As ever, thank you so much to everyone who is still reading - and reviewing!
The cathedral at Durham was austere against a lilac sky when she was jerked from dozing by the abrupt pull out of the station. A fixed point, while the train wound through a landscape greyed by the smoke from rows of cramped houses, it remained the centre, imperious and untouched in a cold majesty.
She had watched from the window as the train drew out of Edinburgh, seeing the Pentlands diminish into bumps on the horizon dwarfed by the emerging hills of the Borders. She faintly recalled sluggishly racing into Berwick; by then the drowsy rocking already lulling her towards sleep. She had resisted it, fought against it, and none would know from her poise, but behind her glasses her eyes had closed. Now her neck was stiff from the angle at which it had been held and Shelagh rubbed it as she discreetly stretched, rolling her shoulders and extending one arm by her side, before adjusting her glasses, squinting as she accustomed herself to the light.
By Shelagh's thigh, where it had slipped from hands and lap, was the book she had intended to read. She had no recollection of the pages she had begun, words identified rather than processed. All she had thought of was time and distance, the number of miles left to crawl. Picking it up again, for a moment she riffled through the pages, then quietly smiled as she felt the obstruction bulging at the back. She would not read the book again, but she would read. Opening it at the back cover, she carefully withdrew the bundle of letters which had arrived the previous morning.
They had been laughing over the photograph taken for Patrick while breakfasting, a rather serious shot, where she seemed intent on penetrating the camera with her stare, the severity alleviated by the mildest hint of her gentleness but none of her humour. Teasingly, she had offered a spare print to Elspeth, who snorted, saying she hoped for better things in a fortnight's time. "You should've dressed like that," said Elspeth. "That would've knocked his socks off."
Shelagh chuckled. She was wearing an old pair of corduroy slacks and arran jumper which belonged to Elspeth, both comfortable in their oversized warmth, while her feet were clad in only thick wool socks; behind the kitchen door were a muddy pair of boots. For the first week she had stayed in her room in the still hours of early morning, reading or praying, trying to rest yet discomforted as she heard every groan of the floorboards as Rob, then Jamie, then Elspeth and Agnes stirred. For the last few days she had joined them in portioning out feed and water to the animals, waking the farm as darkness dissipated into light, then returning to breakfast rejuvenated, her blood and breath as clean and fresh as water. "Oh, I don't know. You should see some of the things we come across in Poplar. It would take quite a deal to knock off Patrick's socks."
"Like twelve to a room full of rats and beetles and all yon soot and smog?" replied Elspeth. While she had no fear of dirt, vermin or even death itself, some of Shelagh's stories made her shudder. "I can't imagine what's making you want to go rushing back!"
Jamie smirked and Shelagh smiled, both understanding the waspishness. Agnes did not. She sidled up to Shelagh. "Can you no stay longer? It's been so nice. If you do, we can go on the train together and you can point out English places to us on the way. I've never been to England."
How did you tell the truth to a pair of sweetly sincere blue eyes so like those of the woman the child had been named for: that you were counting the hours until the train would stagger to a stop, hoping a miracle would bring you there ten, five minutes earlier? It was Jamie, in a rare breakfast contribution, who replied. "She's missing himself, Stupid."
"Jamie, don't call your sister stupid," said Elspeth sharply. Jamie gave a non-committal grunt; the expression suggested any apology was comparatively limited. "Now, away wi' both of you. You need to stop dithering or you'll miss the bus," she continued, while collecting plates from the table.
While Jamie gathered coats and school bags, Agnes crept even closer to Shelagh. "Are you missing Uncle Patrick lots?" she asked quietly. Shelagh nodded. Initially Agnes said nothing, but her eyes shone even more brightly as she placed a kiss on her aunt's cheek and embraced her.
Jamie was brisker, unceremoniously throwing Agnes' bag at her after she had whispered goodbyes full of excited expectancy, bundling her out of the way. Briefly he threw an overlong arm, the length of which he was still not fully accustomed to, around her shoulder, giving her an awkward peck and a hearty farewell. "Aunt Shelagh, it's been great. Thanks for the repair kit. See you in two weeks." Checking his mother was engaged with Agnes, he spoke again, quietly and elliptically. "I asked Uncle Patrick about something when I wrote. Can you tell him I still want to, if he's alright wi' it?" He shuffled uncomfortably as he spoke.
"Of course," said Shelagh, without probing, but curious, warmed by the sudden, unexpected intrigue between Patrick and her nephew.
