After Hours

"I'll drive you,"

"Oh, you don't need to do that," she said, very nearly refusing him, her face drawn, her fingers shaking beneath the buttons of the heavy blue habit that she—Sister Julienne—had helped her to loosen.

He had repeated and it felt like an order. It wasn't that they never doubted the doctor's judgment, he certainly was an expert. Automatically, she found herself thanking him. Sister Bernadette had immediately looked at her, her eyes confused. Was it fear or something else?

He had left soon afterwards but she had seen the young nun's lashes beat furiously. She marked the slight furrow of her brow, the damp sheen on her pale cheeks. She knew Sister Bernadette well. She could sense the excitement from the spring in her step, just as she could sense the troubles reverberating in her silence.

—

She had taken to her immediately from the first time she had arrived at Nonnatus. There had been other nuns, some as young as Sister Bernadette, who had tempers or were otherwise too proud about doing things their way, dismissing the wisdom of the elder nuns. Sister Monica Joan and Sister Evangelina were also a handful, a tightrope she had to walk on every day just to avoid saying something unkind to Sister Monica Joan or offensive to Sister Evangelina. But it was different with Sister Bernadette and words were not always needed.

Sister Bernadette knew how to appease the elder nuns or how to bolster the younger midwives. When she grew tired of handling the younger midwives' new schemes—Trixie's frivolities, Cynthia's meekness, even Jenny's naiveté—Sister Bernadette reassured her. They are of a different age, Sister, they have been trained differently. But their hearts are in the right place.

She had many a time left her to talk to the younger crew. She learned how much they yearned for more opportunities to have a life outside Nonnatus. Dances were hard to come by, partners were scarce, and they had less free time. Sometimes all they needed was a little more confidence, like Chummy, in their own worth. Sister Julienne knew, even then, that there were things Sister Bernadette kept from her. But she attributed it to modesty. There was no need to say more about secular midwives looking out for a bit of fun. Everyone had needs outside of Nonnatus, or rather, the work at Nonnatus. They themselves had offices to direct.

—

Her absence from service shouldn't have bothered her. After all, she herself remembered testing the waters so many years ago. And yet, the doctor's note weighed heavy in her hand. She was almost a little annoyed with him for not giving it to Sister Bernadette himself. It was not as if the latter had gone far off. Instead, he had smiled, if a little tentatively, hastily deposited the note on her desk and dashed off, saying he needed to pick up Timothy.

Sister Bernadette had accepted the message, but offered little explanation. She had only been doing her offices whilst on duty, she said. But she had lingered to glimpse the contents in the folded sheets. Sister Bernadette was sketched there, her habit a dark blue, her glasses of the correct shape. She was about the same proportions, just a little taller than Timothy, who was standing next to her. She reasoned it must be a present. Chummy was always receiving them from her scouts.

"Charming."

Not even a nod of assent. She had left her standing still, her eyes staring straight at the picture. At the time, she was a little perturbed to notice the rest, how the young woman's fingers had crushed the edge of the paper so there were slits in the margins, how the crayoned cross in her dress had faded with the watermark of her tears.

—

"But now, no face divine contentment wears. 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears," Sister Monica Joan surmised. But it was a taunt and Sister Bernadette had left the room before anyone could come to her rescue. She herself had remained too long in her seat in the other room, counting the seconds to hear the other's voice of protest. When none came, she wondered if it was tact on the younger nun's part, or merely weakness.

When she found her in the chapel, she was taken aback, almost as if she didn't want anyone to find her there. She looked at her and observed how her face changed. It wasn't the same open face that offered itself.

"That is all I can manage for today," she said. She wasn't able to ask her what ailed her. She couldn't deny fear.

—

Usually they were both the first to wake up and would take turns using the bathroom with the hot water. They would meet in the dark, sometimes running into each other so quickly, the wax from their candles would melt into each other's skin. But sister Bernadette wouldn't cry, only giggle, the childish giggle that endeared her to her from the beginning, so even when the burns hurt, the cold was harsh, and the work ahead daunting, she would have to smile back because when the light shone on her face, there was that hope again. Her eyes would dance, the blue animated if she peered closer, her cheeks flushed as if she had run through open fields instead of the length of the long corridor, and her voice, with the timbre she could precisely recall even in her sleep, would seep into her, reviving her all over again.

