It was while she was holding the baby that Patrick realised the one conversation they had never had, and was incredulous. After they talked of love and choices and the strangeness of what had occurred, there had been so many things that would matter once they were married which they had discussed, everything he had thought: the disruption to Timothy, her faith and his scepticism, how to make things easier for the Parkers, her health and convalescence, his smoking, when she would return to work and how much, his work hours, the state of the mortgage and repairs which needed to be made to the house, Mrs. Harrison's role, where Timothy would go to secondary school, assuming he did well in his Eleven Plus. Once early on, in delicate chaste allusions they had even discussed making love; he, with his knowledge, painful in his sincerity to assure her that with everything there was no rush or expectation, after they were married he would happily wait until she was ready; and she, so earnest and shy in her virgin uncertainty, telling him that all of her was his. He had spoken of her ease, but had wondered whose ease it truly was which was disturbed. Allowing himself to think of waking by her side had still seemed like violating her purity; to imagine their limbs tangled or bodies fused within the sheets sacrilege. How far they had come in a few short weeks, he thought. Still modest, still unsullied, yet beginning to discover the gift they would give one another as they cautiously unwrapped its outermost cover. How much more conscious would they be when, as perhaps they should, they reprised that conversation.
But that they had managed to discuss making love, yet never talked of its consequence, seemed incredible. Perhaps it was too close to work, he did not know; but he felt he should have raised it. The answer looked so obvious and easy as he watched her with the Noakes' baby, less an answer than a promise, but he knew it never was.
"Dad, can I go outside and play in the garden? Sister Julienne says it's alright."
He took an amused look at Timothy's excitement and also at the lemonade dripping onto the carpet. Putting his hands in his pockets, he replied. "Not when you've got that drink. Could you stop sloshing it around all over the place and then maybe we can consider it."
Timothy groaned and drained the glass. "I'm finished. Can I go now? Please, Dad." The voice became wheedling as Timothy's hands also slid into his pockets. "It's quite boring here. And if I'm enjoying myself, you won't worry about me getting into mischief because I'm bored, and you'll enjoy yourself more."
Ignoring the impressively perceptive logic, Patrick picked up the earlier comment. "A bit boring, is it? Is someone regretting not remembering to bring his book with him? Like he was told to?"
Timothy squirmed. "Yeah.
"Poor you, Timothy," remarked Shelagh, sweetly. "It must be terribly difficult having a father who's never forgotten anything."
Timothy snorted loudly, while Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Touché, sweetheart." It was almost a provocative pout she gave him as she returned to Fred, who had started grizzling. Despite Timothy pulling his best silly face at the baby before beginning to whisper ardently in Shelagh's ear, Fred's cries resonated with intention. Quickly, Patrick took him from her and started steadily patting him on the back, anticipating the resolute burp he eventually heard. Then he changed his position and began rocking him, batting one flailing hand away, like an idle fly swat confronted with an inquisitive insect. How long had it been since he had last played with a baby, rather than treated it, listening to the gurgles and cuddling the chubby limbs out of affectionate pleasure, not professional attention? Kenneth's little Gareth perhaps, maybe the children of Elizabeth's sister, Anna?
He was solemnly informing Fred that 'this little piggy went to market', when he felt a shadow on his shoulder. "How did you settle him so quickly?" asked Peter Noakes enviously.
"Practice. You'll soon get used to it," Patrick grinned.
"I hope so," he replied, refusing the immediate offer to have his son returned to him, although Patrick suspected that the policeman had not simply wandered over to make conversation, but drawn by the tiny fulcrum of his world. Then he yawned widely. "How long does it take?"
"Getting much sleep?"
"Not a lot."
Patrick chuckled sympathetically. "Not that long. In a few weeks Fred'll start developing his own little personality much more, which makes it easier to work out what he wants and so much more rewarding. The first time they laugh is wonderful." Timothy was still giggling and muttering to Shelagh. "Too soon really. Sometimes you wish they would stay little forever."
"Can you give me some tips some time? I'll buy you a pint."
"Make it Guinness and I'll tell you everything I know."
