A/N: Characters, storylines and some dialogue here does not belong to me, but to Heidi Thomas, the creator of Call the Midwife. Just borrowing them for a while.
Another groan of pain echoed through the surgery. Shelagh Turner shuffled through the files on her desk and tried unsuccessfully to ignore it.
The cries of women in labor had scored her life for more than a decade, and it had been long time since the sound had truly bothered her. The end result was worth the pain, a young mother had told her once, long ago, when she'd still been Sister Bernadette, cycling through Poplar, delivering babies in all hours of the day and night.
Now she was Shelagh Turner, doctor's wife. Tweed suits had replaced the habit, and the surgery office, not the delivery room was her place. This room held different kind of pain. The torture of waiting. The agony of helplessness.
She'd never given much thought to the fathers when she was a midwife. Back then she'd never seen them for long. They usually only appeared at the end, after the baby was born and the mother made presentable, shuffling into the room, a vague mix of fear and wonder on their faces. They started the day as men and ended it as fathers, thanks to their wives, and to her. Childbirth was a magic trick they couldn't quite believe.
Now the fathers were always before her. Some – the longtime fathers, the ones to whom childbirth was no longer a mystery – read the paper with bored indifference while they waited. Most others smoked, wringing their hands and pacing with pent-up anxiety. The fathers were her patients now, and she soothed them the best she could, with offers of tea and words of reassurance: It was all perfectly natural, their wives were in good hands, Dr. Turner and the midwives were excellent at their jobs. A few cried, unable to stand the sound of the screams, and she'd learned the best thing to do in this situation was to pretend not to notice and discreetly push the box of tissues closer to the edge of her desk.
Naturally, as she cared for them, she began to imagine Patrick in their place. Despite his medical training and knowledge of childbirth, she doubted he would be one of the indifferent ones. No – he would pace and fidget and probably smoke his way through at least two packs of Henleys. And God help any young nurse or secretary waiting with him. They'd be peppered with so many questions and concerns they'd be calling for the gas and air.
She couldn't imagine Patrick in the delivery room with her, unless there was some urgent medical need. He might ask to be there – he could be fiercely protective when it came to her health – but if she wanted him to wait outside, he would. He never pushed her to do anything that made her uncomfortable. He only offered her the choice, and let her make a decision. With her, he was patient. For her, he would stand outside and wait.
It was all part of her dream, her dream of telling him she was pregnant, her dream of carrying his child, her dream of seeing the wonder on his face when she handed him their son or daughter for the first time. She didn't long for the discomfort of pregnancy or the pain of childbirth – no one did – but a baby with the man she loved? That would be worth almost anything.
But that dream was fading. She could feel it disappearing as months went by and her cycle stopped, but none of the other symptoms of pregnancy appeared. She'd watched Patrick carefully as he'd opened the letter from the London this morning. She'd steeled herself for any hint of disappointment from him, but he was very good. He'd given her the bad news briskly, as a doctor would, but remained hopeful, as a husband would. He was always so hopeful. She was the one who prayed, but he was the one who never gave up.
There was another cry of pain from the surgery and the woman's husband, a Mr. Baker, rose to his feet and started to pace. This labor was proving to be a long one, but he hadn't once left the surgery, not to go back to work or for lunch or even to get cigarettes. He would wait, too.
"Would you like anything, Mr. Baker?" she asked softly. "Some tea, perhaps?"
He looked at her wide-eyed, startled out of his worry. "No, thank you, ma'am. Does it – does it usually take this long?"
She nodded and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sometimes."
He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I just worry about my Kathleen is all."
She recalled the way he'd led his wife into the surgery earlier in the week, his hand supporting the small of her back, and felt another part of her dream wither away. "I'm sure she'll be fine, Mr. Baker."
When Patrick had suggested the exploratory surgery to determine if there was anything that would prevent them from conceiving, Shelagh had hesitated only slightly. She hated the idea of spending any more time in a hospital; she'd had enough of that in the sanatorium and she didn't like leaving Patrick and Timothy to fend for themselves again. But if something was wrong, she wanted to fix it. She didn't want to let go of all of her dream, not yet.
A blood-curdling scream cut through the air and sent a chill through her heart. Mr. Baker turned, his face twisted in pain and shock.
"Is that my Kathleen?" he demanded. "It sounds like she's being torn limb from limb."
"I know you're worried, but it's all part of childbirth."
"You're telling me that's normal?"
"It's the most natural thing there could be," she said, with a small smile, but she couldn't seem to summon up her usual brisk confidence.
Mr. Baker ran his hands through his hair. "Jesus wept."
Shelagh pursed her lips and went back to her filing. Her heart went out Mr. Baker, it really did; she knew his frustration and anger weren't meant for her. She knew what it was like to feel helpless and futile. She knew how it felt, when your spouse was hurting or disappointed and there was nothing you could do alleviate that pain. She knew now, how it felt to be outside of the room. She knew what it was like to wait.
It was suddenly quiet, and then there was another cry, a different one: the thin, reedy wail of a newborn baby.
Mr. Baker's hands left his face and he turned, eyes fixed on the surgery door. Shelagh had seen that smile of relief many times before; he'd run into the surgery the next minute if she didn't stop him. She came out from behind the desk.
"Doctor will call you when your wife's ready." She pointed him toward a chair. "I'll fetch you a cup of tea, Mr. Baker. Congratulations."
The new father reluctantly sat down, but he didn't remain still for long. His body vibrated with nervous energy, and suddenly he shouted – "YES!" – and leapt from his chair, startling her so much she nearly dropped the teacup in her hands. She'd seen many fathers celebrate in this waiting room and usually it made her smile. Usually it made her think of Patrick, and what he might look like when their child was born.
But this cry of joy cut straight through her, sending a jolt of pain so quick and sharp it brought tears to her eyes. Because when she saw Mr. Baker's sudden relief and happiness, all she could think was, I'll never be able to give Patrick that. We'll never have that.
She made Mr. Baker his tea. The kettle rumbled, and then whistled its readiness. The hot water slowly bled the tea leaves of their color and steam rose from the cup, fogging her glasses. By the time she'd delivered tea to Mr. Baker, her tears had dried and another bit of her dream had curled up, shrunken and dead, to be blown away by the first brisk wind.