Note from Mia: I don't write AU. I like to write what could have happened between scenes and chapters. I rarely rewrite what we've already seen. Thus this is a story for those who know the series in general and the Turnadette's love story in particular. It might be confusing for a lesser nerd than I am. Also, English is my second language, sorry if the prepositions are random at times.
With his left index finger Doctor Turner thoughtfully traced the white, vertical line in the centre of the small x-ray picture. On the desk, next to the singled out, possible death sentence, lay a pile of no less than 38 other, similar disasters, which had, up until today, been hidden in the lungs of his patients. Doctor Turner had little to no interest in the health of the 38 patients, even though some x-ray pictures showed considerably worse lesions than the one in front of him. He would, of course, study, register and refer them to the London in due course, but that was not now.
He wouldn't have been able to perform the simplest of medical tasks now. The task ahead of him was perhaps medical in some sense. Doctor McGuinness, who had given him the 39 basic x-rays with a brisk comment that he had expected worse and more, certainly would have seen his colleague's next call as purely medical. But it wasn't.
On one occasion he had touched the spine he was now tracing with his finger. Or the contour of it, through layers of her habit and her white midwife gown. It had been when the desperately scared, and thus aggressive, Meg Carter had crashed into the room where her sister was giving birth and first shoved him off balance and then slapped Sister Bernadette across her face. He'd been back on his feet in seconds, almost hit Mrs Carter but been able to control himself and had instead, instinctively reached out to steady Sister Bernadette. The action had been superfluous, of course. Sister Bernadette didn't need his support, the composure of that woman was ethereal, almost celestial. But for a second his fingers had grazed the curve of her spine in a spontaneous gesture of support. He tried to never do that, to touch her spontaneously. Due to her being a nun it was never called for, strictly off limits and far too confusing for himself. Sometimes their work made physical distance impossible, and he always braced himself with unnecessary cold professionalism on those occasions. He had to fill his mind with as much medical jargon as possible, preferably in Latin, when her strong fingers worked in sync with his. And still the images of those fingers, her determined facial expression and soft voice followed him home and into his dreams. If he, by fate or a particularly evil-minded higher authority, found himself working with her the next day as well, he was next to useless, having to suppress the confusing mix of his dreams and his reality, in her presence.
But this was not one of his dreams. This was a nightmare. A nightmare made even worse by his stupid lack of self-control and decorum at the Summer Fete, which had left him even more dumbfounded when they met. After their success of getting an X-ray van to Poplar, their conversations had, admittedly, been less stilted, but he was still embarrassed every time he looked into her blue eyes and was reminded of his unforgivable action.
If I believed in hell, that's where I'd be heading.
But this was a kind of hell, too. She would have to be told, and he was the one who had to tell her. In a professional manner. Without even a trace of a tremble in his voice. Without loosing himself in her gaze. Definitely without kissing any part of her anatomy.
He checked his wristwatch and realised he had an hour to make the phone calls he needed to make before he left for Nonnatus House.
His first call was to his mother-in-law, Mary Parker.
"Hello, Patrick. So good to hear your voice."
"And yours, Mary. How are you?"
"Oh, we're fine. Just fine. And you?"
"Hm, well… Timothy is fine, he's practicing the piano rather than his violin, and, truth to be told, I very much prefer that." He tried to chuckle with good humour, but it sounded more like a cough.
"Lovely. And you, Patrick? Are you well, too?"
"I'm… yes, I'm fine. Listen, I wonder if Timothy could come over and stay the night with you? I'm having a… a difficult call to make tonight and… well…"
"But of course! But haven't you got a locum to cover for you? You can't be on call day and night."
"Well, I'm a GP in Poplar, not on Harley Street where young doctors would form a line around my practice to help out with anything. And, apart from that, this is a call I need to make myself."
"It sounds serious. Is it personal? A friend?"
"Um… Well… yes, it's one of the nuns. You know I can't tell you more."
"I know. Will you bring Timothy over or will you put him on the bus?"
"No, no, I'll drive him. In about an hour?"
"Perfect. See you then."
Having eased his parental responsibilities for the evening he made his two other calls. The first one to Doctor McGuinness to arrange for a more detailed X-ray examination at the London the next morning, and the second to Saint Anne's sanatorium northeast of London. He knew Doctor James Wren, one of the senior physicians, and hoped he could be persuaded to forget the long procedure of admittance to the well renowned sanatorium. At length Doctor Turner explained why this TB-patient of his should be admitted as soon as a bed was available. Young woman, excellent nurse, brilliant midwife.
