Shelagh sat on the edge of Trixie's bed, as the blonde clattered hangers together in her tiny overfilled wardrobe.
"Now there is a dress in here that is far too short for me. It's practically indecent."
Trixie's laughter at her own joke, was shrill and forced. Shelagh met it with silence.
"I've been meaning to give it to Cynthia," she continued, "but she never wears anything I hand down to her."
Shelagh in spite of herself cracked a smile at her old friends indignation. She seemed to have a lack of awareness that even the sweetest of girls, even one such as Cynthia Miller, may not want to wear Trixie's hand-me-downs.
As Trixie muttered and clashed, Shelagh looked around the nurse's bedroom. They had shared a home for so many years, but Shelagh had spent so little time in this particular room. She had only ventured in to wake the nurse or tell her she had a visitor or a telephone call. She had never before sat on her bed.
She thought of her own room or rather her former room. It was similar in dimensions to the young nurses, but much more plain. She looked at the dressing table cluttered with a shambles of bottles, tubes, brushes, combs and other paraphernalia. Shelagh had no idea why Trixie needed so many and what they could all be for.
Shelagh looked at the cards and photographs stuck on Trixie's mirror and adorning the wall above the bed, the one she was now rocking on the edge of. She thought of how she had concealed Timothy's precious picture in her draw, just a corridor away from where she sat now. How she had then secreted it in the bottom of her suitcase as she packed for the sanatorium. It was still in there, but the suitcase was now in the boot of Dr Turner's car.
She could have displayed it in her room at the sanatorium. Questions may have been asked, friendly non-probing questions, but still questions she hadn't been ready to answer. Maybe in her new lodgings she could finally let it see the light of day. Shelagh suddenly felt lightheaded, she steadied herself by holding on to Trixie's mattress beneath her with both hands.
"You are shivering, Sister Bernadette are you alright?"
"I haven't eaten much today, it's been..."
What had it been she wondered?-Confusing, invigorating, wonderful, terrifying, testing, long and definitely not as planned.
Shelagh gulped in some air. She reminded herself that Chummy was the one in need now, the poorly one, not her.
"I am fine, Trixie...it's Shelagh now."
Trixie had a million questions rushing through her mind. On any other day, she would have prided herself on her achievement of securing a private audience with the most interesting thing that had happened at Nonnatus, since, well since she had been there. This wasn't any other day though, Trixie couldn't get Chummy out of her mind.
Her guest also looked fragile and pale. The young nurse reached for her scarlet midwives cardigan from the hook on her bedroom door. She passed it to a grateful Shelagh, who had failed to collect her own jacket, the one she had discarded in the emergency. That was long before Trixie had whisked her away from Sister Julienne. The girl returned to her rummaging,
"Here it is," Trixie laid a coral red floral dress next to Shelagh on her bed.
"I let Jane borrow it once. I think it brought her luck, eventually," she beamed.
Shelagh was beginning to realize she needed a great many things, luck wasn't one of them. Food, shelter, rest and to know where Patrick was, were definitely higher on her list of priorities. She wondered if he had accompanied Constable Noakes to the London. She could hardly ask Trixie about the doctor's whereabouts. Shelagh wondered if she could get away with just asking where everyone was? Or if anyone had followed the ambulance? She hoped to be reunited with her roadside rescuer soon, as soon as Trixie stopped faffing about, that was.
Fortunately her temporary roommate had turned towards her chest of drawers. Shelagh hoped she hadn't picked up the impatience now clouding her expression. She absentmindedly started fingering the soft fabric of the pretty cotton dress that had been triumphantly presented to her. Everything was starting to take on the feel of something completely otherworldly. She knew she would start to feel better, if she only knew he was waiting downstairs for her, but that was selfish wasn't it? Shelagh reprimanded herself for her doubt, full in the knowledge she would have to do so again, if she found out his car was no longer parked outside. She could go to the window on some pretence of needing some air and see for herself. Or she could just wait.
Shelagh's inner struggle was abruptly brought to a close as a crystal tumbler was thrust under her nose. She recognised the odour straight away and nearly fell back on the bed. Her father had always enjoyed a glass of malt at the end of a hard day in the grocers. This smelt slightly less peaty, but it was still recognisably whisky.
"Will make you feel better," Trixie reassured.
Shelagh wasn't convinced of that, but she took a sip anyway. It was not like she hadn't drank it before or found it unpleasant. There was something comforting in the harsh flavours that caressed her tongue. Reassuring her with something of home? Her concrete understanding in the wider sense was that home now meant Poplar. The ironic twist was not lost on her, she was at this very moment officially homeless.
She had been invited into the nurses room. She had been a guest of Sister Julienne earlier. She had accepted a lift in the doctor's car this morning. She had taken tea and biscuits at the Turner's flat, what seemed like hours ago. None of these places were currently hers. She could eat a biscuit now or anything to be honest. Used to regular meal times at the sanatorium, she was wondering if her insistence to see Sister Julienne before accepting Patrick's offer of a meal had been wise.
"There we are, Sweetie," giggled Trixie, "We are all girls together now, don't tell Sister Julienne our secrets."
Shelagh smiled, Sister Julienne was a treasure chest of secrets. Everyone's; patient's, parishioners, sister's, nurse's and Sister Bernadette's. She cast a glance at Trixie, did the nurses really think that the sisters didn't know about their little night time swarays? Did they believe once you renounce possessions, free will and temptations of the flesh, they also remove your sense of smell and powers of observation? The smile for her recent colleague however, was without disapproval and graced with genuine affection.
Trixie reached for a Black Russian Sobranie from her elegant gold cigarette case. She hadn't hesitated in offering her guest a glass of whisky, but it never occurred to her, to repeat the courtesy with her cigarettes. Shelagh wavered for a second, Trixie would be only too glad to share, but the smell of the tobacco brought back thoughts of Patrick, flooding her tired mind. This was still a time of secrets.
She had sometimes confessed in her prayers to coveting the joie de vivre the young nurse seemed to possess. At that moment, she was very aware that underneath the bravado, her companion was actually as frightened and confused as she was. Trixie begged her to change into the stylish cast-off. Shelagh nodded, it took a few seconds before the nurse cottoned on that the ex-nun, was waiting for her to leave the room.
All girls together? Maybe not as yet.
Trixie stood in the corridor with her back against her bedroom door. This morning she had been overjoyed with the news that her friend had been discharged and was heading to Chichester to convalesce. That joy had been compounded when Jenny rang to say her other friend was in labour.
Trixie had daringly, or maybe more accidentally, brought her whisky into the corridor with her. She sipped at it, where was the joy now?