Trixie laughed blithely. "It sounds terribly funny. How did you keep your face straight?"
"It wasn't easy," admitted Shelagh. "He didn't know at first that I knew and I think he was trying desperately to come up with a way of apologising to me without upsetting Timothy, who was terribly excited and proud of what he'd managed to organise. Poor Patrick," she finished, returning to the autoclave, but her eyes diffidently flickered up over her glasses at Cynthia and Trixie just as she turned. It had been instinct to use his name, but although she could not be sure, she suspected it was the first time she had ever said it in front of them.
"He's never going to trust you again!" said Trixie, her eyes and mouth wide, with a short silent squeal at Cynthia.
Shelagh smiled. Although she saw the squeal, she made no comment on it as she lowered forceps and clamps into the water and shut the lid. "I suspect I'm forgiven." Even before he had left the Watsons' house in two or three minutes alone which Louisa contrived for them she had known it. A few still moments by the car outside Nonnatus House before they shook Timothy awake so she could say goodnight and receive his sleepy reply had been the reassurance she had not needed; a merry promise that one day soon they would go to the theatre together, made as he tucked loose wisps of her hair behind her ear with proprietorial ease, slowing into a burning kiss from the chilly lips and at last the whisper she felt hot and earnest against her skin, offered in shadows where his face could not be seen and so quietly the last few words could scarcely be heard: "Thank you. For Timothy's sake. It meant so much to him, my dear, dear love."
The confidence of the simple answer captivated Cynthia, the mystery of the romance haunting her imaginations like morning mist. "Did you like Dr. Turner's friends?"
"Very much. They were very nice." She felt the response's blandness, trying ineffectually to modify it. "I only got to meet them for about an hour before they had to take the train back into the city and then a little after they got back – it was late and Timothy was a wee bit of a drowsy poppy, so we needed to get home! But they were lovely."
"Were they what you expected?" asked Trixie curiously.
Answering that question easily was impossible. David Watson had been close to what she had imagined, broader than in the student photographs and bespectacled now, his sandy hair steadily thinning, but the dry good-humour exactly as she had imagined. She had predicted the urbane confidence which saw his lips twitch at Patrick's unambiguous note of pride when introducing her, then come towards her, announcing "Shelagh, you've endured lunch with my wife and been brave enough to come back for more. I'll claim the right to more than a handshake." greeting her with a kiss. He was jovial and hospitable, a tea cup materialising by her elbow within minutes of arriving, a sherry glass later, the witty squabbling with his wife a form of entertainment which fooled nobody; and if he watched her closely with Patrick, initially failing to hide a tiny bubble of protectiveness, she liked him more for it.
In one moment, however, the guard came down and she learnt more of him than she could have done from a year of pleasantries. Returning to the sitting room after freshening up, the first flurry of introductions over, she saw Louisa and David standing by the side of the room, he behind her, an arm around her waist, both contemplating a sight with rare restfulness: Patrick at the other side of the room with the three small boys, willingly answering questions from nine year old Oliver about some toy while dextrously managing Alex and Timothy. He was serene and happy. Then he looked up, smiling with such radiance when he saw her that she choked. Still he smiled, even more broadly, from behind an arm flapped to regain his attention; then, before he returned to the child, he shrugged, grinned, and very fleetingly winked at her. Quickly she looked over at the Watsons, nervously expecting a mischievous face pulled at her. But they were still watching Patrick, Louisa's bottom lip unmistakably trembling and David's face suffused with pleasure, resting his head gently against his wife's.
