Chapter10. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered
"Ah, my date. The enchanting Miss Mannion." Patrick's eyes flashed.
Shelagh had to take a two. First, she was Patrick's date. There was no mistake in that. His manner was all you could hope for a date, he was polite, tender and simply enchanted. But what a date he was, on this day, of all days in the year. She had anticipated this, for she knew the nature of the Feast of Fools event. But his costume-
"What a beautiful frock you have. What do you think of me, Shelagh? Will I do?" Patrick asked.
The Feast of Fools charity event at Illyria was not an event managed by Timothy Turner, but an annual fundraising event where the Senior Doctors made fool of themselves in order to raise money for the Illyria Foundation. It took place in the large inner yard of the hospital. There were square dances you had to pay for to participate in.
But there was also a Vote-For-the-Funniest-Costume competition. The doctors dressed as astronauts, gorillas, clowns, whatever, and the public could vote for the best costume. A vote cost 3£, and some of the rich donors were invited to pay for double the money for what the three prize winners got in votes. The donors' prize was to get to dance one celebratory square dance with these masked Senior Doctors, and to get placed by them at a celebratory black-tie dinner in the evening. It was a hilarious event, and produced good money. It kept the community spirit of Illyria strong.
Shelagh burst out cackling at his costume. Patrick had rather overdone it. He wore 1950s Boy Scout wide khaki shorts. He had a similarly large black leather jacket, full of metal. Underneath he wore an orange shirt and a most awful bootlace-tie. The highlight of it was his hair. An elaborate Mohawk coiffure graced his head. His black hair stood up there like it had been glued at his skull. It seemed there were even some hair extensions in it.
Shelagh wailed. "Patrick, your hair. It is ghastly."
"It is rather appalling. So appalling it borders on fantastic. Trixie helped me. I didn't know there are so many hair products in the world. Don't you like it, my Goth? Rather rich coming from you that criticism."
Shelagh hid her face against his chest. "I can't say anything to that,"she sighed, breathless. His hand touched her hair. Shelagh became aware of their surroundings and retreated back.
"I borrowed the leather jacket from Timothy," Patrick prattled on, a little flustered. "I also borrowed from him these old ski stockings." He showed the bright yellow stockings pulled up to his thighs and tied with brown garters. To crown the craziness, he wore Dad sandals that looked like they were from the 1950s, too. "Shelagh, you know that I can be pretty competitive with fundraising. Who wouldn't be a fool for a day, if you get a hundred days' funding to our kangaroo care research project?"
"No, indeed, Patrick, who wouldn't?" Shelagh agreed with merry resignation.
Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Now, Shelagh, any room in your dance card for a pretty well-dressed Doctor, eh? I should prance and strut a little more in this costume to get votes, and what a better way to achieve notoriety than dance with the most beautiful girl in the party?"
Shelagh's heart was swelling in her breast. She took his arm. "By all means. All the fun for the good cause."
xxxxx
"And the winner of the best costume is…the most imposing….and the most ridiculous…..Doctor Patrick Turner!" The MC announced the results, and Patrick went to the platform to receive the applause.
When he came down, he didn't see Shelagh anywhere, but his eyes caught the grinning Timothy, giving his Dad a big hand. A dark girl in a pretty polka-dot dress stood beside him, laughing.
Patrick went to give him a hug.
"Oh Dad, when I have been saying you should loosen a little, I meant a little. I didn't mean a total wack job," he teased.
"I was already scolded by Shelagh, now by another original dresser. It was pretty rich coming from Shelagh, and now from you, a guy who organizes cosplays and wears black all the time."
"Touché, Dad," Tim agreed. She introduced the lady: "This is Delia Busby, Patsy's girlfriend, by the way. Delia, meet my Dad. A bonkers dresser, but a frightfully decent old chap."
"Nice to meet you, Delia," Patrick greeted her."Have you seen Patsy? She was here a minute ago. She nearly beat me in the costume competition with her checked shirt and a cowboy hat."
A happy shriek was heard. "Deeelia!" Patsy was running towards her, clearly seeing no-one else. They embraced each other. Then Patsy came to the present with a little start. She noticed Timothy: "You must be Tim. I have heard so much of you. Nice to meet at last."
"Likewise, Patsy. Nice to meet you. "
"So Patsy, in this wreck will you have a most happy share?" Patrick winked at Patsy, his eyes twinkling.
Patsy flashed a smile. "I am happy to lose to you, Mr. Scalp. I got Mr. Winter as my dinner partner, you got Mrs. Tucker for the evening. The money is rolling, though. Anything for kangaroo care."
Patsy turned serious. "Tim, I am so glad you have been there for Delia."
Tim was a bit embarrassed at the praise. "Stop it, Patsy. I am just a mate as any other."
"A true and a fair mate."
"Talking of true and fair mates, where is Shelagh? You said you have seen her, didn't you, Dad?" inquired Tim.
"Yes, son. Seen her, danced with her, offered her a drink." Patrick's voice betrayed a giddy delight. "May I now offer you ladies a drink? Tim, go and seek for Shelagh and bring her to the bar."
Patrick, Delia and Patsy walked towards the bar desk, chatting in a lively manner.
XXX
Tim found Shelagh sitting with Phyllis in the shade of trees. He gave her a hug.
"So Shelagh, tell me the news. How's things? How's Dad, I mean, in addition to being the crazy, competitive Scout?"
