Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Call the Midwife.
I watch Call the Midwife with my mom, and one of our (many) joys of this show is watching Timothy grow up into a fine young man. Old enough to drive!
Timothy thought his wanting to learn to drive was the most natural thing in the world. After all, he'd just turned seventeen, and several of his friends had already learned how to drive their parents' cars. It would only be practical, of course. Dad was the only one who knew how to drive—what if a situation came about where he couldn't? And Mum—Mum couldn't drive, and she would need his help more than ever, what with the birth of Teddy, and Angela going to school next year—it only made sense!
He brought up the subject casually at dinner one evening. Dad had arrived late from the clinic ("Six babies today, Shelagh—I'm amazed I was able to get away at all!") and was therefore the only one eating dinner, as it was almost nine o'clock at night. Mum sat across from him burping little Teddy. He was such a gurgly, snuggly little chap. Timothy thought himself pretty lucky—not many seventeen-year-olds had a brand new baby brother.
He sat at the table across from Angela. Some homework needed attending—geography with its names and distances, history with its dates and repetitive names—really, England had too much kings named James and Edward. He tapped his penny pencil against the table.
Angela looked up from her crayons and paper to look at Timothy's habitual tapping. She knew, even young as she was, that her older brother had something on his mind. She glanced at her parents, who were engaged in a hot-and-quick discussion about private and public centers for health, national versus local, etc. It was all very complicated and boring and grown-up. She looked back at Timothy. It was hard enough to understand what they were discussing, never mind to find the right point to interrupt them and present an entirely new subject.
Coloring elephants like her parents saw in South Africa was much easier. She left Timothy to his impatient biding of time, and earnestly colored in the momma elephant's body.
"Mum, Dad, I'm quite old now," Timothy began suddenly.
"'Quite old' he says, as if he's the tough old age of sixty instead of sixteen," Dad grinned in amusement at Mum.
"I'm seventeen," Timothy quickly said, as if his dad would set the record wrong.
"Well, yes, I suppose you're quite old now, Timothy, but old enough to do what, exactly?" Mum asked. She rocked Baby in a quiet, patient manner, as if she had all the time in the world to hear what Timothy was trying and failing to carefully point at.
Out with it, he decided. The boy steeled himself and said, "I want to learn how to drive."
Dad's soup spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. He stared first at Timothy, then at Mum. Mum stopped rocking and looked at Dad in anticipation of what his first reaction would be. While Mum had her own opinions about whether or not this was a good idea or not, she waited for Dad to make the first utterance.
Dad couldn't speak, for whatever reason. Timothy waited in aching agony as his parents just stared at each other. Finally he flung his hands around anxiously and said, "Well, can or can't I?"
Dad finally put down his spoon and sighed. "This is a very serious question, Timothy. Driving a vehicle is a dangerous activity. It requires knowledgeable skill, concentration, and unwavering focus. Any lack of these or distractions could result in damaged property or, far worse, life-threatening injuries, to you, to any passengers, and any passersby."
"You think I'd get into a car accident, like Nurse Crane and Sister Winifred," Timothy said flatly.
"No, Tim, of course not," Mum said, even as she looked helplessly at Dad.
"I'm just saying that it's not out of the realm of possibilities." Dad sighed and looked on his eldest son with an affectionate, tired look. Poor Dad looked tired. Timothy thought he looked at him as if still a child, when in reality Dr. Turner was studying his son and wondering where the little boy went.
"I trust you, Timothy, but this is a serious undertaking. I remember, when I was your age, how much I wanted to drive. I wanted that sense of freedom. I wanted to be able to go wherever I wanted to go. I know that itch. It's that itch of age."
"Did you learn to drive then?" Timothy asked quietly.
"My father first gave me an adult bicycle, which I quickly became accustomed to. I zipped all over the city with it. And do you know what I did? I crashed into a shop window and broke my front wheel and fractured my wrist." Dad laughed a little at the memory.
"I already know how to ride and control an adult bicycle. I've learned that. I just thought, that maybe, I'd graduated to a car," Timothy said softly.
"A car's no bicycle. Believe me, I know," Mum said sympathetically.
"I know. It's just. . ."
Mum cast Dad a warm look that somehow always melted his strict heart. He leaned back in his chair and heavily sighed, folding his arms. He said, "You'll always want to do it until you get to do it, won't you?"
