April 1954

The young sister packed up her bag, briskly and efficiently as always, amid the soft cooing and fussing of the new mother behind her, beaming over her brand new daughter, delivered not so long before. Sister Bernadette smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet happiness of the scene around her. In the bustling East End, delivery rooms weren't usually this subdued, but this new mother, Nancy Wright, was very young and soft-spoken, and had let her mother, Mrs. Ames, do most of the talking. For Mrs. Wright, it had been groaning and pushing and hoping, and it had been a relatively swift labor, especially for a first child. The mother was young, barely 21, only married about a year or so, but she had shown much less in the way of anxiety than Sister Bernadette had seen in mothers 10 years this woman's senior. The Sister had seen a great deal of variety and commotion in her six years as a midwife, but this had been a fairly simple, uncomplicated day with an especially compliant patient who made very little noise and greeted her new child with a kind of hushed awe, as her mother laughed and cheered before stepping out to inform Mr. Wright, who had been waiting beside a neglected cup of tea in the next room, unable to sit still for long and nervously fiddling with the radio every few minutes, as evidenced by the sounds that wafted into the room from next door, ranging from news to a selection of music from classical to popular, creating an odd soundtrack for the delivery but not disturbing the mood. All had gone well, and Sister Bernadette was pleased.

The clean-up was as uneventful as the birth, and before too long, the Sister was packed up and on her way, as the excited new father was ushered into the room, gazing with wide eyes upon his wife and new daughter, a broad grin spreading across his face, leaving the song on the radio to play—the plaintive voice of a woman singing what sounded like a love song. A lush string section played, backed by a rhythmic horse-like beat.. "Thank you, Sister," said Mrs. Ames as Sister Bernadette gathered her bag and headed for the door, and the singer's voice grew triumphant. The sister nodded and smiled as the older woman followed her out, stepping to the large old wooden radio to turn the dial just as Sister Bernadette reached the door. The song was silenced, but for some reason the joyous tone of the singer's voice lingered in the Sister's memory. She hadn't caught many of the lyrics—something about a "secret love" and shouting from the hills, but the string section and the measured beat that sounded like a horse's steady trot had implanted itself in her memory, and it was still there as she wheeled her bicycle to the shed after the short ride back to Nonnatus. It was a cool, surprisingly sunny Spring day, and the Sister ascended the stairs with her usual energy, humming absently until she reached the door.

July 1958

The sun had long-since set when Sister Bernadette arrived. A long delivery had left her weary. She caught her breath as she reached the top of the Nonnatus stairs, opened the door and ambled into the entryway, to be greeted by dim silence. She glanced around, looking toward the kitchen, but she could see nor hear nothing. The shadowy corridors loomed with their familiar darkness as the Sister stopped in the doorway to the sitting room. Empty, as well. There to greet her was the old, worn furniture as a single low lamp light flickered, leaving a dim glow. The dimness echoed her mood, thought the sister. It had been a good delivery—simple and straightforward, despite its length. A happy mother, a suitably bewildered father, a grateful grandmother. Everything as usual as could be, and the Sister had conducted the delivery in her usual efficient manner, trying to maintain an even, cheerful tone as she went through the motions of a fairly normal delivery. All had been well, but the shadows that surrounded her now mirrored those that had resided her in her own mind for months now, and especially after last week. It seemed now that no matter how quiet the room, there would never be peace in her own head.

Images, thoughts, memories swirled and loomed, leaving a weariness in their wake. She sighed softly as she leaned against the door frame briefly before softly stepping into the room, sinking into an armchair and fixing her gaze ahead, at the silent, unmoving wall. She should be in the clinical room, emptying her bag, organizing her tools, going through the time-worn routine that she had followed for most of the past ten years. Today, however, it was too much. Too much to think. Too much to feel. Idleness was not in her nature, but lately everything had been turned upside down, and her brain was anything but idle. A few minutes in the quiet, in the darkness, alone, would maybe do her good. Perhaps she could at least push away that face—that careworn, weary, kind, handsome face with the crooked smile and the dark eyes—perhaps she could forget it for just a moment or two.

But no, it was not to be. That face had lived in her mind, in her heart, in her dreams, and his voice—his quiet, simple apology—lingered in her memory. When, and how, could she ever forget?

