November 1958
"Look around as much as you like," he had told her, his crooked smile bright. "You'll be living here soon enough. Make yourself at home."
And so she had, or at least, she had tried. Shelagh couldn't help but feel awkward, standing here in the sitting room of Patrick's flat, the brown paper of the bag she held in her hands crinkling as she fidgeted with it. Patrick wasn't home just now. He'd been called out on a case. He'd been apologetic, but she'd told him there was no need. He was a doctor. This was his job.
She'd taken to spending her days here. Sitting with Timothy as he finished work from school, tidying up the clutter that had accumulated over the past few months. Finding her way around. Still, this didn't quite feel like her place yet. She knew it would, eventually. Or least, she hoped.
Alone in this moment, she stood in the sitting room staring down at the record player. She had examined the record collection a few days earlier, somewhat sheepishly, squinting at the spines of the records that had sat side-by-side in the cabinet. It wasn't too large of a collection, and there were several names she didn't recognize, and a mixture of styles—classical, jazz, popular vocalists. Some of the names were familiar, but only some.
"Anything you like?" Patrick had asked, joining her by the console, casting his eyes down at the records on the shelf.
She shrugged. "I'm not sure, really." She thought about the names on the spines of albums she'd perused. "We had a radio and a record player at Nonnatus House, but our collection was terribly out of date, I'm afraid."
Of course, there were the nurses and their own records, which Shelagh would overhear occasionally upon walking past on some evenings, but still even then, she would only hear pieces of many of the songs. The more popular singers she would remember, of course, because they were talked about enough. Still, her knowledge of popular music seemed woefully inadequate.
"Well, I can't say mine is particularly current, either," he had told her, gesturing at the turntable. " We can replace all this if you want. If you don't like them."
"No, it's fine," she told him.
He nodded, looking directly into her eyes. "Feel free to listen to any of it. No need for them to just sit here gathering dust."
"Perhaps I should," she said. "I don't know most of these. Maybe there will be something I like."
"I hope so," he said. "But don't feel obligated to keep anything you don't want." He took her hand. "Really. I haven't even heard most of it."
"Very well," she had said after a time.
That had been just a few days ago. Now, here Shelagh stood again, staring at the modest record console and its simple collection of records, mostly Marianne's, she had imagined. That was the assumption, anyway, when Patrick had said he hadn't heard most of them.
They hadn't spoken much of Patrick's first wife. It wasn't like avoiding the subject, though. There just hadn't been much opportunity. Their days had been spent reveling in the present, planning for the future—not dwelling in the past. Still, Shelagh couldn't help but think of Marianne Turner in moments like this, looking at this small collection of records, wondering which of these songs, these artists, had been favorites of this woman Shelagh—or rather Sister Bernadette-had been acquainted with in life, but did not know well. In fact, Shelagh wasn't even sure she had known Patrick's wife's first name until after Marianne had died. She had always been "Mrs. Turner" to Sister Bernadette. It was funny to think, now, of this woman Shelagh had barely said more than two words at a time to, with whom she had had little in common at the time, although she remembered her as a kind, pleasant woman. Still, strange to think how much they shared now, and how much more they would soon share—something that neither of them would have guessed.
And now here she was, the next Mrs. Turner, standing here clutching the crisp paper bag that contained something new. Something to add to the old, neglected collection. Something of her own.
She hoped Patrick would like it.
Glancing briefly at her wristwatch, Shelagh looked back at the door for a moment before turning her attention to the record player once again. She had no idea when Patrick would return, although he had promised he would try to be back before she had to return to her lodgings. She smiled, thinking of the small, light package she held and just what it meant to her. It was only one record, purchased only for one song it contained, but so much meaning in that one little song.
Taking the record out of its bag, she crouched down and carefully placed it among the others on the shelf.