Timothy couldn't find the right words to express just how much that was true, so he forced a quick, but expressive, nod.
"Patrick, is it the right thing to let him do it? Are we giving him permission because it is something we've decided to let him do, or are we giving in to his wants?" Mum looked worried even as she said this is an almost inaudible whisper.
Dad remained quiet for a moment before saying just as softly back, "He'll need to learn at some time; and he'll only thrash and squirm under us until he does it. Shelagh," he took her hand and sighed, "I remember being his age. It isn't a bad thing. If he's smart and careful and focused as he knows we want him to be, he'll do it right."
"All right. As long as we're in agreement." Mum smiled a little happily. She'd been inclined to give Timothy permission as quick as he asked, but couldn't willingly give her own consent until Patrick gave his approval.
Mum and Dad both looked as one at Timothy, and he knew their answer—though their faces were serious, he could see the hidden twinkle shining out of their eyes.
"I'm to do it, then?" he said, just to confirm.
"Yes, Timothy. But—" before Timothy could bubble over with excitement, "your mother has Baby and Angela to take care of, and I have the clinic and my patients. If you're to learn to drive, you will need to find your own instructor."
Timothy slumped in his seat, immediately feeling defeated. "Who am I to ask?"
Dad shared a secret grin in Mum's direction. "I have a feeling that Nurse Crane wouldn't be able to say no to you."
"She seems to have the propensity for teaching unexpected students," Mum said, chuckling, thinking of Sister Winifred.
"You really think she'd teach me, if I asked?" Timothy wondered, unnatural doubt clouding his voice.
"There's no sense in not asking," was all that Dad said.
"No, no; absolutely not. Not in a hundred years." Timothy's ardent argument in his favor was shut down quickly by a brisk Nurse Crane. He looked a little mortified as she saddled her bicycle and, hands on the handlebars, said, "It's bad enough that I decided to teach Sister Winifred. I will not give up my reputation as a midwife to be regarded as the Poplar Driving Instructor."
"But—Nurse Crane—" All Timothy succeeded in was earning a bit of a glare from the nurse. He shut his mouth up quick, resembling a guppy.
"No, go ahead, Timothy. Lay out your argument as to why I need to teach you how to drive. Meanwhile, you've got a perfectly capable father with far more patience to teach than I, and I have three expectant mothers, one due any day now, who need me at their doorsteps this very minute. Now, the argument, young Master Turner? What'll it be?" Nurse Crane set her feet on the ground and looked straight in his eyes.
Timothy felt relieved that he wasn't in Cub Scouts anymore; he felt that that stare could wither a full-grown tree.
"I just thought. . . since you've taught Sister Winifred. . . you knew how to teach driving. That was all. If you haven't the time, don't worry about it. I'm sorry to have bothered you." The indignance and quiet sarcasm of youth slightly tainted his otherwise apologetic reply.
"Now, young lad, come back here," Nurse Crane said, as Timothy turned his back and took two steps in the opposite direction. He looked over his shoulder. "No need to barge away with a grievance air." He turned about and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Somehow his affront of being unaffected by her immediate dismissal touched Nurse Crane's heart. Ah, poor lad, trying to act indifferent, shrugging it off as if it didn't hit him a whit. Just a boy trying to act like the man he so sorely wanted to be.
"I don't mean to dismiss you lightly, lad. It's just . . . I'm not that patient of a teacher, and probably not even a good one, at that."
"You taught Sister Winifred," he said gruffly.
Nurse Crane caught his meaning. She was a good teacher, for poor Sister Winifred, despite her inexplicable enthusiasm, lacked a particular natural talent for driving. Sister Winifred was boundless in passion and eagerness, but it took all of Nurse Crane's patience and careful teaching to generate a pleasant result from otherwise dismal forebodings.
She caught the eye of the lad, and something in it, gleaming with determination and a belief, caught at her. He believed she could teach him. Believed it wholeheartedly.
Maybe it was the Cub Scouts that had softened her heart—somehow, the sincerity of the lad touched her womanly heart, and she couldn't leave him in the lurch. It would hurt him, and she couldn't face herself if she did.
"Oh, all right," she said resignedly, trying to ignore the glow of joy that appeared on his face at her words. "It's just to keep you from any further houndin' me. I've got a many duties to do, and so do you, so we'll hop to it and get it done and not frilly-frally 'bout it."
