"Miss Angela Turner please!" a cheery blonde receptionist called across the waiting room for the antenatal clinic. This newer part of the London somehow felt less intimidating and friendlier than the old Victorian wards which Major Trauma 3 was but just one. Perhaps it was the nature of the patient's conditions which made the difference.
"Oooh," Angela said clambering to her feet, "come on Mum."
The two of them followed the receptionist across the waiting room to a consulting room.
"Come in Miss Turner, take a seat on the couch," a small, prim, but not unkind woman said from behind her desk "Carolyn Ashwood, Sonographer," she added. Shelagh helped Angela onto the examination couch and then took a seat next to Miss Ashwood's desk.
A chestnut haired, middle aged nurse entered the room as Shelagh sat down.
"Nurse Cash," she murmured to Angela, slightly out of breath, "sorry I'm late," she added to Miss Ashwood.
"Not at all," Miss Ashwood said, "right," she continued, turning to Angela "let's have a look at how baby is doing shall we?"
Shelagh watched in fascination as Nurse Cash squeezed the thick clear jelly onto Angela's abdomen. Obstetric ultrasounds were unheard of during her midwifery career, and having never had one herself, she was more excited about the whole procedure than Angela. As soon as the fuzzy, black and white images appeared on the screen her eyes widened and her heart raced in excitement. As blurred as the images were, on the screen was an unmistakeable sight. A baby.
"Well everything is looking absolutely marvellous for thirty weeks," Miss Ashwood said reassuringly, "baby is lying breech but we don't expect them to turn for another few weeks. I'll now leave with you with Nurse Cash and she'll do the other routine checks, alright?"
"Yes" Angela replied, wiping the last of the cold, slimy gel off her abdomen.
"Ok Angela, I'm going to take your blood pressure and pulse," Nurse Cash began, fitting the monitor cuff around Angela's arm, "how have you been feeling?"
"Um, ok," Angela replied, wincing slightly as the cuff tightened.
"No headaches, swollen ankles or anything like that?"
"My ankles swell a little bit if I've been on my feet all day."
"Not at any other time?"
"No."
"Any back pain?"
"A bit when I'm tired, though, I'm getting quite bad Braxton Hicks contractions."
Shelagh's ears pricked up. The swollen ankles and the back pain Angela had made her aware of since she returned home from Carlisle, but this was new.
"Are they very frequent or are they painful?"
"Both, I suppose, kind of a dull ache."
"Are you drinking enough?"
"I'm not sure."
"Make sure you don't dehydrate, dehydration can make them worse. I don't think there's anything to be concerned about, they're only practice contractions, you'll know when it's the real thing."
"Ok," Angela murmured, not completely convinced.
"Well, your blood pressure and pulse fine and the bloods and urine samples you gave the other day are all normal too. You're booked with us for delivery, and unless there are any problems, we shall see you then. If you, or Mum, have any concerns, any time, just give us a call."
"I will," Angela replied, sliding off the end of the couch.
Shelagh and Angela left the antenatal clinic and began to make their way out of the hospital.
"Is everything alright?" Shelagh asked.
"Yes," Angela replied, but, seeing the look on her mother's face added, "I'm just nervous, that's all."
"You will tell me if you're worried about anything, won't you?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to finish the cot when we get home?"
Angela nodded in reply.
The previous two days had been spent manoeuvring the furniture in Angela's bedroom so that the large wooden cot could be removed from the loft and placed in the corner opposite her own bed. Together they had dusted it down, rebuilt it and had given it a lick of paint. The dust had been shaken from the tiny soft mattress and the white blankets and sheets had been washed and were drying on the radiators. Shelagh picked up the bedclothes and followed Angela up to her room.
"We didn't have much time to get things ready for you arriving," Shelagh said as she helped Angela position the cot mattress on the frame.
"Did I even have a cot for my first night here?" Angela asked, grinning.
"Yes, you had this one, as did Timothy before you," Shelagh replied, "not sure you had much else, mind, trying to find nappies, bottles and formula late on a Saturday afternoon wasn't the easiest of tasks!"
"Well, I'm going to make sure everything is ready, make sure everything is perfect. Mum."
"Yes sweetheart."
"Do you think I'll be a good mother?"
A lump rose in Shelagh's throat as she looked at her beautiful little girl. There was a fearful look in her eyes, of uncertainty, begging for reassurance.
"You're going to be a wonderful mother. You have a great capacity to love, you're strong and you're brave, you're kind and you care."
"When I was looking after Robert and Jessica last week, I suddenly realised how hard parenting is. I just hope that I can be half as good a mother to my baby as you have been to me."
"Oh Angie," Shelagh squeaked, casting aside the sheet she was folding and hugging her daughter, "I've only done my best, and I know you will do too."
"What if it's not enough?"
"It will be, don't you worry."
"Will you help me?"
"I'll always be here to help you, any time, day or night. I couldn't not."
"I love you Mum," Angela said, tears welling in her eyes.
Shelagh took her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped Angela's eyes, before saying,
"I love you too darling."
The following morning Shelagh stood in the garden, prising the lock on the garden shed open. The bolt was stiff and rusty, and it took all her strength to shift it across.
"How does Jules do this every day?" she huffed to herself.
