10 July 1958
The pink dress might have been a mistake, Shelagh thought to herself as she settled behind the receptionist's desk in the surgery's small waiting room. It was a beautiful dress, and perfectly acceptable, perfectly lovely for someone like Trixie, young and vibrant and utterly unconcerned what people thought of her. The dress fit Shelagh, mostly, though it was a bit longer on her than it was when Trixie wore it - which was all for the good, Shelagh thought - but it was much more snug than the habit she'd grown accustomed to over the last decade, and the thought of going out in public dressed this way was daunting. The dress hid absolutely nothing; oh the neckline was perfectly demure and the hemline was perfectly appropriate for a doctor's receptionist, but Shelagh still felt very distinctly on display. When Patrick was looking at her, smiling that dear smile, hardly blinking as if he feared she would vanish if he closed his eyes for even a second, she didn't think that being on display was such a bad thing; she wanted him to look at her, and to like what he saw when he did. But she feared she might change her tune when the patients started arriving. What would they think when they saw her, saw that she had hips and breasts and honey-gold hair, that she was very clearly no longer a nun? Would they be full of questions, and would any of them be bold enough to ask, or would they sit back and stew in all sorts of unpleasant thoughts, drawing all sorts of - not entirely unfounded - conclusions about the morality of the decision she'd made?
They can say what they like, she told herself for perhaps the tenth time that day. I love Patrick, and he loves me, and that's all that matters.
She wished it was as easy to believe as it was to say. When they were alone, when he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently, Shelagh felt as if she could face any trial, as if there were no obstacle too great for her to overcome it with Patrick by her side. When she was alone with him her heart felt light, and wild, and free, and there was no price she would not pay, just to be with him.
Only he wasn't with her now; he was doing his rounds at the maternity home, and had given her a few minutes' peace in which she could familiarize herself with his diary. And so she sat, crossing her legs at the ankles and trying to ignore the way Cynthia's shoes pinched her toes, and opened the great black book that ostensibly dictated every moment of Patrick's professional life.
The first thing she noticed, upon opening that diary, was that he seemed to take a rather lackadaisical approach to penmanship. The letters he'd written to her had been legible enough, though it had been clear to her that his hand had been shaking while he poured his heart out to her. The diary was something else entirely; notes were scribbled here and there, some of them all but unintelligible. She squinted at the book, grinning; sloppy record keeping shouldn't have been endearing, but just now ever new discovery she made concerning Patrick and his habits only served to make her love him more. He did not have the time, during the course of his working day, to slow down and take clean notes; he moved quickly, always, trying to help as many people as he could, less worried with protocol than he was with offering aid. Often Patrick had a somewhat harried air about him, perpetually running behind schedule, his jacket often wrinkled, his hat sitting at a haphazard angle. He was a dear man who gave all of himself to others, and Shelagh rather liked the idea of becoming his partner, helping to smooth out the wrinkles so that he could devote himself to his work, and worry less. She wanted to ease his worry, wanted to smooth the furrow between his eyebrows with her thumb, wanted to help his practice to thrive, wanted him to be able to rest with her, because of her. He deserved that, she thought, a chance to rest.
The first patient of the day was Mr. Murrows, suffering from arthritis, scheduled to meet with Doctor Turner at 9:00 a.m. Shelagh gave quiet thanks for that, for she had not ever met Mr. Murrows, and did not think he would have any cause to recognize her. Perhaps, she thought, the quiet bubble of happiness she and Patrick had drawn around themselves could last just a little while longer. The surgery was quiet, there was a hot cup of tea close to hand, Patrick would be coming back from the maternity home any minute now, and all was well, she thought.
The serenity of the moment was not meant to last, however, for as Shelagh sat carefully copying the day's appointments in a neater hand the door of the surgery burst open, and Fred came rushing in, his little grandson in his arms.
"Oh, excuse me, Miss," he said, hardly even bothering to look at her as she rose to her feet; he was much too consumed with little Anthony, who was wiggling about, eager to put his feet on the ground. "I know the surgery's not open yet, but I was…"
Fred seemed to lose his voice, then, for at last he looked up, looked at her properly, and his mouth fell open in shock.
"Bloody hell," he said, and then promptly blushed like a schoolgirl. "Sorry, Sister, I mean to say, well, that's not right, is it? You're not a Sister any more. I heard you were coming back but I didn't, well, that is, I didn't think, I mean-"
"Catch your breath, Fred!" she told him, smiling despite the awkwardness of the situation. "It's only me."
"It is you, isn't it?" he said, "only it isn't you, if you catch my meaning."
"I'm the same person I've always been," she said earnestly. "I just go by a different name now, that's all."
"Begging your pardon, Sister, but that is only the tip of the iceberg."
