A/N-This story covers moments from episode 2x07 of CtM, including the one I used for my Week 9 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post. This story works as something of a companion piece to Chapter 4 of my other story "Windows and Revelations", which deals with this time period-and the letter talked about here-from Sister Bernadette's point of view.
He hadn't even taken off his coat. He'd been home for hours now, and Timothy was safely in bed. The lone lamp lit the room, as usual on late nights like this. Patrick sat, listless, leaning on his hand and smoking a cigarette, staring at a half-filled sheet of paper on the table before him. He wouldn't even send this letter until next week, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He was surprised he had even written as much as he had, when he had just written a letter at this very table the night before, and had sent it first thing this morning. His mind was such a muddle now.
Timothy was a perceptive boy. Too perceptive, Patrick thought. The boy had known something was wrong, earlier this evening as Patrick sat behind the wheel of his car, staring out at the rain. Something about Granny Parker and a sheepdog without his sheep, and losing Marianne, his son had said. Patrick wondered how much Timothy remembered that time. It wasn't too long ago, but to Patrick now it seemed an age. He had dismissed the boy's concern, but the truth was that Timothy was right. He did feel lost. The difference this time was that before, it was final. He knew he would never see his wife again. The grief was real, and crushing, but he could face it because he had known what he was facing. Now, there was no such knowledge. The future was cloudy, and even the present was uncertain. The bleakness was a wall, and he could not see the way around it. And now his concern was for someone he missed with all his heart, but did not have the right to miss.
All he could do was write, and so he did. He had received no replies, and he hoped that she did not begrudge his writing. He longed for a reply but he couldn't, and wouldn't, demand one. Before, he was able to fool himself into thinking perhaps she wasn't writing to anyone, but Nurse Franklin had disabused him of that notion a few days ago. He couldn't be more thankful that it had been Nurse Franklin he'd been talking to on that particular occasion, or else he might have given himself away. She was a capable nurse, and a kind one, but she had never displayed much concern for him as a person, and that day she had been preoccupied with a task, as well. She had kept her eyes on the nappies she had been folding and, if she noticed any oddness in the way he asked about Sister Bernadette or in his response to her news, she hadn't shown it before he made his retreat from the room.
"Tickety-boo and marvelous" he had said. Now, why in the world had he said that? He knew nobody in Poplar who spoke like that regularly, except for Nurse Noakes. And Nurse Noakes had been out of the country for months, so he couldn't chalk up his unusual phraseology to spending too much time at clinic around her. He'd fumbled with his teacup, dropping the spoon in the sink. Nurse Franklin surely must have noticed that, even as focused on nappy-folding as she had been. Perhaps she was just being polite to ignore his behavior, and she had no reason to suspect its cause. No. He was safe from her finding out. Timothy, however, was another matter entirely.
He had spoken of Sister Bernadette to Timothy on more than a few occasions of late, because the boy was now asking about her almost daily. He'd insisted on sending her a dead butterfly, of all things. He hadn't known about that until after the boy had given it to Nurse Franklin. If he had known, he might have tried to intercept the gift. In hindsight, he was glad he didn't stop it. Timothy cared about Sister Bernadette, and if sending her insects to diagnose would help to alleviate his concern, than why not? He thought he knew the sister well enough at this point to know that she would see the boy's intention in it.
He really didn't know her, he had to admit. They had a rapport, a way of communicating—a kind of symbiotic connection whenever they worked together that had been puzzling, but comforting. They had engaged in a few slightly personal conversations, and exchanged words about their feelings only once. But still, he knew how he felt. And now he knew she knew, as well, and he had been convinced she shared his feelings. But they couldn't speak, and now he could only write. Maybe he shouldn't be writing to her, or not as much as he did. One letter from a concerned colleague would be perfectly proper. Perhaps two letters wouldn't be a problem, but what number was this one? Six? Seven? He tried his best to keep the letters friendly and not overly personal, but he couldn't help but betray his feelings to a degree. Why had she not written back? Perhaps she didn't know what to say, or didn't feel free to? Perhaps she hadn't read them at all? He wouldn't know unless she wrote back.