Jamie grinned broadly. "Hope your trains and things go fine. Agnes, come on!"
"I'm coming! Stop yelling at me!" she scowled. Still mildly bickering, they charged through the door, with one last wave to their aunt. Shelagh chuckled as she waved back, as much at Elspeth's resigned groan as at the children, still entertained by it as she collected a cloth from the sink and started cleaning down the table. She was close to finishing the task, checking for spots which might have evaded her, when there was a sharp rap at the door. It was Jamie.
"What did you forgot?" asked Elspeth.
Jamie shook his head, breathless. "Met the postie at the gate." He held out something to his mother, his eyes quickly moving from his mother to his aunt, then back. Although Shelagh could not see Elspeth's reaction, the sense of a shared joke between mother and son was tangible.
"Clearly no paper shortage in London!" she said. In the hand held out towards Shelagh were three envelopes.
The handwriting on one had been unknown to her, although she guessed correctly from its easy flourishes whose it might be. The other two had been beloved to her. Momentarily, she listened to the train's stuttering clatter and contemplated them again, thinking of the beauty and sadness of the words which called her home. The cathedral had long vanished, replaced by the starker brutality of the North Yorkshire moors, and she opened the letters again.
Just as she did after they finished the breakfast dishes and Elspeth began checking cupboards and pantry prior to her daily shop, leaving Shelagh with tea and reveries in a corner of the kitchen, she began with the slimmest of the envelopes: the letter from the unexpected correspondent.
Dear Shelagh,
A dozen thank yous to you for persuading Patrick to go along with Timothy's stag party scheme. I don't know what you said, however Patrick has accepted the invitation to our non-existent dinner party. David is so extraordinarily over-excited that it is currently like living with three little boys, the oldest of whom is in danger of popping. I can only guess how excited Timothy is.
Less frivolously, we appreciate the sacrifice on your part tremendously. I'm sure you would infinitely prefer to spend the evening with Patrick yourself and suspect the last thing I would want after a long train journey (Journeys? Patrick said you have some appalling marathon journey with buses to Elgin and Aberdeen and then trains from there and an overnight stop in Edinburgh? Sounds vile.) is meet two middle-aged medical bores and spend the evening with some rampant children and their exasperating, and exasperated, mother. It is most kind. For what it is worth, I very much look forward to seeing you again, while Kenneth is delighted he will meet you, as are David and our three. Quite genuinely, you are under no obligation to be sociable. Feel free to absent yourself and have a sleep, a bath, peace and quiet, ransack the bookcase, monopolise the radio etc. I like my children, but I'm not one of those awful mothers who expects everyone else to. Awful in many other ways I'm sure, but not that one!
As a small offering of gratitude, I have an invitation to make: my old medical school holds evening lectures which I attend when I can, in the forlorn hope of stopping my brain turning into porridge. On the 16th, Dr. Mary Nicholls will be delivering an address on monitoring foetal wellbeing. She gave a fascinating lecture two years ago on toxaemia, which I greatly regret missing. Would you like to join me in attending this one? We could perhaps get supper in town first. I realise that this is only days before the wedding and you will be very busy, but if you would like some 'heavy relief' by that stage, I would be delighted to provide it.
I hope you are enjoying your visit to Scotland and very much look forward to seeing you at the weekend. Please give my regards to Edinburgh. One of my uncles was a lecturer at the university many years ago and I have a soft spot for 'Auld Reekie'!
Warmest regards,
Louisa Watson
She wrote the way she talked, thought Shelagh, the words rattling like machinery over the page, scattering opinions and insights with her peculiar combination of perceptiveness and want of tact, all bound up with a patrician manner not unlike, although so much more confident than, Chummy Noakes. She had noticed when they lunched. While the lecture was enticing, the company was hardly less so, Shelagh realised. So many women had written to her in the previous five months; even in the past two weeks, short letters had arrived from Jane and Trixie. Yet all were underpinned by a subtle web of former relationships, professional authority or the strictures of the community she had renounced, uncertain how to negotiate the changes which had occurred. This alone simply held out a hand of friendship from the new life, a hand she was so eager to take, wondering if one day this handwriting too would be recognisable and dear to her?
