9 July 1958
Silence was an old friend to Shelagh Mannion. She had first understood the meaning of silence and the damage it could do when she was six years old, and her mother died. Silence fell on her home that day; before it had always been full of laughter and singing, her mother's gentle voice weaving in and through the air that surrounded Shelagh's childhood, casting a spell of comfort and serenity over her. In the absence of that voice silence festered, and the old protective incantations left her; it was the first time she had known grief, and it would not be the last.
Silence had followed her, after that. The silence of her father, who had been a good man, who loved her, but did not know how to speak to a child, how to counsel a girl who was lost without her mother, who nursed his own broken heart without ever speaking of his pain. Then he, too, had died, and her world had grown quieter still. There had been moments of cacophony next, in London, but the war was not without its own silences; the breath held tight while the wireless relayed news from the front, the ghostly stillness after the last bomb had fallen and fear lingered. Then came the silent corridors of the London late in the evenings, the silence of her little room in the Nurse's Home when her fellows were all sleeping peacefully and she was left awake and full of questions. The silence of the Order, after, had been an altogether different sort of silence; it was a holy silence, buzzing with the ethereal blessing of the Almighty. The silence of the Mother House had been a comfort.
And there had been silence in Poplar, though it was different to anything else she had ever known before. The silence between the words she shared with Doctor Turner, long pauses fraught with meaning and longing looks that lingered in the stillness. She had thought, before now, that she knew what that silence held. She had thought, before now, that she could almost guess what he was thinking, that it was love that bloomed in the cracks of that silence. It had to have been love that led him to kiss her hand, to write to her so passionately, to abandon his surgery and come flying to Chichester to retrieve her, love that made him kiss her as she had not ever really been kissed before. It had to have been love, she thought, but though that love had been given voice at last silence had come for her once again.
Silence had fallen in the car, as they drove through the gathering dark. Young Timothy had been full of questions, at first, wanting to know whether she'd received his butterfly, whether she had any diagnosis to give. He wanted to know what he ought to call her now - they had settled on Auntie Shelagh, the three of them together. Auntie was a not uncommon term of endearment in their corner of the world, often used for women who bore no blood relation to the children who spoke it, and though it seemed a bit strange to hear her given name in the mouth of a child she supposed she would adjust to it, in time. The last question he had asked before drifting into sleep in the warmth and comfort of the car's big back seat was when are you going to come live with us?
Patrick had taken it upon himself to answer that one; Auntie Shelagh and I will have to discuss it, he'd said. But then Tim had dozed off, and silence had returned, and now Shelagh could not fathom how to break it, though she dearly longed to.
When would she be moving in with them? Were they properly engaged, now, or was there more a ceremonious proposal to come? Would Patrick fancy a long proposal and a perfectly planned wedding, or would he rather take her home, take her to bed, as soon as he was able? If they wed too soon, wouldn't people talk? But, oh, if they waited too long Shelagh had no idea what she'd do with herself. Trixie had helped to arrange a room for her, but Sister Julienne had made it clear that once she married - if she married - she would no longer be a midwife. She would be, as Chummy had been, cast adrift. Oh, Chummy had returned to them in times of strife and found her own calling in the mother and baby home, but it had not ever been the same, after.
Nothing's ever going to be the same again, Shelagh thought, twisting her hands together in her lap as anxiety began to swell beneath the pressure of that silence. No more Nonnatus House, no more lauds, no more compline, no more late night callouts for deliveries, no more Horlicks with the nurses, no more habit, no more Sister Bernadette. But who I am, she wondered, if I am not her?
"You're thinking very loudly," Patrick said softly from the seat beside her. And then, quite to her surprise, he reached out and covered her busy hands with his own. His one hand engulfed both of hers, his palm warm but scratchy and hard from years of hot water and Dettol. Oh, how she loved that hand; his hands were the first piece of him she had ever encountered, the day they met and those hands settled warm and heavy on her hips, and those hands had featured prominently in her dreams of him. Those hands were comfort, and security, his touch a quiet reminder of the promises he had made to her. Promises not to abandon her, promises to love her, to provide for her, to give her a home. She had not known, before he touched her, what she ought to say to him, or even if she had the courage to speak at all, but the answer lay within the folded nest of their hands. Yes, her entire life was about to change, was changing already. Yes, she did not know the way ahead, hardly even knew where to begin. But for the first time in her entire life, she knew she did not have to find the answers to those questions alone. Whatever happened next, they would face it together.
"I'm just a bit...confused," she answered slowly. "Oh, Patrick, there's so much to do, and I hardly know where to begin."
"First things first, I suppose," he said. "You told me Trixie has arranged lodgings for you. Are you...I don't mean to pry, but...well, how are you set for money? It's not as if you've been earning a wage, these last few years. I don't want you to find yourself in strife."
