I recently watched the very first episode for the nth time. I have never written about this episode, until now.
The fog was thicker than he'd ever seen. His headlights were no match for the smoke filled fog. Still he carried on from case to case. The densely polluted air didn't help his patients' lungs. He saw three bronchitis cases before he was able to make his way to the tenement where the Warren family lived.
He'd visited their flat more than a few times during his time in Poplar. With that many children, he'd treated one or another for most any childhood illness… measles, mumps, chicken pox, flu…
He chastised himself for not arriving before the flying squad after all Conchita Warren was his patient. He took in the scene of the cramped bedroom and without missing a beat offered to help.
He nodded when his colleague commented about the accolades of National Health. It was a wondrous thing for the people he served. Regretfully Patrick knew only one being who should hate the National Health and that was poor Timothy. His son was abandoned more than he ever should be.
The wound of losing his mother was still so fresh. If only Patrick were a banker or shop keep or something equally as mundane, he would be tucked up in his flat with his son. Instead he was witnessing the miracle of life and love.
After slogged through the dense air, he sighed when he was finally home, not that his flat felt much like a home. He should have gone straight to his cold empty bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep.
After having a debate inside his head he opted against tea. He poured himself a finger of Whisky instead.
He couldn't get the scene he witness out of his mind. The love and devotion between the couple was beautiful and painful. He missed Marianne in that moment and feared the tears might slip out, if not for the argument that pursued over taking the baby to hospital.
Reflecting on the Warrens, he wondered, how they were able to communicate. It was truly a mystery to a man who had struggled to communicate with his own wife. Both he and Marianne spoke English and at times it was like a foreign language. He was often the cause, because he kept his feelings to himself. He hadn't even been able to find the words to tell Marianne about his war and stay at Northfield.
His secrets were worse than a language barrier; still Marianne knew that he loved her. He hoped he showed her in the ways that matter.
Alone he sat in the kitchen and began…
"Darling, I don't know why I never told you, but the things I saw… the things I experienced during the war began to affect me and eventually it was just too much. So I…"