Four days later having been cleared as fit and healthy, it was her first night of call wearing the blue uniform and red cardigan of her colleagues. How apprehensive she felt at this new skin that encompassed her now representing this rather radical change in circumstance.

In the clinics people stared, feeling they knew her, recognising her but not quite sure where they had seen her before. It had disconcerted her and scared her; being seen with new eyes oddly missing the shroud of a habit. For all the torment it had caused her in her decision-making she had not been quite prepared for the reaction of the ladies of Poplar.

Sister Julienne had warned her for the looks, the stares and that feeling of not quite belonging again after being cossetted and protected for so many years. She knew it would be strange and knew it would be difficult and this was her first night, on her own, without the support of her fellow midwives and she was positively terrified. That first day, when she and Jenny ran the afternoon clinic, she had been so pleased that her first patient had been a certain Frederick Peter Noakes and that her friends had expressed their support in every which way possible.

This night though, sleep evaded her and the book she had been trying to read for days was not holding her interest as it slithered to the floor after toppling off the arm of the chair. Cynthia had taken a call, Jenny had taken a call and both had passed the time of day on their way out, but it had been quiet now for hours. She had heard feet along the top corridor and hoped they would find themselves descending the stairs so she could engage whoever it may be in conversation to prevent her mind wandering onto topics of apprehension.

Instead, she stood up, retrieved the book from the floor and decided to take herself to the treatment room in a desperate effort to occupy herself with something even if it was tidying medication.

She walked past the Chapel and saw Chummy seated in the darkness, her eyes closed, hands clasped on her lap. She could hear snippets of a whispered prayer, one she recognised from her own childhood from the mouth of her own mother:

How tenderly He loves them,
the children of this earth.
How carefully He guides them,
from the moment of their birth.
How lovingly He looks upon them,
sweet and fair,
May He always keep our little one safe
within His care.

Shelagh stayed by the door to the Chapel, before slipping quietly inside when she saw Chummy raise her head.

"Do you mind if I sit with you Chummy?" she asked.

"Of course not" she said, quietly tapping the seat beside her.

"Where's Freddie?"

"Snoring away with his Daddy", she replied, looking up towards the ceiling.

"Then why are you up and out of bed?"

"Distinct lack of comfort", she said, touching her hand to her stomach just above where the caesarean scar lay. "Besides, Peter has to be up for work in an hour or so and I do so hate disturbing him. I get so uncomfortable that I think I am worse than Freddie at waking him up".

"Do you want me to have a look at it?"

"No. It's just the incessant itchiness. It's driving me around the proverbial bend."

"Itchiness is good. You are well on the way to healing."

"I know. We just have to deal with what He sends us". How true that was.

"You are not worried about it?" Shelagh asked.

"About how it looks?" she responded. "No. Peter just calls it a battle scar. It just means I have constant reminder of Freddie even when he isn't with me. I'd rather have the scar than be…."

She was about to say 'mourning my son' but she stopped herself as she was so prone to tears these days thinking about the 'what ifs'.

"I prayed for him long before he was born and I was given what I asked. Freddie's healthy and growing like a weed. That's all I need to be concerned about; not marks on my skin".

"He's certainly a robust young man", Shelagh replied. Ill and exhausted herself when she had been brought back to Nonnatus by Dr Turner, the Sisters sent her to bed, not whispering a word of Chummy's labour or the drama that had unfolded that night. Shelagh slept fitfully, entirely undisturbed by the commotion and upset, waking to the wonderful news of a healthy boy and a friend out of danger.

"He is", Chummy replied so pleased that what was occupying her these days was the thoughts of the toothless smile she had been sure she had been offered yesterday morning, although in reality it was probably a burp in waiting.

"He's passive little soul too. I have to say I have never seen a baby with the ability to sleep anywhere and everywhere like he does".

"I wonder if we are being lulled into false sense of security and he will suddenly find his lungs one of these days. Hopefully we will be in the new house by then though and Sister Evangelina can stop dropping hints about noise and untidiness".

Shelagh smiled, remembering when she had been ironing when the Sister had encountered a small mountain of freshly washed napkins hanging in the kitchen and the appalling language for a Nun that she had heard as she ducked her way around them.

"Did Peter find out about a house?" Shelagh asked, having seen the excitement on Chummy's face when he had passed her what look suspiciously like a tenancy agreement yesterday.

"Yes", she replied. "He is going to see it tomorrow. Not officially but it's over the road from the Station so he is going to have a look". She paused. "I might ask what you are doing up and about at this time too. I thought Trixie was on early call first".

"She is. I have to confess sleep was eluding me as well".

"Oh?" Chummy replied noticing Shelagh had started to turn her hands over and over with worry.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course".

"No," Shelagh paused. "No. It's not a question I should be asking."

"Shelagh, ask me. Whatever it is, I shan't mind."

She took a breath, so desperate to ask all of those questions that were still in her mind but until now having nobody to ask.

"Do you regret having a quiet wedding?"

Chummy was taken slightly aback by the question but without hesitation shook her head.

"No, not in the least. Between you and me and these walls, I almost suggested to Peter we ran away. Until I realised the girls would absolutely murder me".

"Ran away?"

"Yes. 'Over the anvil'. In the face of opposition and all that".

"Ah, your mother". Shelagh remembered the whispered conversations, the worry on the girl's faces and the unrelenting support they gave their friend as she found her way. How odd it was that now she was feeling some of that support too.

"Gretna Green is beautiful though. Such countryside!" She paused for a second, to add cheekily "I might have to suggest that to Patrick!"

Chummy looked at her shocked.

"I'm not being serious. I think I would be well and truly snuffed out too if we disappeared and came back married".

"I liked it as it was - no fuss, no bother. One hates all of that; but that is just me. Well, Peter and me. I think your wedding is going to be absolutely marvellous."

"I sometimes wonder whether Patrick would prefer a quiet wedding."

"Why do you think that? He hasn't said anything has he with us just cannoning away with it all has he?"

"No. I think he has been oblivious to it all so far. Timothy was showing me some photographs yesterday of him when he was younger and there was one of Patrick and Helen on their wedding day slipped into the back of album. The wedding looked beautiful - 6 bridesmaids, 2 page boys - Helen just looked..." Shelagh paused to find the right word. "Ethereal".

"I think he might be agreeing to it to please me".

"Have you asked him?" Chummy questioned.

"He'll think I am silly and making a fuss over nothing".

"No, he would not" she said firmly. "How many times I was scared to ask Peter things because I thought he would think me silly. I worried so much about whether Peter wanted the full works too. When I plucked up the courage to ask him he was worried that I would want all the bells and whistles too".

"Go and see him tomorrow and ask him".