2 July 1958
It was rather later than he would have liked, when Patrick came trudging up the stairs and into the little flat he shared with Timothy above the surgery. He was hungry, and weary, and in rather desperate need of a bath, but his heart was full of joy, for he had seen his Bernadette, had learned the truth behind her silence and in her gentle voice and crimson blushes he had found cause to hope. She had not forgotten or ignored him, had not set her heart against him, and would surely by now have read his letters, and learned of the depth of his desire for her. Their fate was cradled in her delicate hands now; he had done all that he could do, and could only hope that it had been enough, that one day soon she might come home to him.
Soon, but not tonight, and so he knew that for now he must marshal all his strength, all his reserves of patience, and wait for her to make her choice. From where he stood the choice seemed a simple one - a lifetime of denial and loneliness weighed against the warmth of love and family - but he had never felt the call of the church, as she did. God, and heaven, and hell; he had set aside such concerns in Italy, for he had found himself in hell, and no salvation had come for him. What damnation could be worse than the blood of his friends dripping from his hands, the sound of bullets whizzing overhead, the rattling gasps of the dying and the betrayed while still the horror rolled on, blacking out every piece of beauty and goodness in the world? And what heaven could be more divine than the love of a woman, soft and tender and true? Sister Bernadette, however, saw the world in a different, more mystical way than he ever could. She thought in terms of eternity, souls in peril or delight no human mind could comprehend, good and ill a game not played by men but by the very forces of the universe. In asking for her hand he had asked her to turn aside from the will of God, and he knew that she would not undertake such an endeavor lightly.
"Dad?" a soft voice called from the kitchen, and so he forced himself to set thoughts of love and damnation to the side, and focus instead on his son.
"I'm here, Tim!" he answered, hanging his hat upon its peg by the door and shrugging out of his jacket. As he did Tim came to stand in the kitchen doorway, watching him with all the baleful petulance of a child who felt himself ignored.
"You're late," his son told him gravely.
Guilt began to claw its way up the back of his throat; he had been so focused on his own desires that he had quite forgotten to make any allowances for Tim. For weeks, for months now he had been struggling with the question of whether he ought to tell his son what was afoot, how much he could afford to say, how best to broach the topic at hand. His thinking on the matter changed from day to day, as variable as the winds that blew the stench of poverty through the streets of Poplar. Part of him remained convinced that he ought to shield Timothy from the machinations of his father's heart until Bernadette had made her choice; it would be cruel, that piece of his heart whispered to him, to get the boy's hopes up, to promise him a family made whole and a future full of love when Patrick did not know for certain whether such a future would ever come to be. And yet another part of him worried about how Tim might take the news, worried that having lost his mother the boy would not want to allow another woman to assume her place, and that to make such a life-altering decision for the pair of them without first speaking to his son was cruel. Tim adored Bernadette, Patrick knew, but would that affection be sufficient to see them all through? What would he do if Tim turned against this proposition? Could he really marry this woman if his son did not approve of the match?
"Where have you been?"
The time for wondering had long since passed him by, it seemed to Patrick. He had made his proposal without seeking his son's agreement, and now that the thing was done there would be no turning back. Timothy's question had neatly opened the door for this long overdue conversation, and he knew he could not hide from it.
"We should talk about that," Patrick answered him slowly. "Come, sit with me."
They made their way to their old sofa together; Patrick flung himself down against one end of it, resting against the arm of the sofa while Tim settled on the other side, watching him curiously. In days gone by Tim would have curled himself beneath his father's arm, and Patrick would have held him close, and for a moment he missed the way things had been when Tim was small. With each passing day Tim grew in maturity as well as stature, and though Patrick knew it was only natural that the boy should be less inclined to cuddle with his father as he had done when he was small, still he lamented.
"I went to see Sister Bernadette today," Patrick told him, and Timothy straightened up at once, an eager smile lighting up his dear sweet face.
"Is she all right? Is she coming home?" he demanded, excited now as all thoughts of his previous abandonment were forgotten.
"She's very well." It was not a lie; she had smiled when she saw him, had told him how she worried for him, how she hoped to hear from him, and perhaps by now his letters would have set her mind at rest. "I don't know yet if she's going to come home. She has a decision to make."
