December 20, 1960
Christmas was all in bloom at Nonnatus House once more. The clinic this Tuesday was quite full, with mothers and babies and children filling the seats, chattering. The door burst open and Fred hefted this year's rather large Christmas tree into the hall, leaving a pleasing aroma of pine and a trail of needles in its wake, much to the dismay of Nurse Franklin, who followed the caretaker out of the building insisting he find a broom and sweep it up at once.
Love and life permeated the air in the Ante-natal Clinic, bursting forth in the squeals and joyful laughter of the children, in Nurse Mount's laughter as she watched Trixie traipse out into the snow to shout at Fred, and in Tim Turner's words of encouragement to his little sister Angela, who was toddling toward him on unsteady legs, not quite getting the knack of this 'walking' thing quite yet. From time to time, these children's parents, both seeing to patients behind the screens, took a peek, offering the two words of encouragement.
Shelagh Turner couldn't have felt happier that morning, as she set to measuring the fundal height of her patient, young Mrs. McMurchy, all blonde hair and ivory skin, looking impossibly young. Much too young to be a mother, surely, but here Shelagh was, listening to the baby's strong, quick, heartbeat through the Pinard horn.
Mrs. Turner wouldn't have been feeling quite so blissful had the symptoms that had been plaguing her for the last few weeks not let up the day before. She felt herself again, and was happy to work without having to hide the dizziness from her husband. She hadn't wanted to worry him, and, as well, a part of her was fearful.
She knew she was being foolish hiding this from him, having only recovered from Tuberculosis two years previous, but it was nearing Christmas, and things always got busier at this time of year, both at home and at work.
On top of their normal duties, there would be the inevitable diabetic treacle overdoses, the drunkards who nearly drank themselves to death, and heart and gallbladder attacks brought on by greasy Christmas feasts. There was no time to worry about her right now. And, as well, she'd felt much healthier in the past few days. She was certain this would be the last of it.
So as she helped Mrs. McMurchy out of bed, giving her the parting advice to take it easy and leave the heavy lifting to her husband (as they'd recently been rehoused) she went back toward the table to check the chart for the name of her next patient. Her clipboard clumsily fell out of her hands to the floor, and grumbling, she bent down to pick it up. When she stood, the world suddenly shifted and she felt so dizzy she could barely keep her balance. She heard her husband's voice calling her name, but she couldn't respond. She was falling, falling into the abyss, and her attempts to stop herself were all in vain.
And then there was only blackness.