Chapter 10

Instinct, more than replenishment of spirit, woke Sister Bernadette the next morning. She laid on her stomach, her arms tucked under her pillow, her hair in an angry tangle around her face. She remained still and watched as each breath disturb her hair.

It had been a very long time since she had woken up like this. Her hair hadn't been free during her sleep since she'd joined the Order and the last time she had slept on her stomach…

The last time was probably the night before she took her vows. When she laid on her stomach and her chin rested on the pillow and her hand clung to Michael's picture.

Thinking about him, about taking her vows eleven years ago, shocked the grogginess from her body. She sat up quickly, rubbed her eyes, and retrieved her glasses from the nightstand.

On her dresser, she had a simple brush. She picked it up and began to brush out the knots. She thought it was rather stupid of her – rather rash – to have gone to sleep without her cap on last night. How dumb she had been. She began to brush more aggressively, as if flagellating herself with each tiny tug of pain. When she looked into the mirror to monitor her progress, she saw the pile of clothes reflected back.

Behind her, on the far side of her bed, she had folded and discarded her clothes on the floor. Just left them out in the open for anyone to see. How stupid she really had been. (The truth was, she had been so tired when she arrived back at Nonnatus House – so emotionally and spiritually and physically tired – that she would rather have been caught than expend the energy hiding.)

She finished brushing her hair out and hurriedly tied it back in a bun. Then she covered her hair with her cap, before retrieving the clothes off the floor. She stroked the soft blouse. She should wait until later, after the excitement of the summer fete, to slip the clothes into the donation closet. For now, though, she needed to hide them and so she opened her drawer and tucked them in the bottom under her nightdress.

And now, with Dr Turner's gift hidden and her cap in place, the past seemed buried.

Slowly, she made her bed and dressed. The movements were habitual and mechanic. The whole morning ritual was like a meditation. Silence. Serenity. That was what she wanted from her religious life.

Before first light peaked into her room, Sister Bernadette sat on the edge of her bed, dressed once again in her habit. In her lap, she held her bible opened. Though she was looking down at the page, the ink seemed to blur all together. The words weren't visible to her.

/-/-

The energy of the summer fete had enlivened her spirits. When a crowd began to form, waiting for the cub's musical performance, she had let herself be swept in that direction.

Without thinking, Sister Bernadette scanned the crowd for friendly faces. She spied Sister Monica Joan and some of the nurses, but her focus quickly settled on Dr Turner. He was much closer to the stage than she. He had his hands tucked in his pockets and a huge smile on his face. She made to push forward through the crowd to join him and cheer with him for Timothy, but then the music started and the rush of enthusiasm from the crowd made her pause. Suddenly, she thought it would be best if she stayed where she was.

Her desire to say hello to Dr Turner, to be near friends during the play, battled with her impulse to remain where she was. But finally her unconscious thoughts revealed themselves.

She looked over at Dr Turner, saw him laugh at Timothy's arrival. If she moved closer to him, if she stood next to him, she would be able to smell the traces of lavender in his clothes soap, the clean scent of his aftershave, the muskiness of him.

And, if she could smell him, then she would be reminded of the taste of him. She would be reminded of the feel of his chest under her hand, the sensation of his stubble grazing her palm.

The sound of high-pitched, slightly off-key singing brought Sister Bernadette back to the present.

The boys were so merry and wonderful, barely able to contain their giggles. She was grateful for the innocent interruption and kept her eyes on Timothy as he tried to imitate a girl's voice. She remembered him saying that he had been unhappy about being casted as Maid Marian, but he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He had a huge smile and was hamming up his part opposite Jack.

After only a few minutes into their musical, she couldn't keep her eyes trained on the boys and they strayed back towards where the Doctor stood. She loved watching him watch Timothy. He always had such a genuine, wide smile for the boy. He was no good at hiding his emotions and it was always so plain and clear how much he loved the boy. It made her smile that kind of affection, the way she knew the Turner family would be all right in the end.