March, 1959
It had been a short, simple honeymoon. Two nights in a West End Hotel. Simple from Patrick's perspective, but almost too extravagant from Shelagh's. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy being away. She had enjoyed it very much, in fact, but more for the fact that she and Patrick could finally be together, alone, as husband and wife, stroll along the crowded streets together just like any other married couple, not drawing stares or questions or gossip. And of course, there were the nights, lying in his arms, enjoying one another's touch, whispering things for nobody else to hear. Sharing one another, as husband and wife. It was still so new for Shelagh, but extraordinarily pleasant. And although it was time to return home, she looked forward to spending every night in Patrick's arms, to spending the days with him, to learning more and discovering more, and sharing more as the days went by. They had had only two nights in the West End, but now they had all the time in the world.
It was a bright afternoon as they finally walked through the doors of the flat, this flat that was now truly her home. He had insisted on carrying her through the door, making her blush and giggle. Still, it was nice. Nobody else was here yet. Timothy had spent the weekend at his grandmother's. He'd only been out of hospital for a short time, but Granny Parker had insisted. Now in a few more hours, Patrick would drive out there to collect his son, and Shelagh was excited for that, too. Now, officially, they would be a family. For now, though, it was just the two of them—Shelagh and Patrick, husband and wife.
There was a a glint in Patrick's eye as he set her on her feet in the middle of the sitting room, not removing his arms from about her waist. "Welcome home, my love," he told her, smiling. "And what would you like to do now? Looks like we have some time."
She returned his smile, looking away for just a moment as the sun streamed in through the window, calling her attention to the record console against the wall.
She returned his gaze, delighting in that meaningful look in his dark eyes—that look that was only for her. She knew what was on his mind, and it was an excellent thought, she had to admit. Still, there was one thing she wanted to do first.
"I have a present for you," she told him, stepping out of his embrace and taking his hand. He followed, his eyebrows raised in a curious expression as she led him over to the record player.
"A present?" He had given her a gift on their wedding night—a beautiful brooch; not full of diamonds anything too ornate, but just perfect as far as Shelagh was concerned. She hadn't given him anything, but told him she had something in mind for later. Come to think of it now, those may not have been the best words to choose. Still, she had been hoping for this moment, and now it had arrived.
"It's nothing extravagant," she added, to be answered by a light chuckle from her husband.
He took both of her hands in his then. "Shelagh, I'm sure I'll love it whatever it is."
"I hope so," was her answer as she stood for a moment, gazing up into his eyes. Then, carefully removing her hands from his, she bent down and removed the record from its place where she had stored it those few months ago. She had taken it out a few times and played it since then, but always when Patrick was away, as she had cleaned, or rearranged furniture, or emptied the small box containing the few possessions she could bring into the marriage—mostly purchased after she had left the order. There wasn't much left to move when their wedding day finally arrived. There had only been the two small suitcases containing the few items of clothing she'd managed to collect in the months since she had exchanged her simple blue habit for the worn old suit. Since then, the suit had given way to a more up-to-date, but still modest, wardrobe. Shopping was still a new experience for her, but one she was finding she could learn to enjoy.
Still, although the new clothes had been necessary, the most important purchase she had made, to her mind, had been this simple record album that she now held in her hands and found herself somewhat nervously presenting to her new husband.
"Doris Day?" He asked, glancing at the cover, his brow crinkling slightly.
She nodded. "You're familiar with her music?"
"A little," he answered, turning the album over to glance at the back. "But not much, I'm afraid. Is she a favorite of yours?"
Shelagh placed her hand on top of his as he held the album, still looking so perplexed that she almost had to laugh. "One song, really," she told him. She took the album then, turning away so she could take it out of the sleeve and place it on the turntable. "I hope you'll understand when you hear it."
"You have me intrigued," he said then, watching her as she lifted the stylus and switched on the turntable. "But then, you always do."
She looked up at him, smiling widely as the song started to play. After a moment, he reached out his hand and as she stood up, but she didn't join him right away. Instead, she simply stood there, watching his face.
"Just listen," she told him. And that's what he did.
