In Poplar the autumn of 1958 was much like those during the years that preceded it. For most, it passed unheeded, as much of life does; for a few, it held tragedy and uncertainty. For a newly engaged couple, however, it was the sweetest of seasons: devoted to making new memories and, apparently, sharing old ones.

"There's not 'that' much to know Patrick."

"There's a whole life! One I very much want to be a part of."

Shelagh soon-to-be Turner, as she currently referred to herself, sighed in mock-exasperation and then laughed at her fiancés pleading expression, absolutely delighted it so resembled his sons'.

Her musical laughter went ringing round the courtyard garden and into the silent halls of Nonnatus House. A passing Sister Monica Joan was reminded of the highest register of bells at a certain abbey, only she couldn't currently remember the name of it.

"First steps then," he began; turning towards her on the bench they shared and resting an elbow over the back rail, his black fringe falling just over one dark eyebrow; "Where did you grow up?"

"Aberdeenshire, then Edinburgh after my mother died."

Hearing this, he looked up from his perusal of her delicately folded fingers; hoping beyond hope she would continue. Patrick ached to gain wisdom from her motherless childhood, not for himself, but for reassurance that his Timothy's life would indeed carry on without the presence of his mother. Admittedly though, this concern had lessened considerably since his engagement.

As always, his thoughts were as obvious to her in his eyes as their dark evergreen hue; and so, after one steady breath, she obliged.

"He couldn't bear to live in the cottage any longer than absolutely necessary, even I was old enough to comprehend that."

His question, again like his motivation, was unspoken.

"Nearly eight. She passed away February 26th, 1934." She smiled sadly, remembering the next detail. "We both forgot my birthday that year, so the next I had two parties."

She watched him do the now possible arithmetic in his head with a modicum of bemused satisfaction, but the smugness that crept into what could now only be called a smirk as he reached his final sum, her current age, made her laugh aloud once again.

A clearly nervous straightening of his tie in the very next moment prompted her to reach over and steady his hand; silently communicating her graceful acceptance of the gap between them. Their love was ageless and Shelagh had already determined it would never ever matter.

There was profound gratefulness in his expression, and she sensed he was again about to thank her for loving him and say that he was so unworthy of someone so young and beautiful. These comments always made Shelagh uncomfortable, so she did what she thought Trixie might:

With a grin, she teased him. "Any other questions, old man?"

Patrick nodded slightly, ruefully, smiling. Her point was made.

He recovered his composure quickly; avid curiosity winning over self-deprecation. "Was it just you and your parents then?"

"I had a younger brother once- for a week or so. He was what took my mother from us; in the end."

She stopped.

"Shelagh you don't... I mean, is this too painful a subject?"

She was quiet and still, considering the long un-accessed memories and his gentle approach. She was so grateful for it; his unfailingly gentle nature. It always made her feel stronger, bolder, like she could do anything.

She looked full into his eyes with significance, clarifying once more that she was willing. "Not anymore...And not with you."

Smiling, he looked at her with the somewhat confused wonder that he had been feeling since her form had appeared out of the mist on that lonely road: where on earth had this perfect creature appeared from and why in heaven's name had she chosen him.

A deep breath on her part, and then she began anew. His compassion and interest anchoring her, freeing her mind to wander back into the painful past; steady in the knowledge that her present was secure.

"She was badly weakened by the stress of the birth; I came to understand later that she had haemorrhaged and then developed an infection. As a girl though I only saw how gaunt and pale her face became as she withered away from us. I was with her when she fell asleep for the last time."

She remembered.

A stark hospital room, bleached sheets, alabaster skin and pale lips, awash with the light from a rare winter sun. Utterly colorless save Shelagh's pink wool dress and her mother's abundance of fire colored hair. Her own small fingers traced through the soft curls, separating them, plaiting and un-plaiting the shining carnelian mane; patient and quite determined to carry out her father's wishes.

He had told her to stay with Mam until he came back, to make sure someone was there to say hello if she woke up; a responsibility the young Shelagh was only too happy to accept. He himself was absent, she thought possibly he was with the baby; the tiniest of bundles, who had been whisked away from his sister through the lonely hallways almost as soon as he had been born. That had been a week ago, and she had heard nothing of the bundle since. Her curiosity about her sibling was abstract, never having laid eyes on the wee thing and having been much more worried about the acuteness of Mammy's screams than this promised brother or sister.

"She collapsed in the sitting room just before dinner. Dada moved so fast. He had a pillow under her head and was running for the telephone before I even knew what had happened."

Struck by how clear the recollection was, she commented; "I remember it so vividly now." He nodded, and there was a sadness about it; Shelagh thought he must have been considering how well Timothy would remember the awful time they went through with his late wife; and so she delved back into the story, trying to distract him.

