For some reason, she just couldn't get the lion's head to look right. It was as Shelagh unpicked the third attempt at attaching his bright yellow and orange mane (or as bright as could be found in Poplar) that Patrick finally leaned over.
"What's the diagnosis, Nurse?" he asked, smiling at her exasperated face.
"I've tried it every which way, but his head just won't sit straight. He looks like he's either trying to wink, or having a stroke" she sighed, gazing into the black button eyes as if to get inside the mind of the stuffing and force him to comply.
"Where did you get the pattern for a lion for, anyway? Maybe there'll be a clue in that."
"Oh, I didn't use a pattern."
He looked at her, frowning quizzically.
"Well, my tea cosies used to sell particularly well whenever we tried to raise money at the convent, so I thought I'd have a go at making this little fellow up. I found a picture of a lion in one of your old encyclopaedias, and I tried to copy that." Shelagh blushed slightly as he gazed admiringly, first at her, then at the lion (who remained headless, and had begun to sag slightly).
"Who's he going to be for?"
She shook her head at him.
"Somehow, I don't think Timothy would appreciate a stuffed animal anymore."
He still looked confused, and she shook her head.
"It's for Freddie of course! I thought that since Chummy and Peter went to Africa before he was born...and you know she brought back all that lovely material and those ornaments...that maybe giving him an African toy would be a nice idea."
Looking up from her knitting needles, Shelagh saw Patrick looking at her in that certain way he had. It was something she'd become accustomed to, but it still made her blush to her toes as she felt an answering smile spread across her face. It was like he was seeing her for the first time all over again, and like she was the only thing that he wanted to see. There could have been bombs falling and he would still have been staring at her like she was everything.
It was a busy clinic next day. As well as the multitude of patients, one woman came in with what looked like syphilis, despite being 6 months pregnant. Jenny Lee, to her credit, dealt with this case considerably better than she had in the past, keeping calm and helping the woman before she retired to the kitchen to breathe steadily and drink copious amounts of tea. Nurse Turner on the other hand was greeted with no such sights, but was run off her feet with the continual flow of patients.
"Maybe we should get Fred to make some of those revolving doors!" whispered Trixie as another five women came in at once, all surrounded by their own gaggles of infants. "It would certainly make things a lot quicker!"
Nurse Turner chuckled as she led another patient behind the curtains (Mrs Brown, 7 months, everything progressing as normal). As she led Mrs Brown out, she spotted a familiar face at the other end of the hall and hurried over, making sure not to step on any of the toddlers sitting on the floor.
"Timothy, what are you doing back already? I didn't think you'd be back until four, and it's only half past three."
It was then that she noticed his red rimmed eyes and nose. As if confirming her diagnosis, he sneezed loudly, managing to contain it in a handkerchief (which, she noted, had already been used much today).
"Oh Timothy, why didn't you say you weren't feeling well this morning? You could have stayed home" she soothed, leading him over to a chair in the corner.
"I felt fine this morning," he sniffed, "it just came on suddenly."
Shelagh smiled at him and squeezed his hand.
"Well, why don't I go see if I can make you a cup of Horlicks now, and then when clinic's over I'll take you straight home?"
He sneezed again. "That would be great, thanks."
Shelagh squeezed her way past the expectant mothers to the kitchen, and began spooning Horlicks into a cup. As she was waiting for the kettle to boil, Sister Evangelina came in.
"What are you doing that for? Not more syphilis I hope." She blustered.
"Oh no Sister – Timothy's come here early from school with a cold, so I'm just making him this while he sits in the corner."
She stirred the drink, and opened one of the cupboards underneath, muttering "I'll just see if we have any biscuits."
Sister Evangelina snorted. "You'd have more luck finding the jewels of the Pharaohs than any biscuits near Nonnatus House. Look, take the poor lad home and tuck him up. We'll manage fine here, there's only half an hour left anyway."