"Done." They both laughed. It was not the first time Peter Noakes had singled him out, realised Patrick. He had been very friendly all afternoon, in fact for the previous few weeks. He wondered whether Noakes sought male solidarity, feeling the same mild terror which he occasionally did when confronted with the numbers and sheer noise of the Nonnatus women; charming, yes, but still a monstrous regiment of women. Perhaps they were forming a club for the rare breed that was the beleaguered Nonnatus husband: Peter Noakes, Patrick Turner and God, possibly the strangest dinner party imaginable. Occasionally he thought he had seen something else in the expression, and even now he thought he saw it again, as though the policeman was not looking at him, but through him, scanning him for some hidden feature; yet it seemed so deeply unlikely.
"Dad, can I go?" Timothy, surreptitiously waving at the constable, had returned.
Patrick jerked his head towards the garden. "Alright. Off you go. Don't - "
"Break anything or cause mayhem. I won't!"
Patrick turned briefly to Shelagh to shrug, but stopped when confronted by her: that knowing, indulgent look, something indefinable he did not feel he deserved. Although he could not prove it, he was as certain as he could be that she too was thinking of the discussion they had not had.
Recognising the covetousness in Peter Noakes' eyes, he handed the baby back to him. "Enjoy it - that's the main thing." He offered his hand to Shelagh and the two of them watched Peter make his way through the crowd, chattering all the time to his son. Then he turned to Shelagh, her lips slightly upturned, her eyes expectant, and his certainty grew.
"Shelagh, there's something we haven't discussed."
"Yes, I know." He knew she did, that she understood entirely.
"I think we should." She nodded and he felt her squeeze his hand. He started to search the room, seeking the impossibility of a place where they would not be interrupted or a way to escape. It hardly mattered whether they had this conversation, forgotten for so long, now or later, but now it seemed to evolve so naturally. Their moment of quiet peace, however, could not last.
"'My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee'." She had joined them, yet was not there, her body halted before the place where her eyes watched Peter Noakes cradling his son, long before the place to which her memory had travelled.
"Hello, Sister Monica Joan," said Shelagh.
"Good afternoon, Sister," he said politely.
"It's a lovely sight, isn't it, Sister?" Shelagh asked, taking the elderly lady's hand, the touch sweeping musty cobwebs from her eyes, drawing her back to where she was. "They seem so happy."
Sister Monica Joan blinked, the owl-like gaze refocusing on the couple before her. "Yes, happy, truly. Happiness seems indeed to be the fashion." She reached out to Shelagh and gently touched her face, slowly stroking her cheek. For a moment they stood in silence, while Patrick watched this mysterious laying on of hands bestow its impenetrable blessing. Her voice was low and loving when she spoke once more. "'This medicine, love, which cures all sorrows'."
Shelagh smiled shyly, her embarrassed blush sudden and fierce. It was Patrick who replied for them both, "I don't think I know the reference, Sister."
As mercurial as her mind was the change in demeanour. The haughty disdain was reminiscent to an elderly maiden aunt confronted with an unfortunate mess made by a naughty pug. "It is gratifying to discover that there are some areas where perhaps you are prepared to admit my memory still exceeds yours, Dr. Turner. The reference, as you describe it, is from John Donne! Either your memory is most faulty or you give a very poor impression of the benefits of a grammar school education." She sailed on.
"That's me put in my place," muttered Patrick to Shelagh, who was irrepressibly giggling and trying to hide it.
"The truth now, Patrick: did you recognise the other one?"
He shook his head, at which point she abandoned all attempts at camouflaging the giggling. "Wordsworth, maybe? Did you know it?" A second later they both unceremoniously snorted. He wondered how it was that so undignified an eruption and the accompanying creasing of her face could somehow seem so pretty and make him long to cause them once more. Then her face softened again, the eyes warmed and he could not imagine another expression. "Shelagh, you know what it was I wanted to discuss?"
"Yes, I'm sure I do," she said. "Shall we join Timothy in the garden?" He was about to quibble, but she forestalled him. "Perhaps I could borrow your coat? I'm sure I would be warm enough then, if you didn't mind."
