes hidden behind her spectacles. When they had stopped at a traffic light, he had asked her if she was tired, if she wanted to stop somewhere to rest along the journey. She hadn't replied but he had turned to look at her. He could see that her lips were trembling. He remembered vividly that it was the precarious long overpass that bothered him; one word from her and he would have lost balance. He wished he had taken the longer country roads, but the journey might have made it more distressing for her. When he had indicated they had half the journey left to make, she had given a slight nod. Only much later did she admit that she would have felt safe with him anywhere.
"Thank you, Doctor. You've been more than kind."
His hands had brushed hers when he gave her the suitcase. She was careful to pull her hand away immediately, and stepped back. He had wanted to believe in miracles, but she was always the realist. He saw that now. But his silence then continued to haunt him. Should he have gone after her? Discussed her condition with the doctor in charge? Monitored her progress more closely? But under what pretext? Then, he was nothing to her but a friend.
It took all his strength to stay near the car, to watch her turn away from him, the suitcase weighing heavy on her thin frame, the fabric of her large habit folding her in. It had only been a few days since the diagnosis but he felt she had changed irrevocably, her eyes sunk into her small face, the sharp, quick features now mute. He hadn't fully looked into her eyes this time—they were of a piercing sort, the blue a kaleidoscope that challenged and invited him. He knew she avoided his glance. But watching her slipping away from him, he wanted nothing more than to look into those eyes, reassure her he would be there for her, that she needn't be afraid. He had seen her hands shaking when she took the suitcase from him and had noticed her faltering, hesitating steps. As he watched her leave, bright blue against the pale, the driveway too large, the sanatorium formidable, he wished he meant more to her. At least she wouldn't have gone alone.
"I am not turning my back on you because of you. I am doing it because of Him."
So he had stayed put until she disappeared into the shadows, a part of him hoping his kiss would keep her safe.
When she had accepted his proposal of marriage, he had wanted to make up for all those moments missed, all those years lost. He had found a new house within two weeks. It meant a longer drive, but he didn't care. Shelagh said it was too extravagant on his part, but he had convinced her. The house was larger than his old place, it was newly built, its walls were freshly painted and the space was ready for new memories. The old house didn't seem right for their new start. It was Victoria's and he wanted something to mark the journey he was taking with Shelagh; he wanted something more for her. He was glad when the house had grown on her. She began to like the simple design and the freedom to make it her own. She liked the bare walls, the kitchen fittings, the large fireplace, the walled garden. They had laughed at the extra bed rooms, knowing what to expect.
In the dark, he fumbled to find the right key. Nothing latched into the lock. Often, when it was still early in the night, someone came to let him in. But today he saw that the curtains were drawn, though he detected light in the kitchen. On his second try, the last key caught, and he turned the door knob and entered.
He heard the sounds of the wireless as the smells of baking emanated from the kitchen. He wondered if he should announce himself or go straight away and surprise her. He knew how much she liked surprises. How many times, when he had walked into the kitchen, he had found her busily poring over a new recipe, berating herself for misinterpreting an instruction, the lace-trimmed apron swirling with her steps as she danced to a new tune. She would sing to herself and he would catch her unawares, the shock sending her into peals of the laughter that was his sanctuary. Of all he loved about her, he cherished her voice best. There was mystery and certainty, safety and promise. It was unlike anything he heard before and was the first thing he noticed about her all those years ago, when he had been walking the length of the long corridor but paused on the chapel stairs. He had stood, mesmerized while the nuns had sung, and only the inquiring voice of Fred was able to rouse him.
Together they would sing in their new house and Shelagh would correct him when he got the lyrics wrong. When he brought her close to him, she would tease him, pointing to the kitchen spills and saying she would get his clothes untidy. But he loved that about her, the way a wisp of wavy chestnut hair loosened from its clasp, the white flour dust shimmering on her eyelashes, the chocolate smear on her lips. He would sink his face in her hair, drinking in all of her. He memorized the imprint the apron knot had left at the nape of her neck, the soft angles of her hips when his arms encircled her, the way she stood on tiptoe as her hands wound round his neck, her fingers threading his hair. They had danced like that, the pot hissing on the stove, and the steams from the oven their encore.