"Right, Patrick," Doctor Wren chuckled. "I hear you. She sounds like the saviour of Poplar, and that you will be left in a cursed kingdom without her. Tell me, is she pretty?"
Doctor Turner swallowed before he answered.
"She is a nun. But, yes, she is among those who are saving Poplar. Every day. As far as I know she hasn't had any symptoms yet, at least no violent cough, and I need to… I mean, I'd very much like her to receive the triple treatment to prevent the infection to develop into a contagious phase."
"Of course. We actually have an empty room as of yesterday. I was about to report it to the medical council tomorrow, but if you give me your word that she will come here tomorrow, let's say early afternoon, with all the correct referrals, test results and proper X-rays, I'm ready to turn a blind eye. If this is the sanatorium she wants to come to she would have ended up here eventually, anyway, if you referred her."
Wants to? She doesn't even know yet. And when I tell her, I doubt she'll want to go anywhere.
"I know that you run a good institution, James. I can't think of a place I'd rather send her to. I'll drive her there tomorrow."
"See you then, Patrick. We'll take good care of your saviour. Saviouress? Is that a word or did I just invent a new one?"
"Bye, James."
On his way back to Poplar, after having left his son with his grandparents he tried to think of something to postpone his arrival. He drove like an old man, far beneath the speed limit, but he was so unfocused it probably was for the best. When he stopped outside the red brick building of Nonnatus House his headlights illuminated the row of bikes in the shed. All the bikes were old, but reliable according to Fred. Doctor Turner guessed that the smallest one belonged to Sister Bernadette. Or was the one she used. Slowly, over the years, he had come to realise the religious vow of poverty actually meant the absence of personal belongings. The sisters weren't poor like the beggars in the streets. They ate well, slept in bed, had clean and adequate clothing. They just didn't own things that weren't necessary for their job. Their calling. They accepted gifts in the form of food and cast-off clothes, but only in order to pass them on to people in need. Timothy had given him a drawing to give to Sister Bernadette a little while back. He hoped that didn't overstep her vow of poverty.
There was also the vow of chastity. He was acutely aware of that. It tainted his memory of her fingers against his lips; a memory which popped into his head far too often and made him fell flustered and ashamed.
He wound down the window and lit a cigarette. He wondered absentmindedly if his feelings for Sister Bernadette had something to do with his late wife. When he'd become a widower, he'd cringed at the very thought of another woman, sinner or saint. No one would ever be able to take his wife's place in his heart, his life, in Timothy's life, in the community. And no one had. But he had found resources, previously unknown, in himself to step up and be a more attentive parent and a more social person. Sometimes he felt he'd wasted so many years of his marriage by being far too committed to his work. When his wife became ill he had regretted it sorely, but by then it was too late. Guiltily he calculated that he'd spent more time nursing her when she was dying for three agonising months, than he had during the three years that came before her cancer diagnosis.
Perhaps Sister Bernadette's unattainability was part of the equation. Or perhaps it had started that way. The nuns and the nurses had been so supportive during his wife's illness and during the months after her funeral. And they felt safe. He never had to consider them as women, could leave the gossip he knew was going mouth to mouth in Poplar about the doctor needing to get himself a new wife. And then… And then the quietest of them all, the youngest and most accomplished midwife had opened up and spoken about the resilience of children when he had admitted being worried about Timothy's first Christmas without his mother. Not in a cold or practical manner, but with a hint of her own childhood. And she had become a person for him. Not a nun who was professionally compassionate, but a young woman who could relate to his son's grief and his own helplessness about it. He'd gone home with a small, but warm hope in his heart, and tried his best to make Christmas into something that wasn't a pale and incomplete copy of the Christmas before, but a new kind of holiday with just him and his son.
Saviour, James said. Indeed.
He flicked away the cigarette end and got out of the car. He straightened his tie and retrieved his doctor's bag from the boot. Thus, as ready as he could possibly hope for, he climbed the stairs to the door.
"Would you like me to get Sister Julienne for you?"
She nodded. She didn't meet his eyes, but kept an unfocused gaze on the small x-ray picture in front of her on the table.
He rose and wanted to reach out and touch her. Maybe he had, if he hadn't known that it would destroy his barely held together professionalism.
