I apologize to all Scottish people and dancers, I may have made mistakes with the terms of Reel. I will study more and may make a corrected version later. Right now, too delighted in the buzz of Ceilidh to care...
2. Nobody ever lost anything by looking for the answers
Patrick restrained himself. He was walking down the main Poplar street in the twilight. He had this urge to take a few dance steps. He had already once inadvertently taken one, but had at the final moment managed to disguise it as a skip over a puddle of water. A respectable middle-aged man, he was not allowed be found like that, giddy or gaudy, in the district he worked in.
The word had got around that he had been so joyous and light-headed on the day of his wedding. Although they had invited only a few guests (some relatives and the entire Nonnatus house), it had still stirred the community. Although people were too respectful of him to talk publicly, he suspected that the Scottish Reel, the only dance Shelagh had consented to have at the small reception, had caused some ripples. The violin group organized by Timothy had been the original orchestra, but Fred had brought some drums, a cornet and an ukulele, and with the help of Alec and Cynthia, they had formed an improvised, but also a quite loud band. Jenny and - surprise, surprise - Sr Evangelina had taken shifts in playing with the help of the new nurse recruit Patsy, so that Fred and Alec also could dance. The joy was unrestrained, but not, he thought, too buoyant or raucous. The bomb that had been successfully detonated with only a mild explosion the previous day was still on everyone's mind. But the sound of that orchestra was heard on the streets of Poplar, even if that Reel was no more than eight minutes long.
He shuddered mildly. He had heard the echoes of that detonation while having a tea with Shelagh and Timothy on the day before Christmas Eve. There was a distant rumble. The bomb group had been working on that dud for two days, and Shelagh had lived with them all that time. Her golden head in the grey morning light was always the sight he first checked when he came downstairs. Yes, he had been sleeping rather badly, always the first up, and yes, he had quickly acquired the habit of watching his Sleeping Beauty on the sofa. He had a knack of opening that sitting room door silently. The doors in the Turner residence had always been well oiled because he, the doctor on call at all hours, wanted to be able to move around the house without waking anyone.
At that noise of explosion, he had winced and he had seen Shelagh's astonished look. Soon, the knock on the door rescued him from his apparent discomfort, and they all took the glad tidings of Fred with pleasure:
"The bomb didn't hurt anyone and the material damage was limited to one or two walls of the nearby houses. So, doctor, everything is all right, then, ain't it?" Fred had said, albeit with a slight question in his voice.
"Yes, Fred, everything is all right."
"Are you sure, doc?"
"Quite sure, Fred."
Now Shelagh looked from one to another. Fred quickly continued with fresh pomp and circumstance:
"So we are on our way to the wedding, then, with full steam ahead! No need for concern, Shelagh, there's enough cake-and our orchestra will be playing!"
"Oh, it is now an orchestra! I only wanted some violin playing. Keep it simple, Fred. For me, " Shelagh pleaded.
"At your service, madam. But me and Timothy thought that you should have a proper sendoff for your honeymoon. No worry. You shall enjoy it."
He left whistling by himself. The tune was "Get Me To The Church On Time".
So the sendoff for their honeymoon had been that Reel, perhaps a bit more grandiose than Shelagh had wished for, but she danced, by Jove, she danced that Reel with delight, Patrick mused. In the final round, the eight-some circles suddenly gave way to one big circle and the happy couple were forced to jig and jive in the center of that circle, to furious clapping and stomping. That was a glorious end to the small wedding, and the glorious honeymoon that followed...Patrick smiled. Oh, what the heck, he decided to jump over the next puddle with two high dance steps. He felt a deep need to yodel, but was wise enough to camouflage that into whistling "I Could Have Danced All Night". Loud and clear, though.
Suddenly he became aware that someone was watching him. He had arrived at the Church Square, and he could see the benevolent face of Sr Julienne and the grumpy one of Sr Evangelina, sitting high on the steps. He stopped, somewhat aghast. But they waved at him.
"Come now, Doctor. Come and hear our news, " Sr Evangelina commanded from the upper steps.
He approached them with a slightly taken look, and hoped that they had not seen his entire dance show. But their serious faces silenced him immediately.
"What is the matter?" he queried.
Sr Evangelina gave a grunt. "Even though you might have a life of constant Ceilidh in your sacred marital home, similar delights are not granted to every soul on earth."
He managed to make the shade of blush on his face vanish by watching his shoes. Then he met the serene, but sad eyes of Sr Julienne.
"You see, Dr Turner, the Nonnatus House will be demolished this week. Not in two month's time, as was the original intention. That dud bomb seems to have deteriorated the weak founding to such a degree that we are declared homeless - for a time being. We have a temporary shelter at the Tennis Club where we spent the three nights of the bomb scare."
Sr Julienne's grace over the disruptions of life did not fail, but Patrick could see she was shaken. Feeling a bit guilty, having secured for himself their ablest Sister as a wife, he eagerly offered his help with the Council and other authorities to speed up the re-housing.
"Thank you, Doctor. I knew we could always rely on you. Would you tell Shelagh that the house is to be demolished on Friday? I am sure she would like to know."
Suddenly Patrick felt dizzy. He could see in his mind the clouds of concrete, feel how the duster irritated his eyes, smell gun powder and oil and hear the sound of crashing. He had to sit down. Sr Julienne put her arm on his. Sr Evangelina, a veteran of the East End bombings, was also concerned:
"Doctor, this is not as bad as the bombings. It will be a very well organized demolition. Engineers are in charge. It will be a clear, small wound in the community. It will heal fast..." Her demeanor was mild, for Sr Evangelina. She knew. She had been through the blast and the fire herself.
"Thank you, Sister. I was feeling a bit faint. It brings me back to..." he halted.
"Italy..?" asked Sr Julienne gently. He nodded, without being able to speak. "Do not worry too much, Doctor. Everything will be all right. "All shall be well"..."
Patrick harrumphed. He was acquainted with the near-fatalistic faith of this good Sister, something that his late wife had partially shared. His present wife...he was just so desperate that she would be all right.
Sr Julienne seemed to have telepathic skills. " It will also be all right for Shelagh, Doctor. Do not doubt that."
"Thank you, sister. I hope so, too. " They departed their ways. Patrick's last leg to home was considerably more subdued. When he came home, he embraced Shelagh tightly.
"What is it, love?" she asked, astonished, trying to interpret this sudden desperation.
"I have just met Sr Julienne and Sr Evangelina..."
The domestic comfort of their home was such, not to speak of the comfort of their marital bed, that Patrick for once slept soundly that night. At 7 am they were woken up by the telephone ringing. It was Trixie for Dr Turner.
"I see, I will come at once," Patrick said. He started to dress. "It is Alan Bridges. The malaria patient. His wife has recently given birth, and it seems to have upset him. "
Shelagh furrowed her brow. "Why would a birth aggravate malaria...?"
"Oh, he has a lot of other symptoms, too. You know he fought in Italy. Sorry, I mean Korea. Of course Korea. He was in National Service there. Have to go. Bye love. " And with a quick kiss he was gone. Shelagh leaned back in bed. She had a studious look and she heaved a sigh.