Not that anyone would get the impression otherwise, but Shelagh and her Poplar family and friends are not my own creation. I just like to visit with them.
With a click, the front door closed, shutting out the noise and commotion that started each day at the Turner household. No matter how hard she tried, Shelagh was unable to avert the frenetic bedlam that seemed to set Patrick and Timothy on their day. A forgotten lunch or a misplaced stethoscope, every morning there was something else to create chaos. Taking a deep breath, Shelagh pushed off from the door and returned to the kitchen, intent on a fresh cup of tea.
"Well, that's sorted, Angel Girl," she told her daughter. "Getting those two out of the house every morning is like moving Montgomery's army!"
Angela giggled back and raised her arms up in the air, eager to be released from her high chair and taken into her mother's arms. Shelagh smiled and happily complied.
It was their little ritual. No matter how cranky or tired or silly or happy Angela was, the moment she was in her mother's arms, her body relaxed, her head nuzzling into the crook of Shelagh's neck. The two would stay that way, unaware of the world around them, content to be together. Shelagh smoothed her hand over her baby's velvety head and bent to place a kiss on her forehead. "Sweet girl." Her eyes closed as she breathed in the sweet smell of baby and formula and clean cotton.
The moment never lasted forever, however, and turning on a dime, Angela's head was up and she was reaching for the floor.
"Oh, no, wee beastie," Shelagh laughed. "Once I put you down there'll be no stopping you." She grasped the little hand and danced the laughing baby out of the kitchen. "We have errands to get done today if we're to have tea with Sister Julienne later! It's off to the cleaners and the Post Office and the butcher's all before your nap time, so we'd best get started!"
Shelagh took a last glance at the kitchen. "Oh, well. I'll have to do the washing later while you nap. So much for that fresh cup of tea for me!"
A few hours later, the Turner women had made short work of the to-do list and were heading home for elevenses and a nap. Shelagh pushed the pram, deftly navigating the cobbles as Angela waved to every passerby.
"Quite the little princess, aren't you, dearest?" Shelagh teased. "It's no wonder, really, the way your father carries you about. That man will spoil you, Angela!" The scold had little power, though, as Shelagh stopped for a moment to retrieve a toy from her purse. Watching her daughter for a moment, Shelagh was interrupted by a shy voice.
"Mrs. Turner?"
Shelagh looked up and saw a woman, large with child, looking at her with recognition in her eyes. A sudden memory of a birth, fraught with worry for a large baby, came to her and she responded, "Louisa March! Oh, it's been a long time! How are you, my dear?" Oddly, Shelagh's voice changed a bit, somehow becoming a bit more assertive.
"I'm well, thank you, Sis-" she stopped suddenly, embarrassed by her mistake. "Sorry, Mrs. Turner. No offense."
Shelagh smiled warmly. There had been a time when such an error would fluster her, a time when she was still so uncertain about her new self that any reminder of her previous life would fluster her. More than a year and a half had passed since her decision to leave the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus and marry Patrick, time spent learning her new path. She had no blueprint to follow and had, with Patrick's help, created her own plan. Now she was confident in her choices, a happy wife and mother. Sister Bernadette was part of her identity, a part she did not want to forget.
"None taken, dear. It took me a bit of getting used to, as well." A movement behind the other woman caught her eye. "And who is this? Could this be baby, oh, what was it? Edward?"
The little boy stepped forward. "I'm not a baby. That's the baby!" He pointed to his mother's belly.
The women laughed. "Sorry about that, young sir," Shelagh returned. "You're absolutely right. You are most definitely not a baby."
Drawing courage from her friendly voice, the boy stepped out from behind his mother. "Eddie," Louisa March told him, "this lady helped me to get you out of me tummy. Like I was tellin' ya with the new baby. Sis-Mrs. Turner was a wonderful midwife. She knew just what to do when you got stuck and needed some coaxing out."
The boy considered this for a moment, then asked, "Will you help Mummy with the new baby, too?"
"No, I'm afraid I can't. But I'm sure whomever helps your mother will take excellent care of her."
"But why not? If you did me, you should do the new baby, too."
"Stevie," his mother scolded.
"No, that's alright," Shelagh assured her. "I can't come and help your mother because I have my own baby to take care of now."
The boy stopped to consider this. "So you can't have your own baby and take care of ladies like me mum, then?"
Shelagh paused. How had this small boy found just the right question to ask? She took a small breath and demurred, "Well, we can't do everything, can we?" She moved back to the pram's handle. "Well, good luck, Louisa. I'm sure it will all go splendidly. And congratulations to you, too, Eddie. I'm quite sure you'll be an excellent big brother."
She pushed the pram to start home and met some resistance. The front wheel had caught in a rut, and she sighed, exasperated. After struggling over the street for nearly a block, Shelagh muttered, "Cobbles. Clearly the architect that designed these streets was a man. Of course he was. How on earth could a woman possibly be an architect?" Her voice had a sharp edge to it. "Don't mind me, Angela. I'm just-oh, never mind."
Wisely, Angela stuck her thumb in her mouth and settled to enjoy the bouncy ride.