"I took my father's hand when he had to let go of Mam's at the hospital. It must have been the Royal Infirmary we were in, now that I think on it. He would not sit downstairs in the waiting room and I would not let go of him. We sat on the floor in the cold hallway and listened to my brother being born. I had never heard pain like that before. I hoped then that I never would again. Little did I know..."

Patrick smiled down into his tie. "...That you would make the agony of childbirth the soundtrack to much of your life?" He offered.

"Quite." She sighed. "After some time, a kind nurse with the most beautiful lavender eyes I had ever seen brought us two wooden chairs. After that, I remember being alone; out in that same hallway, measuring out the seconds by kicking my shiny black shoes against the solid chair leg." Shelagh knocked rhythmically on the bench with a small white knuckle.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The solidity of both the movement and the sound seemed to bring her out of the fog of the past and back into the garden sunshine.

Squinting up into it, she felt herself relax. "Then it's only snatches of memories of sitting on her hospital bed, and of course standing in the snow at her funeral." She concluded, sniffling only a little, and daring once more to meet his sympathetic eyes with her own now misty ones.

Quietly then, a new query: "Do you remember much about her? Before she was gone, ...I mean? What was she like?'

"Oh. There are many things I can't quite grasp, like when remembering a dream. I can hear her singing voice as clear as day, but I don't remember her speaking tone exactly."

He nodded again, understanding.

"I remember her best in contradictions. She was unfailingly gentle and yet absolutely firm, suffering no unkindness or rudeness from anyone and yet her admonishments, to me at least, were always without judgement and full of love."

"She scolded my father like she did me, almost like he was a little boy I thought sometimes;" smiling as she thought of his dear old chastened face once again. "but then..." her tone softening; "then, there were moments when she looked at my father like he was the very heaven above, as if he could do no wrong. Like you look at me sometimes."

"It should be all the time, Shelagh." Then, wryly: "You tell me if I ever stop looking at you as if God himself hadn't plucked you from among the stars and brought you to Nonnatus just so I could meet you."

She gave him an only slightly sarcastic nod in response and bit her lip to keep the smile from splitting her face wide open.

"Well, actually, later still I found out that my mother had met my father while in the Edinburgh courts defending her own actions as a suffragist."

"A rebel, hmm?" Mused Patrick, completely failing to conceal his utter delight at this particular fact; as it gave him a bit of insight into Shelagh's somewhat hidden stubborn side.

She grinned gainfully at him. "Oh yes. She took nothing lying down, my Scots-Irish mother."

"I suppose that's how you came by your given name then?"

"Definitely. It was her mother's name, my grandmother, I doubt I met her, but it's always made me feel connected to my family- even when I wasn't."

Patrick decided against pushing into that last comment, instead waiting for her to share something else. In the not so far distance he heard singing echoing through the halls of Nonnatus, escaping through the windows and spiralling into the crisp air with the grey fireplace smoke.

Shelagh heard it too; wistfully she spoke again. "My mother's faith was mine too, as a child. I have her to thank for my early foundation in that regard. And I have never ceased being grateful for that, because I had somewhere to turn to later on, when everything else fell away."

Patrick again piqued at this; another small indication of something troubling- but he sensed she wasn't quite ready to share those confidences, so he steered the flow of conversation back again to her earlier past.

"Do you resemble her?"

"In everything but my hair, according to my father. I'm not perfectly sure of the resemblance, but I do know I have her eyes. He spoke of that often enough: 'eyes like the clearest sky, piercing, introspective- and yet soft.' Or so he said." She demurred.

"She had outrageously red hair she let fall in curls about her shoulders before that was quite proper. Like a waterfall of fire when the sun hit it just right. I remember passionately envying it, even as the smallest girl." Her eyes sparkled, divulging another confession. "It's one sin I have never, and will never, ask forgiveness for. The joy I can hold on to just having the memory of that intense covetousness must be my pardon for it."

"A thing of beauty... as they say, my dear."

"Exactly; and as you see, I have my father's hair instead; which I have treasured for many years, but I cannot pretend I do not sometimes still wish for those red curls."

They smiled genuinely at one another, and Patrick leaned away slightly, regarding her.

"I imagined your hair you know, before..." he confessed.

"Really?" She hadn't thought. It would have been rather flattering, if indeed she wasn't slightly appalled at just how bad a nun she must have made those last few months.

"And how does reality suit you, Doctor?" She asked, slightly facetiously, straightening her already perfect posture in readiness for her fiance's diagnosis.

Observing her momentarily, the rational medical man emerged from behind the attentive suitor for the first time during this encounter. He could see that her simple twisted style was probably held by a single large pin at the back, as he had seen his late wife do upon occasion. He was rudimentally certain of the physics at work here, and about equally certain of what he wanted to do next.

His fingers twitched momentarily in consideration before he raised them- reaching up just past her chin, hovering there over her rapidly flushing cheek in the as yet unsought permission.