"Nurse Crane, that's—that's awful nice of you," Timothy finally said.
"Well, don't say that until I'm done teaching ya. You might not catch yourself saying anything like that during your lessons. Now," Nurse Crane spied around the yard, "if this is to be my legacy—alongside my midwifery, as I won't have it passing that in its importance to the community—I must have it passed on to someone else, lest, like I said, I'm turned into the person everyone turns to to teach them driving here in Poplar."
Timothy noticed her beady eyes trying to find some particular person, and he looked about himself, to see if he could spot her prey. Finally, he said, "Who are you looking for?"
"Ah! There she is!" Nurse Crane smiled pleasantly. Timothy followed her eyes to see Sister Winifred emerge from the front doors of Nonnatus House. The Sister's arms were laden with bags and her coat. She wore a beautiful smile even as she quickly hopped down the stairs, her legs wavering uncertainly under their heavy load.
"Go, go help her, lad," Nurse Crane said, whose command Timothy quickly took up. She waited until he took several articles from Sister Winifred's laden arms and the young Sister turned a grateful smile on him before she bid from the far side of the yard, "Good afternoon, Sister Winifred!"
"Oh, good afternoon, Phyllis," Sister Winifred said, waving. She walked to her bike and Timothy aided her in sorting all her baggage about until it was pretty well settled on the seat, and then she walked her bike over with Timothy, now only burdened with his school knapsack. "What a nice young gentleman we have in our community! He's bound to sweep some other young lady off her feet in no time!"
Timothy blushed fiercely, hardly able to say a word; so Nurse Crane said, in absence of his answer, "I fear he's getting old enough to do more than woo a lady, Sister. Young Master Turner here has the same keen interest in driving as you did."
"Oh, Tim, you do! Oh, it's so wonderful, so adventuresome and good! It makes you feel in control of your own fate, and very responsible, besides. Oh, I can't wait for you to learn!"
"In that case, Sister, once you're done with your rounds for the day, see if you can get a bit of driving lessons in before Mrs. Turner starts wondering about Timothy's tardiness from supper," Nurse Crane said calmly.
Sister Winifred betrayed no fact that she was confused, except for her eyes—her eyes searched Nurse Crane for some sign of a joke—surely it was there, somewhere! But no—her eyes widened, and her face dropped. "Me? I'm to teach—Tim?"
"She's to teach me? Sister Winifred?" Timothy gasped.
"I don't see why not. It's a sign that you know what you're doing if you can teach another the craft. Let me know if you need any help," Nurse Crane said. She would've escaped successfully on her bicycle if Sister Winifred hadn't scurried over to her and yanked her own bike in front of hers, blocking her exit and causing the elder Nurse to purse her lips and look sternly at the nervous Sister.
"Phyllis, I don't mean to object to your decision, but—" Sister Winifred looked at her hands and said, almost inaudibly, "I'm scared. I don't feel as if I'm experienced enough to teach."
"You've got enough gumption to get me to teach you. I don't doubt that that same gumption will get you teaching Timothy. You know what you're doing, Sister. If you look past your fear, you'll see your skill." Nurse Crane smiled kindly and patted her shoulder.
"Even so, Phyllis, what if I'm teaching him something obviously wrong that I don't see wrong? Who'll be there to point the mistake out and teach us both the right way?" Sister Winifred pleaded.
Nurse Crane sighed a little, but then put her shoulders back. Poor Sister Winifred was scared that she would mess up this assignment, and would only keep at her in her own soft, pleading way until she agreed. So, she might as well save them both some time and patience. "All right. It'll have to wait until tomorrow, though. I've got my rounds and so do you. Won't do to neglect our patients today. Send Master Turner on his way but tell him first that we'll all meet here at 3:30 tomorrow for our first meeting."
"Oh, good, Phyllis!" Sister Winifred could've hugged her if they weren't both atop bikes. Nurse Crane shook her head and hid her smile as Sister Winifred biked over to Timothy. Hopefully, she wouldn't regret this tomorrow.
Nurse Phyllis Crane put her hand to her temple in a vain attempt at rubbing away the throbbing pain in her head. To say that she regretted this was to state the obvious.