Unseen, they slipped out of the parlour, between groups crowded around the babies, and into the hall where Patrick's coat was hanging. He had been holding her hand before he helped her into the coat, but now, the fragile void of the subject in front of them, he felt unsure. For so long he had passionately advocated his women patients' rights, the need for them to know they had a choice; he feared he could not steer his way through these gusts and squalls without manipulating her. Instead of taking the hand again, he kissed her on the forehead, then stepped back, reaching into his pocket to find his cigarettes. She said nothing, watching him carefully. He had already smoked half of it by the time they reached the door to the garden. She reached for the handle, but he stopped her, holding it shut by the hand where the Henley smouldered.
"There's no obligation, Shelagh, there never was. It's a choice, your choice."
"I know."
"I'm not marrying you for more children. It's because I love you, you know that, don't you?" He had thought the words so often he did not realise that now, in a chilly cloister whistled over by the draught from the door, was the first time he had ever said them.
She did; and she thrilled to them. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she began to run it down his arm until it met the angle of his elbow where his arm was turned against the door; with gentle pressure she pulled it down so his hand lay by his side and the door was released. "Yes, my love, I know. But it's not just my choice. And what if I do want them?" Letting go of him, she turned the handle and they walked into the garden.
A long deep drag, again, ripples of red nipped at his fingertips. He discarded the stub and started another. "And do you?"
She paused. The garden was barren now, the bulbs and seeds under the earth waiting for spring. "I always thought I never would have the chance. I reconciled myself to it. It's strange to think that it's possible, like being offered a star and told it could be mine." She waited. Still he listened, waiting for her. "But it's like a star, the idea of having children, it feels that wonderful." He nodded slowly, gravely. She wondered if he saw the small misgiving, her private fear, and felt certain he did. "I worry about Timothy."
"In what way?" He thought he knew, but that she needed to express the anxiety herself.
"He's had so much he's had to endure. I worry it would disrupt him. I couldn't bear to upset him, Patrick, or have him think I didn't love him or wanted to replace him."
"Sweetheart," he said, leaning into the quiet hush of the first sound, "he couldn't think you didn't love him. You'd never let him think that. We'll always make him know he's irreplaceable." They both looked over to him, sitting on the rails of the pigsty, deep in conversation with Sister Julienne. "A wise person once said to me 'Children are more resilient than you think'." They both half-smiled; had that been the start? "And you were right. He adapts to things, better than me really. These last few weeks he's been happier than he's been for years. Whatever happens, whether we have children or don't, I think he'd be alright." His smile broadened as he watched his son examine something he had been given by the nun. "He's extraordinary really. Always has been. Sometimes I can't believe he's mine."
"What was he like when he was little?" She loved to hear him speak; the instances when he let open the gates and allowed his thoughts to flow were precious and rare, this subject the only one where his reserve so frequently tumbled.
Patrick mused, then began with a sharp laugh. "Loud. He didn't cry much, but he never seemed to stop making noise. When he started trying to talk, he made this yowl as though he was warning shipping off the coast of France, terribly proud of himself for making this surprising sound. Born asking questions. The first time I laid eyes on him, I swear he was thinking them: Who are you? What does that mean? What's that thing around your neck?"
"What was the thing around your neck?"
"Stethoscope."
Shelagh was surprised, even a little shocked. "Were you present at the birth?"
Patrick's lips twitched. "Our midwife was Sister Evangelina."
"That's no, then."
"Don't you remember? I suppose you'd only just started." He explained, "Timothy was born the same day as the ante-natal clinic, it was Wednesday back then. I was in the middle of a consultation when Sister Evangelina marches in and announces 'Your wife's in labour and I'm on my way. And don't start telling me what to do – I've been delivering babies since you were one.' and off she goes. I finish seeing to my patient, although I have no idea what I said to the poor woman, make my excuses to Sister Julienne and charge home, breaking the speed limit the whole way, to sit in the sitting room for hours. It was only after Timothy was born when I went up to see them and Elizabeth asked why I was dressed the way I was that I realised I was still wearing my clinical coat and I'd left my jacket in the parish hall. I started keeping my car keys in my jacket pocket, not my trousers, after that," he finished sheepishly.
"What else? About Timothy."
