"I feel terrible sitting around when you're so desperately short staffed and all working so hard. I asked Sister Julienne if I could assist in some way, perhaps working with Jane, but she wouldn't countenance it. And even if she did," she said, suddenly fascinated by the paper pattern for an arm of a dress which lay on the table, before finishing rather weakly, "someone else wouldn't."
Cynthia and Chummy laughed. "Gosh, Sister Julienne and Dr. Turner, a terrifying combination. Far more scary even than Sister Evangelina," remarked Chummy.
"I think it's lovely he's so protective of you," said Cynthia. "He smiles every time your name's mentioned." Then she told them what had happened at the end of Tuesday's clinic. Starting to fold the screens away, Trixie had heard it first and gleefully shushed them until they all did: someone in the kitchen whistling Lillibulero. She had beckoned them over to a spot where you could see without being seen, to watch Dr. Turner combing his hair and adjusting his tie in a reflection in the window. The whistling momentarily stopped when he bent over to pick something up, resuming as he put on his coat and exited, now holding a delicate bunch of freesias, which had sat unnoticed in cold water underneath the sink for the previous four hours, along with his briefcase.
"Going to see your lovely fiancée, Dr. Turner?" asked Trixie, playfully. Cynthia had mumbled 'Don't', expecting him to be embarrassed, even to blush. But he hadn't. He turned unabashed, the smile making him appear years younger, and replied, "Yes. Goodnight, ladies."
Cynthia continued kindly. "He wants to take care of you and we do too. It was horrible when you were in the sanitorium. You have to rest and convalesce properly, we understand that. We're just happy you're coming back in January." She looked terribly tired, Shelagh thought, although Cynthia dismissed it as a taxing night shift a few hours before, saying she was glad to have the afternoon off. "And with you doing all this reading, you'll be able to teach us so much! It will be like old times."
"I think I've read an entire year's editions of The Lancet and the BMJ in a week," she admitted, "which has been rather nice." She had revelled in the study, every time she saw Patrick telling him some detail she had gleaned of pioneering treatments or articles she thought he would want to read, when – if – he ever found the time, and captivating Cynthia and Chummy by describing the new Riker inhaler which was revolutionising asthma treatment in America. A stash of avidly taken notes rose each day as she absorbed the articles, enthralled, taking notes on them all; all except the research which arrested her the most and chilled her, the start of a slowly rolling avalanche linking cancer with smoking.
"And become a lady who lunches!" They had both been fascinated by the little she told them of her telephone conversation with Louisa Watson, a call which she and Patrick realised on exchanging notes had taken place within ten minutes of his conversation with them ending.
The cosy afternoon tea at Nonnatus House had been delightful, however Shelagh sighed as she walked back to her lodgings: the day had been difficult, even without the incident with Timothy. Cynthia, as ever, had noticed, quietly asking if was the dress and whether she would prefer to select one herself, rather than leaving it in their hands, but had felt bullied by Trixie, who thought the idea inspired. She could honestly assure her that it was not: uneasy with shopping, uncertain about fashion, embarrassed to be asked what she wanted as a wedding gift, she had been only too happy to let the five of them give her her dress, trusting in Chummy's skill, Jane's modesty, Cynthia's sensitivity, Trixie's kindness and Jenny's impeccable taste. Although the beauty of the cloth, the ravishing silk and an old filigree lace, was far removed from her image of herself, it was mesmeric, not overwhelming.
It was earlier conversations which had unnerved her, making the great changes rise up in front of her like cliffs. She had cosseted little Freddie while Chummy took her through the process for changing her nurse's registration from her maiden to her married name, which documents needed to be sent away and when, patting away the implicit question when Chummy recalled the first time she had tried her married signature. They had laughed as Chummy described its drunken spider's look and the consequence of repeatedly practising it in the days leading up to the wedding: unconsciously she had started writing 'Noakes' when she was signing the register, until Peter had nudged her, and she had to turn 'Noa' into an barely legible 'For'. But there was something more Shelagh contemplated during this anecdote, beyond humour or paperwork: how an identity only just reclaimed must change once more; and something further still, a memory she was too ashamed to admit. Shelagh had tried writing her married signature too, once. She had just torn up a half-written letter, her third attempt to reply to the mute appeals within his letters to her, too clear to be dismissed as concerned friendship, too veiled for her to divulge the truth. She had stood and stared out at the garden where she had walked with Sister Julienne, begging her to share her strength, then circled the room as she ran her fingers over his signature, before quickly sitting down once more and brazenly writing two words – Shelagh Turner – then was so horrified she ripped off the page, destroyed it and wrote to Timothy instead.
