Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.
The days started to lengthen again. Spring became a promise rather than a dream, as did their child.
Patrick loved little more than to sit with his wife on the sofa, tucking her under his arm, using his free hand to caress her belly. Shelagh needed his warmth, his presence. She was strong, but the incessant gossip and stares had left her raw and hurting. She'd taken to shopping somewhere far from the East End, where people didn't know her. For the rest of the time, she mostly kept inside. She'd clean and clean and clean in an effort to keep her hands busy. If she wasn't cooking or scrubbing or washing, she was sewing clothes for the baby.
Timothy played the piano for her. "The baby likes it," he'd said when Patrick had asked him about it. Then, with deep lines between his eyebrows: "It won't always be like this, will it?"
"Like what, son?"
"People won't always talk badly about us, will they? They won't always shun Mum and refuse to come to tea when she asks them, right?"
Patrick had clapped a hand on Tim's shoulder and squeezed it. "Do you remember when Mummy died? We thought we'd be sad forever then, didn't we? And that wasn't true. We'll pull through. We always do. Till then, we must try to help each other in any way we can."
Timothy had hugged him, then, all angle and limb.
We can still decide to leave Poplar if things don't work out, Patrick had thought. Shelagh had flirted with the idea after her disastrous conversation with Sister Julienne, but had ultimately rejected it. Still: they could go to a place where no one knew them, were patients didn't make bawdy jokes or snide comments or only allowed him to treat them with great reluctance. They were not all like that, of course, but the ones who were had started to grate on his nerves. He had thought all this would leave him oddly exposed and vulnerable; instead, it seemed to make his skin hard, like a shell, like armour. He didn't like being hard very much.
It was more difficult with the nurses, and with the nuns especially. They'd reached some kind of frosty cease-fire for the sake of their patients, but there was none of the friendly chit-chat from before. Nurse Miller gave him a shy smile every now and again, and Nurse Franklin still made him tea, but they were subdued and never lingered longer than necessary. Nurse Brown was still recovering from her C-section, which meant that there was little time for idle chitchat, anyway. It was for the best, he supposed; he didn't want them to strain their relationship with the nuns for his sake.
These were things he could not say to Shelagh, not after she'd confessed how afraid she was he'd come to regret their marriage because of the blemish it caused on his reputation. He loved her fiercely.
But I had hoped…
For what, exactly?
For Shelagh and her former religious sisters to reconcile. She needs them, and I think they need her, too.
Sister Monica Joan had been more confused lately, taking his sleeve when he visited and asking him where he had taken her sweet sister. "I miss her voice so," she'd say, close to tears.
Sister Evangelina just huffed at whatever he said, and took petty revenge on him by giving him mouldy cake and stone-cold tea whenever she had to offer him something. Her attitude hadn't surprised Patrick; there being stale cake in Nonnatus with a prowling Sister Monica Joan had.
Sister Julienne looked pale and drawn, not like herself at all.
When he had to attend Mrs. Renley during a long and difficult labour, she had been as focused as she always was. However, when the poor woman had lost so much blood that the sheets were stained more red than white, and the ambulance had come to take her to hospital, Sister Julienne had seemed to flounder and falter.
"This wasn't supposed to happen! It wasn't meant to go like this!" Sister Julienne had exclaimed. She'd buried her face in her hands.
Patrick had offered her his handkerchief. She'd glared at it, but had taken it and wiped her eyes with it anyway. Shelagh had embroidered a rose on it, and a little cross. "To keep you safe," she'd said as she'd tucked it in his pocket.
"I'm sorry, Doctor. Do forgive an old silly woman," Sister Julienne had said.
"There's nothing to forgive."
She'd looked at him strangely, then. "Thank you," she'd said in a broken whisper, clutching his handkerchief with one hand and her wooden pendant in the other.
Come and have tea with us, he'd wanted to say. Come and speak with Shelagh. She misses you, and I think you miss her, too. But she'd taken her bike and pedalled away from him, his handkerchief still clutched in her hand.
Maybe I was wrong, he thought, lighting a cigarette. Maybe I made the wrong diagnosis; maybe this is a wound that will never heal.
But there was so much love between Sister Julienne and his Shelagh… Pride was probably in the way, or the fear of getting hurt, or Nonnatus' reputation, or a mixture of all three.
He sighed, and ground the cigarette out on the brick wall. He looked at his watch. If he hurried, he could go to the surgery and change into a fresh pair of trousers, a pair that didn't smell like amniotic fluid and blood, before going on his afternoon rounds. He'd just delivered Mrs. Hope's baby boy, and both mother and child were doing well.
Sister Evangelina hadn't been as curt with him today as before, either. Ever since his marriage with Shelagh, she'd acted as if his presence in the delivery room was a personal affront. Today, she'd been cold but professional.
Patrick lit another cigarette. His fingertips were slightly yellow with nicotine.
"You should eat rather than smoke," Sister Evangelina said.