Shelagh snorted. "He's all right. He may have had some things on his mind, but I think he has reached some conclusions." She felt a bit nervous, talking with Tim. No great revelations, though, not yet. A precarious kind of happiness seemed to lurk and beckon her around the corner. Tim would be happy for them, she was pretty sure of that.
"Good. That is as it should be. It's nice to be home. It used to be like walking on a ground on which broken glass was spread. Now it is so much more pleasant here." He looked at Shelagh under his brow. "I think it is due to you that things are better. You really are a bro. Shelagh. A true bro."
Shelagh was touched. "Thank you, Tim. That is so kind. But so many people have helped me. Like Phyllis here.".
Phyllis considered her and Tim with pleasure. "A fine pair you make, you once twin Goths. So you thought it is time to drop some of your masks?" Tim and Shelagh laughed at that.
"Oh no, Phyllis, I have only let Dad borrow my leather jacket," Tim insisted.
"Doesn't Shelagh look good in wide skirts, young master Turner?" Phyllis pleaded.
"Yes she does. She is drop dead gorgeous."
They spent a moment admiring her. Then they heard a voice behind them. "Yes, she is the grandest Goth there ever was," Patrick beamed. "A butterfly has been born out of the shell. Come, dance with me once more, Shelagh." He took Shelagh away to a new square dance.
Tim and Phyllis were left looking after them. "Phyllis. Do you think it likely….?" He stopped and turned to Phyllis with a questioning look and a wry smile.
Nurse Crane narrowed her eyes to an appraising gaze and let her lips tighten a bit. Then she smiled, too. "Yes, son. I think it is likely that biscuits and nicotine gums are not enough for them. They need other food for love, so to say."
XXX
The dance had left them breathless. Patrick and Shelagh had to take a seat for a while and have a drink.
He looked at her sipping the juice. "What are you thinking of?" he asked tentatively, yet giving her such an intimate glance that Shelagh got gooseflesh.
"Well, the new roster for midwives, and the history of autoclaves," she deadpanned.
"Well…." Patrick was taken aback. "Oh, you are teasing me, aren't you?" he complained.
Then she asked, with a seductive bounce of shoulders and a wide smile: "What are you thinking of?"
He cleared his throat and put his glass down. "I think we indeed need the privacy which looking at that damned autoclave could give us." He rose and offered his hand. "Come with me. Up to the museum room."
Once inside the Museum room, he pushed her against the door and put his hand on her cheek. They watched each other with glowing faces. Then he pulled her close to him and leaned in to kiss her. After some sweet moments, they burst into giggles.
"What a…wreck. What a…catastrophe," he cried.
"No, Patrick, do not call this an accident. If it is, it is an accident made in heaven. A most happy shipwreck."
He backed a little further and made her swing around, her skirts flying high. "Oh, your dress. I love it. I love you."
Now it was her turn to push him against the door in a decisive manner. "What now, Shelagh?" he chuckled.
"I am going to do something I've ached to do for months."
"What is that, oh mighty one?"
Shelagh grabbed his hair and pulled down his high Mohawk. She let her fingers unbind the dark curls full of hair mousse and gel. Her hands were determined, but her touch was gentle. She also pulled the hair extensions out.
"Oh, Shelagh," he groaned a little. Finally, she stopped, her hands deliciously on his neck.
"There now. Don't you ever go near any hair products again, without my permission. I am a bit of an expert, you know, and I love your dark, floppy hair."
"OK. I bow to my mistress. My grand Goth."
He gathered her into his arms again and searched for her lips. All the hurt was gone in the sweetness of this embrace. Overflowing joy was filling Shelagh's body and mind. It was good to feel Patrick, his body, his eager hands, his lean craggy face against hers. He fondled her waist and her hips in a tantalizingly slow manner. There was passion and tenderness in his ministrations and Shelagh reveled in that. Yet she managed to whisper him some caressing words.
"Oh, you are all as hungry as the sea. Not enough biscuits in the world?"
"No,", he growled in a heated voice. "But how lovely I can digest…. you. My fancy's queen."
"Now Patrick, about those…grandchildren."
He let out a small muffled cry. "You will be my wife and my life. And you still mock me and my need of grandchildren? Will you help me get them, in due order, children first?"
"Let still the woman take an elder than herself: so wears she to him," she muttered.
"That is so nice of you. Darling Shelagh, will you marry me? I love you more than I can say."
"Yes, you chump. My old chump. "
XXXX
After a while they took refuge on the old sofa at the Museum room. It was strictly speaking forbidden to sit on that precious antique piece of mahogany and velvet, but it was a kind of emergency, wasn't it? Shelagh let her head rest on his chest.
"Patrick, can I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
"Will you miss Shelagh The Goth? The uncomplicated pal?"
"The calm, even, trustworthy companion," he said in a low voice, caressing her forehead and stroking the golden hair away with his fingers. "I could miss her a tiny bit. No. Not really. "
"Why not?"
"Because I have you. The Goth is here in you. I see the shades of you. I think we don't need Gothism anymore. Neither of us does."
Then he whispered to her seductively: "But it would be fun, if you saved some black leather. For special occasions. And lace. Please, give me some black lace."
"Patrick!" She mock-punched him playfully.
"Shelagh, do you not think it is a bit early to start a domestic? Ouch. That really hurt. If you punch me once again…."
"What, Patrick?"
"I will treat you as your Master's Mistress." The words were chauvinist but the tone was humble and tender.
"I still haven't called you Master."
"Well, that is something to look forward to."
"In your dreams. In your dreams, man."