Patrick speaks - Part 2

"Marry me, Patrick," Marianne panted.

Patrick raised his head and rolled himself onto his side. He drew the sheets up to cover his naked body along with Marianne's, in the same state of undress, in the course of doing so. He furrowed his brow. "You know how I think about it, darling."

"Yes, and you know how I think about it. Let us get married, as long as we can."

Patrick's face became earnest. "Marianne, love, everyday I see those lads all damaged and crippled by the war. I don't want you to have to put up with me should I come back home like them one day. They are going to send me to the continent eventually. And God knows how and when I will be coming back."

Marianne shuffled closer to him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "I don't care. I love you. There is no one else I want to be with. And I want to have it all, in sickness and in health. With or without your legs or arms. I will always love you for who you are, Patrick."

They lay together in silence, the late summer sun coating Patrick's sparsely furnished room in a golden light, the curtains lazily dancing in the late summer breeze.

He was boarding with an elderly lady who had made it clear on his first day that he was not to have any lady visitors. But Patrick had soon noticed, that she was almost deaf and retired very early for the night. At present, she was away for the whole month of August, visiting family in Kent. Ever since Mrs Wilkins had left, Marianne had spent every night at Patrick's place, both enjoying this feeling of sharing their lives together.

It only took them a bit of care to not arouse the neighbours' attention, and Marianne had become an expert in sneaking in and out through the back door at odd times of the day.

Patrick groaned. They had been seeing each other for the past four months, and he had been surprised at how bold Marianne had been right away.

A few days after their first date, which hadn't really been a date, Marianne had waited for Patrick after his shift. She had suggested they have dinner at some pub and asked him to take her for a walk afterwards. He had been surprised at her initiating their first kiss. To be honest he had spent half the time of their walk debating himself whether he should give in to his urge to kiss her, only to be held back by his gentlemanly manners, firmly imprinted into his mind by his mother, Caroline Turner, who had grown up with five brothers, making her an advocate for women's rights.

After they had said their good byes and Patrick walked home from Marianne's lodgings, he briefly thought about his friend Ted who kept on still talking about how he would certainly manage to take out Nurse Parker for a second date, without her boring friend in tow.

Instead, Marianne had picked Patrick and Patrick, baffled at first, was soon in as much head over heels as his girl. He had never been in a serious relationship before. He had had quite a few flings during his days as a student and a doctor in training. A nurse from the surgical ward. A hospital receptionist. An artist, a lovely red-haired girl, who left him to be with another girl. Just before the war he had been seeing a typist. A very intelligent girl who had to earn her living early on. He had considered asking her to marry him when she left him for another man, one who made quite a bit more money than him and stuck a ring on her finger right away.

All this was now forgotten. Soon, Marianne began to regularly sneak into his room during one of the rare days off or during the nights neither was working a shift.

He remembered their first time together – not that this was suitable talk for a child. Marianne had brought a bottle of whisky a recently recovered Scottish serviceman's mother had given her to thank her for taking care of her youngest. They had had a few glasses together and one thing had led to each other. They found themselves in the heat of the moment and suddenly couldn't undress each other quickly enough. Their encounter was hungry and raw and quick, with only one lucid moment during which Patrick remembered to put on a sheath. He was a doctor, after all, and one who was a trained obstetrician. He knew what might happen and didn't want it to, not during the war, not without being married. But should he ever marry, he knew already, it would be her, it would be Marianne Parker.

The moment Patrick was entirely certain of Marianne was one of despair. Not long after they had first met, Marianne had been transferred to the surgical ward. There she was very popular with the young soldiers convalescing. She was a no-nonsense person, very correct and collected in her appearance. She was not flirty like other girls, she made it always clear there was a boundary to never be crossed with her. But she was always smiling and loved to tell jokes with the men and managed to cheer up those suffering from home-sickness or the general fatigue many servicemen suffered from in this bloody dragging-on war.

One day, Patrick walked outside for his usual cigarette break in between two operations. Spring was coming, tempting the first blossoms to sprinkle the little park with their colours. Patrick walked around and stretched his aching limbs, until he heard muffled crying behind a bush.

He was surprised to find Marianne, and instantly became afraid when he noticed her crying. He had never seen her in such a state of despair, and could not bear to see it. He hurried to her and held her tightly. After a long moment passed in silence, she cried "It is all so senseless. This bloody war. Can it be over please? How many men have yet to die? Who will be next? I can't take it any longer."

Patrick tried to remain calm and carefully rocked her back and forth. He knew the cause for her tears. A young Scottish soldier, a red-haired country boy, had died earlier this morning, after they had already talked about him being able to be discharged soon. He had been a favourite of all of the surgical staff and held Marianne in particular high esteem. Marianne had often spoken of him and told Patrick how he had been dictating her a few beautiful love letters to his fiancée as he was unable to write due to a broken right arm. The boy had suddenly and unexpectedly taken a turn for the worse and died within the hour.