Their excursion was marked by Sister Winifred's hesitation and Timothy's eagerness. Her car throttled back and forth, rolling with their combined weight. Nurse Crane's brakes were tested to the extreme, and she tried not to groan with worry when she heard them squeak with inconsistent use.
She sat in the back seat while Sister Winifred sat next to Timothy up front. The Sister had her head down too often, one hand holding tightly to the side of the door. Timothy had the steering wheel between his hands in a strong grip, a grip much better suited for an arm-wrestling match than a motor vehicle. He listened to Sister Winifred's slow instructions and perhaps took them a step too far every now and then. Nurse Crane had originally leaned from the back into the front seat to keep an eye on the road. In the past few minutes, however, they'd barely gone a quarter of a kilometer, so paying attention wasn't quite as necessary as originally thought.
"Step on the gas perhaps a bit less, Timothy, and . . . um . . . relax your grip on the wheel a bit, just a little. Then, oh . . ." Sister Winifred couldn't remember the part about the clutch.
Nurse Crane inhaled sharply and realized that they'd never get anywhere at this rate. She sat straight up and said in an abrupt, commanding voice, "Come now, Timothy, let's hop to it. You're steering a car, not grappling it in a tussle. Relax your grip; keep your hands at the two o'clock and ten o'clock position." Timothy obeyed and she felt a tad relieved. "Good. Now, lighter foot on the gas, hovering just over it. Remember where the brake is. Touch the clutch now. Now, we're on Baker Street. Wait for these walkers to pass and then proceed straight. Use those side mirrors and always look left and right twice at an intersection. There's always bound to be some child playing in these streets without a watchful mother."
Timothy silently performed these commands, and Nurse Crane sat back a bit. Sister Winifred smiled her gratitude and felt better—until a child did dart out in front of them.
"Slam on the brakes! Slam!" Nurse Crane said—poor Sister Winifred was struck dumb with horror and shock.
Timothy, in his moment of panic, reacted intuitively rather than skillfully—he didn't hit the brakes, but swerved to the side. The child was blessedly not hurt, but ran the other way, oblivious of the sudden danger. His mother, pushing a stroller and chatting with a friend, saw him just out of the corner of her eye, and raced and caught up the child in her arms with shaking hands and teary eyes.
Timothy's swerve brought them down a side-street heavy with foot traffic. Now he remembered his brake, and he slammed on it as hard as he could. The car abruptly stopped short, throwing everyone forward. They all gasped as they fell back into their seats.
It was quiet for a moment, except for the combined breathing of the three. Several onlookers looked on, thinking it strange that this car stopped in the middle of the street. No cops came to talk by the window; the mother hugged the child but otherwise did not seek their car. They were, at the moment, entitled to a quiet moment to catch back the breath that had gotten knocked out of their lungs.
Nurse Crane exited the car and slammed the door shut with a terrific SMACK! that caused Sister Winifred to shudder. Timothy sat as still as a statue, not daring to move.
Nurse Crane walked up and down the length of the car a moment, catching her breath and trying in vain to bring her temper down to a reasonable simmer. She pretended the anger didn't cloak the fright that'd sprung up in her chest the moment she saw that child; tried to erase that thought racing and chasing itself through her mind of, Not again. No, I can't do this again.
Somewhere in the back of her mind a door creaked open, and a young figure, hunched with worry and a bit of fright of his own, stood up. His words of "Nurse Crane?", uncertain and wondering, crackled through the angry shadows, and she turned on her heels to face the guilty party.
"No more."
"Nurse Crane, I'm sorry—"
"Sorry's not good enough. What is enough is this, all of this. No more." Her voice was unwavering and her command irrevocable. Her chin trembled but she wouldn't allow herself to acknowledge it.
"I did as you said, checking both ways twice—"
"And that child could've been killed the same. You didn't listen to me when I said to brake! You swerved!"
"But I missed—"
"If I haven't a student who can follow simple orders, he's unteachable. If you can't brake, you can't drive, and you can't be on the road."
"I did what you said to do, though! With the checking twice—"
"Yes, Timothy! You did listen to me! And a child was almost hit! Under my instruction!" Nurse Crane's voice hit a high-note as her heavy words hung in the air like a dark cloud.
Timothy's mouth gaped and he looked properly reprimanded. He gulped, not quite meeting her eyes. It was hard to see the hurt and pain and fright residing in her eyes.