The second letter had been promised before she left. The first was written on paper as smooth as velvet, elegant in its lack of ostentation, while this was coarser. But its graininess took her to a place of peace. Despite the lumpy softness of the railway carriage, she felt herself within the staid safety of the parlour of Nonnatus House, sitting on a thin cushion on top of a wooden chair which squeaked when one leant forward and groaned in the winter months when one stood up. It was illusion, she knew, but for a moment in the kitchen in Aberlour and again now in the train, Shelagh thought she smelt it: the old wool of their habits, the furniture polish Peggy used, hyacinths, the drifting scent of something baking. Knowing now what the letter contained, the memory became more vivid with the clarity of grief.
My dear Shelagh,
My apologies for not writing before now, the last week having been more taxing than anticipated for various reasons. I have an hour now before lunch and think that the pleasure of writing to you can certainly be classed as recreation. While I am sure that you are missing those who are most dear to you, I hope you are having a marvellous time with your sister and her family and that this brief return to Scotland has been a joy for you. Please assure your sister that we look forward to welcoming her and her family when they come to London for your wedding. I suspect the prospect of staying here may be somewhat daunting for your nephew, in particular if your brother-in-law cannot attend, however I hope that he is not too intimidated. Thanks to Constable Noakes, we are a more eclectic community these days and we are all very keen to meet Jamie after reading your description of him driving the farm tractor in last week's letter!
The reasons for the taxing week have been two-fold. The first has been an especially busy week. In addition to our routine nursing duties and an unusually high number of deliveries in the past ten days, there were three significantly premature cases. All are thriving and Nurse Franklin's delivery of the most complicated was exemplary and a great tribute to her professionalism, although perhaps it is invidious to single out individuals as it has been a challenging week for everybody. It will not surprise you, I am sure, to know that the most busy of our colleagues has been your fiancé, whose expertise I was very glad, as always, to be able to lean upon during a difficult delivery on Sunday. The patient in question was your former patient Edie Little, now the mother of a healthy baby boy – such a happy ending after the heartache of the past. She asked to be remembered to you and have her thanks handed on for your care and reassurance in the early stages of the pregnancy.
The second factor has been several lengthy meetings. One was with the department and among the matters discussed, we finalised the details of your return to work. They have assured me that you will work solely from Nonnatus House until you are able or wish to resume full-time work. My suggestion would be that you return the week beginning 23rd January, which would be three months after your discharge from St. Anne's, working two days a week (and no nights) in the first instance. Whether it would be preferable for these to be set days or to rotate, you will, of course, want to discuss with Dr. Turner and your housekeeper. We are entirely happy to accommodate either and are simply thankful for God's goodness in returning you to us. I hope that we will be able to retain Nurse Simpson for some weeks after your return, which should ease this period further.
Sadly, one of the other meetings of the week has had a more confusing and uncertain resolution, about which I suspect you will be distressed. The rector of All Saints and I were among a delegation who met with the council planning committee yesterday to request that the demolition proposals be reconsidered. It seems increasingly unlikely that this will be the case and although Mother Jesu Emmanuel intends to make one final petition when she is in London for your wedding, the most prudent course of action is for us to assume that there will be no reversal of the decision and seek other premises. We do not know yet the proposed schedule for demolition. I have no doubt in God's providence and I am confident that the council will assist with the rehousing process, in particular of Nurse Noakes and her husband, as both are in priority occupations. However I must confess that I feel both anxiety and a terrible sadness at this prospect. I find it hard at present to think of any other suitable premises and fear it would be impossible to care for the community as we would wish to unless we are housed at the heart of it and thus fully a part of it, while the quality of nursing and collegiality may suffer without having accommodation available for staff.
It is an immense relief to me to know that you at least will be safely established in your married home by the time of the demolition, but it will also be a great blessing to have you with us in the next two weeks as one of my greatest worries is how the news will be received, in particular by Sister Monica Joan. I intend to tell both the sisters and nursing staff by the end of the week, so there may be considerable discussion of the matter when you return. I know I do not need to ask you to pray for us, Shelagh, and that you carry us in your heart as we do you. Knowing that your prayers are with us is as great a comfort now as you have always been to me. I have found much solace in my private devotions this week as I am studying the book of Isaiah and have returned to Chapters 40 and 41 repeatedly. However I also find myself remembering something you said during one of my visits to you at St. Anne's: how it had been your time in the wilderness. I think that perhaps we are all facing one now, albeit of a different sort, and pray that we will face it with the same courage and integrity that you did yours.