"What sort of decision?"
It was a question more easily asked than answered. Their family had never belonged to any church, and Timothy's childhood had not been steeped in the mysteries and the stories that formed the backbone of that world. Moving to Poplar had provided an education of sorts, for here the church was the very lifeblood of their society, and even those who were not devout knew enough. Out of necessity Patrick had explained in the loosest of terms the vows the Sisters had taken and the roles they had assumed for themselves, but Tim's youth had forced him to measure his words carefully, to keep from expounding upon the more intimate implications of their chosen vocation. The boy would be full of questions, now, and Patrick knew he would have no choice but to answer.
"The thing is, Tim, I...well. I care for Sister Bernadette very much. And I think you do, too."
"I think she's brilliant," Timothy told him. "She helped me buy your Christmas presents, and she was much better at the three-legged race than you."
"Quite right, too," Patrick told him. So far so good, he thought. But he had not yet approached the true reason for his trip to Chichester, and he worried that when he finally spoke those words Tim might change his tune. There was nothing else for it, however, and so he plowed ahead, fearing that should he pause to consider his words he might lose his confidence altogether.
"As I said, I care for her. And she cares for me, I think. And she loves you, very much." This was perhaps a lie; Sister Bernadette had never told him as much. But she had always treated Tim so gently, always had a kind word for him, always indulged his questions with patience and thoughtful regard. She had stepped in to help him when Patrick could not, more than once, and in her selfless willingness to look after the boy Patrick had seen her love, though she never spoke the word. "And I would like, very much, for…for her to come and live with us. I would like to marry her."
Those words landed in their midst like some sort of faulty grenade, not exploding on impact but sitting, nefarious and silent, full of latent danger. Tim was very quiet and very still now, his little brow furrowed as he peered up at his father. At ten he knew what it meant to be married, knew that men and women took one another's hands and lived together, forever, wore rings on their fingers and slept in the same bed and raised children together. He knew of love, for he had been born in love, had grown up surrounded by it, but he was too young yet to understand passion, or the lengths that people might go for its sake.
"You know that she's a nun, and that means she can't ever get married or have a family?"
Tim nodded once in understanding, and though his silence troubled Patrick a very great deal he felt he had no choice but to continue.
"She can't come and live with us, so long as she's a nun. That's the choice she has to make. She has to decide whether she wants to be with us, or whether she wants to stay in the church."
"But she will come home, won't she?" Timothy asked him, and though his voice was soft there was a certain desperation in him.
"I don't know yet," Patrick told him truthfully. "It's her decision. Would you like it, if she came to live here?"
That was what he most wanted to know. Whether his marriage to Bernadette would make Timothy happy or whether it would shatter him, whether the thought of having her beneath their roof filled him with joy or trepidation. Everything Patrick wanted, his entire heart, hung in the balance as he waited for Tim to answer.
"I think it would be...good," Tim said, though he seemed almost to struggle with the words. "I like Sister Bernadette, and you've been so sad since she went away."
It was not the first time Patrick had been confronted with the realization that Tim was far more observant and far more insightful than a boy of ten had any right to be. Just the night before Tim had hit upon the very same thought, had proven that Patrick had not been as successful in hiding his sorrow as he might have liked. He wished it were not so, wished he had not troubled his son with his own anxious heart, but he knew now that the thing was done. Patrick did not want Timothy to agree to this marriage only to make his father happy; he wanted Tim to be happy, too, and he was not sure that he had chosen the right course.
"I miss her," he answered. "And I worried when she didn't answer my letters. But she never got them, you see? I drove to Chichester to speak with her today, and now she can read my letters. And make her choice. But tell me the truth, Tim. This is a very important decision. Would you really like it if she lived here with us?"
"You're gone all the time," Timothy told him, and though the words were not an accusation still Patrick felt them as a dagger in his heart. His work of necessity kept him away from home more than he would have liked, and he hated the thought of his son lonesome and sorrowful in his absence. "It would be nice if someone else was here. And I do like her, dad. And you do, too. But…"
But what? Patrick wondered. Tim had floundered a bit, his little face scrunched up with worry, as if he was frightened of his own thoughts, frightened of how his father might react once he gave them voice. That wouldn't do; Patrick had tried to never give his son cause to fear him, and he wasn't about to start now.
