24 May 1958
"Now then," Sister Julienne said as they settled into their respective chairs, one either side of the desk in her office. Outside the window the sunshine of a balmy day in late spring came streaming cheerily in, but the rays of the sun did little to warm Sister Bernadette's heart, for it was cold and full of dread. Perhaps it ought to be hope that consumed her now, given the way Doctor had kissed her, rushed to her defense, sworn to marry her, but without Doctor there beside her, without his gentle smile to calm her, Sister Bernadette's fears ran riot within her. Was she ready, truly, to turn aside from her life, to become a wife? She had never before even dreamed of such a thing; even as a young girl she'd found it hard to imagine herself dressed all in white, walking down the aisle towards a man who was waiting to subsume her entire life beneath his own. Could she really go from being a bride of Christ to being the bride of a man in a single afternoon? And oh, what must Sister Julienne think of her now?
"Are you comfortable?" Sister Julienne asked her kindly. She did everything kindly, Sister Bernadette thought miserably as she shifted in her chair; Julienne had welcomed her, sheltered her, loved her, completely and without question, for a decade now. And Bernadette had scorned her love, and turned her thoughts to another, turned away from the path of righteousness, the path she knew Sister Julienne longed for her to follow; everything is turned to madness, she thought.
"Yes," she managed to say aloud. Yes, she was comfortable enough; on their way through the convent Sister Julienne had fetched a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, had pushed a cup into Sister Bernadette's trembling hands; she might have been terrified and full of doubts, but her physical needs had been met and she could not ask for more.
"Good," Sister Julienne said. "Now, then, why don't you start at the beginning? Tell me how all...this came to be."
It was a question asked in good faith, delivered without rancor or accusation. And Sister Bernadette knew she owed Julienne the truth; she stood on the very cusp of breaking her vows, and if she were to do such a thing there was a procedure to be observed. This first, this confession, this explanation of herself and her choices, and then would come Sister Julienne's gentle guidance. But where to begin? How had all this come to be?
"I hardly know where to begin," she said haltingly. I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation, old familiar words read long ago echoed through Sister Bernadette's mind, it is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
"Doctor Turner has always been kind to all of us here at Nonnatus House," Sister Julienne mused. She gave every appearance of thinking aloud, but Sister Bernadette knew her sister was a clever woman indeed, and was no doubt, in her own way, trying to help guide Bernadette along in her story. "But we know very little about him, outside of work. He has not seemed to offer much of himself."
He has offered all of himself to me, Sister Bernadette thought sadly. "There was a night, several months ago now, when we lost a child. Doctor took it hard. We were speaking his office, after, and he told me -" you are the first thing that's made wonder if maybe God is real, after all - "we spoke to one another of our faith. But no, that was not the first…" she took a deep breath, tried to order her thoughts. "He gave me a little folded paper frog, at Christmas. But that was the second one, the first one he gave me months before, he'd made it for little Paul Wexler." Our little secret. "But before that, I suppose, I…"
She lost her voice altogether, then. When had it begun, the little glances between them, the quiet words, the pull she felt to be, always, near him? Was it when she'd helped Tim arrange a birthday party for him, or when she'd helped Tim buy his Christmas presents, or the first time he'd looked at her across a straining mother and murmured softly good girl in that voice that made her belly churn with a feeling she did not want to name?
"You've been growing closer for quite some time, then," Sister Julienne said decisively, as if she did not need further evidence.
"Yes, I suppose so." There were other things she ought to say, little moments she ought to mention; the cigarette they'd shared, that afternoon when he'd wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, the day they met, when his hands settled on her hips, but those secrets she kept, however selfish the keeping might have been.
"And do you...do you wish to marry him, Sister?" Julienne asked her softly then.
"I don't know," Bernadette breathed into the sudden stillness that settled over them in the wake of such a question. Did she want to hold him, to know him, to call him by his name, to wake beside him every morning? A part of her did, wanted those things more than anything else. But what if I do not please him, she thought miserably; what if we are not as well-suited as I thought, what if these feelings between us are only a momentary madness, and not enough to build a life on?