He was staring at her like he'd never seen anything so strange in all his life, which Shelagh supposed he hadn't. It wasn't exactly common, for nuns to leave the Order and return to their old haunts. To rescind one's vows, to step away from the convent, was a shameful thing, in most people's eyes, and she supposed that most women would have more sense than she, would not thrust themselves into a sea of gossip and innuendo and judgment. And yet Shelagh had done this thing, willingly, done it because she loved Patrick, and she loved Poplar, and she loved her patients, and she believed, truly, that they were meant for one another, Shelagh and her love. She had done it all because she believed in them, because she believed their hope for the future was worth any minor discomfort now.
And Fred meant well, she knew he did. He was just shocked; Trixie had told Shelagh that news of her engagement had not been made public, that only the members of the tight-knit Nonnatun community knew that she was returning, and even they did not know why. Surely none of them would suspect a thing, would never have imagined that their Doctor and their Sister Bernadette could have fallen in love without anyone noticing, could have meant so much to one another that she would leave the Order for his sake. And Fred was right, too, that her name was not the only thing that had changed; her appearance, her position, her very profession had changed. Was she unrecognizable to them, now? Would all of these friendships she had developed over the last decade, the relationships that had sustained her and supported her and nurtured her, be rendered obsolete? Would she have to start over fresh with each of them now?
If I must, she thought, then I will. Starting here.
"You can call me Shelagh, Fred," she told him, leaving the desk so that she could come stand beside him. "Or Miss Mannion, if you're feeling formal. Now, I'm sure you didn't stop by just to see me."
"No," Fred agreed, though he still looked somewhat flabbergasted, as if he could hardly believe she was standing in front of him. "It's little Anthony. I'm supposed to take him to see his mum at the hospital this afternoon but he's got this rash on his back, and I wanted the doc to take a look at him."
"Doctor's in the maternity home just now, Fred, but if you'll pop through to his office I'll see that he comes to see you straight away."
"Thank you, Shelagh." He laughed. "That's going to take some getting used to. Fancy that, eh? I never thought to wonder what your proper name is. Now I can't stop thinking about Sister Evangelina. Doesn't seem right, calling her by another name."
Her name was Enid once, and never will be again, I'd wager. Shelagh thought.
"Say, what are you doing here, anyway?" Fred asked. He'd only taken one step towards the Doctor's office, and had already managed to get himself distracted, watching her curiously while little Anthony still fought valiantly to escape for more interesting pursuits.
"I'm going to be Doctor's receptionist now, Fred," Shelagh told him. She chose her words carefully; there was no ring upon her finger, and she and Patrick had not yet discussed it amongst themselves, how they wanted to reveal the status of their relationship. It didn't seem right, somehow, to just go and tell Fred; surely she ought to talk to the other Sisters first, or to the nurses. Surely Patrick ought to have been with her, when she finally spoke the truth aloud.
"Oh, but don't you want to be a midwife, Sis - Shelagh? I'm sure there's still room for you at Nonnatus. And I know everyone will miss you if you're not there."
"What's all this?"
Patrick's gentle voice was always welcome, but in that moment Shelagh felt more relieved to hear it than she ever had done before.
"Fred's come about Anthony," Shelagh told him as he strode over to join them. "It seems he's got a little rash."
"Well, let's go and have a look at it then, shall we?"
Patrick clapped Fred on the back with one hand and gestured toward his office with the other. The arrival of the Doctor seemed to have caused Fred to forget his question entirely, for which Shelagh was very grateful. It would be for the best, she thought, to put such questions and answers off for another time. This day was challenging enough as it was, and she did not want to add any more worries to the pile she'd collected already.
"Oh, and Shelagh," Patrick added, turning back towards her just as he and Fred reached the threshold of his office, "could you-"
"I'll bring your tea through, Doctor," she answered before he could finish asking his question. Patrick's face split into a gentle smile, his eyes so very warm, focused only on her, and all her troubles seemed to melt away, if only for a moment.
"Thank you," he said, and then and Fred were stepping through the doorway.
"You sly old dog," Fred said the moment the door closed behind them. Patrick turned to look at him sharply, utterly at a loss as to what he meant, what could have possibly inspired him to say such a thing. But then he took note of the smug expression on Fred's face, the knowing look in his eyes, and Patrick's shoulders slumped as he was forced to admit defeat before the battle had even begun.
"Yes, all right," he said, gesturing for Fred to have a seat. "Just between us, Shelagh and I...well. We're going to be married."
"Married," Fred repeated, looking shocked and delighted in almost equal measure. "Married! To a nun! Doc, I never would have guessed, never in a million years."
"Yes, well," Patrick muttered, staring at his toes. "We didn't exactly advertise it. But please, Fred, please keep this just between us, just for now. Things are going to be difficult enough as it is."
"Mum's the word," Fred said, touching his finger to his nose. "No one will hear about it from me."
"Thank you," Patrick told him earnestly. "Now then, let's have a look at this little chap, eh?"