"We can expect great things from today."

So she hadn't been alarmed, exactly, when she hadn't seen her in the dining room on the morning after the baby show. But the look on the faces of the other nuns unsettled her. The way Sister Evangelina searched her, as if she knew all the answers. Sister Monica Joan was rustling for a fitting epithet, when she interrupted to traverse up the stairs and inquire after her. She was at the door, almost as if she knew someone would come to fetch her. At the time, she had been glad to see Sister Bernadette bright and ready for her morning tasks that she had forgotten to ask her why her bible was on her bed instead of its usual position or why she hid her hand in her pocket.

—

"Sister, can I trouble you for a moment?"

It had been a long day and there were accounts to take care of. The X-ray screening had been a success and Dr. Turner, who had declined the celebratory Horlicks, had been quite the hero. But he had asked to speak to Sister Bernadette in private.

Can I trouble you for a moment. Not can I tell you something. She was almost about to ask if that can wait, but she looked at her again, half hidden by the door from her view, Dr. Turner shadowed behind her.

Even when he touched her, she had steadied herself, standing aside, holding her tunic and collar, unflinching as he asked her to unbutton further. She watched as his fingers opened her blouse. She saw how the black stethoscope slithered on her white skin, almost felt the icy cold of the metal diaphragm as it lingered on her breast, heard the clamor of her heart beating through the thin muslin of her slip. The room had suddenly felt unbearably stuffy though the windows were open; the air was still and even the birds and had turned mute. She heard the creaking of his shoes as he encircled her, as if matching the rhythm of the labored rasps that slipped from her open mouth. She caught the wetness reflected on his stethoscope as he slung it around his neck, marked how it streaked the folds of his blazer. She tasted a bitterness on her tongue, a burn from the late lunch that rose to her throat. Suddenly she felt thirsty but the pitcher was empty. She instinctively started to go to the kitchen but stopped. Even though both of them hadn't looked at her, she couldn't leave.

"Crackles," he said, finally addressing her but his gaze was cloudy. Sister Bernadette was buttoning up her blouse, her eyes hidden from view. She remembered wanting him to leave, now that he had confirmed the diagnosis. All she wanted was to be free to rush to her side, help her dress, hold her as she cried, like that other time when she learned her brother had died. That night, she had helped rid her of her habit and had tucked her in bed. She had cried for hours, stopping to gather the memories that tormented her. She never learned what they were, what happened in her past that brought her to Nonnatus, that changed her so she needed her now, in this place, as she slept, the bed big enough to hold them both.

—

Every day, she had prayed for her recovery, her safe return to Nonnatus. She had read her letters with delight and when the nurses told the news over dinner, she had contained her smiles, unable or unwilling to share the joy she felt inside. Sister Bernadette was making progress, she was making new friends, she has a new recipe for sponge pudding, she's returned to an old hobby, painting. She likes going for walks. She's enjoying rereading Gerard Manley Hopkins. But even then, there was something she couldn't put a name to, something that choked her as the laughter rang through the room.

The first time she had visited her, she had told her about her dilemma.

"I don't know if God's given me a window and I am just staring out of it because I am afraid to open it."

She couldn't remember exactly what she said in reply. Maybe it was something prosaic about decisions and journeys. She couldn't remember if she had left her reassured. She couldn't remember if she had sent for a taxi or asked someone to ring one up. She didn't know exactly when she left, only that the sound of the watch ticking, once she was inside the car, had been intolerable. It was the seconds in between the distance, a reminder of the present that was slipping away. She didn't know who received her first at the door or offered to pay the fare as she struggled with her purse.

"You look unwell, Sister, the journey must have tired you out." Sister Evangelina had sent her straight to bed after she had assured them that Sister Bernadette was well.