I have one more, more joyful meeting tomorrow, which has been something of a beacon in the past few days: I have Timothy coming for afternoon tea after school, with his father joining us for dinner later (calls dependent). I am anticipating a most enjoyable discussion of art, the wedding and the pantomime, which, if Fred's furrowed brow is an accurate barometer, may not yet be quite ready for public consumption! Judging by the delectable smell currently coming from the kitchen, Mrs. B's plum cake will be – as long as we can avoid it being 'liberated' in the next twenty eight hours or so!
With deep affection,
Yours in Christ our Lord,
Julienne OSRN
Shelagh had prayed then, silently and fervently, quietly mouthing in the corner of the kitchen prayers that spoke of comfort and guidance. She had not cried; this sense of loss was beyond tears. That night and this morning she had turned to Exodus, the book of an exiled people trusting the Lord to lead them to a place they could not envisage. She did so again now, meditating on the words of reassurance she had read and noiselessly offering into His hands the tiny community of women, each individual who had forged her womanhood with their gifts, praying that the defiant light they spilled into corners of despair should not gutter into nothing, smothered by darkness.
Even after she had ceased praying, she did not pick up the final envelope at first, instead staring out of the window again. There was no frosty tessellation on the hills now; the sky was paler, colour stripped from it. Eventually it would flatten into the fens and an endless acreage of incomprehensible sky. Now it was untamed and wild.
The final envelope she had left as her crowning pleasure when she first received them, regretting the decision immediately when she turned it over and saw the amendment to the familiar direction on the back. The sender was declared as 'Dr. and Master Turner'. While she was slower now to open Timothy's letter again, her eyes were twinkling.
Dear Shelagh,
I'm really sorry I've haven't written. I know it's rude when you've written to me and Dad told me off. I meant to, but I've had lots of stuff for the pantomime, my violin exam and school. Thank you very much for the postcards. They are great and I liked the one of Elgin the most. I have pinned them up in my bedroom next to the cards from the TB hospital (written over the rubbing out of a different word) and Chichester.
My violin exam is next Monday. I think it will be OK as the pieces are quite good now, even the tricky bit in the third piece. Sometimes my minor scales sound a bit funny. I'm glad it's over soon as I got a new piece for the pantomime on Saturday and it's impossible. Nurse Lee changed the key so it's easier, but it's still difficult and I'll never play it fast enough. Dad keeps whistling it really fast which is really annoying. Please can you get him to stop because he'll listen to you.
The pantomime is alright. Some of it is quite funny and when everyone is singing it sounds good. We had a rehearsal on Saturday except Gary didn't know his lines so he had to do extra rehearsing and Jack, Peter and I played on Jack's bike, until Peter fell off and hurt himself.
School is alright too. I got 9/10 for the composition you helped me with. I've got a history test next week on the Romans. Please can you help me revise when you get back as Dad's really grumpy at the moment and too busy. Last weekend he worked on Saturday night and Sunday too. I went to Simon's house in the afternoon.
Under the next paragraph was another rubbed out section, where Timothy's final salutation and signature might originally have been.
We've just sorted Dad's bedroom before it gets painted. We had to shove the chest of drawers really hard! Dad let me pick the paint colour as he isn't very good at that. I hope you like it. Mr Warren is coming on Thursday. Tomorrow we are having tea with Sister Julienne and I am having cake with her after school first which will be fun.
I think Dad is just grumpy because he misses you and he's looking forward to you coming back. I am too. See you at King's Cross on Saturday!
Timothy
Some of the phrases made her eyes pop with amusement on first reading the letter, wondering what on earth had happened in her absence. It was too easy to imagine the squabbling between father and son. When she re-read the letter now, it was with poignancy. She could guess, from what the final letter did and did not say, the muddle below the scarcely veiled resentment and perhaps why it did not permeate the last two paragraphs.
That final letter she cherished, absorbing each word and hearing them in his voice.
Dearest Shelagh,
I suspect by now you've given up on getting love letters. I'm sorry. I don't think I'm made that way. However, even if I were, you would not get one tonight. Your step-son to be is currently practising his violin and it sounds as though he's crucifying it. In addition to his exam pieces, Fred's given him a new piece for the pantomime and it is less the cat and the fiddle than a cat viciously strangling a fiddle. He is practising the wretched thing endlessly and I've now got it stuck in my head. Suffice it to say, I am contemplating ransacking the surgery's aspirin supplies. My dear, if we are blessed enough to have a child and he or she has the good luck to inherit their mother's musicality, can we please push them towards a more easeful instrument? The trumpet perhaps? Currently drums seem preferable.