Timothy was usually in bed by then, and the whole night was theirs. They would talk over dessert, sharing the day's stories: the surgery that worked, the referrals to specialists, the families that came together, the legacies that remained. She would cut the cake into small bits and store them in the tin. The leftovers would be packed and sent to the fridge. He would slyly ask her if she was indulging Timothy's sweet tooth or her own. But Shelagh would do anything for the child. Watching the way Timothy welcomed Shelagh was a delight to him. He had been anxious about springing on his plans of a proposal so soon, but Timothy, who had heard she was no longer staying at Nonnatus, had asked if Sister Bernadette could stay with them. Timothy had no qualms about calling her Shelagh, once she explained it was the name her father had picked for her when he heard her surprising cry—she was an early baby and doctors had worried about her survival. Timothy had asked to write the proposal, "she needs to know, Dad." He felt a tightening in his chest. His son was still young enough to be indulged and petted, and he was glad she took such an interest in him. But now the dining room suddenly looked too large, the chairs spread apart. The patterned carpet was too clean and the walls, on which were hung the art they had collected together, were too bare. In the silence that echoed across the hall, it was the pitter-patter of small feet he missed.
She was a natural, he knew. The first time they had worked together, it had been her night on call and it had been a difficult birth. But there was something about her that night, the way she worked without complaint. He had thought it was a nun's way to help. But that was not it. It was the curiosity; she wanted to learn more about what went wrong, how she could help. She wanted her way, or confirmation of it through his expertise. So she had looked to him for approval, but he had led her lead. She was the midwife; she knew things he never would. It was then, when they had called each other by their names, that he had glimpsed the need in her face. The way she swaddled and held the tiny baby, the way she had, for a moment, pressed the infant to her heart, smiling as her eyes shone, before giving the child to the mother.
"I am going to call her Bernadette, after my mum," whispered Mrs. Lewis, tired after eight hours of labor.
She had started, catching his eye, and he had opened his mouth to tell Mrs. Lewis it was wonderful to name her after the woman who delivered her. But he couldn't. He couldn't form the words, transfixed by the expressions on her face. And then he saw, when the light from the dim lamp irradiated her, the streaks of tears. She sighed and he listened. They were a team, experts at signs. It was yearning, he knew it well.
The first time it had happened, he wasn't prepared. They had little time to even digest the news of the pregnancy before he had found her alone in their room late one night after work, hiding in a cupboard, her face buried in her spotted nightdress. He had driven her to the hospital though she had insisted on not going. She knew it was futile. But she was up the next day, making scrambled eggs for Timothy before he left for school.
He told her he would look after Timothy while she took some rest. But she wouldn't listen, saying she was the only mother he had, she mustn't fail him. He was surprised at how quickly she recovered. For days afterwards, he asked after her symptoms and she said she was fine, even teasing him.
"No, Doctor dear, I am not the weakling you sometimes think I am. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Besides," and he felt the raw sting in her voice, the shrill ache of a fresh wound, "these things happen."
Even back then, it was hard to ignore that voice. Everything should have been well, she was careful, they both were, and though not a great eater, she had eaten for two. She had taken her supplements. Her morning sickness was otherwise unremarkable and she was able to work in the kitchen. Technically, nothing should have gone wrong. But it was the first, and a first time is always forgiven.
The second time, she had been more cautious. They found out early and he had gotten an express test performed. She was on bed rest. He had even asked Sister Julienne to come and advise her. Helping a mother and being one were two very different things and he thought Shelagh could benefit from another woman's advice.
He knew there was something between them. Shelagh had looked up to Sister Julienne almost as a mother. Sister Julienne was the first person she had reached out to in times of trouble, the one she trusted with her secrets. But had she, really? Though he had seen the concern evident in the elderly woman's face when he examined Shelagh, the way she inquired about getting the best treatments for her, he wondered how much Sister Julienne suspected and whether she approved. Though she betrayed nothing and maintained her professional tone when they met, he realized how altered she was after Shelagh left Nonnatus. She looked older, her wrinkles thrown into focus, her large brown eyes weary. And there was that note in her voice when she asked after Shelagh, as if it pained her to speak her name.
He had asked Shelagh about it once and she had been equally evasive. Sister Julienne is overworked, there's still the worry over the demolitions, the lack of staff to run Nonnatus. Of course she would be altered, she said. He hadn't asked her why she didn't see the nuns. He knew it was a still hard for Shelagh to adjust her distance. Healing took time. But now, what he need was trust and love and there was no one better than Sister Julienne to give it.
But after Sister Julienne left, he wondered if he had done wrong in inviting her so soon.
