As the number 55 made its return journey back to central London. Trixie was pleased she had visited her friend. She had looked frail, Trixie was sure she had lost weight. Although difficult to tell in her more fitted dressing gown, rather than her usual habit, but her face did look thinner.
She had found her in good spirits, if not a little tired and a bit preoccupied, which was to be expected. She seemed particularly thrilled with the dead butterfly. Trixie not for the first time, heard Marianne's laughter ringing in her ears. She knew exactly what Marianne would have said.
She had tried to talk to Dr Turner, she really had. Tried to take more of an interest in Timothy. She had asked them to join them in the dining room on more than one occasion. He always made some excuse, she had taken to making up a little bag of food for him to take home for the pair of them. Quite often he would leave before she had finished preparing it. Sister Bernadette always seemed to know what to say and Trixie felt awkward and out of place. A bit like a spare set of forceps, left behind in the autoclave.
By Christmas 1958, Trixie realized she had been more than a spare set of forceps. She felt like she had been offered a front row seat at Billy Smart's Circus and had foolishly been sat facing the wrong way, throughout the entire performance.
It was Christmas Eve and she knew she wasn't the only Nonnatun, whose wedding invitation had seemingly got lost in the post. Unless of course they had arrived at Nonnatus House, following its inhabitants and half the population of Poplar, being evacuated due to a newly discovered unexplored bomb. When she saw the bride-to-be coming out of the nuns makeshift chapel in the Rescue Centre. She could hardly believe her eyes. Trixie had seen her former colleague so little since she had last visited her in St Anne's and was still a little startled at seeing her out of the habit.
"Si..Shelagh! I didn't expect to see you here, on the day of your wedding!"
Trixie didn't know if she believed in fate, but she would put this meeting down to divine providence and ask her burning question anyway. Even though she had been told to wait until after Christmas.
"We have a patient, Jenny and I, here in the Rescue Centre. Mrs Bridges, her husband is suffering from battle fatigue and I wondered if I could talk to Dr Turner. Obviously not today, I mean, I know this isn't a good time..."
Trixie reeled back on her heels at the sight of the anger in the former nuns eyes.
"No this is not a good time, Nurse Franklin!" She snapped, "I am sure I don't know what you are talking about! Dr Turner is sat by his son's bedside and has been since yesterday evening." Shelagh seemed to gasp for air, but continued,
"Timothy has polio and has been placed in an Iron Lung. I am very sorry to hear about your Mr...I can't imagine why you think Patrick would be more suited to deal with this, rather than the designated locum. If you feel it is an emergency, I suggest you refer to him, Nurse!"
Shelagh had finished talking through frustration and tears. Trixie could only watch her walk away. She had been on call all night, dashing between her patients, the ones who had been fortunate enough to remain in their own homes, then checking on Alan and Yvonne Bridges. She hadn't even been aware Shelagh had spent the night at the Leopold Institute or why?
Trixie found a quiet spot on the stairs and hugged her knees together. She knew it wasn't her fault, but she had only added to Shelagh's distress. She had been so wrapped up in her own efforts to help Alan Bridges, she hadn't questioned why Shelagh was at the Rescue Centre on the morning of her wedding. Or stopped to think before hastily asking for what she wanted.
Her thoughts soon went beyond Shelagh to Timothy and Patrick. Just over two years ago she had sat at the Nonnatus dining table and heard the worst news imaginable. She couldn't comprehend, that today she had just been told similar news concerning the same family.
That old familiar taste of bile climbed up Trixie's throat, as the shouts and the laugher from the main hall started to echo and move further and further away. All Trixie could hear was the rhythmic ticking of the unexploded bomb a few streets away, she could hear it keeping time. It was getting louder and louder.
The bomb did go off. Trixie, everyone and everything else survived, this time.
Yvonne Bridges was able to give birth in her own home and unbeknown to the sisters with her childhood sweetheart present.
Alan offered the emotionally tender Trixie a sweet sherry, after Jenny had left to meet Alec. She followed him into the kitchen,
"I think I will have one myself, just to wet the baby's head."
Trixie noticed him pull out a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch whisky.
"Yvonne's old man, got me onto this, never used to touch anything stronger than a pint a' mild, but he always fetches me one when he comes to visit." Alan poured a hefty measure into a tumbler, "A little nip, now and again Nurse, well it sometimes calms..what do you call them.. the horrors?"
Alan reached for a sherry glass for the midwife.
"Actually Alan, I wouldn't mind a nip myself. It's awfully cold in that beastly working men's club and if Jenny's boyfriend is right about Nonnatus, we may be there for a few more nights."
"Have a drop of the low flying bird, as my father-in-law always calls it." Alan poured her a rather large dram equal to his own. "You've earned it, you've really helped me Nurse, let me do something for you."
Trixie knew that she was now last on call and was rather glad of it after leaving the Bridges, once ensuring the baby's head was more than sufficiently wet. She was finding her bike didn't quite go in the direction she wanted.
She stopped at the little tobacconist off Chrisp Street, that never seemed to close. The proprietor had stocked Marianne's colour coordinated accessories and when Marianne finally gave up smoking forever, he switched his stock to Nurse Franklin's favoured all black selection.
As soon as he heard the bell chime, as she walked through the door, he was there. She wondered if he ever slept? He immediately took the Sobranie Black Russian from beneath the counter
"What tickles your fancy today, Nurse. Something a bit special, it is Christmas after all! How's about a nice bottle of advocaat, I have Warninks. Makes a lovely snowball with a drop of Lowcocks lemonade. How are you off for maraschino cherries, sweetheart?"
Trixie realized she hadn't actually spoken since she stepped into the establishment. The eternally cheery shopkeeper always seemed to know what she wanted.
She had intended to buy a small bottle of scotch and try and hide it from the nuns, but maybe the garish bright yellow liquid combined with a bit of child's pop, wouldn't seem so much of a temptation to the sisters. It was Christmas Eve after all and it could be something even Cynthia might enjoy. She had a feeling Sister Monica Joan might not be able to resist.
As she was about to pay, she noticed something catch her eye, reflected by the glass of the countertop.
Trixie finally found her voice, "A bag of those too, please."
The lights were on at Kenilworth Row, Dr Turner's car was parked in its regular spot. Surely that was a good sign?
Trixie went up to the flat door where she had boldly let herself in maybe a hundred times before, but not recently, not these days. She tripped up the steps and stood on something soft.
"Damn and blast!" she cried as she removed, first her foot, then her work shoe, from a sherry trifle. It had been left on the Turner doorstep by some thoughtful patient. Trixie tried to repair the damaged greaseproof paper covering it, hoping no-one would notice.
She took a large handkerchief from the bottom of her nurses bag, fumbling past the advocaat bottle. She tried to clean from her shoe, the cream, jelly and hundreds and thousands. For the first time in her life, Trixie realized the popular pudding decoration was so aptly named. The tiny sugar sprinkles were in, her shoe, her stocking, between her toes and absolutely everywhere, hundreds and thousands of them.
Trixie sat on the step for a few minutes, took a deep breath of Poplar night air, nearly making herself dizzy. Wiped her leaking eyes, on the trifle and street muck, stained hankie and realized how ridiculous she must look. If Marianne came to the door now, she would...
Trixie put the small net bag with the shiny glass marbles through Dr Turner's letterbox and slowly made her way to her temporary home, giving herself enough time to clear her head.