"I love him, Sister, I do," she continued, trying desperately to explain herself. "I look at him sometimes, and all I can think is how much I love him, how I want to hear him speak, how I want to be with him. But if I am with him, then I cannot be with you, and I don't know what to do." I don't know what God wants from me, and his voice has gone silent, or else I cannot hear it over my own selfish heart.
"I think that Doctor Turner was sincere, in the offer he made today, but it was made in haste. Have you thought, truly, about what it would mean to be married to him? He has a child, and that child would become your responsibility."
"Oh, but Timothy is a dear boy, Sister, and I love him already," Sister Bernadette told her earnestly. And she did love him, had found him to be a delightful child, clever and curious and as kind-hearted as his father, and she treasured every moment spent with him. "To watch him grow, to help him on his way...I think I would like that, very much."
"And would you want children of your own, someday?" Sister Julienne pressed. "You must admit, Sister, Doctor Turner is...quite a bit older than you. Setting aside for the moment the difference in your lived experiences and the possible inequality that would bring to your marriage, have you considered the fact that if you have children of your own you may be left to bring them up without him at some point in the future?"
For a moment Sister Bernadette could do no more than stare at Julienne, aghast at the very idea. No, she had not thought of such a thing, but now she could see the right of it; Doctor would be fifty-one in just under a month, and Sister Bernadette herself was only thirty-two. That was a great difference, and no man lived forever. But surely we could expect him to live another twenty years at least, she thought then, it's not as if he's on the edge of collapse. He is a healthy, vigorous man...though he does smoke too much.
"You and I know as well as anyone that there is no telling what the future might bring," Sister Bernadette said slowly. "Anyone could die, at any moment. I don't fear losing him enough to…" Enough to keep me from reaching for him now. "And he has always treated me with a great deal of respect. I've never felt the difference in our ages to be a problem."
"Then I'm not sure you've given it adequate consideration." Sister Julienne's tone was soft, but there was a rebuke buried in her words, nonetheless. "He has been married before, and has a child already. Though I would never dream of calling you naive, there are some things you simply have not experienced for yourself, and I worry that he might...be in a position to take advantage of your innocence on these matters."
The idea was couched in terms of the utmost delicacy, but Sister Bernadette could hear the insinuation hidden beneath Julienne's words. Doctor knew a great deal more than Bernadette, when it came to the subject of men and women and what they got up to in the dark, and it seemed that thought concerned Julienne a great deal. It did not concern Bernadette; if anything, it excited her - in the most terrible, shameful sort of way - for she was by nature a curious girl, and Doctor was a gentle teacher. The things she might learn at his hands, the delights he might show her...just the thought of it sent a shiver coursing down her spine.
"Doctor has never taken advantage of me in any way," she answered firmly. But God forgive me, I fear I would let him, if he dared.
Sister Julienne sighed, her expression weary, defeated, as if she felt they had gotten off track somewhere along the way.
"I can appreciate that in this moment you think this is what you want. And if you had told me that you were certain, if you did not look so scared, then I might agree to help you start the process of rescinding your vows this very moment. As it is, I cannot in good conscience counsel you to accept the Doctor's proposal just now. My advice to you, should you accept it, is that you go to the Mother House for a time, perhaps a month or so, to reflect and give the choice before you the consideration it deserves."
"A month?" Sister Bernadette repeated faintly. "But what about my work, my patients? I can't-"
"If you were to marry the Doctor, you would have to give them up anyway," Sister Julienne reminded her gently. "You need time to pray and seek God's wisdom, and we can arrange shifts to cover for you in your absence."
"But if I choose to stay with the order I won't be sent back here, will I?" Sister Bernadette asked anxiously, suddenly reminded of the terrible consequences that hung just over her head, an axe waiting to fall. "You would send me somewhere else, somewhere far away from him. I won't just be leaving for a month, I would be leaving forever."
"I'm afraid that's what it's come to, yes," Sister Julienne agreed sadly. "If you choose to remain with the order, it would be unwise, and unkind, to bring you back here, and force you and Doctor Turner to work together. And if you choose to leave us, you will no longer be a midwife. I'm afraid the circumstances have are beyond our control, Sister. You have a choice to make, but either way you will have to leave Nonnatus House."