Before her tea with Cynthia and Chummy had been the fruitless discussion with Sister Julienne. She had come with two requests, the first about the possibility of returning to work earlier than the new year, even if it was simply to sterilise equipment or answer the telephone. It was not that she was not busy arranging the logistics of her wedding and spending time with Patrick and Timothy, while she filled her days with study and with prayer. The old routine of offices shaped her still, now infused with peace and purpose as she asked Him to prepare her for the life which she believed was His will. Yet the self-focus of this introspection disturbed her and each day when she saw the towering levels of human need in the streets, she felt guilt. Her request had been rebuffed, kindly, but so firmly and with what seemed like gracious, generous, insurmountable distance. She remembered the words once uttered across that desk, "Change nothing. Go nowhere. I really don't think I can do without you." and wondered if they could ever reclaim the tender openness of the relationship which had been the deepest of her life. When she told Sister Julienne that next week she was going to Chichester, to make her goodbyes to Mother Jesu Emmanuel and Sister Teresa, who had been her Director of Vocations when she joined the community, she thought for a moment that Sister Julienne was about to break down, though she quickly smiled and asked her to deliver some messages to her, no longer their, sisters. She could not bring herself to ask the other request: to give her away at her wedding.
And before that she had seen Patrick, briefly, at lunchtime. They had not fought, nothing so crude, or even come close to arguing. However after they had finalised the list of wedding invitations to be sent, her job for the evening, he had raised, not for the first time, the possibility of her not returning to Poplar after her trip to Chichester; instead accepting her sister's invitation, visiting a healthful place with clean air and open fields, filling her lungs with wholesomeness and resilience, rather than be smothered by the foul beginning of the smog season in London. The logic of his arguments was unquestionable, the sincerity behind his fussing undeniable, but she had interrupted him and said she would rather not, citing the distance of the journey and the cost. He offered to pay, what was his was hers legally in a matter of weeks, it already was to his mind, but she continued to say no.
She was fond of Elspeth and even more of her niece and nephew, but they were not particularly close: the six year age gap had divided them, not drawn them together, when their mother died and she had been only twelve when Elspeth became a land girl, moving to Aberlour, marrying a neighbouring farmer's son and never returning home. Correspondence had been regular and affectionate, but visits infrequent since Shelagh moved to London. Yet this was not the reason behind her refusal and she knew it. After so much separation, she could not now bear to be parted from Patrick, even while knowing how ridiculous, almost insulting, it was to suggest that a week or two, which would have such benefits for her health and bring her back to him stronger and rosier, would make any difference to their feelings or be harder for her than for him. But essentially it was not love, only obstinacy, now that she was embracing a new adult identity without the structured authority she had previously lived by. He had reluctantly dropped the subject and they had laughed and joked over happier subjects, until he returned to work, apologising that he could not pick her up from Nonnatus House later: taking advantage of a cancelled consultation, he was squeezing in a meeting with his solicitor before his evening calls to organise having her name added to the deeds of ownership and mortgage for the house and changing his will in her favour.
The contrast continued to preoccupy her after she arrived back at her lodgings, entering a room still pervaded by the scent of the apparently fragile flowers he had given her, the first time any man had: his apparent acceptance of her facile arguments, or at least her right to be led by them, when his were wiser, better-judged and based on more consideration for her than she was showing to him. She knew, at heart, that he was right. She argued to herself that it could not be stubbornness; she had made changes for him, the greatest change she could make, but she knew the difference, for she had made her decision alone, only seeking advice from Sister Julienne when she was almost certain, only telling him when it was already a fait accompli.
She had thought herself so practised in obedience that partnership would come naturally to her, but this was a different form of submission, not subjugation of self to an entity so vastly greater than herself that dependence upon Him and listening to His will was both logic and as necessary to her as breathing. Nor was it submission of a weak or passive sort, denying her intelligence and independent will, which might be crushing to the point of oblivion yet would be easy to follow. It was a mutual submission, a subtle bridge of compromises which demanded compliance and authority from them both, a melding of who and what they were, beyond the sharing of lives and thoughts and family and home and even a bed, with all that that entailed. Although the vows had not yet been spoken, as surely as if they had been, each portion of him belonged partly to her, while neither her essence nor her mind nor her illness ravaged body belonged solely to her any longer.
The vase of freesias sat upon the table by her bed, but their fragrance swirled around her, offering her peace as she rifled through the chest of drawers to find her address book, the decision now made. They would still be there when she returned from the brief long distance telephone call to her delighted sister. Their perfume would intoxicate her as she lay alone in the dark, entering her senses and seeping into her sleep, yet still there when she woke, sweetly surrounding her.