It has been a fairly ghastly couple of days. Yesterday I had my monthly row with the department over their failure to provide adequate supplies; this time the purveyor of the excuses was Hurst, against whom I should have taken an instant dislike three years ago on the grounds it would have saved time in the long run. Today I had to break tragic news to three different families, including the family of Gracie Higgins, whose case you doubtless remember. It is hard to feel anything other than completely ineffectual in those circumstances and wonder what earthly purpose one serves. The one high spot was your letter, which arrived yesterday. I am so glad that your time in Scotland, with Elspeth in particular, has been so enjoyable. I have contacted Michael Reid and Len Warren and both your GP registration and redecorating our bedroom are now in hand. Mr. Warren and his sons will begin the redecoration on Thursday, while you have one form to sign to finalise the registration when you return. Your records have been handed on.
I started writing this at seven o'clock, then stopped in the face of the caterwauling next door! I'm picking it up again at nine thirty, now Timothy's in bed. I'm sorry to have been so sour in the opening paragraphs. It hasn't been quite as bad. The supplies did arrive this morning and there have been a couple of wonderful moments at work: I was privileged to witness Sister Julienne perform an almost miraculous delivery of a premature child on Sunday, while the indomitable Arthur Pearce, eighty-nine and still going, has responded in the most remarkable way to penicillin and seen off the pneumonia which I thought would finally take him. I have a special affection for Mr. Pearce as he was my first patient when I arrived in Poplar and is the only person who still calls me 'lad'. However it's been very, very busy. I'm exhausted and worn out – I've averaged about three hours sleep a night in the last week – and Timothy and I rowed earlier, which is always wearying. I miss you most of all, Shelagh, at these moments. You always seem to be able to soothe away the irritabilities between us and sweeten my ill-temper. If I am honest, even before we were to each other what we now are, you had an uncanny ability to make this fractious colleague see things in better perspective and find some of that peace you always radiated. I don't think Timothy could go back to how it was when it was just the two of us now that we've had a taste of how much happier life can be. I know that I could not. It would seem far, far blanker even than the terrible blankness it was then.
Timothy had 'a moment' this evening when he was helping me sort out our bedroom prior to the redecorating. He panicked about where Elizabeth's photograph (which I have finally remembered to put in the sitting room) had gone and ended up asking me the 'what if' questions we thought he might raise. He was also quite clingy about spending time together, about which I feel horribly guilty. Last weekend was monopolised by work and the time we had was curtailed by an extra pantomime rehearsal in the morning. Ironically, my Saturday evening stint at the maternity hospital proved to be entirely uneventful, my presence fairly redundant and I spent most of it completing paperwork. I hope I have reassured him and certainly we had a bit of nonsense before he went to bed, with him pontificating about The Lost World for fifteen minutes and then us having a quick game of knockout whist, during which he seemed much cheerier. He is also looking forward to having afternoon tea and dinner with Sister Julienne tomorrow. However I suspect he is feeling fairly vulnerable and is certainly tired. I will be extremely relieved when the violin exam and the pantomime are out of the way.
Interestingly, a propos of my Saturday night shift, I have identified the origin of Sister Monica Joan's John Donne 'reference', if I dare call it such again! There is a patient in the maternity hospital at the moment (slightly older prima gravida, early stage complications) who was formerly an English teacher. She happened to have a book of Donne's poetry with her, and when I gave a vague approximation of the line, immediately identified the source as 'Love's Growth', found it and kindly allowed me to have a look, before cross-examining me on my views afterwards. Thankfully she approved of my opinion! It is a rather touching poem, part of which I am tempted to use in my speech at the reception, which I suppose I should start thinking about.
Your last letter made me laugh, but worried me a little. Agnes and Jamie sound delightful. I had a thank you letter from him yesterday and see what you mean about him not wasting words! He asked if he could shadow me on my rounds the day before the wedding and could you please tell him I'd be very happy to have his company. He sounded fairly covert, so I'm not entirely sure whether he is considering medicine as a career or just wants to avoid conversations about dresses! I hope you did dance at your ceilidh – I had a little chuckle as I imagined it. I don't think I'll be reeling (Is that the right term?) you around the floor soon, although I could once do a fairly decent waltz and a long time ago I learnt the foxtrot from Louisa because I wanted to surprise Elizabeth. These days it would probably be more of a foxlumber. Incidentally, Louisa has asked me for your sister's address, so you may be going to be Louisa-ed, for which I apologise. Above all, though, I hope that whatever it was which was making you out of sorts has passed. If and when you want to tell me 'the other things', I will be eager to listen and to do anything I can to lessen whatever disconcerted you, my dear. I don't think I deserve what you wrote at the end, although it was beautiful to read. I was far more lost than you when you found me.