That night was one of the longest of her life. The bed was too hard, the pillow had given her a stiff neck, the room was too hot, the sheets were too rough, the curtains were too thin, the shadows were too distracting. She was too tired to read so she took the cross that lay on the bedside table and placed it on the part of her pillow that was dry.

"Lord, give me strength."

—

When she stepped into the office, she thought the lighting had played a cruel trick, that it was time that she admitted that her eyes and mind were failing her. There stood the same girl, dressed in the plain grey suit and sensible shoes, with not an inch of color about her, except the piercing blue of the eyes behind her glasses. Her dark brown hair was tied back, in a style from long ago. She heard the bells ringing in the distance, a nun's voice. He will not let your foot slip/ He who watches over you will not slumber.

She stepped forward and the transformation was startling. There was the same blue eyes, but they looked steely behind the upsweep of her frame. She clutched the same leather purse on her hand. But something was altered in her and it wasn't just the effects of time, for it had been ten years since she had passed, like so, through this threshold.

"This is the procedure we must follow." Her own voice was sharp and steady. There were consequences, always, for one's actions. No one walked untethered.

The screech of the black fountain pen, as she signed her name, turned raucous. She closed it shut and picked up the envelope with the £100 and tucked it in her purse. She struggled to take the ring off, her hands turning white as she tried to free the skin. The ring was unrelenting, as they both knew too well, and she saw her tense up and pull harder so there were now red marks, the veins throbbing underneath. She wanted to tell her it didn't work like that, one cannot force, however impatient. Things happened in their own time. But Shelagh slid her hands under the desk and her face grimaced as she made another attempt.

"You are welcome to use the chapel before you leave," she said, after Shelagh handed her the ring.

For just a moment, their eyes had met and held. She remembered their nights praying together, the way they had clung together in worship. She remembered the touch of her hands as she helped to steady her during her moments of doubt. She was the older one, dispensing advice to the younger, but how many times had Sister Bernadette stayed with her after the others left, kneeling while she had wept, holding while she had lost. Of course she was the stoic Sister Julienne to the others, but when the pain overwhelmed her, she had retreated to the chapel after hours and abandoned herself if only for a few moments, crying for the little lives she couldn't save, aching for the mothers who buried their babies, praying for the families forever torn apart. And then she felt her presence like a gentle ghost. Whether she was always there or just appeared she never knew. Sometimes she gave her distance, prayed behind her. Other times she left her alone. Sometimes she walked her to her room when she was too weak to go on her own.

I really don't think I could do without you. She wanted to tell her how much she needed her, how the walls looked so dark without her, how there would be a hole in the spot where she had been, how her room would be branded with her presence, how the halls would echo her name.

"I have so many things to do."

And that's when she knew. Sister Bernadette was gone.

—

She shouldn't have doubted as soon as he offered to drive her to the Sanatorium. It was in that look on his face. Vaguely familiar, it was like a distant memory of something she had buried so many years ago.

The local doctors' council had organized an outdoor picnic for their mid-year celebrations to which all their affiliates were invited. It was an unusually balmy day in July and Sister Bernadette, who was still new to the area, had asked if summers like this were a rarity in London, when the sky was an unthreatening bright blue, the breeze was comforting, and the air was bursting with life. As they walked towards the grounds of the MP's house, where the party was held, the children's voices got louder, almost equaling that of the band that was stationed under the shade of the large elm tree, playing an old favorite. The vicar and his wife had met them at the door and introduced them to the other guests. After lunch, the adults had grouped for a dance. She had left Sister Bernadette to answer a phone call. From her spot near the window, she had seen Dr. Turner come up to talk to Sister Bernadette, who had been sitting where she had left her in the veranda. They were laughing and were only interrupted when the band had changed to a different song and Victoria Turner had come to take his arm. She was beautiful, her golden hair set in a style that matched well with the cut of her patterned red dress. She had been busy socializing with the other guests, hardly stopping even for a proper lunch. She greeted Sister Bernadette tersely but clung closer to her husband, pulling him away towards the crowd as the music picked up again. He had followed, but not without looking back one last time.