Nurse Turner dithered, looking between Timothy and the patients.
"Go!" cried Sister Evangelina. "He'll only spread cold about the place, and we can't have the mothers of Poplar becoming sick from the Doctor's son."
"Well, if you're sure". Shelagh picked up her coat from the hook in the corner (where other coats used to hang so long ago), and shrugged it on. "When Doctor Turner comes, would you tell him that I've gone home already?"
"Of course. Now go!"
Half an hour later, Timothy was safely tucked up in bed at 19 Kenilworth Row, with a steaming mug by his bedside.
"Now, you make sure to drink all that up and if you need anything, just call me. I'll be right downstairs." Shelagh instructed, holding onto his hand and checking his pulse. Everything seemed normal, just a schoolboy cold, and she relaxed slightly.
"I will" he mumbled, squeezing her hand.
"I hope you feel better soon" she whispered, sensing he would nod off soon as she edged towards the door.
"Thanks, Mum" she heard him whisper as she left the room.
Shelagh paused in the corridor for a second. He had never called her "mum" before, and she hadn't wanted to press him. She was already so lucky to be part of his life, and understood better than anything the pain that came with losing your mother at such a young age. She would never have wanted Timothy to think that she was trying to replace his mother in any way, and if he had only ever called her "Shelagh" or "my Step-Mother" that would have made her perfectly happy. As ever though, his emotional maturity had surprised her – and as ever, he was completely right.
"Anything for you, son" she whispered, shutting the door gently.
Tucked up in his bed, Timothy heard her and smiled.
Doctor Turner came home from a difficult case to see his wife already baking something in the kitchen. He slung his coat over its hook, dropped the bag by the door in case of an emergency (he could never rest until he knew he could run out the door if needed), and sidled over to her. Shelagh was engrossed in her baking, and didn't see him until he put his hands around her waist. She jumped and spun round to see him grinning like a schoolboy. Pretending to swat his nose (and only managing to leave a smudge of flour on it), she turned back.
"I thought you'd have only just got back?" he inquired, trying to peer into the oven.
"Timothy came to the clinic with a cold, so Sister Evangelina let me leave early to bring him home."
Patrick frowned. "Is he ok? Do you think it's anything serious?"
Shaking her head, Shelagh replied "Oh no. I think he's just been playing outside without anything around his neck. He should be fine; he's tucked up with his annuals and a hot drink. Almost heaven, I should think."
Soothed, Patrick returned to watching Shelagh knead dough. After a minute, she paused, and turned to face him. Taking her glasses off and wiping them on the apron (which, he noted, left a small trace of flour on one lens), she looked shyly at the floor.
"Patrick?"
"Yes Shelagh?" he replied.
"Timothy called me mum earlier, when I was putting him to bed."
He felt a cold hand down his spine and looked at her, trying to see her face. He couldn't make out what emotion was passing over her eyes, and she was looking everywhere but at him.
"Well, that's...alright, isn't it?" he tried.
Still she said nothing.
"Shelagh, please understand that he just feels connected to you. If you think it's too much too soon then I'll speak to him, but please don't be scared by it-" he stopped as he realised she was staring at him, shocked.
"Patrick, how could you think that? Of course I want him to call me mum, I just didn't know if...after his mother died...whether you would think it was...oh, I don't know, inappropriate or something."
Relief washed over him, and he found himself laughing. Shelagh frowned, confused, and he reached out to hold her hand.
"If he calls you mum, I think that's brilliant. It doesn't mean he's forgotten Moira, and it doesn't mean he doesn't love her. But you are his mum too – and a very good one at that. You've earned your title" he said, and kissed her hand again. They danced in the kitchen as the bread sat forgotten in its tin and a waltz played on the radio, while the windows of 19 Kenilworth Row glowed.
I hope you liked the chapter - please review if you have anything to say (both generally about the chapter/work, and if there's anything you want to get off your chest)!