"May I?" He asked, sounding more breathless to his own ears than he had intended to. "I'll need the full effect of course, to be sure of my conclusion."

She glanced about the courtyard like the nun inside her might also have done, but instead of shame or trepidation as the motivation; Shelagh was simply considering the moment. She wouldn't want to embarrass one of her sisters with such a display. But no one seemed to be near, and the singing had died away. The thought of this exchange taking place somewhere she had, in a previous life, knelt to pray cheered her for some inexplicable reason and she nodded her assent. Just enough to allow him to continue; only truly certain of her decision once she had already made it.

The twist loosened, and then gave way; tumbling down Shelagh's back.

And then his fingers were running through the golden cascade, spreading and drawing the strands over her shoulders and fully into the sunlight.

The rediscovered luxury of loose hair was one Shelagh hadn't anticipated, but she was aware of it now. She wasn't sure she'd ever been so aware of anything in her life.

The slip of the strands through his questing fingers. Foreign fingers; sliding over her scalp separating the sun-warmed locks and allowing the clean fresh air to wind its way through them. She went cold all over, despite the temperate autumn day and then just as suddenly flushed, warmth spreading upward from within her chest; brightly coloring her cheeks and lips.

His thumb too-deliberately brushed the shell of her ear in its thorough perusal and the feeling devoured her whole. She wanted to perish right then and there in the all-consuming fire he brought up from inside her and simultaneously to somehow go on living forever in only that very second. But she had no care for this paradox as reality fell away, leaving only the visceral; thought was unnecessary when surrounded in this primitive blaze.

As utterly as she was being transfixed by sensation; he was captivated by image.

Doctor Patrick Turner had seen many things. He liked to think that living and working where he did, in the thick of it, he had seen almost every side of humanity. But he had never seen this. Seen her. For this was her. Truly, simply and finally Shelagh. Her goodness, her tenderness personified. And it was exquisite.

He could only attempt to describe her as angelic. There were just no other words for the way her hair and complexion became one with the halo of the afternoon sun at her back. She glowed, contrasted against the sky and the red brick.

She was exalted, and he was joyous. Awash in awe of the gift she had just given him. It was such a simple thing, to see her hair down in the light, but in their world of complete structure the juxtaposition of such freedom was intoxicating.

For he, a simple man, was sitting on an ordinary bench, in a small allotment garden, holding a ray of sunshine in his own terribly unworthy hands.

"Shelagh." He breathed out in wonder and she inhaled every trembling note. No one could say her name like this man could. No one.

The still wandering thumb brushed against her neck below her ear and he was suddenly out of oxygen. Excepting her name, the following uneveness in his breath was the only outward sign belying the war roiling between his body and mind.

Her own breath hitched in response as his fingers did, catching in a small tangle, and she, just as unexpectedly, lost her nerve.

Helplessly the feeling engulfed her, awareness sharpening quickly to a fine point and suddenly piercing through her lungs. She visibly trembled. As surprising as she had found the previous warmth, the utter terror that now flooded through her was somehow worse because it, unlike the pleasure, was so unwelcome. She did not know why she was so suddenly and painfully conscious of everything. It was simultaneously confusing and annoying. Why couldn't she just stay; remain in the joy of that bliss? Did she have so little trust?

He saw her look of happiness change suddenly to trepidation and uncertainty before the sunlit curtain of her hair fell and obscured her from view.

Cut off from the conversation of their gaze, reality also came crashing back to Patrick, albeit less frighteningly. He leaned farther down to try and catch her eye and dropped his hand from where it was resting on her shoulder to join with her now restless one. He clasped it carefully, with reverence, and waited; sorting out his own thoughts.

He was filled with empathy, understanding completely how at sea she must be with all of this- the sudden and overwhelming physicality of touch after a life spent honing the contemplative, the cerebral and the practical- not the sensuous. He was far past overwhelmed himself and... well... he'd certainly never been a nun.

Her forehead was still downcast; she was looking at their still-joined hands.

His unoccupied fingers gathered back the golden caramel curtain, tucking it behind her ear, then ghosted down her jaw to her chin, just lightly touching the soft underside. Her eyes returned to his as she raised her head, a fragility in their blueness that Patrick had never before witnessed.

He smiled at her fully, reassuringly squeezed her hand and Shelagh found she could breathe again. His compassion washed over her like the light of the sun, as warm and constant as the hand that held hers. If she was as the rays of the sun shining from heaven; he was her foundation, her solid earth to warm.

Equilibrium regained, mind and heart steady, she beamed up at him.

"So, what do you think?" She tempted him almost timidly, remembering at once the original purpose for the rather... singular, interlude they had just shared.

Offering it back to her, he held the single hairpin between them in the air; in their shared breath. He held her gaze reverently, trusting their connection to explain what he couldn't put into words; all his million brilliant hopes for their future and the journey that would take them to it. Together.

"It's going to take some getting used to."


"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."

-Book I