"Go on," he said gently. "It's all right, Tim. I want to know what you think."
"She isn't mummy," his son told him in a quiet voice, as if he were ashamed of the very thought. Tears gathered in the corners of Patrick's eyes, no matter how he tried to hold them back, for in that simple phrase he felt his own grief. No, Bernadette was not Marianne; there had been a lightness to Marianne's spirit, a joyful, playful sort of whimsy that Bernadette lacked in her practicality. Marianne had been soft, where Bernadette was resolved. And yet, for all that they were vastly different women, Patrick loved them both, for they both were possessed of compassionate hearts, and clever wit, and gentle hands. They were both beautiful, both mesmerizing in their own way, and they both of them loved Timothy.
"Come here," Patrick said, and gathered his son into his arms. Tim was too big to sit on his lap, any more, but still he held the boy close, his chin resting against his son's head. That Tim chose to let his father hold him so willingly, that he seemed to need his father's affection as much as Patrick needed to give it, seemed to give evidence of the grief that still sat heavy in both their hearts.
"I miss your mummy so much," Patrick told him. "And I always will. I don't want to forget her, or replace her, and I don't want you to, either. No matter what happens, she will always be with us, because we love her."
In that moment Patrick wished more than anything that he could have spoken to her. That he could have asked Marianne what she thought about this, his taking a new wife, making a new family for himself. He wanted to know whether she would have approved of Sister Bernadette, whether she would trust her to raise Timothy in the way Marianne would have wanted. He wanted, desperately, to know whether she would hate him for taking another woman into his bed. He liked to think not; he liked to think she would have wanted him to be happy, and loved, that she would have wanted him to have someone to stand beside him, to keep the loneliness and the grief at bay, to guide him when his wild heart ran away with him. But was that truly what she would have wished, or only his own heart trying to justify his actions in any way he could?
"Your mummy didn't want you to be sad," he said, though his voice was choked with tears. "She wanted you to be loved, always. And Sister Bernadette will love you, and look after you, if you want her to."
"And will she love you, too?" Timothy asked him, his little voice muffled where he had burrowed against Patrick's chest.
"I think she might." Christ I hope she will, that she does.
Tim took a very deep breath then, and sat up straight. Composing himself with a dignity that was surprising in a child so young he seemed almost to square his shoulders, and though there were tears on his little cheeks his voice was steady when he spoke.
"Then I think she should come to live with us. I think you should marry her."
Relief and sorrow washed over Patrick in waves, alternating with each breath he took. It was what he wanted, for Timothy to agree to his marriage to Bernadette, to fill their home with love and with laughter, to make whole what death had shattered. But there was still grief, even in the midst of hope, for no amount of love could erase the memory of the loss that had come before. Perhaps that was simply the way of life, that good and bad, love and loss, sorrow and joy existed together; perhaps one could not be had without the other.
"I think so, too. But it's her choice. Leaving the church is a very big decision for her, and she needs time to think it through."
"But she will, won't she? She'll want to come home?"
Perhaps the decision seemed as simple to Timothy as it did to Patrick. A child's view of life was after all uncomplicated by the morals and the dilemmas that so restricted the lives of grownups. He did not understand, truly, what it was Sister Bernadette would have to give up, the risk she was taking. It was not only her soul that hung in the balance, but her reputation, her future. It would be difficult for her, he knew, nigh on unbearable, to return to this place with her head uncovered, to walk down the street and know that every person passing by would see her, and know that she had chosen a man over God. She was risking ridicule, and derision, for her appearance alone would speak of the desire that had swayed her, that she had found the vow of chastity too burdensome to maintain and cast aside the grace of the church for the glory of the marital bed, the enticing call of a child and a man of her own. He was asking so much of her, and he felt he had so little to offer in return, but he would give her everything he had, the very world if he could, just to know the joy of holding her.
"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "But I hope that she will."
There was nothing more he could say; there was nothing left to him but hope.