Doctor Turner turned off the engine of his car. The day he'd waited and fought for had finally arrived and, pushing through the throngs of already-impatient people waiting their turn for the X-ray machine, he couldn't be bothered to suppress his joy.
"The queues at Upton Park aren't 'alf as bad as this, eh doc?"
"I promise we'll be much more gentle with you than the West Ham crowd, Ted!" Dr. Turner clapped him on the back.
"How long are we going to be waiting, then, Doctor? My Nigel's got to be at nursery this afternoon, see-"
"Not to worry, Mrs. Farnham! Everyone will get their turn, and it only takes a moment in the machines," he chirped back brightly.
Slipping into the Community Centre, the doctor rolled up his sleeves and turned on the kitchen tap. As he scrubbed his hands in the hot water, he winced at the memory of what had happened here not so long ago. It had been unforgivable. In the first place, who in their right mind would try kissing a nun? Sure, there were the bawdy jokers at the pub, or during the war, those rowdy men who'd propose anything with any woman… but him? Patrick, you absolute muppet.
And then there was the matter of her mark. Fortunately, the pause it had given him must have snapped them both out of the moment, and she'd pulled away. Handled herself much more appropriately than he had. But unfortunately, he thought rather sheepishly, she'd done so before he'd had a proper look. He felt guilty and degenerate at wanting, so badly, to know what it said. He'd had to stop himself peeking at her wrists all throughout the drive to County Hall, and now every time they worked together, too. It was a horrible invasion of her privacy. Unforgivable. And again, of course, she'd reminded him that day where her feelings lay, with "him." The man who'd captured her heart before the war. Her soulmate.
He dried his hands and closed the doors behind him. Unforgivable, this feeling, but persistent.
"Doctor Turner!" Sister Evangelina waded through the crowds, clipboard in hand. "How'd you like me to organize the troops, then? Sister Bernadette's just gone to fetch the last of the records for filing, so she'll be in the van with you."
"Excellent!" His nervous energy at the thought of the van's close quarters made his voice louder than he'd meant it to be, and the Sister looked up at him with a curious smirk. Patrick cleared his throat. "It's really thanks to her we've been able to arrange this."
They both watched Sister Bernadette cross to the van, dwarfed by the large box in her arms. "Downplayed her role at that meeting, but I 'spect she did more than she says, eh?" Sister Evangelina nudged him.
"Yes." The box was pulling slightly at her sleeves. "I think they listened to her quite a bit more than they did me, if I'm honest."
Sister Evangelina snorted. "Well, thank Him for her powers of persuasion, then. Now," she took a deep breath, stepping toward the throngs. "Form a queue! Everybody, form a queue!" To Dr. Turner, she jerked her head toward the van.
Working in such close quarters alongside Sister Bernadette proved less nerve-wracking than he'd expected. They worked well together, and quickly. She, he noticed, was patient with the shy ones, persuasive with the X-ray alarmists, and firm with line-cutters and rule breakers. When one stubborn child wouldn't step foot in the machine, Sister Bernadette made a pact: if you go, I'll go.
With her chin nestled atop the machine, she looked over at him and grinned. He was glad, at that moment, that it wasn't him in the machine; though he knew better, he imagined it might show how fast and huge his heart was beating, like in one of the cartoons Tim liked to watch.
By the end of the day, Patrick was exhausted but pleased. They'd screened what seemed like all of Poplar and then some, and the x-ray technician assured him he'd spotted fewer cases than expected that required further investigation. He was sorting through them now, as the doctor packed up the file folders. He'd offered to take care of loose ends and return them to Nonnatus House so that Sister Bernadette could make it back in time for vespers. Now, he thought to himself with a rather self-satisfied harrumph that he'd hardly had time to wonder about her mark at all in the midst of so much good work done.
Gerald, the technician, handed him the last of the x-rays. "These are the files I've marked for you to take a further look at. Good work today, Doctor," he shook Patrick's hand. "I'd tell you to take your time looking these over, but I'm afraid I have to get the van back by seven."
"Understood. Thanks for your help today," Patrick nodded, tucking the folders under his arm and climbing down the steps.
His first thought when he sees her file is the memory of his last night with Marianne. The pain, the waiting, the exhaustion. Tim. But he quickly pulls himself back to the present. His next thought is that he must refer her to another doctor for examination. How could he bring himself…? No, he has always served as the doctor for Nonnatus House, and it would be more inappropriate to refuse her his help, however insufficient his abilities and however complex his feelings. His next thought, an unforgivable one, he thinks almost immediately. It would be easy, surely, to examine an arm, take a pulse, pull up a sleeve. He won't. He is not that kind of man, and not that kind of doctor. If he were to make any kind of reckless admission on this potential brink of disaster, it should be on his own feelings alone. His final thought, probably foolish: maybe it's nothing, an error in the machine. He hopes. His faith is thin, but admittedly something in him has hoped more than usual in these last months. Maybe.
Sister Bernadette is the one to answer the door, taking the files from his hands with thanks.
"What a day we had, Doctor!"
"Yes." Her smile is enough to break his heart all over again. "Could we speak in private?" Though she recovers quickly from the slip-up, he catches the way her face falters, and he feels once more the sting of his earlier transgression.
She betrays no such emotion when he shows her the slides.
"This has my name on it," she announces, matter-of-fact.
He explains the lesions (small), their quantity (many), the film quality (basic). Sister Julienne is present for the examination, as is proper. There are crackles in both lungs, and further testing will be required. Dr. Turner remembers an article from a recent issue of The Lancet. The new triple treatment is supposed to be miraculous. Patrick remembers the way Tim wouldn't let go of his mother's hand, even after it had gone cold. He does not examine her wrists, and looks away as she buttons and unbuttons. It feels like a violation, and even if he were never to see her again, he would not look, would not betray whatever trust she still has in him. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor.
They barely speak in the car the next morning-he has offered to drive her to and from the appointment with the specialist, and Sister Julienne has ensured she accept-but only, finally, as they arrive at the sanatorium.
"I'm sorry." It's all he can think to say as the engine shudders to a stop. "About-well, this, and... the other day. It was highly inappropriate of me, and I can assure you it won't happen again."
"Of course."
"If it's any consolation, I didn't see-I mean, it isn't any of my business, your… well. The name, whoever it is."
She nods, slowly. "Thank you, Doctor Turner. You've been-" her brow crinkles. "More than kind."
"Please," he says before he can help it. "Call me-"
"Patrick." Her eyes are a watery blue as she turns to him, and tugs on the sleeve of her habit. Her arm lays between them, and he can now, finally, read the name clearly: Patrick.
"Yes. Sorry," he looks between her face and her wrist, his brain momentarily short-circuiting. "Oh."
He is sure his face isn't registering his emotions properly; there are so many of them. Whether or not he believes in soulmates, and though Sister Bernadette is absent from his skin, the shock of what appears, technically, to be his name printed on hers leaves him breathless.
"Patrick Buchanan," she whispers fearfully. "He died coughing blood, too."
"I see." His eyes search the interior of the MG as if it will provide a suitable response. "I-I'm told the triple treatment is miraculous."
"Yes. Well," she clears her throat. "Thank you for the ride, Doctor." Sister Bernadette is out of the car before he can stop her, and when he leaps out to follow her, a stern-looking nurse has already come down the drive to assist them.
"Hello, Sister. Welcome to St. Anne's. Would you like this fine gentleman to accompany you inside?"
"That won't be necessary. Thank you," she nods to him.
"Come now, lass," the nurse takes her case and gently places a hand on her shoulder. To Patrick, she gives a reassuring nod. "Not to worry, she's in good hands."