As this is the one night I won't be dragged out on a call and the rest of week is likely to be busy, I think I ought to end this and get some sleep. However on Saturday, after early surgery in the morning, the day is gloriously clear and while you are chuntering south, Timothy and I have one or two important expeditions planned! I hope your journey goes well and that you enjoy your overnight stop with your cousin in Edinburgh. However, if they do not or you feel tired or unwell when you arrive, please tell me and we will make our excuses to David and Louisa. They will understand. Finally, come hell, high water, hurricanes, hydrogen bombs, hypothermia or anything else beginning with 'h', I promise that I will be on time to collect you from the station!
Entirely yours and with all my love,
Patrick
The letters and the book had been replaced in her handbag at the point where the buildings began to stretch and grow, blocking a sky now heavy with grit. The listless gaze became an urgent stare, despite a long, slow period still to be covered before the train and she would come to their rest, as Shelagh sought what she knew. Not the same docks or the same quiet heroes and petty villains, but versions of them appearing again and again in streets which could be the ones she had cycled and tramped through. They too were crumbling and dirty, noisy and invigorated, tumbling with life. She was clutching at her bag, her gloves creased, anticipation quickened.
At last she felt the arresting of the wheels and the last fragment of sky vanished behind brick walls and glass windows. A high shriek and the view from the window was filled, first with the platform, then blurs of colour who slowed into bodies and faces, a throng waiting. They were a mass to her, matchstick people, yet all individuals entirely real, pulsing with blood and private longing as she was, anxious and ecstatic in the separate hopes she had no time to speculate about.
Then suddenly it was Timothy, wearing the burgundy jacket he had worn at the christening, hopping from one leg to another and starting to run towards the edge of the platform; sharply recalled by Patrick, frowning, anxious, watching each carriage go past. She tried not to cry out and waved. They did not see her. For as she raised her hand behind the window, something Timothy said made Patrick look at him. His face unburdened, the creases changed into laughter, and Shelagh's hand was against her lips. Now they were beyond her, looking at the carriages after hers, walking away from her while the train took her further away still. Fumbling, she tried to collect her cases, stumbling as the train jolted and stopped, found herself hastily thanking a man who helped her, then alighted onto the freezing platform, colder even than the carriage, and into a swarm of people. She could not see them through the maze and could only start to walk towards where she knew they might be found.
"Shelagh!"
First she only heard the raucous uninhibited shout. Despite the clamour of lugged cases and heavy winter shoes battering through a swirl of identical conversations, she thought she heard him running, quick and light in the uneven rhythm of small steps then long ones taken to avoid the crowd. Then she saw him. Timothy tore towards her, his grin widening with each step until he skidded to a stop directly in front of her. For a moment he paused, thinking, caught between childhood immediacy and the shyness of youth, then resolutely flung his arms around her.
"You're back!"
She felt rather than saw the taller figure appear behind him as she buried her face in the top of the boy's head, kissing him through his hair, knowing what she would see when she looked up.
"Hello, Shelagh." He smiled with nervous confidence. She tried to reply and found the words stuck. A chorus of hectoring from a wife scolding her seething husband rang indistinctly and a young man in a tailored suit pushed quickly past them, his head full of money, eager to join the crush further down the platform. But as Timothy stepped back, still beaming, Patrick walked in the opposite direction. "Welcome home," he whispered, laying a hand on her arm and kissing her cheek. It was brief and discreet and clumsy passing elbows jostled him, but still it was infused with the same gentle timelessness as the first time he had kissed her, on a bleeding hand in a tiny kitchen in a condemned hall.
"Hello Patrick." She fumbled with the buttons on his coat, stroking them, then looked up. Although he was still smiling, he had removed his hand and the fingers begun their customary fidgeting riff.
"Was the train cold? You feel slightly cold."
Her exhalation was the beginning of laughter. "I'm well." Stretching up, she softly touched his cheek and jaw. "All's well, Patrick."
"We need to get you a proper winter coat." She squeezed his shoulder and felt him start to ease.