He leaned against the wall and inhaled, sucking curls of smoke into his lungs, still smiling at the object of his reminiscence on the other side of the garden. "He bumped into everything when he was learning to walk. Every piece of furniture, the stairs, the lot. If there was something he could career into, he would. I'm amazed he hasn't fallen into that pig-sty actually, although he probably would feel fairly at home in it. You should see his bedroom sometimes."
"There speaks the man with the study," she remarked drily.
He grinned. "Like father, like son?" He did not realise the irony of the words when accompanied by the face, the grin so similar to Timothy's she almost ached to see it. As if to underline it, Timothy looked up and waved, Patrick mirroring him almost immediately. "He loved building things. I'd look at his wooden blocks and see a house or a tower or something. He'd see a whole town made for dragons and build tracks all over the sitting room for dragon trains to get from one place to another. It drove Elizabeth to distraction the way we left the blocks all over the place."
"You love being a father, don't you?" she said quietly.
Instinct drove him forward, anxiety dragged him back. There could be no neutral response, his answer was so unequivocal, but how could that not be leading her? Timothy was sitting now with Sister Julienne, bent over the sketching pad, watching her draw. Reluctantly, Patrick pulled his eyes away so he could not see him and be tempted to reveal more than he wished. "I think I'm very, very lucky to have him."
"He's lucky to have you," she replied, watching him shy away from the compliment, finishing his cigarette to mask his reaction. She continued, stating a fact, not questioning or probing, knowing what she was acknowledging, to herself as well as to him, with the final word. "You'd like more children too."
"Too?" His face was still neutral, trying to negotiate the precise meaning of the word, adding swiftly, "I will always count myself extraordinarily lucky having him and you."
She knew the tight expression, the tripping dance between his mind and his feelings which he was playing, and interrupted him. "As well as me. You want more children, just as much as I do."
Inside, something bubbled and glowed; he could not say he had not thought of it, gorging himself on the recollection of her mothering of the little girl in the X-Ray van and a litany of frightened tiny patients, then allowing himself to imagine their own phantom children. Yet still a last few specks sullied this light. He touched the wall to steady himself. "You'd be a wonderful mother," he started. It was bitter to break her ecstatic smile. "But Shelagh, pregnancy places tremendous strains upon the internal organs, on the heart and the lungs – "
"I'm better, Patrick."
"You're getting better, but you're still a long way from your full health. And even after you've convalesced, you know how long you're still at risk."
"Patrick! I'm not made of glass."
"You can still break though, Shelagh. And I couldn't bear it, I couldn't, if it was me who broke you."
There was something brutal in the rawness of the voice; looking at him was to be seared by him. "Then we don't try immediately, perhaps not for a little while. But I would so like to try." Now it was her whose voice was breaking with a stripping away of reserve until only her inner life was left. "When I first joined the order there were times when I saw the women we nursed and I longed for what they had, but I accepted it, I put it out of mind. Then, in this last year, when I felt that longing, I felt it like a pain, something physical. And it wasn't just about having a baby, even having a baby of my own; it was about having – " She stopped, willing him to understand him.
As intensely as she watched him, he gazed back, unable to see beyond the curtain. "What? Having something? Having someone?" He lent forward, the creases between his eyes deepening. "What, Shelagh? You can tell me, whatever it is. Please tell me. It wasn't about having one of your own, it was about having what?"
"Yours," she said simply.
That her overarching reason was him seemed inexplicable, that one word felling him entirely. Dumbly, he stared, groping for words which seemed written in air, vanishing as they were thought, then, dazed, he reached for her. "Shelagh, I – " Still he could not say how much he felt. Instead, he bent his head and laid his lips upon her hand with the tenderness he found inexpressible, the action releasing him, the promise made. She was smiling when he stood once more before her. "My darling, it would be the greatest privilege and honour." And then, seeing tears creeping into her eyes, he continued, his voice lowered and teasing, "Well, when the time comes, I'll see what I can do."
He thought she was about to laugh, when her eyes darted away beyond his shoulder. "Greetings, Sister."
There was hardly any conversation in his life which Patrick would have been more mortified for Sister Julienne to have heard. Even that tentative discussion about making love would have been preferable in its oblique earnestness to this; he wondered how much she heard or whether it had only been the last libidinous, cheap remark. What he saw in her, however, was embarrassment, not condemnation.