But when Dr Turner's expression fell, when he rushed away with Nurse Lee, she knew something tragic had happened. She worried for the patient and sent a quick prayer after them. But then her eyes returned to the stage and her heart fell at the sight of Timothy's disappointment – at the way his shoulders slumped immediately; how his acting went flat; how, for the rest of the musical, he seemed bored.

/-/-

There had been no need for him to go out to that call. There was nothing more he could do that Sister Julienne was not already seeing to. The Flying Squad arrived shortly after him. He was mad with himself for being mad at Nurse Lee and guilty that he was more upset with missing Timothy's play than the condition of his patient, but these were the truths.

He rubbed his face, but the twinge of his hangover with still lingering just behind his tired eyes. He had woken up that morning when the sun pierced through his bedroom window, wounding his sensitive eyes. There was a gentle pulsing between his ears that made it hard for him to think clearly. He laid in bed for a while, regretting a number of decisions he had made the night before. Not the least of which was continuing to drink well into the night.

He had kissed Sister Bernadette. But, amazingly, she wasn't upset with him. Then, he had touched her inappropriately. And, still, she wasn't angry. She was insistent that he had done nothing wrong. He knew her well enough to think that, had she been made uncomfortable, she would have told him.

A half hour later, Patrick was in the kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee to his nose and inhaling the scent deeply. He hadn't drunk coffee until the war, and he hadn't appreciated coffee until he married Marion, who could brew the perfect aromatic pot. No sugar or milk needed; no bitter bite or sludgy grounds to swallow as an aftertaste. Morning coffee smelled like her.

"Dad! Are you ready!"

Timothy's voice pierced the entire house and Patrick winced a little as it hurt his ears.

"Ready?" he called back.

The little cub raced inside with his pack slung haphazardly over his shoulders. He tossed it down next to the sofa and opened his mouth in disbelief. "The fete! It's starting in twenty minutes."

Patrick glanced up at the clock in surprise. It was much later than he had realized. But he tried to stay calm – if for nothing else than his own aching brain. "Ok. I'll go get dressed. Why don't you wash up – and put your things away properly."

Timothy grumbled, but did as asked.

Timothy's energy was so effervescent that Patrick couldn't help but be reinvigorated by him. By the time they reached the fete, Patrick was happy and smiling. He was stopped by patients and neighbours at every step and Timothy quickly snuck away from him to find his friends. Patrick was soon plied with drinks and sweets and sandwiches. He exchanged small talk and laughed at jokes, but the whole time he was scanning the crowds for any sign of Sister Bernadette. He just wanted to know that she was ok.

By the time Timothy's musical was set to start, he still hadn't been able to find her, but he had hoped that she would come stand with him. But she never did and then Nurse Lee pulled him away.

So here he was, angry and searching for Timothy to desperately apologize, but he couldn't find the boy anywhere. Until, suddenly, he realized the time and knew he should be with Timothy for the three-legged race. He rushed to the course in time to see that he was already late. Another blow to Timothy's trust.

But then – he saw Timothy and Sister Bernadette leading the pack. He raced to keep up with them, to cheer them on. He thought perhaps he saw Timothy become more determined once he heard his father's voice. They sprinted to the end and collapsed in a laughing heap at the end.

He was glad to see that Sister Bernadette seemed happy and calm when he approached her. He was glad that she smiled at him and joked with him. He was glad that she wasn't suddenly estranged from him, despite the habit that separated them.

He knew that there was no reason for him to follow her into the Parish Hall. Certainly, a little graze on the pavement didn't merit a doctor, but he had hoped to speak with her since he'd arrived and the idea of a moment alone was too much to pass up.

After taking a moment to check in on Timothy, he entered the hall. He heard the faucet and made his way into the kitchen to see her running her hand under cold water.

"Would you like me to have a look at that?"

He startled her, but she turned to him and agreed.

He knew it was a bit silly for him to ask to look at her hand. He could see from across the kitchen that it was just a scrap. It needed nothing more than a good cleaning and some cold water to numb the pain, all of which Sister Bernadette could do on her own.

But he had wanted to help. He wanted a reason for her to need him. And he was a little surprised at her easy agreement.

She offered her hand to him and he took it, cupping it in his left hand like a holy object – because she was holy in a way to him. Precious and perfect.