He tried to keep them to once a week, in the guise of giving reports on the medical practice in Poplar, and news of Timothy, and updates on the patients they had worked with together. Everyone was asking about her, and he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know anything beyond the basic clinical information sent in the medical reports that were sent to the surgery. She was improving, steadily and surely, and that was a comfort, but physical health is only part of the story. How was she, really? He longed to know, and so he wrote.
He thought back to their very brief discussion on faith, months ago now. He knew God was important to her, and faith had been the center of her life for many years. He'd even found himself praying for her recently, for loss of anything else to do. He'd been at Nonnatus House, after a meeting with Sister Julienne about a particularly challenging case. There were no people around as he had passed the doorway to the Chapel on the way out, and he'd found himself drawn to that door. Standing just inside, he had leaned against the frame and looked up at the looming stained glass windows. He couldn't help but think of Sister Bernadette, and how she'd spent so much time in this place, praying with the sisters. Looking up at the light beaming through those windows, all he could do was hope, and offer a small prayer of his own. He still wasn't sure what he thought about God, but he hoped that if He did exist, He would be listening. He had mentioned that in the letter he had just sent. He hadn't told her the whole story, but he told her enough. He told her that he had prayed and some his own thoughts about faith, and then:
"I tell myself that there has to be someone listening, and so there, I suppose, is my small seed of faith. Perhaps your recovery will see that kernel grow, or perhaps not. I can't promise I will ever believe as you do, but still I prayed, and I hope that prayer will be answered. Perhaps God, if He is there, will be kind enough to return you to Poplar whole, and healthy. Perhaps He will grant that request, and the wish that you will still call me friend after this series of letters. I do hope so, with all my heart."
He hoped he wasn't being too forward. He hoped she would take his words as he meant them, sincerely. She had taught him so much about faith and strength, and he had wanted to tell her that. Also, he needed to assure her that he was holding her under no obligation , although he had known what his next words were implying:
"Your life is yours, and your destiny is yours. I trust your faith will guide you where to go and what to do. I can only hope there will be a place for me somehow in your life when you return to Poplar, either as you were or whatever else happens. I am your friend, and I will be here no matter what you decide. I want you to know that, always."
"When you return" he had written. Now that he thought about it, he didn't even know if she would return. The medical reports were promising. She was definitely responding to the treatments. Still, maybe she would find it easier to go somewhere else, rather than come back to Nonnatus where she'd see him nearly every day.
He looked up for a moment, scanning the room. The flat wasn't spotless, but it was as tidy as he could manage, and in the darkness it looked emptier than it did in the light. He was alone. Timothy was down the hall, asleep in his room, but Patrick had been staying up later of late. He didn't sleep well, and when he did sleep, his dreams were troubling. All he could do was bury himself in his work, and that was getting more difficult now as the months had gone by with no word from her.
He wanted to see her again, but he couldn't insist. He couldn't demand or expect anything. All he could do was hope, and write. Looking back down at the paper, he remembered how had finished off last night's letter-with some words about Timothy, and how nothing was the same without her. He had signed it as he always did, "Dr. Turner". He wanted to sign his full name, but for some reason that always seemed like too much. Even with as much as he had told her in the letters, he didn't want to assume an intimacy he had no right to expect. He didn't want to say too much, or to frighten her away, and so, perhaps foolishly, he kept the formal mode of address. The only difference now was that he no longer signed it "sincerely" or "sincerely yours". Now, it was simply "yours". He wondered what she would think we she read it. He wished he could see her face.
He rose from his chair, finally removing his coat and shuffling over to the hallway to hang it up. He would have to continue this new letter another time. It was time for bed now. He wasn't sure how well, or even if, he would sleep. Still, he'd said all he could say for now, and it was time to put his thoughts to rest, if that was even possible.
He walked over to the small, solitary lamp, flipped the switch and then, in near total darkness, headed for bed.