Patrick knew that every medical professional, no matter how long they were working in their field, had these moments. There was always that one case that was too much on a certain day. He could only hold Marianne until she had calmed. But no matter how heavy his heart was, he also felt at peace. If she would allow him to hold her, entrust him to share her grief, this meant she was ready to be his. For he knew, as cheerful as she was in the company of others, rarely did she open herself to really share her real feelings. He felt privileged, proud and very moved.

Aldershot, 5 September 1942

I have never had so much fun with a man. I never thought it possible. During all previous friendships or relationships with men, there was a certain reservation, or awkwardness. Nothing like this with Patrick. He understands me so well. Whenever I see him, he looks at me as if I am the world to him. And, truth be told, he is my world. I knew since that bloody day the darling Scottish lad had died. I was ready to pack my bags and leave the bloody hospital if it hadn't been for Patrick giving me comfort and showing me that there are things worth living for.

Ours is not just a momentary infatuation, fuelled by the war. This is true love. When we are together, the world is standing still. There is no war, no patients, no sorrows and no future. There is just him and me, and our bodies that can do the most wonderful things to each other. I never thought I would write these lines, they sound like from a romance novel. But I can't help it, I have found someone I truly love, and what could I ask for more, especially during these bleak times we are living in.

Oh how I wish this bloody war over. For someone to shoot Herr Hitler, to do something about it all. For Patrick will very likely be sent to the continent, and I couldn't be more afraid for him. I will never tell him, I don't want him to worry about me. But yes, I am scared. Everytime I look at him, I try to remember his face, his body and everything about him. I don't allow me thinking about it, but I can't entirely stop it. There is the possibility he may go away and never return.

I want nothing more than getting married and show everyone that we belong together. But he doesn't want us to get married, not as long as he hasn't returned from the war. I am both outraged and in awe of him. Outraged because I want to keep of him what I can, even if it only was his name. In awe because he does what he thinks is right and he sticks to his principles. He is a man of principles, so much more mature than most other men our age I know.

He doesn't want me to have to take care of him should he come back severely damaged. But what is love if not exactly this? In sickness and in health? I will always love him, no matter how he will be coming back. And God forbid, should he never come back, having been married to him might be the only thing that ever stayed with me.

"So you did not want to marry mum at first? Even when they sent you abroad?" Timothy asked.

"No. It is difficult to explain. For others, the war meant they sped up things. Decided they would get married as soon as possible. But I was desperate to wait. I wanted times to get better, to know we would have a future in peace, be able to raise our children in peace and safety." He paused. "You know, I didn't think, and I still do, that war times aren't the times for having children. Peace is much better suited for this," he said, ruffling Timothy's hair in a playful gesture.

Patrick watched his son affectionately. He clearly saw his late wife's face mirrored in his boy's. He missed her, more than ever in these moments, when there was no one he could share his pride in their son with. But if felt good to share a few memories of Marianne with his son, some long buried in his mind, and he was glad to dig them out, lest he forget them.

He had apologized to Marianne after the war, for his stubbornness to not marry her back in 1942 when she had first brought it up. Only during his time on the battlefield had he realized he had made a mistake and should have married. Now she was gone, and even though he was grateful for their time together and their adorable son, he sometimes thought they might have had an even longer history, and perhaps another child, a daughter, looking just as Marianne.

26 December 1942

Dear darling Marianne, my love,

Christmas is almost over, it is 11 pm now, while I have sat down to write these lines to you. I hope you have had holidays as lovely as I was blessed to have. My mother is as fine and healthy as a lady her age could be. I have lost count of elderly aunts and cousins and neighbours we have visited or who have visited us, who have commented on me wearing my uniform and who wanted to stuff me with food and drink as if I was ten years old.

I can't wait to return to Aldershot, and to you, though. There hasn't been a second passing by during which I have not missed you dearly. I am afraid I gave away just how much I am in love with you to my mother because I haven't been able to talk about anything else than about your beauty, your lovely smile and your generous personality. She wants me to send you her sincere greetings and hopes to visit come next year to meet you.

I am so glad we are going to share our shifts over New Year, meaning we will be reunited in just a few hours. As I told you, I am quite certain that they are going to send me overseas anytime now, and I can't spend enough time with you to generate enough memories to keep me alive until we are going to see each other.

This past year has certainly been the best of my life, for I have been blessed with meeting you. I could not have met a lovelier, more adorable, more perfect lady, and oftentimes I can't believe you love me back. What can I offer you, being a poor, boring, GP, living in times like these? I am so very happy that you have chosen to be my girl. My lovely bold girl who is bringing out the best in me, which, I grant you, is often hidden beneath quite a few bad manners and habits.

Let us hope that this bloody war is going to end very soon so we can have our future together. I don't want anything more than getting married to you and having children with you. Settling down somewhere in peace and quiet, somewhere in the Yorkshire countryside, far away from everything. Having a few little girls with curly dark hair and your so very beautiful little nose, this is all I am dreaming of. One or two boys for playing cricket, perhaps. Of course, the fun in making more of those little girls and boys with their lovely mother will be part of this plan, too.

For now, I am leaving you. I am going to board the train back to Aldershot tomorrow morning, and I hope that by tomorrow afternoon, we will be together again, my love.

Yours,

Patrick Turner