"Can I take your cases?" asked Timothy. "Why have you got two? Didn't you only have one when you left?"
Shelagh nodded. "The other one is a loan from my sister. She gave me lots of things to have, mainly things which used to belong to our parents. There were so many I couldn't fit them into my case."
"Oh," said Timothy, putting his head on one side. "Is that because you weren't allowed to have any stuff of your own when you were a nun so she had them all and now you can have things because you're not? Dad told me all about that once," he explained.
"Yes," she replied. Seeing him make for the older, heavier case, she hastily picked up the lighter one and held it out to him. "Why don't you take just the one, Timothy? There are a few things in it for you anyway. They belonged to my nephew, Jamie, and Elspeth thought you might like them."
"Oh! Can I see them when we get back to the house or are they presents?"
"Some of them."
"We've been getting presents today!" he said, with a conspiratorial look at his father. "We got something really good for you!"
"Timothy!" warned Patrick. At Shelagh's questioning glance, he added shyly, "Groom's present for the bride. Let me take that."
She reached the other case first as they both stretched for it. There was room on the handle for Patrick to have taken it cleanly, yet she felt his hand closing over hers, almost completely covering it. He did not pull at the case or shuffle his hand away, but rested it on hers. His second and third fingers trailed until they almost reached her wrist and ran down the full length of her fingers as she withdrew her hand, blushing at her sudden wish that she had not worn her gloves.
She took his offered arm as they wove through the station, refreshing themselves with small sips of glances while Timothy erupted with news and questions beside them. Maybe it was absence, thought Patrick, but he did not think he had ever seen her look so well. Apart from a slight trace of colour on her cheeks, she was pale, but she had always been pale, even in the stuffiest of squalid delivery rooms, and this was the pale sparkle of a clear skin glowing with health, with no purple shadows under her eyes.
The corner where Patrick had parked was secluded, hidden away at the edge of an almost deserted area. Even the noise of the station seemed muffled as he pulled out his car keys to unlock the boot. Then he frowned and started patting the pockets of his coat, before reaching into his jacket, the frown more pronounced.
"What have you lost?" asked Shelagh.
"Timothy," said Patrick, "could you run back to the tea room and see if I left my lighter there?"
"You didn't!" replied Timothy, helpfully "You put it in your coat pocket when we got up to go to the platform! I saw you do it!"
"Really?" He fumbled in the pockets again. "Could you go and retrace our steps then and see if it fell out between the tea shop and the platform? There might be some extra pocket money in it for you," he added, as Timothy started to protest.
This was something of a gift horse and Timothy, although decidedly unimpressed by his father's absent-mindedness, did not believe in looking such things in the mouth. With a resigned rolling of his eyes, he jogged back towards the platform, his eyes scanning the ground.
"Is there anywhere else you could have put it? Have you tried the inside pocket of your jacket?" suggested Shelagh, helpfully. Patrick, however, was no longer looking for the lighter; nor did he seem particularly disconcerted. The frown dissolved from his face while he put her cases into the boot and carefully looked around them at a few people dotted nearby, all absorbed by their own separations and reunions, unconscious of and uninterested in the man in the worn brown coat and the neatly dressed young woman beside him.
When Timothy turned the corner and was out of view, he turned back to her, his expression impish and slightly guilty. "It's in my pocket," he whispered, taking her face in his hands.
Her eyes broadened and her cheeks dimpled. "Dr. Turner! I'm shocked."
"I never said I didn't have it," he muttered, beginning to grin while his hands slid from her face to her shoulders then down her back, until they rested in a hollow at her waist, gently pulling her towards him as he lent down towards her and her eyes started to close.
Two hundred miles to the north, on the other side of the country, a grey haired man sat in his study. He too was re-reading a letter. Arriving in his business in-tray in the middle of the week, it was only now that he was fully contemplating its request, yet although his eyes scanned it and he mechanically turned the pages, he was scarcely reading. Both the short covering note, from a Camilla Noakes, and the main letter, intelligent and courteous in carefully controlled pencil, began by acknowledging that he might have no recollection of the person about whom they were asking. That was not the case. Opening the letter was to nudge the lid off hell once more until he was standing on the beach again, tired and filthy, with the sand staining red in front of him. The gun still smoked at the end of a shaking arm only inches above the beach and above it, the drawn, grey face, a trail of blood splattered across it, snarled its bitter question: "This is what we became doctors for?" Yes, he remembered Patrick Turner.