Chapter 2. The roots of Goth culture.

"Goth culture has its roots in in the Victorian cult of mourning," Shelagh explained calmly to Patrick.

They were on the 8th floor of the hospital on a balcony which gave a wonderful view over the roofs of East London.

She was chewing nicotine gum. Patrick was using his latest medical gadget, a nicotine inhaler.

Her answer was a short one to one question in a long and rambling rant by Patrick. He had asked her of the Goth culture and its finesses. She didn't really know if he asked because of Timothy or - if he wanted to hear about her. He had expressed his dismay over his son: why did Timothy prefer expensive black leather suits and his new job to medical studies? Tim had dropped out of the studies, Shelagh knew that, but she was fairly sure he might one day pick them up again.

There was a sorrow behind the talkative Doctor Turner facade. That is why she tried to be gentle and not too specific.

"Yes. Timothy may have preached about the finer aspects of Goth-ism to me with youthful vigor once or twice. I may not have listened to him carefully enough." Patrick paused. "I did consider Tim's Goth phase a reaction to his mother's death. But at the time, I thought it harmless and temporary. What has happened since worries me more. I know he gets well paid for all those Event Manager gigs. Yet I feel there's been a some kind of unraveling of him. It is only two years since his mother died and to me, he seems on uneven track. All this…cosplay seems so childish."

Shelagh knew that Timothy loved his new job: he was in charge of rock concerts, Doctor Who conventions and yes, some cosplay events as well. The wages made him independent of his father and he enjoyed the creative aspect of the job. Patrick's attitude to his son's endeavors must have something to do with this new independence and Tim's having some fun along with it. It seemed a little out of date for Patrick not to accept this rather ordinary growing-up process. He was so impossible and old-fashioned sometimes. And sweet.

Or so Shelagh thought. She made a mental gesture to shake off these feelings. This was starting to get dangerous.

Patrick could also act like a small boy. He had shown her the autoclave, but it seemed that the main reason for him dragging her away from the lunch table to the Museum Room was to show her the nicotine inhaler, his new toy, and the balcony up there which she had not seen before. "It is a sight to see, isn't it? I love London rooftops."

Shelagh agreed. It was a magnificent view.

They had bonded over chewing nicotine gum. When Patrick had found out that she was struggling with non-smoking rules, too, he had suggested that she join him out in the hospital inner yard for chewing nicotine gum. "It is good to keep something old when you change a habit. Even if we don't smoke, it is good to go out to have the replacement nicotine where we used to smoke, and for some company."

When she had arrived at the Clinic, Shelagh had felt that he was at first a bit wary of her because of her Goth looks, but they were pals now.

Now he had shown her something better than that shadowy yard. Shelagh wondered if he was trying to show his trust in her by doing this.

"'This is the air; that is the glorious sun'", Patrick recited in a dramatic voice.

"Twelfth Night, Sebastian."

Patrick was astonished. "You know the play? It's my old favourite."

After a moment he continued: "'You are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite.' That is what Marianne used to say to me when I kept on whining or theorizing for too long."

Shelagh's face turned into a grin. Patrick responded with a self-sardonic smile: "Yes, you are free to laugh at me, I don't mind at all."

"She seems to have been a wise lady," Shelagh said in a neutral tone. She also thought that Marianne had had a fairly right view on her husband, who was inclined to talk a lot. About science. About medical progress. About the annoying hospital bureaucracy. About himself.

But never before had Shelagh heard him talk of Marianne so openly.

"She used to come and sit here to look at the view, and Tim used to play here. They came to see me when I was a resident on call. That way I didn't lose all Tim's childhood by being a workaholic young doctor."

"I guess Tim was a wonderfully funny child."

He harrumphed. "He was a regular riot. But a lovable creature…". He let his head hang.

There is definitely an element of…..something in this balcony visit, Shelagh felt. Out loud she said: "I am sure things will turn alright. With Tim. I think he will catch up with medicine again."

"I hope so, Shelagh. I hope so." He lifted his head up and considered her for a while. "So, what are your Victorian roots of mourning? What made you a Goth?" Even if the words were playful, his manner was sincere.

Shelagh turned her face away and kept her gaze at the rooftops.

He retreated politely. "I beg your pardon. I see 'the melancholy god protect thee'."He looked at his watch. "My one o'clock is waiting. Have to leave. See you." Then he was gone.

Shelagh turned back to see the empty room after he had left. "'But when in other habits I am seen, whose mistress and queen will I be?'" she muttered to herself. The old heartache had come back.

XXX

The quotes are from Twelfth Night by Shakespeare.