"So that's why," he said quietly. Perhaps he thought she couldn't hear him, perhaps not. "That's why you didn't want to teach me."
Nurse Crane shut her lips into a tight line. Well, the boy was right. She hadn't gone back on the horse real properly after falling off it. Of course she didn't want to drive with the boy and face the chance that that unfortunate, haunting accident might happen again. Of course not.
"Timothy. . ." she said.
He waved a hand. "It's all right. I get it." He numbly sat back in his seat.
Just as soon as he disappeared back into the old car, Sister Winifred emerged. A look of empathetic sadness overcast her normally warm face as she laid a comforting hand on Nurse Crane's shoulder. "I heard you. I heard him," she said in explanation.
Nurse Crane tried to nod. She could barely move.
Sister Winifred continued, despite Nurse Crane's lack of conversation. "I understand now your reluctance to teach him. I cannot imagine the responsibility and guilt you bear on your shoulders. You don't want to be responsible for hurting another mother's son, whether that be the little child in the street or the beloved boy behind the wheel. That's why you want me to teach him."
Nurse Crane struggled against the thick lump in her throat. Since when did this normally soft-spoken Sister become so eloquent?
"I understand, but, Phyllis," with a little sad sigh in her voice, "it is wiser for you to teach the boy than for me. Though it doesn't seem it, it's far safer for him to be taught by someone with years and years of experience with one incident on her record than by someone who's been behind the wheel less than a year with no incidents. It's the experience that teaches, and I haven't it, and you, you do, Phyllis. That is far better for Timothy. You are far more qualified to teach him than me; you must see, Phyllis, that is in his best interest for you to teach him."
Nurse Crane looked up at the Sister with shining eyes. "Faults and all?" she managed to choke out.
Sister Winifred smiled warmly and rubbed her back. "Faults and all, Phyllis," she said.
Nurse Crane nodded. The young Sister was right, of course. She was being silly, letting old fear come creeping back in to ruin lives. That wasn't any way to live. Didn't she tell her Cub Scouts that to live in fear was to not live at all? Tut!
She strode over to the driver's side door and respectfully knocked. Timothy cranked the window down and sat back in his seat. She could feel the teenage sullenness rolling off him in waves. 'Twasn't normal for the doctor's son, but then, this situation wasn't a bit normal.
"Timothy, I'm sorry for going off on you like that. It wasn't your fault and you didn't deserve it. I-I don't want to make excuses for myself, but, you remember that incident last year? With the child, and my car hitting him while I drove it?"
Timothy looked up. He'd never talked to anyone about it, but he knew it, from conversations between Mum and Dad while they thought he was too involved in a play game with Angela to listen. He gave a single, affirmative nod.
Nurse Crane sighed. "I'm still recovering from that. I know it happened ages ago. But it's always in the back of my mind, and what just happened conjured it up to the front and center. Blowing up at you wasn't nice, and I'm sorry for that, Tim. I must say, that incident is why I've been all No's of late about this whole affair."
"I should've remembered that. I shouldn't have asked—"
"Come now, let's not do that, Timothy. I must be back up on the horse's back at some point, and this is as good a time as any. Besides, it's not every driving instructor as has such a bright and eager student." Her shining eyes were now not shining because of tears, but with pride, and a little hope in the challenge set before them.
Timothy looked the surprise he felt. "You're still going to teach me?"
"Sure I will! Sure I will, now! And I'll teach ya to brake first before you swerve. Swerving can oft take you into oncoming traffic or a building, mind you."
Timothy smiled, pleased, as Nurse Crane took the front seat and Sister Winifred gladly took the back seat. What times they would have, now that Nurse Crane had her renewed heart in the matter!
And they had such times. Often it was only two afternoons a week they could meet, on account of their jobs and school, but what times they were! Such streets and alleys they went down, turns and bends; Timothy learned the whole map of Poplar by the end. They drove down the wharves and along harbors and part of a beach once. Past the Turners' house into open pasture land where they braked for farmers leading cows in no great hurry to the other side of the road. They talked and chatted and discussed and explained and learned and smiled.
And, when Nurse Crane opened the front door to Nonnatus House the day of Timothy's driving test and saw his beaming face, she knew immediately whether or not he'd passed without a single word passed between them. All they needed to say was written across his pleased young face and her own proud one with shining eyes full of pleased fondness.
Thanks for reading! Review, please?