That Scarf
Those moments hard to define...there certainly was one. Once, Patrick was frantically dashing around the house.
"Where is... my scarf?" he shouted.
"Why don't you take a coat? It is really cold today."
"No, It is only a nip. I need my scarf."
Timothy appeared with something red and shiny in his hands.
"Dad, the scarf that Mummy gave you, it is again in the bathroom. You should..."
"...take better care of your stuff. Touché. Thanks, son."
"What does 'touché' mean?"
"Ermmm...it means 'point taken'. 'An arrow shot to the centre'.' A valid complaint'. 'Well-deserved'..."
"Oh, you pedant. I just asked. I don't need the whole DICTIONARY...!"
So it is one of those things. What Moira had left as her legacy. She was starting to wonder how many of those she still did not know and would have to dig out. She sighed. The Turner boys were a hilarious lot, but it seemed that the directness that was typical for Timothy was inherited from his mother. Patrick seemed always to prefer subtexts and double-meanings. He was the edgy one.
Shelagh's mind went further back. Timothy had been such a brick. The only disagreements with him were with the music practice and TV watching. He'd prefer TV watching both to his homework and music practice. Shelagh preferred music practice as better accompaniment for making dinner than the corny TV programs. So they had often a gentle fight about that.
He had even solved the question of how to address her in his straightforward way. After some weeks of awkward Auntie Shelagh, or worse still, only Shelagh (that made his father give him some stern looks), he had one day asked if Colin could come in to see his Spitfire model before a cub meeting. Permission granted, he proudly presented them to Colin: here's my Mum and Dad. After that, it was just Mum. At that moment, Patrick had grinned at her, taken her by the shoulders and whispered to her ear: "Welcome to the family. Again."
Sometime in early March, having already to some extent settled to her position as a wife and a competent secretary at the Clinic, she was once again rattled by a conversation she accidentally overheard. It was between Patsy and her husband, They probably didn't notice her, as she was organizing the choir's music sheets in the corner of the Community Centre hall. It was a late Friday afternoon, and she had for once decided to skip The Lone Ranger with Timothy for a session with the choir music cupboard.
She had heard some noise in the hall. First one door and then another. The her husband's voice was heard, in merry but polite tones:
"'Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all'...Still checking, Nurse Mount?"
"No, Dr Turner. I think I have all the answers to that, thank you." She was laughing equally politely. Shelagh felt an odd pang of something. She had to inhale fast. What is this? Was she... a bit jealous? She knew how well Patrick got on with the nurses, and with the new recruits, he often made an effort to make them welcome.
Oh, a marriage could be...darn complicated. She recalled how she had heard Sr Evangelina once say how she was glad that she had taken the vows when she was irritated with Chummy and Peter. She had thought it funny then. It was too late for that now. To be alive, to feel like this...Her mouth twitched a little, like always when she came across something she didn't like. She would conquer this, surely.
Besides, she knew that Nurse Mount had a habit of checking that old, small mirror of hers. It seemed to be a keepsake, as it was not a very good mirror. It was cracked. She had once asked about that, as even she, inexperienced as she was, could see that Nurse Mount was a fashion-conscious young woman.
"Oh, this is an old keepsake. It gives me strength to look at it sometimes."
It seems Patrick was now wondering the same thing.
"What do you need the strength for, this time? If I may ask?"
"Yes, I was just coming to talk to you about it. It is Mr. Bridges. I have been to see him today. It seems not very good, I am afraid. I think you should call Dr Hatton again..."
"What is it? Is it the smells, the sounds, the nightmares?"
"I am afraid all of it. He is very good with his small son, though. It is odd, I think. That sturdy lad seems to be his point of focus in the world. So...you will contact Dr Hatton?"
Yes. By the way thank you, I found the scarf on my desk. Apparently you pick up my things."
"No problem. That scarf...seems to be very important to you, if I may say so. " Then she paused. " Like my mirror. Perhaps I should tell you. It is my remnant of the ...old life. A keepsake from my family. All I managed to keep with me when I was interned to a prison camp. In Singapore. During the war."
Patrick was silent for a long time. Then he said in that voice that seemed to reveal nothing, always an alien sound to Shelagh.
"So that is where you got that aptitude with psychiatric problems. I am sorry. I should not have joked about the mirror."
"On the contrary, I could have told sooner. It is just...the bomb scare was such a ...trigger."
"Yes. For me too." It seemed they had reached some kind of understanding.
"That scarf...that was a present from my first wife. It is Italian."
"Oh yes, it looks very fine. Nice embroidery." Patsy seemed to have recalled an appointment in the city, and she left rather abruptly.
Shelagh pulled herself together. He had not...betrayed her in any manner. He had promised to talk of...Italy with her. Sometime later. Was this the "sometime later" he meant? There was still a kind of pact between them, perhaps a legacy from the previous times when she was a nun. A pact of silent understanding to follow your instincts when to speak. It seems that in a marriage, there are not always such instinctively felt moments.
She must compose herself. She decided to talk with him soon.