"I apologise. I disturbed you."
"Not at all, Sister," he lied, while Shelagh similarly demurred and the wind continued to whistle. They stood inertly, waiting for somebody to begin.
In the end, it was Sister Julienne. "I realised I had not had the chance to speak to you all afternoon. You both appear very well. I was enjoying watching you with little Fred," there was a slight, deliberate pause and with a smile she continued, "Shelagh."
"He's a lovely baby," she agreed. "Chummy and Peter seem extremely happy."
She laughed. "Yes, he is. It's rather marvellous having a baby in Nonnatus House, especially just before we enter Advent. He is not always a respecter of The Great Silence, which Sister Evangelina finds a little trying. Even Nurses Franklin, Lee and Miller with their contraband come second to him in terms of noise." She twinkled at Shelagh, at their shared memories of secrets which those involved never realised they knew about. "However, as Fred doesn't yet have an appetite for Mrs. B's cake, he is still very much the favourite of Sister Monica Joan." There was a special laugh, a fruity rumble between a giggle and chuckle, which Patrick realised he had not heard for many months; a laugh the two women only shared with one another.
"Thank you for taking care of Timothy," said Patrick, making his offering to her. "You're very kind."
Sister Julienne shook her head. "It's an absolute pleasure, as always. He's delightful, Dr. Turner."
"Thank you. Sometimes," he added gloomily to Shelagh. It was fleeting, the shared amusement, but Sister Julienne saw it still. "He will have appreciated the paper and pencils. It's been rather dull for him."
"Of course," she said. "I think he regrets that we don't have a pig for him to pet anymore." They all laughed now. "He did offer your services to bring one back from your sister's, should we like one!" Although her smile did not change in the brief pause, her voice was gentler. "I did not know you were planning to go to Scotland."
Again she saw their exchange of glances, so short and myriad in meanings; trust, regret, apology. "We only decided a couple of days ago, after I spoke to you."
"And you're going next Sunday?"
She shook her head. "The Saturday night, the day after I return from Chichester. I can take the sleeper to Edinburgh and change there for Aberdeen. If I can arrive during the day on Sunday, Elspeth can come and collect me."
"How lovely. She must be very excited about seeing you." Shelagh nodded, the wistfulness in both faces as they did not look at one another still palpable to Sister Julienne. "And your niece and nephew. It must be eighteen months since you've seen them. How old are they?"
The smile became a little more natural. "Yes, nearer to two years now. Agnes is eleven now and Jamie will turn fourteen while I'm visiting, which will be very nice. Patrick has been advising me on what to buy as a present."
"An excellent source of ideas, I'm sure." Patrick smiled politely. What a suburban upbringing in St. Alban's had taught him about gifts for the son of a Morayshire farmer in the far north of Scotland he was uncertain. "And when do you return?"
"Two weeks before the wedding." Silently, almost unnoticed, their fingers interlaced.
"Have you thought about where you will stay when you return?"
Briefly Shelagh's lip wobbled. "At the lodging house where I am now. I can keep the room there while I am away. It's clean and comfortable and respectable and this way I can leave things behind I don't want to take to Scotland." She could not mention the bitter truth which she knew every time she opened the door to the building: that she had nowhere else to go.
"Won't you be charged for board and lodgings then, even when you aren't there?"
Shelagh made a little gesture of acknowledgement, still smiling as far as she could. For the second time that day, it was Patrick who spoke, soothing her unease and expressing both of their thoughts. "Even though we know that there was never any impropriety, it matters a great deal to us both, Sister, that the community should see that too, for our sake and for the sake of the Order. We want it to be completely clear where Shelagh is living during this time."
There was a quiet dignity in his words. Clear in voice and vision, she replied, "Nobody who knows either of you, or has ever known you, Dr. Turner, could ever imagine either of you to be guilty of the slightest impropriety of any sort."
"Thank you, Sister." There was more than belief in his integrity lying below this confidence: the beginning of acceptance.
"I realise it may be far easier to leave your belongings in your lodgings and you may be settled there now and not wish to move, especially given your travels in the coming weeks. However, I wondered whether you might like to stay as a guest here at Nonnatus House for the last two weeks before your wedding. There is certainly room and it would save you from spending unnecessary money." At this point she stopped, silenced by Shelagh's face, wide-eyed, disbelieving and still.