"I have a little," she told him. In fact she had precisely 100 pounds. Enough to see her through for a few months, and while it had seemed a fortune when Mother Jesu first handed it to her now she began to whether it would stretch so far as she'd hoped. While it was not a pressing need she rather thought she ought to buy some clothes; three outfits seemed an extravagance compared to the single habit she'd worn for the last ten years, but her garments were terribly out of date, and she did not want to embarrass Patrick, should they be seen out together. There was food and lodging to pay for, and if the engagement stretched out for a year or more, her hundred pounds would not sustain her. What then should she do? Perhaps Patrick was asking because he wanted to offer his aid, to do what he could to ensure that his fiance was not kept in poverty, but the last thing she wanted was to ask him for money. I could go to Sister Julienne, she thought then. I don't know what I'll do with myself, if I'm not working, and surely they'll need some assistance without me there.
"A little," Patrick mused softly. "I have a suggestion, if you're open to it."
"Of course I am, Patrick," she answered at once. It seemed she could hardly speak a sentence without saying his name, but she so loved to hear it, loved to know that she was allowed this intimacy, now, that the barriers which had for so long separated them were being torn down. He was Patrick, now, not Doctor, and just saying his name filled her heart with joy.
"I was going to ask you, after we wed, if you'd like to start work as my receptionist in the surgery. I've not had one for over a year now and...well, record keeping has never been my strong suit. The job comes with a salary, if you're interested, and it might help you to keep busy. Stop you from fretting." As if to smooth any ruffled feathers that last observation might have left he lifted one of her hands to his lips, and kissed her palm gently. And then he laced their fingers together, and brought their joined hands to rest against his thigh, and Shelagh's heart began to race. What a dear man he was! He had known, without her saying so, that idleness would drive her to distraction, and he had just neatly provided her with an opportunity not only to keep herself occupied but to spend more time with him. And in the joining of their hands Shelagh felt as if she could sense their lives joining together, too, everything slotting into place exactly as it was meant to.
"I think that's a wonderful idea, Patrick," she answered earnestly. A smile bloomed across his face as she answered, and in that smile she saw relief, and joy, and reason to hope.
"Good," he said. "That's that settled. Now, the next pressing matter - will you join us for dinner?"
Shelagh's first impulse was to say yes, please. To sit in their little flat with Patrick and Timothy, or perhaps at a cozy table in some cafe, to eat a warm meal and catch a glimpse of what their life together might be like seemed to her the best possible ending to what had so far been the most monumental day of her life. And yet she hesitated; it would be dark by the time they reached Poplar. Though she did not doubt that Timothy's presence would temper any sort of affection between herself and Patrick and keep their interactions on the right side of the line of propriety, the meal would eventually end, and she would need to go in search of her lodgings. She wasn't expected until the following day, and she was not certain her room would be ready. And even if it was, what would the landlady think should she turn up unannounced late in the evening, with a gentleman beside her and no ring upon her finger? It hardly seemed an auspicious beginning. But she could not stay the night in Patrick's flat, either; he only had the two bedrooms, Patrick in one and Timothy in the other, and no proper place for her to sleep. And if anyone saw her walking out of the flat in the early morning sunlight, tongues would wag.
"I think perhaps it's best if I don't," she said finally. Patrick's face fell as she spoke, and she understood it, for she regretted the decision she had made, however logical it might have been. "I think perhaps I'd like to go to Nonnatus House, if that's all right with you. I need to speak with the Sisters, and I can move into my new room tomorrow."
"If you think that's best." He was not pouting, exactly, but there was a defeated slump to his shoulders she liked not one bit. How changeable he could be, this man she loved; his every emotion played out upon his face, and he swung from one to the other so quickly it sometimes left her feeling a bit dizzy. But that was one of the things she liked about him best, for he did not ever hide himself from her. His every word was genuine, and each time she looked into his eyes she saw how deeply he cared for her.
"Oh, Patrick," she sighed, giving his hand a little squeeze. "I do want to go with you. I don't ever want to leave you. But there's going to be a lot of talk, when people find out what's happened. They're going to say all sorts of things. Your reputation might suffer, and I won't do anything to make things more difficult for you. We're going to have to do things properly."
"I suppose that's true," he said, a bit ruefully. "But it isn't my reputation I'm worried about. It's yours. You're right to be concerned about what people might say, and I'm afraid they might treat you rather more harshly than they do me."
Shelagh rather thought he was right. That always seemed to be the way of it, that men could do whatever they fancied, take their pleasure wherever they wished, and be afforded a certain grace, their misdeeds dismissed with a wry smile and a joke about how he was quite a ladies' man. It went rather differently, for women. There was nothing she could do to change it now, she thought; what's done is done. Let them say what they like.
"Let them say what they like," she said aloud. "You and I will know the truth, and that's what matters. But I do want us to be careful, Patrick."
"I promise," he said, kissing her hand again, as if he drew as much strength and comfort from that connection as she did herself. "I will always be careful with you."
Shelagh smiled and leaned back against the seat, her hand still held tight in his own. Though evening had fallen all around them the little car was racing into the heart of Poplar, and the street lights and twinkling lamps from the surrounding homes and businesses banished the darkness, and sparkled on her face like stars. We've made a start, she thought. And it was, she thought, a very fine start indeed.