"Owwww!" Shelagh moaned.

Warm summer sunlight was pouring through the gap in the half open curtains of the Turner's bedroom, casting its glow over her face. She shielded her bright blue eyes from its rays and attempted to lift herself up the soft feather pillows.

"Aaaah" she moaned again.

She lay still for a moment, attempting to fathom the sources of her discomfort. One pain she had never experienced before, the other, very familiar, but had not occurred for some time. She made another attempt to sit up. Her head was throbbing, the room was spinning, and she felt dizzy. She put her chin on her chest, attempting to stop herself feeling faint. It was then she realised that she was not wearing a nightdress, but the new purple dress and the black silk stockings which she had worn the previous evening. The shawl and the shoes she had been wearing lay discarded on the floor. It then dawned on her that she did not remember arriving home the previous evening. "What happened last night?" she thought.

She had spent the previous evening with the other nurses from Nonnatus House. Trixie had taken them up West, to a new bar which served cocktails. Shelagh was not sure how appropriate it was for her, a married woman, to be going to a bar, but Patrick had told her to go and enjoy herself. "It will take your mind off, things" he'd said. Shelagh had never drunk a cocktail before in her life, having never been allowed to go out socialising or partake in the semi-secret, late night drinking, which the other midwifes would indulge in when the nuns had gone to bed. She had decided before she left to try just one cocktail, but the pleasant music and surroundings of the bar, the company of her friends, the excitement of the new freedoms which her post-Nonnatus life was bringing, led to her overindulging in the sweet tasting treats. She remembered Cynthia handing her a glass of water and then Jenny helping her up off her chair. After that, she had no recollection. The pounding in her head, was this how a hangover felt?

There was a glass of water on her bedside table, and, realising how dry her throat was, she drank it in one. "Thank you for the water Patrick" she said, reaching behind her to run her hand down his back. When she couldn't find him, she turned round to find that he was not there. A sudden wave of terror swept over her.

"Patrick!" she called, "Patrick."

There was no answer. Her voice reverberated around the house.

"Timothy, Timmy."

Again, there was no answer.

"Where is everyone?" she thought. She replaced the empty water glass and picked up her glasses and wrist watch from the bedside table. Placing her glasses onto her nose, which, she discovered, did little to relieve her splitting headache, she looked at the time on her watch. It was 10:45.

"Oh no!" she squeaked. She had overslept. She should have been at work hours before. What on earth would Patrick say?

Panic stricken, she made to get out of bed, only to be halted by a sudden, sharp twinge in her lower abdomen, which brought the second, and more familiar, of her twin discomforts back into focus. She rubbed her abdomen with one hand, whilst lifting herself gently off the bed with the other. She turned back the bedclothes to find bloodstains on the crumpled white sheets. Even though she was alone in the house, she felt a wave of embarrassment at the thought of making a mess on his, no, their sheets. She then realised that there were corresponding stains on the back of her new dress. She headed across the landing to the bathroom, and took off her dress and left it and the sheets to soak in cold water in the bath.

Whilst living as a nun, her monthly cycle was nothing more than a reminder of her biology, that she was a woman, but all thoughts of anything further had to be firmly suppressed. As her feelings towards Patrick began to develop, and she realised she wanted to have a family of her own, what had always been a monthly inconvenience was in fact something more. It was part of a beautiful, wonderful process of bringing new life into the world. Since her diagnosis with TB, Mother Nature's visits had become more erratic. Once she and Patrick had married, they had been trying for a baby, and she had not had a cycle for several months. She had hoped and prayed that the lack of her cycle was the result of something wonderful inside her, created after a magical night with Patrick, but the tests which they had sent to the London had come back negative. The later diagnosis of possible infertility was the most devastating news she could have possibly heard.

Sitting on the toilet seat, putting a sanitary towel into place for the first time in many months, a sudden realisation came over her. This was the first cycle which she had since that dreadful day. That day, in the Harley Street clinic, when she and Patrick learned that it would be very unlikely that they would ever have a baby together. The bloodstains and the cramps, did they mean that things were righting themselves? Had she ovulated? Was this Mother Nature telling her not to give up hope?

After dressing into a dark navy suit and white blouse and placing extra towels into her handbag she headed to the kitchen and made herself a strong cup of sugary coffee. Coffee and sugar were luxuries in Nonnatus House and she usually would use both sparingly, but she had remembered Trixie saying that they were good for curing a hangover. She drank it in large gulps, scalding her tongue slightly in the process, and then left for the maternity home as fast as she could.