Chapter 7

Tuesday clinics were his favourite time of the week. He liked the certainty of them. Every Tuesday, without fail, he arrived at the Parish Hall to see the same faces – the same nuns, the same nurses. Always, they set the space up in the same exact way. Always, there was a fresh pot of tea waiting for him. Always, the nurses and nuns smiled and greeted him and then opened the doors. Their patients' faces were usually different – and yet, they were the same. They were the faces of Poplar he saw every day in the streets, on his rounds, in his surgery, here even at the clinic. They were familiar and the same, even if they were new.

He loved that consistency. When Marion was ill, he measured time by clinic. After she died, he lived week to week, clinic to clinic.

As the clinic was drawing to an end, Dr Turner stood in front of the kitchen window. In one hand, he held a cooling cup of tea; in the other, a half-eaten biscuit. He looked out into the hall and enjoyed the calming wall of chaos. Mothers were chatting, children were playing, the midwives were steadily pushing through their long list of patients.

He noticed, in the corner, that Sister Bernadette had finished clearing away the urine testing station. Then, she headed for the hall doors. He watched her pass by a group of mothers. The one, Mrs. Henderson, spoke to her. Sister Bernadette twisted from the waist to look at her, to smile and wave, but she didn't slow. Dr Turner knew she clearly was on a mission, otherwise she would have been polite, she would have stopped and spoke and probably crouched down to offer some kind words to Mrs. Henderson's little boy.

While Sister Bernadette cleared the threshold of the Parish Hall, Dr Turner nibbled on the side of his biscuit.

There was something else he loved about clinic: the certainty of seeing her. The certainty that Sister Bernadette would approach him as soon as he had arrived. A bit of pleasant chatter. Maybe an inquiry about Timothy. Usually, she was the one who poured him a cup of tea and offered him his first biscuit. On the weeks she worked the weighing station or check-in, he could usually find a moment of respite to sneak over and chat. When he did, she always smiled at him, like she was glad he was offering a short mental break. And if he was unfortunate enough to be scolded back to work by Sister Evangelina, Sister Bernadette always smiled at him conspiratorially and he'd wag his eyebrows at her and leave her to her work. And when clinic was over and the Parish Hall was tidied up, he made a point of finding her and telling her she'd done a good job. Most days, they said nothing beyond that. But once in a while, they'd get a minute or two together. And, even rarer than that, he'd make her eyes light up with laughter.

It wasn't until the hall door opened and Dr Turner spotted a wimple that he realized he'd been watching the door the entire time, waiting for Sister Bernadette's return.

She opened the door with her back. Once she turned around, he could see that she was carrying a heavy looking crate. There was the sound of glasses rattling against each other. She could hardly see over the crate to tell where her feet were going.

He set down his cup and biscuit before he realized what he was doing. In five long strides, he had intercepted her.

He placed his hands on the box, already taking the bulk of the weight from her. His hands were so close to hers, the sides of his hands grazed hers. They were soft and a little cold, just like he remembered them.

That thought – his rather intimate knowledge of her hands – made him blush and his words tumbled out of his mouth. "Let me – I can, I'll take this for you."

Right along her check bone, her pale skin turned pink. He wanted to smile at her, but that blush of hers was distracting him. Was she also reminded of their holiday, just three days ago standing in a dancehall, holding hands, pressing against each other, brazenly defying all of the rules?

She lifted her chin and looked up at him. A small, reserved smile settled on her face. Finally, he found the control to smile down at her. A big, bright, happy smile. Because he was happy, he realized. He was always happy when he was with her. And that did it – his smile made her smile grow until her eyes were lit up so brightly that she had to look away from him. She finally released the crate into his control and he walked off with it into the back kitchen.

After he'd stashed the crate out of the way, he retrieved his tea cup and went to rinse it out. But then, quite suddenly, he remembered that Sister Julienne had asked him to speak with Sister Bernadette, so he could write up a report on how the charity money would best be spent. Instead, he smiled and refilled his cup. He'd hang around and wait for the Parish Hall to be tidied up, then he and Sister Bernadette could speak in private.

/-/-

"I think it's dreadful to waste your time like this," was the first thing she said to him.

She had helped clean up after the clinic and washed the dishes. The rest of the nuns and nurses had left and now she seemed focused on her earlier task. She lifted the crate Dr Turner had earlier stashed in there and placed it by the sink.

He sighed and gently scolded: "Just tell me what you want, Sister." Then he brought his cigarette to his lips and watched her work.

"Very well." She gave a brief sigh and he thought it was perfectly adorable that she worried about wasting his time when he would like nothing better than to be there with her.

When she revealed that there wasn't enough hot water, he was a little surprised. He blew out a cloud of smoke and asked, "Isn't there?"

