Chapter 6. Still so constant or cruel.

Babies were born. Women received the best care the Clinic could offer. There were some winds of change: emails seemed to gain a new popularity at the Clinic, and Patsy and Phyllis had become trusted and useful colleagues. Moreover, Patsy and Patrick were in the midst of a new research project. It was about kangaroo care of fragile new-borns.

Smoking was still banned and Patrick still invited Shelagh to share medicinal nicotine with him. Or biscuits.

He had insisted that it was time to move on to digest something else than nicotine as the next move in the fight to quit smoking. So biscuits it was, and word games. After the party in December he had engaged Shelagh in associative word games. He said it was based on "cognitive psychological procedures, creating new habits helping to replace old." Shelagh had an inkling that he needed her to play with him. She was standing-in for Tim.

These meetings didn't however take any more place at the yard. They spent some breaks together in Patrick's or Shelagh's office. This meant more tete-a-tetes than before. Shelagh didn't know if this was by design, or because Patrick was just half-heartedly drifting.

There was something reckless growing in Shelagh. She didn't any more feel so towered by Patsy, but she felt overburdened by the secrets she carried. She started to tackle her own issues with womanhood and feminine graces. It might be that she would never be able to tell Patrick how she felt about him. But if she was losing this fight, she would lose it with all stops out. With flying colours.

She started to plan for completing her nursing studies. She consulted both Julie and Phyllis on that. Something good and productive, something sensible must be born from this chaos she had experienced the last months.

She also started to change her appearance gradually. The first to go were the dark contact lenses. Her own eyes were blue.

Patrick kept studying her with squinted eyes during a biscuit break some two weeks after that. "It took really that long for him to notice?" Shelagh cursed in her mind.

He asked: "What's the matter with your eyes, Shleagh? A touch of conjunctivitis?"

She ignored the staring and started an associative word game. "Let's go with associations, Doc."

"Purcell."

"Haydn."

"Cure".

"Comfort."

"Sorrow."

"Bleakness."

"Treat."

"Heal."

"Argghhh….a momentary blackout. Wait, wait, I haven't lost yet," Shelagh cried. "Forceps."

"Autoclave."

"That's all I can do today. I concede my loss,"Patrick exhaled. He gave her a high-five. Shelagh partly enjoyed, partly deplored these masculine game-over rituals.

He nibbled his biscuit. "I finally see what is wrong with your eyes. They are not pink by conjunctivitis. They are blue."

"Yes, I stopped using dark contact lenses."

"And a very nice blue they are indeed. Enough to get a guy lose an association game. A clever trick. Why did you wear dark contact lenses when you have such fine eyes?"

"For no special reason. Give me a biscuit."

Patrick heaved a sigh. "By some measure, I suspect we should join a Biscuit Eaters Anonymous group."

"Do not lose your mettle. We will conquer this."

XXXX

Another day, another word game.

"Dead Kennedys".

"Division of Joy."

"Beatles."

"Rolling Stones."

"Incubator."

"Iron lung."

"Thatcher."

"Churchill."

"Shepherd's Pie."

"Yorkshire pudding."

Patrick gave up. "Let's stop here." He offered her a biscuit. "What's wrong with your mouth?"

"I have lipstick."

"Yes, indeed you have, but it's not anymore black. It is pink."

"Phyllis suggested a course in colour analysis. We took it together. It seems I am Spring. It means pastel colors. Very few shades of black."

"You took colour analysis with Phyllis? That is baloney. Do you really believe in that kind of humbug? Does she?" he guffawed.

"Well, you noticed the lipstick."

He was a little flustered. "So I did. So I did." He cleared his throat. "Another biscuit, Shelagh?"

XXXX

Finally, she dared to dump the long and large jackets she wore over black satin shirts. She began to wear more stylish jumpers and shirts. She had this new pale blue twin-set she wore over similarly pale blue, tight jeans. Her black hair was still combed back in a high Goth coiffure and she still wore black boots.

One early morning, she was singing some Gregorian chants whilst cleaning in Patrick's office when the man himself entered the room. "I thought I heard Shelagh's voice…" He startled. "Oh it is you. In blue."

Shelagh turned around to face him. She pulled the cardigan closer when she saw Patrick's eyes studying her body outlines.

He gulped. He noticed the empty biscuit case on the desk. "Oh, no biscuits." He sat down, bewildered.

He started to rummage his drawers. "I am sorry Shelagh. I feel I need something stronger today than a biscuit." He found a Nicorette pack, and offered her a gum.

She took it and leaned against the window sill. The morning sun was shining bright out there, it gave shadows and light to her innocent-looking face and its fine features.

He initiated a word game. "So, are you ready for one?"

"Pipettes."

"Test tubes."

"Roses."

"Violets."

"Red."

"Blue."

"Sweet."

"Cute."

"Love."

"Passion."

"Infatuation."

He was suddenly looking at her with such an intensive question in his eyes that Shelagh lost her nerve. She could not find an answer. He rose and came closer. "You lost, Mannion. With….infatuation." A rather lame high-five followed.

He took a deep breath and turned to look at the view. "The sunrise is magnificent, isn't it?" His pager started to vibrate. He took a look at it. "Oh, I have a meeting with Patsy. Forgot it."

He left hurriedly. "Thank you for the game, Shelagh!" he shouted from the hall to her.

What relish is in this? how runs the stream?

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.