"Hm, would you…"
She looked up at him and he lost his train of thought. The pain in her eyes was like the pain in Timothy's during those first weeks without his mother. He pulled himself together.
"Would you like me to tell her? And the others?"
She parted her pale lips but searched for words.
"Yes… Yes, tell the sisters, if they are with her. Not the nurses yet. Not… I don't…"
"Shh… " He placed his hand momentarily on hers. Her hand was ice-cold but he couldn't decide whether the tremble he felt came from himself or her. "I'll get Sister Julienne. I'll be quick."
When he was about to close the door behind him he heard her draw in a shaky breath and he winced. He had no right to be the one to comfort her, and even if he had, he couldn't think of a single sentence in the English language that would be appropriate and comforting. He cursed silently and closed the door.
Sister Julienne's ever-present friendly smile fell when she saw him. Sisters Monica Joan and Evangelina sat at the kitchen table, while Sister Julienne prepared a pot of tea. Sister Monica Joan had already helped herself to an almond shortbread.
"Doctor?"
He swallowed.
"Sister Bernadette?" she asked.
"Hm, yes," he heard himself answer. "She has… The screening showed…"
"No!" Sister Evangelina exclaimed. "Not her. She's… she's, well, young and…"
"I know," Doctor Turner replied. "Unfortunately TB isn't choosy. Nor merciful. And now, maybe because Sister Bernadette is young and otherwise healthy, the disease has taken her prisoner without anyone noticing."
He wondered briefly where all these literary metaphors came from. He was usually more to the point and abhorred embellishments that hid the true meaning of what was said.
"Could you come with me, Sister? I need to carry out an examination for my referral and she… Sister Bernadette needs you."
"Of course." The nun passed him quickly and headed for the makeshift clinic room next to the nurses' office and storerooms. When he reached the door he'd closed minutes before he paused. The hushed voices of the two women were mingled. He couldn't make out their words at first, but then the voices were joined in the Lord's prayer. Silently he prayed too, and gave them a few seconds after "Amen" before he opened the door and entered.
He didn't know where to look when she undressed. He retrieved his stethoscope from his bag and the instrument in his hands and against his throat restored some of his professional role. The crackles from her lungs into his ears forced him even more into his doctor mode.
Her cervical vertebrae were too pronounced, as was her collarbones. He had no idea if she'd always been that skinny or if it was the weight loss associated with TB that had stolen weight from her.
By the way she turned her face away from him when he listened to her chest, he decided to perform his pulmonary examination on her back only. He placed his right long finger an inch to the left of her spine and tapped the middle joint with his left. He repeated this on both sides along her spine and felt more dullness than he feared from the x-ray. Both her lungs were severely affected by the silent killer of tuberculosis. His fingers, as sensitive as a thermometer, also picked up on a simmering, low-grade fever. Again he cursed silently.
He explained that he'd arranged for a more detailed x-ray the next morning and a bed at Saint Anne's sanatorium. As he had expected both sisters needed time to digest the devastating news.
"I will drive you," he repeated.
They thanked him absentmindedly. He felt dismissed. The sisters left the room, the older supporting the younger. He closed his bag and followed them. On his way out he passed the chapel. It was empty, but lit by a few candles on the altar.
I'll do anything, God. I'll sacrifice anything. Don't punish her for my sins. Keep her safe. Heal her. I'm not sure I or my medicine can. I'm not sure You can either. Thy will be done.
He forced himself to get out of the car at Kenilworth Row and into his flat. It was cold and quiet. He lit the fire, dropped his coat on an armchair, and collapsed on the couch. Gradually the room became warmer. He debated whether he should eat something, but decided against it. He went into the larder and took down the bottle of scotch he had there. It was dusty; he rarely drank at home. While the fire died down to glowing embers he drank, prayed, smoked and cursed. Eventually he fell asleep for a few hours, waking with a wryneck and terrible headache, more from exhaustion than excessive drinking.
At nine o'clock he had shaved, swallowed some aspirin, drunk enough coffee to feel slightly shaky and driven to Nonnatus House to pick up his patient. His only patient of the day; he'd cancelled all other calls and consultations.
Silence didn't bother her, he realised when they left the centre of London, and drove northeast, towards the Essex border. The Great Silence of her religious life must have taught her that. It bothered him, though, and to no small amount. He was lousy at chitchat and he'd never even attempted it with neither the nuns nor the nurses. There had always been far too important information to communicate with any of the inhabitants of Nonnatus House before. But what would be the point of taking about possible difficult deliveries now? Even if they both knew the expecting mothers of Poplar, that door had been closed to her. For now. He guessed she was agonising about whether she'd unknowingly had put someone at risk by her mere presence.