He stubbed out his cigarette while she explained. He supposed he never noticed the hot water; there was probably so much the nuns and nurses took care of that he never noticed.

"We struggle with these spirit lamps," she said next and pulled one from the crate. He moved a little close to her, to see them better. "They're so old-fashioned and so fragile."

They were small and Dr Turner nodded. "They must break so easily," he said and took one from her to look it over.

"Yes, and the wicks get damp and they won't burn."

It wasn't the words she said that caught his attention, but the way she said them. There was a sudden change in the pitch of her voice. And a breathiness, too, like she couldn't quite say the words fast enough but didn't have the air.

He looked down at her and suddenly he realized how close they were to one another. He could so easily reach out and brush his fingertips over her cheek. He could lean down and press his lips against hers. He could take one small step and wrap his arms around her waist. He could –

"Dad!"

Timothy rushed past the window. The boy's shout and his tiny pounding feet, startled them both.

Dr Turner quickly returned the lamp and turned around to greet his son.

"You're wanted at the surgery. Hello, Sister Bernadette." Dr Turner can't help but smile at his son. The shyness of his voice, the boyish smile that softened his features, the way his body swayed to contain his energy. Timothy spoke to Sister Bernadette like a schoolboy with a crush and Patrick couldn't blame him.

He heard Sister Bernadette reply. He shifted, unconsciously, towards her voice but didn't dare look at her. If he looked at her, he feared, he would be distracted by her all over again.

Then Timothy – talking about the race, their practicing.

Patrick couldn't help but smirk at the boy's excitement and confidence. He turned his head to Sister Bernadette and said, "Well, there's a crushing verdict."

But he was right. Looking at her was a mistake. Because she was smiling so sweetly, so lovingly at Timothy. And her mirth – the image of them struggling to stay in step, the honesty of Timothy's assessment – was clearly conveyed in her eyes.

He forced himself to turn away, to escort Timothy out of the room, out of the hall, away from Sister Bernadette.

It was true that lately he'd been thinking a lot about whether he ought to start dating. He wanted a feminine hand at home, for Timothy – for both of them – and he wanted a friend again. He wanted someone to share the burden, to share ideas, to give him purpose again beyond the triage of general practice.

He'd started to open up. He'd started to see the world as a happier, brighter place. And he'd found the perfect woman – a woman who was smart and witty, who could make him think, who could ease his heartache and lighten his load, who could make Timothy laugh and talk and feel comforted, who could make him feel passion and excitement just as well as she could calm his racing mind.

Well, she was almost perfect.

Before the Parish Hall doors closed, Dr Turner glanced back over his shoulder and could just barely see the navy of her habit through the kitchen window.

/-/-

Sister Bernadette had hardly been able to catch her breath since Dr Turner left. She'd tried to busy herself with tidying the spirit lamps, then with cleaning the teapot, even though it hardly needed it. Then, she decided she would give the room a quick sweep.

The kitchen didn't even need a sweep. Strictly speaking, they weren't required to sweep. There was someone who cleaned. But she needed a last task, a task in private.

For a few marvelous hours, she felt like she had found her footing again. Her holiday had proven to her that she needed time out of the habit to explore herself, to remember herself.

But the moment Dr Turner walked away, she knew in the pit of her stomach one very certain truth: she would not have taken her holiday with anyone else.

She swept between the kitchen sink and wall with unnecessary attention.

Not even Sister Julienne, she thought. Maybe, if Sister Julienne had offered the secret holiday without Sister Bernadette's prompting, then maybe she would have agreed.

She swept the entire length of the kitchen and then doubled back again.

But she wouldn't have relaxed. She wouldn't have found Shelagh's voice. She would simply have been Sister Bernadette dressed in the wrong clothes.

She swept the entire parish hall with enough vigor to exhaust her thoughts.

Her ride back to Nonnatus House was slow but her mind was silent. When she arrived home, she looked down the hall at Sister Julienne's door. She had promised herself this evening she'd speak to her Sister, but the task seemed far too daunting tonight.

Instead, Sister Bernadette went straight to the chapel. There she knelt in prayer, but her thoughts constantly strayed elsewhere.

Why was Dr Turner the only one who could have so easily swayed her to take such a selfish holiday? What was special about him?

Over the past year, their relationship had shifted. They had grown friendlier – but were they friends?

They must be, for him to be so kind to her, for her to feel so confident saying those things to him.

When she opened her eyes, a new thought occurred to her. What if, while she hadn't been paying attention, she had become more than friends with Dr Turner? What if she had grown to like him, grown attracted to his disarming smile and penetrating gaze and masculine presence? What if, while she thought she was growing to love the idea of freedom, she was actually growing to love a dream?

Sister Bernadette had gone to the chapel to pray, to collect her thoughts, to recharge her spirits.

And yet, when she was called to dinner, she felt more drained than when she'd begun.

/-/-