10. The Blanket
The Turners moved house on the last Sunday of October. Chummy had offered to watch Angela while the rest of the family directed the movers at the new house. She didn't know when they'd arrive, and so she'd skipped church this morning. The house was quiet as she prepared the roast. Peter was sleeping off the last of a week of night shifts. So far, the boys were sleeping in too.
Then the telephone rang. Chummy dashed for it, her only thought to stop the piercing trill from waking everyone else. She answered on instinct:
"Nonnatus House, mid- oh! Bally bugger it!"
"Sweetie that's my line. Or at least the first part is," Trixie giggled.
"Sorry. Old habits die hard."
"It's alright. I'm on call so I won't keep you. I just had to ask: Cluedo, lemonade, gossip. When are you free next?"
"Is this A.S.A.P.?" Chummy had an awful thought. "Is it Sister Mary Cynthia? Is she unwell again?"
Trixie sighed. Chummy's heart sank.
"We should talk about that, too." Trixie lowered her voice. "She caught wind of the news."
"What news?"
"The news, darling. This… horrid debacle in Cuba. One can hardly blame her for being a bit set back by it." Trixie was practically whispering now. "But I think Dr. Turner and Sister Julienne-"
Chummy heard a rustling, as if Trixie's handset was pressed against something. Then Trixie's voice, oddly muffled:
"Good morning, Sister."
A beat later, clear again but with forced cheer:
"Sorry, Chummy. Anyway. You remember that dentist at St. Cuthbert's that I was telling you about?"
"The redhead with the sports car, yes. Oh, do tell me you've stopped stringing him along!"
"All will be revealed over Cluedo," Trixie teased. "Should I stop by after my rounds tomorrow afternoon?"
"Absolutely," Chummy grinned. Trixie's impatience was rubbing off on her. Something truly exciting must have happened with that redheaded dentist!
But Chummy had to dash for now. Freddie was tugging at her skirt. "Davey's up," he reported.
The Noakes called it their 'noon rule.' On Peter's weeks of night shifts, Chummy and the boys did their best to keep the house quiet before noon. Granted, today was Peter's day off after a week of nights. But Chummy still tried to keep the noon rule out of courtesy.
She knew Peter had had an especially trying week. The officers were being drilled- quite literally- on their civic emergency protocols. Gallows humor abounded at the station; Peter said a bloke couldn't go to the loo without his mates joking they'd never see him again, that he'd be caught in a most undignified position when the Soviets dropped the big one.
She let the boys play with their trains while she made them breakfast. But they had to keep the wooden wheels on the carpet, not the lino, and abstain from all 'choo-choo' noises. Later, she let them run off their excess beans in the back garden, warning them periodically not to shout too loudly. It was easier than trying to keep them entertained indoors while they waited for Angela. And it's not like they were on official 'noon rule' footing.
Besides, it was a lovely day: windless, warm, and barely overcast. How could she keep them inside when this might be the last nice weather they saw for months? Or even (did one dare to think it?) the last nice weather they saw forever?
The Turners arrived at half-past noon, with suitcases strapped to the roof of their Austin. One might have thought they were going on a camping holiday- if not for Shelagh's 37-week bump. Angela ran straight through the house to join the boys out back. Chummy asked the others:
"Can I tempt you to some roast before you journey onwards?"
"We wouldn't want to trouble you," Shelagh said. "We'll just stop in a chip shop for lunch."
"On a Sunday?" Patrick asked gently.
"Oh of course not." She pinched between her eyebrows. "I forgot it's Sunday…"
"That new Indian restaurant in Cotton Street is open Sundays," Timothy offered.
Shelagh turned a bit green. Poor thing! The little Scotswoman was nearly as wide as she was tall, so tired she was mixing up her days, and now her stepson was suggesting Indian food? Chummy was a lifelong fan of a good curry, but even she couldn't stomach anything bolder than baati in her final weeks carrying the boys.
"It's no trouble at all," she said firmly. "The roast will be done in ten minutes. I always make far too much food, anyway."
Peter was up and dressed now, so it was all eight of them together for lunch. (Nine if one counted the baby.) There was an hour or so of cozy, post-roast sluggishness; then they planned their next moves. Peter was going to take the three little ones to the park. Patrick and Timothy were headed to the new house. Patrick insisted that Shelagh stay behind. He wanted her to rest; instead, she was trying to help Chummy clear the dishes. Chummy would have none of it.
"Why don't you have a sit-down in Peter's lounger? I can pop the footrest for you, if you can't reach the lever."
"I'm not an invalid, Chummy." Shelagh scoffed, pacing the Noakes' kitchen.
"No. You're an expectant mother with mere weeks- if not days- left to go. And you've spent all morning packing up a flat."
"I feel fine! I-"
Shelagh stopped short. Freddie and Angela were following her back and forth across the kitchen. They were mimicking her stride: waddling about with their hands on their backs and their tummies jutted out.
"Do I really walk like that?"
"For the time being. It does look as if Baby may have dropped." Chummy smiled gently. "Go and steal a few winks in the lounger. Hostess's orders."
"Husband's orders too!" called Patrick from the foyer. "And doctor's!"