"Since you haven't developed any cough yet, there is next to no risk that you have spread the infection," he said, hoping to lift her mood just a little.
"I know," she said. "Or I try to tell myself."
And that was that. He drove a few more miles, biting his tongue to prevent himself from starting to blabber some meaningless litany about the beauty of the countryside. She sat as still as a statue and just as silent.
They were quite early; it was just past noon and no more that half an hour to the sanatorium. Before he could mentally talk himself out of it he turned into a smaller road and stopped. The soft landscape was a soft, foggy, green hue, and he wanted nothing more than hide in this place where he couldn't see further than a few hundred yards in any direction. He turned of the ignition and sighed.
Slowly she faced him.
"Why have we stopped, Doctor?"
He didn't answer. He desperately wanted a cigarette.
"I'm sorry," he said, without looking at her.
"What for?"
"For this." He made a non-committal gesture that could mean just about anything.
Her training in silence unnerved him and in his frustration he found the courage to face her.
"I'm sorry you are ill, I'm sorry I had to be the one to diagnose your TB, I'm sorry we can't speak as we could before, before I forced my unwelcome affections on you, I'm sorry I…"
She put her fingers to his lips and he forgot the rest of his sentence.
"Don't," she said quietly.
Her fingers smelled of soap and had the tell tale temperature of fever.
"Don't what?" he whispered.
She looked away and answered just as quietly.
"Don't assume it was unwelcome."
His heart started to beat hard in his chest when he realised what she had said. His hand came up to grasp her fingers, but she quickly withdrew.
"I've been so lost," she continued. "I still am. I don't know, or I don't understand God's plan for me. This… this illness, these months of treatment in a place I don't know is not what I wished for, but it might be what I need. To think. To feel and try to listen to His voice, if I can discern it. I need to think about you. I need to test the strength of my hope."
He was not sure when she referred to him and when to her God, but knew he couldn't press her. He put his hand against her cheek. His fingers only touched her wimple, but a bit of his palm rested against her skin. She leaned, a fraction of an inch, into his hand, and that was all the answer he could hope for.
"I can't talk with you, like this," she mumbled, more to herself than to him. "It's not…"
"Let's not talk then."
She sighed, closed her eyes, but didn't move away.
"Can I write to you?" he asked eventually.
After a few seconds' hesitation she nodded.
He placed his palm against her forehead. It was too warm.
"Saint Anne's sanatorium is one of the best close to London. You will receive excellent care and treatment, and you need it."
"I know. Thank you for driving me. And possibly arranging for this speedy admission. Did you have to pull strings, Doctor?"
He started the car and reversed out onto the main road. He gave her a quick look and a smile before he changed the gears.
"Yes. But I'd do it again, any time."
"Thank you."
The road took them past Epping Forest, before the village of Woodford narrowed the country road into streets. He parked outside the large, white building at the edge of the village. When it was built it had been outside the borders of the village, as a means to isolate the ill and prevent spreading of the disease.
When he handed her her suitcase her fingers brushed against his. He wondered if that would ever happen again. Her smile when she thanked him and stumbled a little over her words about him being more than kind, erased his guilt at his ill-considered release of his affection earlier in the summer. He watched her walking away from him and into the building. She didn't turn around.
He had no idea how he got home, but found himself gazing blindly through the flow of rain against his windscreen. He was home, but couldn't feel it at all. When he eventually got in, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to do. He made sandwiches for Timothy and himself, and was easily persuaded to let Timothy read as many chapters he wanted before turning off his lights. Then he pulled out some stationary and started to write. He was well aware that he wasted the good quality paper with words he could never send her, but he needed to write them. They were words he hadn't written in more than 15 years. Words of love.
How come you touch my heart with just a gaze? Even over a bloodied mattress in the most squalid tenement. How come you can bring a smile to an exhausted mother's face after she's been cursing about how she doesn't want this twelfth child, during hours of labour? How come you can calm down a nervous father-to-be with just a few words? How come your every gesture, smile and compassionate word are echoing and replaying inside me every minute of every day. And every night. Even more so now that you are not here.
I could continue this, if you like. Or just leave it as it is.