"Sister," she whispered.
"There would always be room for you here if you wished it, she began again, quickly. "Perhaps it would be too strange."
He was neither needed nor wanted now, he knew it. Gently, Patrick released his grip on Shelagh's fingers, letting his slip out of her hold. "My apologies, Sister Julienne, I think I'd better check on the progress of the masterpiece." Fractionally leaning down as he turned away, laying his hand in the small of Shelagh's back, he muttered, "Ask her," then walked away. He promised himself ten paces, treading deeply into the earth, then turned to see and smile at the sight of Shelagh in Sister Julienne's arms.
"How's the work of genius?" he asked.
Timothy grinned up at him and handed over the picture. "What do you think?"
The garden had been an emotional maelstrom, an exhausting crucible. They would leave this place wearied, yet still closer, its November bite made glorious and bright. He wondered how Timothy, someday perhaps the elder, even eldest of their children, had immortalised its truth and romance as he examined the picture: it was clearly drawn, his imagination richly mined. There was nothing like Timothy for puncturing him, reflected Patrick, as he took in a sketch of a sty, filled with vegetables and presided over by a comfortably padded and spotty pig.
"You do get spotty pigs, don't you?" asked Timothy.
"I believe so," replied Patrick seriously. "I'm not sure that pigs get the measles though."
Timothy huffed, loudly but cheerfully. "What are they talking about?"
Sister Julienne and Shelagh were now slowly walking. "Important things. Things they needed to say."
"There are times," admitted Shelagh, "when I wish I was still wearing the habit. It almost felt freer then. I wore it and I was free just to be, with no expectations or restrictions. I never worried about whether I was peculiar or out of place or what other people thought of how I looked."
Julienne had memories enough of her youth as a young nurse before she joined the Order to understand. "Today must have been rather trying."
"A little. I never feel odd when I'm with Patrick and Timothy. It's so easy and natural. But it is not always like that with everybody else."
"This is only the start of the road, Shelagh. It will become easier eventually, although it may become harder still first." She stopped at the edge of the flowerbed where bushes of herbs threw out their scent. "And before long we will have you back in a blue uniform once more, albeit a different one."
"It must be so difficult at the moment. Especially the uncertainty about the convent."
Sister Julienne sighed. "Yes."
"Are there any ways to challenge the decision?"
"We are still investigating them and in the meantime we pray and trust in God. I have a letter for Mother Jesu Emmanuel on this subject which I hope you can deliver by hand."
"Of course," she said quietly. "I have prayed every day for Nonnatus House, Sister. And everyone in it."
"As I have for you, Shelagh." Once more they began to walk, paralleling the edge of the grass. "And for now, we manage. Sister Evangelina is, if it can be believed, even more energetic. I can't deny I will be very glad when you are well enough to return to work – in the New Year," she pointedly added, "and I shall employ every possible argument to ensure that Nurse Turner is not seconded immediately to the London." She paused, allowing her mind to accept the name she had just said. "I am hoping that suggesting a need for restricted hours due to delicate health and a young step-son will work! In the meantime, I have requested a short-term replacement until then, whom I hope may start next week. She will certainly be needed as first on call the day of your wedding. After her, we must draw lots to see who is second and I'm afraid I may cheat by leaving my name out of the hat."
Shelagh had stopped once more and laid her hand upon Sister Julienne's arm. "Sister, I have a favour I would like to ask of you."
"Of course."
She swallowed and began. "My parents are dead and I have no brothers or uncles. I know that Elspeth and the children will come to my wedding. Maybe Rob too if he can. However, we have seen each other so little in the past fifteen years." She looked down, fumbling with her fingers. "It is not her who it was so hard to leave." Even after she looked upwards again, she continued to scratch at the edge of one nail. "I understand if you would rather not, but I would be so happy if you'd be willing to give me away at my wedding?"
From his view on the step next to Timothy, Patrick watched Sister Julienne raised her hands and silently clap them, then heard the undulation of her joyous sobs course over the garden as the two women once again embraced each other and with it, the barriers were washed away.