She scanned the inside the shed. There was a clear gap where Jules' bicycle was inserted each night and in amongst the gardening tools, tins of paint and camping equipment, she spotted what she was looking for. Scrambling over things, she dragged the heavy metal wheeled frame out of the door, rolling it out onto the lawn. Returning to the shed, and moving a few more things aside, the rigid top of the coach pram was removed from the corner and joined its base on the lawn. Sat on the lawn in the sun with a screwdriver and a spanner Shelagh set about reconstructing the pram, the pram that both her children had ridden round London in. Now, like the cot standing ready upstairs, it would have another chance to shine. Back in one piece, Shelagh oiled the wheels and the lock on the shed door and was just replacing the oil drum in the shed when Angela appeared at the back door.
"A pram!" she called excitedly.
Shelagh grinned and spread her arms out to show off her handiwork, "your pram," she added.
"Oooh, it's heavy," Angela gasped as she pushed the pram a few feet across the lawn.
"All prams were in the 1940s" Shelagh replied, a smile creeping across her face at the sight of her daughter.
"1940s?" Angela asked.
"That pram was Timothy's, like the cot, your father kept them, even after Timothy's mother died. I suppose he never gave up on his dream to be a father again."
"Dad always wanted me too then?"
"Of course he did. From the moment we were able to be together, he made it very clear that that was what he wanted." She paused, trying not to look at Angela as she felt her cheeks flush slightly. "He was almost destined to," she added wistfully, thoughts of how Sister Monica Joan her last statement sounded dancing through her mind.
"What do you mean?"
"Patrick is thought to derive from the Latin for nobleman, which in itself is appropriate, you father is a very noble man. However I have another theory. The word Patrikos in Ancient Greek, can mean like a father. Either way, he is a good and noble father, who wanted, and loves you very much."
Angela looked thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "I never really thought about a man wanting a baby as much as his partner, maybe because my only experience is where the man didn't want his baby. Also how do you know Ancient Greek?"
"We had to learn a bit when we did Biblical Studies during my Novitiate," Shelagh replied, "I can hardly remember any now, but that seemed to stick for some reason." She finished her sentence with a grin.
"What a coincidence!" Angela smirked.
"Shush you," Shelagh teased, poking Angela in the arm, "come on, let's get this pram inside, the blankets for it must be around somewhere."
"Where are we going to put it?" Angela asked as she took the handle of the pram and began to push it towards the back door.
"It always lived in the sitting room," Shelagh reminisced, "I'm sure it can stay there again."
The pram was in the right place, the cot, exactly where it stood twenty years before. Freshly washed baby clothes were drying on the radiators.
"Everything is perfect," Shelagh thought, longingly.
"Shelagh! Angie! Look! Look at me!"
Patrick's triumphant calls echoed around Major Trauma 3 as he raced towards them on his crutches.
"Well done Dad!" Angela cheered as Patrick came to a halt beside them.
"Yes, well done," Shelagh added, planting a gentle kiss on Patrick's cheek.
"Well, Patrick," Mr O'Reilly began, "your x-rays from this morning show significant healing of the stress fractures of your pelvis and your femur is getting there, though will need another few weeks in this cast. But given the skills you've shown on these crutches, I'm quite happy to discharge you. I'm going to let pharmacy know now and they'll sort you out a prescription to take home, and the Nurses will do you final tests, and then you'll be free to go."
Patrick's face beamed as he looked between Shelagh, Angela and Mr O'Reilly.
"I can go home?" he asked, as though still unconvinced of Mr O'Reilly's sincerity.
"Yes, once everything is in order," Mr O'Reilly replied.
Patrick's smile, if anything, grew even broader.
Later that evening, the three Turners, a set of crutches, several boxes of tablets and a range of medical aids arrived by taxi on the driveway of 24 Bermondsey Lane. It had been nearly six weeks since Patrick's accident and as he was helped out of the car, wobbling slightly on his crutches, he stared at the façade of the house, fondly.
"I'm home," he thought.
That night, as the four of them were tucking into fish and chips, at Patrick's request, Shelagh, Angela and Jules were all aware of a change in the atmosphere of the house. None of them mentioned anything, but they all felt the same way. Everyone, and everything, was in its proper place.
Late one night towards the end of April, Angela was curled up on the sofa, trying to concentrate on the novel she was reading. She had not been feeling well for several days. She was very tired, but could not get to sleep, her back was killing her and the Braxton Hicks contractions she had been suffering with for several weeks now seemed unrelenting today. She had given up on Nurse Cash's suggestion that she drank plenty because all that did was made her need the lavatory even more frequently. She stood up, trying to stretch out the pain in her back.
"Owww!" she squeaked, biting her lip so that she did not wake anyone else up, "that hurt!" she added to the empty room.
She went into the kitchen, rummaged in the medicine box until she found some painkillers, and after taking them, flicked the kettle on. Returning to the sofa, she retrieved her hot water bottle and refilled it when the kettle boiled. Another sharp twinge coursed up her spine as she stumbled across the living room on her way to bed.
"I'm only thirty-four weeks," Angela said defiantly to herself, "they're only Braxton Hicks contractions, it's not the real thing, it can't be the real thing. Nurse Cash said I would know when it was the real thing. This can't be it."
Angela climbed into bed and placed the hot water bottle underneath her back. The gentle warmth soothed the pains and she snuggled underneath the covers. The painkillers began to kick in and she soon drifted off into a deep sleep.
Seven hours later, Shelagh was awoken by a piercing scream which shot daggers through her heart and mind.