"I wish you would trust me enough to know I would tell you when I…need people."
"But I thought…"
"Everyone has their own problems to face. Why put someone's burdens onto another?"
He hadn't understood what she meant at that time, and she would say no more that night. She turned away from him and he heard her muffled cries as she wiped her eyes on the pillowcase. He touched her tentatively, gently stroking her arm. She let him hold her and whispered she was sorry for being in a fix, before drifting off to sleep.
Still, he had gone to Sister Julienne first when Shelagh had locked herself in the room. Sister Julienne had come straight away and they had waited for what seemed like hours, Sister Julienne crouched outside the bedroom door, one hand clutching the cross that slung on her neck, the other pressed against the door, as if it was projecting the prayers that she silently mouthed, in between her pleas to Shelagh to let her in.
They had gotten a new mattress afterwards, but other things were never so easily fixed. It was months before she could sleep in the same room. A few times, she had woken up in the middle of the night, clutching the sheets around her stomach, screaming to not take the baby from her. He tucked away the bottles of red wine and bought her white roses. He had sent Timothy to live with Granny Parker for a few weeks.
She made red velvet cupcake the first time she was able to come and work in the kitchen, but it was a slow recovery. He didn't know when or how to ask her about whether she wanted to do more tests, how much of the past they should unearth.
When he entered the kitchen, he saw scones lined up in a row on the countertop. There appeared to be a letter lying next to them and he peered closer. It was from Jane Sutton, who had replied with a recipe for Sister Julienne's pistachio scones. Shelagh had mentioned going to a fundraiser but he didn't know Sister Julienne would be involved.
After the second miscarriage, he had asked her if she would take a break from midwifery, try something else. She had become more involved with Timothy, helping him with his research, currently insects, but he was a bright child and needed little from her, now that he could do most of the research himself in school. Shelagh had joined the parent's association but he felt a restlessness in her. He sensed it in her look when he came from work, how eager she was to hear stories about the difference he was making in the world outside. She had started attending fundraisers by accident, when the mother of Timothy's friend had asked her to speak on providing health screenings for the poor.
As he walked past their bedroom door, he saw that it was slightly ajar. The light was switched off and a cool breeze blew in from the open window. The sheets were still made. Something quickened in him.
He walked until he reached Timothy's room and stood in the open doorway. Timothy was asleep, his face turned towards Shelagh, his right hand in fresh dressing. He had injured himself again during rugby practice. Being small for his age didn't stop him from trying, he mused, just one of those streaks he inherited from his father. Shelagh was next to him, her head on the edge of the pillow, the plaits in her hair having come loose. Her spectacles had slipped lower on the bridge of her nose and he saw her dark lashes, contrasted against the soft lines of her face. He watched her breathing, heard the soft rhythms that matched his son's. One hand covered the book she had been reading to Timothy and the other cradled her belly. He caught the glint of her wedding ring and a tightness rose in his throat. He almost wanted to turn off the light and leave the scene as quietly as he had come. But he looked again at her sleeping face, the way the light from the bedside lamp shone on her like a halo. It reminded him of the times he had seen her at Nonnatus, always with the same light that set her apart.
He remembered the time she had stood next to him in the dark room, after handing Nurse Miller's notes, and spoke to him about her faith.
"It is at times like this that I wish it made a difference."
Then, he had turned instinctively, caught the longing in her eyes, the weight of all that was unsaid. He could still remember the fragrance of the tea she had brought, how the handle had scorched him. He remembered the nearness of her, her fingers on his papers, her breath on his neck. He had asked her to stay and she had left.
He wondered now if he should have tried harder, pursued her early on. If he should have followed up on her condition. If he should have insisted she should convalesce longer. But he realized, with surrender, that he couldn't have known. He gave her distance because he respected her decisions, and he trusted her because she knew what was best. Anymore and it would have altered the balance between them, any less and he would have lost her altogether. Even his letters were half-confessions, enough to reassure her but not possess her. And she came of her own will. It was all as it should be, Sister Julienne had told him some weeks ago, when he had opened up. If Shelagh wanted to go back to work, he would support her. If she wanted to raise a child, he would help her. Recently he had gotten in touch with a cousin in Australia who informed him about working abroad. If a change of place was what she needed, he would consider moving.
Just then, she opened her eyes and readjusted her spectacles. She put the book away and smoothed the crushed apron. He met her half way as she turned off the light and smiled.
"My love, I have some news."