Thank you for reading - I'm sorry this chapter has taken longer, but it got away from me a bit at first. Hope everyone enjoys it, and please review if you have time!

Shelagh sang in the bath. It was (Patrick decided, after two days of married life) one of the things that he loved the most about her. Her voice was almost melting as she crooned the latest ballads from the wireless, hummed overtures from her favourite operas, or sometimes just sang the soprano of the peaceful hymns of the convent. He could sit outside the door for hours, just listening to her – and he became known for being late to leave the house because of his inability to drag himself away. He didn't tell her for a while, of course. Shelagh could be shy about the smallest and strangest things, and he feared that if he let on, her singing would stop, or she'd try to hide it in embarrassment. He wasn't the only one who listened either. Timmy would sit in his bedroom some mornings and listen to her as he did his work, or whittled sticks, or cleaned his father's equipment (but only when he needed some money). It made them all feel at peace.

For their honeymoon, they went to Torquay. She had always wanted to see palm trees, and Patrick, for his part, just wanted to go somewhere with her. It took a great deal of convincing to persuade him to leave Poplar however, because there was nobody he could consider to take his place, even for 3 days. He felt such responsibility to his patients that the idea of leaving them with someone he didn't trust or know felt like a betrayal, and Shelagh seemed to have wave after wave of deliveries. Eventually, Trixie and Jenny forced them into the car a week after the wedding, telling Dr Turner that they'd found an old friend of his from training who had agreed to come down for the three days, and promising to keep an eye on him. Shelagh, meanwhile, was assured repeatedly that they would be fine without her – Chummy would come in to cover her shifts and Fred was more than willing to babysit Freddie while she worked. While they were away, Timmy would go any stay with his aunt and cousins in Oxford (which he secretly looked forward to).

The first night there, both of them felt at a loss without any work to do. The journey itself had been an adventure – the London to Devon train, their first for a while, then checking in to their beach side hotel. The thrill that Shelagh felt when she was addressed as "Mrs Turner" made her clutch her husband's hand a little tighter, and he smiled at her while the concierge searched for their room key. In the evening they went for a walk along the beach while eating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, then sat on a bench watching the tide come in. Shelagh, feeling a childish thrill, slipped her shoes off and dipped her feet into the sea, laughing as the cold water brushed her ankles. Patrick, feeling supremely blessed, sat and watched her, laughing too.

Under her bed at home she kept her old suitcase – but now, instead of utility shoes and a grey serge blazer, it contained her old wooden cross. She had insistently tried to return it to Sister Julienne, but she would have none of it.

"Your faith has not changed my dear, only your path. You should keep it as a reminder that God always has a purpose for us."

Shelagh had conceded, but still kept it underneath the bed. As well as the cross, there were a few of the things that she brought to the convent all those years ago: the only photograph she had of her parents together from their own honeymoon, her mother's silver necklace, and her father's pipe. Patrick asked to see what she kept in the suitcase one evening, and she gladly showed him the few relics.

"This is the only picture I have of my parents. They were on holiday here, somewhere south. Father always said it was the warmest he ever felt, laying on that beach in summer. They saved for two years before they were married to buy a house and go somewhere warm together. I don't remember my mother ever talking about it though. But I suppose I don't really remember much about her."

Patrick watched as her eyes misted up slightly. He held her hand tighter, and felt himself awed by her strength as she sighed almost imperceptibly.

"How old were you when she died?"

Shelagh sniffed, and he handed her his handkerchief. She thanked him and bled her nose, then her head on his shoulder and looked at the photograph.

"Oh, I was only 8. It was bronchitis. She had the cough for weeks, but we didn't realise. There was no doctor near that we could afford anyway, but she wouldn't have called him even if she could. I still remember her voice though, calling me at night. And she always smelt of bread."

It was on their second day in Torquay, as she sat on the beach in a modest sundress reading Jane Eyre, that Patrick spotted it.

"Shelagh?" he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he turned to her.

"Patrick?" she replied, smiling.

"I don't suppose you remember where your parents went on their honeymoon?"

Shelagh pout the book on her knee and thought, a small frown appearing between her eyebrows as she did so.

"No, they never said. Father didn't anyway. Why?"

"It's just that I could swear that shop was in the background of the photograph."

Shelagh turned to look where he was pointing and gasped.

"I think you may be right. It certainly looks familiar."

"Would you like...I mean, do you think it would be a good idea if – we had our picture taken there?"

"I would like that very much."

The nurses bombarded them with questions when they returned home.

"How was the weather?" cried Jenny, as Trixie enquired after the hotel and Cynthia marvelled at the summer dress Shelagh bought from a small shop on the seafront.

They repeated the stock line to most people – lovely time, plenty of sun and rest, happy to be back home with their patients– but both of them knew it had been something more than that. And on their mantelpiece, from that day onwards, sat five pictures. One of Moira (because Shelagh thought it was important they remembered her, and Patrick didn't want Timothy to be conflicted); one of Patrick's parents (taken to send to their son studying to be a doctor, both of them poker straight, in Sunday best and glowing with pride); the photograph of Shelagh's parents on the beach (now removed from its dusty suitcase and in a silver frame); a photograph of the three of them at the wedding taken by a local man whose baby Dr Turner had delivered only the week before (girl, Emma, 6lb 10oz) – and finally the photograph of Shelagh and Patrick on the beach in Torquay, holding ice creams in the same spot her parents had been all those years before. They were looking at each other (the photographer had waited for a candid shot), and it was obvious that to the two of them, in that moment there was no one else in the world but the other.