Her hand, he noticed without meaning to, was everything it was last night: cool and soft and pale. Now, though, he had the time to study it, to notice how slender her fingers were, how tiny her hand was in his.

The scrap was a bit worse that he'd thought. More of a cut than a graze. He brought his right hand to inspect it, but quickly realized that it wouldn't need stitches. Surprisingly, it didn't even seem to be bleeding. There wasn't anything he could do to help beyond telling her what she already knew.

How many times had he held her hand now, he wondered. It felt so natural to hold it, to stroke his thumb along the base of her hand; so natural to want to kiss her better.

The thought crossed his mind – or rather, the recognition of an impulse to lean forward and kiss her hand. It was silly, but he wanted to do something sweet, something helpful, something to make her smile.

His lips pressed against the slightly calloused skin just at the base of her fingers. He felt the landscape of her hands – soft and delicate; firm and toughened – before her hand was snatched away from him.

His mind, still a little clouded from last night's drink and late hours, took a moment to register what he had done and how she had reacted.

When he straightened, when he looked at her, a few things were abundantly clear: she had turned away from him; she was in her habit; they were in a public place; he had done something horribly wrong.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head, disappointed with himself. "That was unforgiveable."

"Who is it who decides what is forgivable and unforgiveable."

Her voice broke a little, in a way both adorable and tragic.

He didn't really know what to say. He was sure, at least, that he would never forgive his own stupidity.

"I think you know that better than I do."

She turned, as if she wanted to look at him, but she didn't. She stilled halfway between keeping her back to him and turning to find comfort in him.

"At this moment, I only know that I'm not turning my back on you because of you, I'm doing it because of him."

Was he supposed to take comfort from that? From her constant willingness to forgive him for his indiscretions? For his lack of discipline around her?

"And if I didn't accept that, I wouldn't deserve to live."

He knew that any clarity he had helped her find last night, he had robbed her of now.

Leaving her like this was the last thing he wanted to do, but the only thing that seemed right. He turned and fled back into the bright summer afternoon and the buzz of happy conversation and felt terribly out of place.

/-/-

Sister Bernadette was the first to return to Nonnatus House. Sister Julienne and Nurse Lee were still with their patient; the others were still delighting in the mid-afternoon treats and games. Sister Bernadette, instead, went straight to her room.

She was not mad at Dr Turner. That was the only thing she was absolutely certain of. His kiss was gentle and beautiful and meant out of love, not cruelty. And she had delighted in it, for just a moment, before the full weight of reality overcame her.

Things had gone too far between them. If she were going to make a decision about leaving the Order, it had to be her decision. It had to be the right decision. To think she left for the Doctor, to think she left simply to delight in a man's attentions, would be wrong.

Back in her room, she paces the length of it, then the width.

For no particular reason, she remembered Doctor Turner's gift tucked away in her dresser and her promise to dispose of them during the chaos of the afternoon.

She took them out carefully – the blouse, the skirt, the shoes he got her – and carried them as furtively as she could downstairs. The key to the donation closet was in Sister Julienne's office, but she hesitated outside the door. It suddenly seemed wrong to her to donate the clothes, for they weren't hers to donate. Dr Turned bought them and he should decide what he wished to do with them. She went into the kitchen and found some brown paper to wrap the clothes and a discarded box to store the shoes.

Everyone would be at the fete, including the Doctor with his son. The surgery would be closed today, she knew, but she had access to the keys to get in. She took them and stored the packet on the back of her bike.

As she rode away from the fete and onto the main road, she made a decision. If she were going to choose to leave the Order, it had to be for her and not for Dr Turner. She would give herself a month of reflection. A month where she would try her best to avoid the Doctor; she would see him for professional reasons only. No more casual chats during clinic. No more shared cigarettes in private. Certainly, no more secret "holidays".

The list felt like hardest fast she had ever been asked to endure. But she knew that it must be done. A regiment of fast and prayer and, at the end, she would decide.

When she arrived at the surgery, she saw that she was right. The surgery was dark and quiet. She slipped in without being noticed, set the brown package on his desk, and slipped out.