At those words Sister Bernadette buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
It was later, much later, and the arrangements had all been made. A taxi would come for her first thing in the morning, and carry Sister Bernadette and her small travelling case away to Chichester. A room would be prepared for her at the Mother House, and there she would spend a month, praying for guidance. In a way she agreed with Sister Julienne, and was grateful for the reprieve; perhaps, she thought, it would be easier to hear God's voice if she were not distracted by work, by her friends, by him. Perhaps in the still serenity of the Mother House some wisdom would come to her, and grant her peace.
And yet in her heart she felt only loss, only devastation, only doubt at the thought of her impending departure. Either way you will have to leave Nonnatus House; the rules of the order, the rules of the life she'd chosen for herself, now threatened to tear her from her home, from the people she loved, her Sisters and the nurses as much as anyone else, and her heart was full of grief. For a decade she had lived in this place, cared for these people; she knew her neighbors by name, and everyone she passed had a smile and a kind word for her. How could she leave this all behind? How could she have lost everything, when she had done no more than accept the attentions of a kind man?
Sleep would not come to her that night, and she drifted, restless and lost, through the halls of this place that had been her home for ten long, beautiful years. She loved Nonnatus House, however much it might have fallen into disrepair; she loved the cranky old boiler and the moldering cloisters, the crumbling foundations and the soaring walls. This was her home, and as she wandered through it she whispered her goodbyes, and wept.
But Sister Bernadette was not the only one who could not sleep on this particular night; she heard the soft sound of a wireless playing, floating on the air as if conjured from a dream, and she followed the sound of it until at last her feet led her to the kitchen, where Trixie sat listening to the radio, and painting her nails.
"Oh!" Trixie cried, looking up sharply as the sound of Sister Bernadette's footfalls announced her arrival. "You gave me such a fright, Sister. I thought I'd seen a ghost! Oh, and I'm sorry, I know it's the Great Silence, I didn't mean-"
"It's all right, Trixie," Bernadette told her with a sad little smile. "I won't tell, if you don't.'
"It'll be our little secret," Trixie said winsomely, but then she seemed to take a closer look at Sister Bernadette, and her smile was replaced by a frown in a moment. "Forgive me, Sister, but I think you're the one who looks like you've seen a ghost. Is everything all right?"
The question was asked with such gentle concern that Sister Bernadette felt she must answer it truthfully, but when she opened her mouth to speak the only sound that escaped her was a great, wracking sob. In the next moment the tears began to flow down her cheeks, and she slowly crossed the room, sank into a chair at the table next to Trixie and let the weeping take her. She wept for the loss of her home, for the thought of a month spent without Doctor there to make her smile, wept for the grief she knew he would feel when he learned of her departure, wept for every fear and every hope and every sorrow she harbored in her heart. But Trixie did not leave her to grieve in solitude, for the girl slung a comforting arm around her shaking shoulders, and held her tight in silence until at last Bernadette calmed enough to speak.
"Thank you," she breathed. She was grateful, more grateful than words could say, for the gentle touch of a friend, for the embrace of another living soul, in that moment when she felt more lonesome than she could recall having ever felt in her entire life.
"Will you tell me what's wrong?" Trixie asked her in a soft voice heavy with the worry of one friend for another.
"If you promise not to tell anyone," Bernadette answered. "Please, Trixie, you must promise."
"I promise," the girl answered at once. "I can keep a secret."
And somehow Bernadette did not doubt her; sometimes she looked at Trixie, with her perfect manicure and her immaculately curled hair, and wondered if perhaps that girl harbored more secrets than all the rest of them put together.
"I'm going away in the morning," she said, gasping a little around the last of her tears. "And I don't know when, or if I'm coming back. But if I do come back to Poplar, I shan't be Sister Bernadette any more."
"You're thinking of giving up your vows?" Trixie sounded shocked at the very idea; there was no judgement in her, only genuine surprise. "Oh, you poor thing, you must be feeling wretched."
"I am," Sister Bernadette sighed, scrubbing her hands across her cheeks. Wretched, yes that was the only word she felt to adequately describe her current state of mind.
"Has something happened?"