At last, after what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, she arose and continued on with her task. The clinical room was empty but someone had left the light on, and it didn't take long to carry out her long-practiced routine. She glanced at the call board as she plodded past the telephone on her way back to her quarters, not taking note of who was next in line. She shrugged as she wandered past, her goal simply to get to bed, and as she finally reached the corridor taking her past the nurses' quarters, she heard hushed voices behind one of the doors—Nurse Franklin's room. If this had been another night, maybe a few months ago, she may have stopped to listen, but Sister Bernadette was too weary to listen, or to overhear snatches of the giggly, gossipy conversation that often carried into the hallway as she passed. This night, all she could hear was a familiar tune, from Nurse Franklin's record player, the Sister imagined. Doris Day, she now knew, was the singer. And there was that string section, and that horse-like beat. And the triumphant conclusion. "Secret Love". It had been such a hit a few years back that she had heard it on many a radio in patients' homes, or in the rooms of the nurses here at Nonnatus. Music was second-nature to Sister Bernadette. It had been most of her life, since she was a small girl singing in church in Scotland, and a tune, once familiar, would often remain in her memory. This was one such tune.

This song had meant nothing to her the first time she had heard it, except as a pleasant, catchy tune, but now? Now, it was the plaintive first verse of the song that carried the most weight. The victorious joy of the reprise at the end was as foreign to her as if it had been in a different language. What victory was there for her now? Secret love indeed. Love. She would barely even let herself think that word, but it was there, taunting her. Doris Day may be able to shout her feelings from the highest hills, but not Sister Bernadette. Not this distracted sister who did her best to stumble to chapel in the mornings and lift her voice in worship when all that had come to mind was that face that she couldn't bring herself to forget. Not Shelagh Mannion who once was, now a Sister whose calling had once been so clear, but now had become lost in shadow more often than not.

The song continued but Sister Bernadette didn't stop. She walked, slowly and with purpose. Her footsteps echoed softly on the tiles as she kept her eyes fixed on her goal-the darkness in the distance and somewhere on the other side of that darkness, her room. Her bed. Her momentary refuge. She heard the song trail off as she approached her door, and a pause before a new, even more cheerful melody replaced it. She couldn't place this one, but it was soon faded into nothingness as she reached her door, opened it, and shut it behind her, closing out all the sounds from outside. But inside her head, still, there was chaos.

October 1958

The stack of records sat beside the console in the sitting room at St. Anne's Sanatorium. The thin light of early morning emerged through the filmy curtains, as a lone figure sat with a suitcase beside her and a bus schedule in her hands. Shelagh Mannion glanced at the clock on the wall. Not much longer, she thought as she fidgeted with the schedule, trying to keep the times and locations straight in her head. She knew what she was doing today, or at least she had a good idea. For the first time in such a long time, she knew her purpose, and she was anxious to embark on the next step on this road. She glanced from the schedule to the records—a precarious pile of LPs and 45s perched on a small table beside the record player and the radio. A cluttered magazine rack sat on the floor next to the table, overflowing with outdated issues, in front of a bookshelf packed with hastily shelved volumes. These had been the sources of entertainment provided for the patients here, but Sister Bernadette, as she had been known until today, hadn't indulged much in these distractions. She had had enough distractions of her own.

She stood and walked over to the pile, answering that inner need to straighten the stack, knocking a few records off the top in the process. Reading the labels, she noticed most of them were a few years old, although they were in fair condition. She spotted some familiar songs and artists among them. As a sister, she hadn't kept too current on the latest star singers and hits, but she'd heard enough from the nurses, and she had a good memory. Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Doris Day. Doris Day—"Secret Love". That song that had once taunted her in the hallways at Nonnatus House as it wafted from the record player in Nurse Franklin's room. How she wished she'd never hear that song again that day, but now, not so much. Now, it meant something different. Now, on this day when she hoped everything would change, this song seemed more promise than annoyance. It was a good song; a pleasant tune. She'd liked it the first time she'd heard it, years ago as she had been preparing to leave a patient's flat after a delivery. Maybe someday soon she' d have a record player of her own, and she would take a record from her own collection, place it on the platter, lift the stylus, and switch it on. Just as she was doing at this moment in the stillness of this empty room.

Doris Day's voice filled the room as Shelagh stood back, looking around. This had been her home for a few months, but now she was going back to where she really belonged. Back to Poplar, and back to him, or so she hoped. The song that had been an unpleasant reminder was now a song of hope. Soon, there would be no more secret, at least not from him. She had resolved that much. Today, there was so much to look forward to.