Shelagh rolled her eyes. "You're one to tell me to rest, Nurse Noakes. If I recall, you were 38 weeks with Freddie and still delivering other women's babies!"
But Shelagh gave in. She was dozing- and snoring- within minutes of reclining the lounger. The others left, and the house fell even quieter than it had been that morning. Chummy put the dishes in a pre-soak. They glided and clinked mutedly beneath swirls of sudsy water. Likewise, all the recent big news and events clunked about in her swirling thoughts.
At this point, she was almost numb to the threat of nuclear war. Nearly two weeks of intense, sustained concern, sprinkled with flashes of panic, had worn her down entirely. A few slivers of fear remained. But she could distract herself by dwelling on the Turners' joy: the new house, the new baby, and the blanket she'd just finished knitting last night.
Sister Mary Cynthia's 'setback', on the other hand, kept floating to the surface of her mind. What was Trixie about to tell Chummy about Dr. Turner and Sister Julienne? Whatever it was, it sounded as if she strongly disapproved. Did she think they'd send Sister Mary Cynthia away again? She'd just spent half a year in Linchmere Psychiatric Hospital. Oh, how everyone had hoped she would be well again…
Chummy's father said that the Army kept "neuroses" cases quiet. They only removed soldiers from the front lines the minimal time and distance needed to "regrow a bit of backbone." Nearly all were then eased back into light duty; most returned to full duty in a few weeks. It was best that way, Pa said: morale would suffer if the men thought they could earn a ticket home by faking a breakdown. Only the completely shattered, those whose thoughts were disorganized beyond repair, were discharged and sent to psychiatric hospitals back in Britain.
Was Sister Mary Cynthia shattered? Disorganized beyond repair?
Patrick and Timothy were back within the hour. Apparently, the movers had misread the address Shelagh wrote for them. Most of the Turners' worldly possessions had been driven to Kent. And Shelagh wasn't the only one mixing up her days: her husband had given the electricity board the wrong date. Their new house wouldn't be connected until tomorrow.
Chummy immediately offered to let the Turners stay overnight in her home. Peter was still out with the little ones, but she knew he wouldn't mind. What else could the Turners do? Wander up West in search of a decent yet economical hotel? Crowd into Nonnatus House with the busy midwives, the fragile Sister Mary Cynthia, and some visiting missionaries to boot? Camp out on the floor of their new house, presently a dark and empty shell?
Patrick explained everything to Shelagh when she woke up. There was teasing and light groaning, some blushing over how Chummy had "already done so much for us today." But there was no real argument. Chummy and Patrick both made it clear that they wanted Shelagh safe and comfortable. Besides, they'd already brought in the suitcases- and Timothy's bassoon. Now that his stepmother was awake, he thought he might serenade them with some practice scales.
The pale autumn sun was angling low when Peter burst through the front door. "Camilla! Turn on the BBC. Now!"
She obeyed, feeling her heart leap into her throat. The little ones clambered past Peter and into the house. Shelagh shushed them with a quaver in her voice. They all gathered before the television to watch- and listen.
…an agreement ending the immediate threat of nuclear war. Russian leader Nikita Khrushchev has agreed to dismantle all Russian missiles based in Cuba and ship them back to the Soviet Union…
"It's over?"
"Just like that?"
"Is it really?"
"Yes! It's over!" Peter laughed. "It's finally over!"
"Peter!" Chummy cried. "You could have told us it was good news! I was all tied up in knots-!"
He took her face in his hands, kissing away her tears as they fell. She was too relieved to stay upset. Soon she was laughing and kissing him back. The Turners were having a similar moment. The little children cried "hooray!" and ran circles around the adults. They didn't know why their parents were so happy, or why Timothy was picking up each of them in turn and spinning them through the air. They didn't care!
"I'll be back in one moment," Chummy told Peter. His eyes sparkled. He snuck a quick brush of his hand across her bum as she left. But Chummy was on a different wavelength, so to speak. She was off to retrieve her knitting- and her Bible. From upstairs she heard the broadcast continue:
…the U.S. will not invade Cuba and will eventually lift the U.S. naval blockade imposed on the island…
"Shall I play my bassoon?" Timothy asked. "See if I can figure out 'The Star-Spangled Banner' by ear?"
Patrick was acerbic. "Do you have the range for 'The Star-Spangled Banner?'"
They were all still laughing and teasing Timothy when Chummy returned. She'd found and bookmarked the Scripture she wanted. She'd also folded up the blanket, so that only one or two colors were visible.
"I have a gift for the baby," she said, raising her voice slightly. The adults took the hint and shushed the children. "Although, given the most recent news, it seems rather like a gift for us all. But first, if I may: I thought I might read a bit of Scripture that's been of some comfort to me lately."
She looked to Peter and Patrick. The two men were considerably less religious than their wives. But right now, both were nodding to her in encouragement.
She cleared her throat. "Genesis chapter nine, verses fourteen and fifteen:
"And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud. And I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh."
She handed Peter her Bible, and then unfurled the rainbow blanket.
A/N: Snippets from the telly in this chapter were taken from an actual BBC news release I found online: 28 October, 1962, "World relief as Cuban missile crisis ends." (More details when I put up a References chapter at the end of this beastly long project!) The Bible verses Chummy quotes are taken from the KJV translation.