Bernadette lifted her head, and found Trixie watching her anxiously, as if she feared that something dreadful must have occurred, to make Sister Bernadette consider abandoning the religious life. And Bernadette could not stand that, could not allow her to think such a thing, for whatever her love for the Doctor might be, it was not, nor could she ever imagine it to be, dreadful.
"I...I have had reason to consider, in the last few months, whether there are other things that I might want, things I can't have in the religious life."
"Things like a husband?" Trixie asked, and Bernadette could only stare at her in shock, entirely thrown onto the back foot by how quickly Trixie had read the situation. "Like Doctor Turner?"
"How on earth did you know?" Before now Bernadette had thought that she and Doctor had been quite discreet about the whole thing; Sister Julienne certainly had never dreamed that there was anything more than professional courtesy between them. How could Trixie, who despite being a delightful girl was not among Sister Bernadette's closest confidants, have seen what Julienne could not?
"The funny thing about me is, some people are so determined to underestimate me," Trixie sniffed. "Sometimes, they forget I'm in the room at all. I was there, that night when we decided to throw a birthday party for Doctor, and you insisted you be the one to pick out his present. And I know you helped Timothy shop for him at Christmas. And I was there when Mrs. Harbison had her little one, the premature baby, and Doctor said something to you that made you look at him like...oh, like something from a film." There's a delicacy about small things that makes them precious, that's what he'd told her, and perhaps that had been the moment when he'd won her heart, well and truly, and wasn't it strange, but until now she had not even considered the fact that Trixie had been in the room that day. "And then the Carter twins, when Meg hit you, I thought he was going to-"
"All right," Sister Bernadette said in defeat, "all right."
"It's just...it's so plain that he cares for you, and Tim clearly adores you, and if you love them both then I say...well, I say it's wonderful, Sister Bernadette. You deserve some happiness."
It was easy for Trixie to say such a thing, Sister Bernadette thought; Trixie was young, and her head was full of dreams of romance, of adventure, a longing for a strong man to come and whisk her away into a life more beautiful than the one she knew. For perhaps the very first time Sister Bernadette envied Trixie her optimism, her sense of hopeless romanticism, the dreams that she could chase so freely, and without care.
"But at what cost?" Sister Bernadette said sadly. "To leave the order is...I would not be the first, but it is not an easy choice." And if it is the wrong one, if it is not what God wants of me, my very soul may hang in the balance. I may trade the life God set aside for me for a road that leads to darkness, leads to a place where all happiness whither, and only sorrow grows.
"There is nothing shameful about love," Trixie said, with all the certainty of youth. "I thought God wanted us to love one another. I think he ought to be happy for you, finding someone to love."
"I'm meant to love Him," Sister Bernadette pointed out. I'm meant to love Him above all others, but how can I, when He would keep me from this man who gives me so much hope, when He would send me from my home, when He would demand that I have no family of my own?
"But surely you love Doctor, too?"
"I do," Sister Bernadette agreed sadly. "And I don't know which of them I love most."
"And so you're just going to leave?" Trixie seemed put out at the very idea.
"For a little while," Sister Bernadette answered, trying to reassure herself as much as her young friend. "So that I can pray, and come to a decision."
"We will miss you, so much," Trixie said, reaching for her hand. "But I think I speak for all of us when I say we want you to be happy. I won't promise to pray for you, I think we both know I'm not any good at that, but I will think of you often, and I hope you come back to us. I'd love to know what color your hair really is."
Those last words were delivered in a teasing voice, a little quip no doubt intended to lighten the mood - for that was what Trixie did best, defused arguments and alleviated tensions and brought smiles to everyone else's faces, if not always her own - and Sister Bernadette could not help but laugh, a bit wetly.
"What a dear girl you are," she said, giving Trixie's hand a little squeeze. "I shall miss you, very much."
"Then come back to us," Trixie said firmly. "Come home, and be happy."
And perhaps it was strange, but in that moment Sister Bernadette felt hope overtake doubt, if only for an instant. Yes, she was going away, and yes, her entire life was set to change, but if she made her way back to Poplar, with her head uncovered and no habit in sight, her friends would still be here, and though she would no longer live as one of them, perhaps it would be enough to simply know that they were near, and that they loved her.