Patrick almost dropped his cigarette. He brought it to his mouth and inhaled deeply. "You did very well, Sister. I wasn't actually needed," he said.
She snorted, then leaned against the wall next to him.
I feel as if I have to ask her if she wants a puff from my cigarette. This thought was indecent and hilarious enough to make him smile.
"What's so funny?" Sister Evangelina snapped, taking out a wrapped sandwich. She tore a big chunk out of it with her teeth.
"Just thinking about Shelagh," Patrick said.
"How's the little wife? Is everything going well with the…?" She patted her belly.
"Yes," Patrick said, doing his best not to sound surprised. "Yes, she's doing all right, as is Baby."
"She's over eight months now?"
"Yes."
"Well, you tell her she will always get a midwife from Nonnatus when she goes into labour. She should call for us." Sister Evangelina's eyes glittered something fierce as she spoke.
"She might not feel comfortable with that. We've already decided that I'll be there, since I…" Patrick started.
"Poppycock and balderdash," Sister Evangelina snorted. She turned her face towards him, pointing her finger at his chest. "You're her husband, not her doctor, and husbands don't belong in the delivery room. What she needs is a woman she can trust."
Patrick dropped his cigarette. He stepped on it with his heel, pressing it flat against the pavement. "I'd ask Sister Julienne, but they are not exactly on good terms now. It seems that Shelagh is not on good terms with anyone at Nonnatus currently," he said, unable to keep a faint accusatory tone from lacing his voice.
"I never thought her to be the type of girl to get her head turned by a man, and I certainly didn't expect this," Sister Evangelina said, touching her belly again, "but we all love Shelagh dearly, Doctor Turner. Don't ever doubt it."
"I don't doubt it. I just wonder if it'll be enough," he confessed. Love alone had not been enough to keep Marianne with him…
"Of course it is enough. Love is all there is," she scoffed.
"There doesn't seem to be much love between Shelagh and Sister Julienne right now," Patrick said.
"Where in the name of the Lord did you ever get an idea like that?" she said, eyebrows travelling very high up her forehead. "They're acting like this because they love each other to bits. Shelagh is just a stubborn Scot, and Sister Julienne is just as bad."
"I think they're both afraid of getting hurt," Patrick said, shoving his hands in his pockets. The wind was still damnably cold.
"Of course they are. Only the ones we love can hurt us. Surely you must've figured that out by now, Doctor," she said.
"I must get on, or I'll be late for my rounds," Patrick said. He gave her a small smile. "Thank you, Sister. This conversation means a lot to me."
She snorted, and wiped her hands on her habit. "Just take care of your wife. She's far too precious to hurt. And I don't mean in the way you took care of her before. I do know how to count, you know."
Patrick coloured crimson.
"Yes, well…"
"She was too young, far too young. Allowing such a pretty young thing to become a nun was waiting for a disaster to happen," Sister Evangelina muttered, shaking her head. She walked to her bike, got on with a grunt, and pedalled away.
Miracles never cease, Patrick thought. He rubbed his eyes, then got into his car and drove to the surgery. He had a fresh set of clothes there in case the ones he wore got soiled. His mind was on his trousers when he walked in. His secretary brutally snapped him out of it.
"Doctor Turner, your wife called," she said, drumming an unsteady tattoo on her desk with a pen.
"She called?" Patrick said, heart speeding up.
"She said she went into labour," she said. She looked like a little girl as she twisted her wedding ring on her finger. Patrick was sure her parents would never have consented to her staying on had she not already been married.
Into labour… but Shelagh is not nine months yet. His palms turned sweaty. A nervous energy coiled in his stomach and sizzled through his muscles. "She can't be," he said.
"Well, she seemed very sure of it when she called," the woman fretted.
"When did she call?"
"At nine. She said she'd tried to call before, but there was no answer. I wasn't here yet then…"
He'd been gone early, and had left her sleeping soundly. Or so he thought. He looked at his watch again. Almost two.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath. He carded a hand through his hair. "Cancel my appointments. I must go home."
"But.."
"Please make sure there's a locum covering for me. I'd like to take care of it myself, but…" He shrugged helplessly, his hand curling around his bag till his knuckles were whiter than porcelain.
"I understand," his secretary said, giving him a small nod. "Go to your wife. She sounded like she needs you."
Patrick turned around and ran.
I can't believe I left her, he thought. His shirt stuck to his back. His hands and feet had become like sacks of snow, his bones little twigs. The car shuddered to life. "Come on," he urged it. It groaned, then purred like a cat.
She must be so scared, even with all her midwifery experience. And she's alone, and has been alone for hours already. You could've been with her sooner if you hadn't dawdled and smoked those cigarettes!
He ran up the front steps, almost hurling himself against his front door. His hands were shaking so badly he scratched the lock. It took him three tries to open it.
"Shelagh?!" He thundered up the stairs as he called for her. "Shelagh, please answer me!" If she was hurt, if she was in pain…
It was not Shelagh who answered.
It was Sister Julienne.