Kenneth Rees had been more of a surprise. She had heard too much from both Patrick and Timothy to see the Holmes nickname as originating from anything more than an outstanding mind and early affected pipe-smoking. She had no expectation of finding him cold or haughty. Somehow, however, she had had in mind an air of remote intelligence and, despite knowing him to be Welsh, a peculiarly English reserve. Nothing had prepared her for how very Welsh he was, the undulating voice like music, or the intellect which was not distant, but passionate, eager to share not from vanity but enthusiasm. Tall and thin, he struck her as a great, kindly giraffe, ushering her into a seat next to him, asking animatedly about her journey and visit to Scotland, riposting in kind to David's jibe that Shelagh should ignore any questions as it would encourage him to tell her what type of engine the locomotive by which she had travelled had. His parting words, tumbling from him as she and Patrick left the Watsons for their moonlit drive home accompanied by a tightening handshake, were ones of immeasurable worth: 'I'm so very pleased for you and Patrick, I really am. It's marvellous to see him happy again. He's a good man, Shelagh, he really is. Very loyal and very kind. Stubborn bugger, mind, but such a good man.'
It was not David or Kenneth who had been unexpected. It had been Patrick.
How he would be with his friends had fascinated her, Louisa's stories hinting at a man she recognised but painted in different colours. But to see him with his friends was to see fleshed out a deeper man, more complex, more rich in character. There was a lazy effortlessness to his manner, a greater confidence in his interactions, dabbling in ironic wit, faintly veiled insults and forceful opinions, unafraid to hold back. She saw glimpses of this man when they were together, in ever increasing glimmers of self-assurance, but still he cradled her in those moments like precious crystal, while with David and Kenneth, and even occasionally Louisa, the handling had the delicacy of an expert hurling a cricket ball. It was in a woman's world that she had always seen him; not only the nuns and midwives, but their patients too, men infantilised and reduced by illness until the doctor was someone in whom they placed a terrified childish trust, hoping he would make things well. He was an oddity from the other world walking in and out around them, whom they, by turn and temperament, obeyed, respected, deferred to or harangued, giggled and gossiped about, occasionally tried unsuccessfully to flirt with and, in her case alone, had fallen in love with. She did not know how he was with the other nurses, but knew he gave her professional respect in a way few other doctors ever had. In complex procedures the two of them moved between following and leading with the innate skill of dancers. Yet beyond the sick room, in the company of her world he responded to their behaviours and reactions through a gentlemanliness long learnt. The chivalry charmed them, but she saw now how it had diminished him, how much more he was able to be in the world of men, among his peers and equals. It was not frightening, but even in its intriguing allure, it startled her. She had anticipated the turning of the leaf to reveal a new, unread page to Patrick; instead she found a second volume, written in a language she only partially understood.
How strange it was, this world of men, of inflection and understatement, where wit took the place of sentiment and gesture the place of emotion; where one friend, as close to Patrick as a brother, would greet him with the observation 'Good heavens, a miracle! You're on time.' and Patrick himself would warn her 'Don't ask him about his conference paper, sweetheart. He'll only force you to read it.' about the other friend, whose skill and success filled him with unending pride; where at the end of the night Patrick would silently ask David for his opinion by the slightest raise of his eyebrows, receiving the answer in a warm clap on the shoulder where the fingers tightened along with two short, emphatic nods. So little was ever said or shown, but these men, she knew, had bled for each other's suffering and would have done anything for one another. Was it early learnt, this way of living, taught as the way to be a man? Thinking of how David rebuked Alex's complaint that he wanted to go to the play as well, the reprise of a grievance clearly made before, she thought that it must be. It was kind, but robust, brooking neither opposition nor sulking.
"You think it's unfair, do you?" A nod and a mutter. "Well, it's not, so accept it and don't grouse. Timothy's younger, yes, but he's Best Man and Uncle Patrick's son. I know you're his godson, but that's not relevant here. If it were the other way around and I were remarrying, you and Oliver would be going and Timothy wouldn't, even though he's my godson. Come on. I need you to be man of the house tonight and you know what that means."
"Help Mum. Entertain the guests. Serve out the drinks. Don't annoy Katherine and Ollie."
"And defend the honour of the house of Watson! Good lad."
She took off her glasses and polished them slowly before she turned around. Cynthia was sitting at the table, while Trixie stood, carefully repacking her bag, both waiting for her answer. "In the main they were. They were very clever and pleasant and obviously extremely fond of Timothy, and his father, which was lovely to see. I suppose it wasn't entirely what I expected."
"But in a good way?" asked Trixie, sincerely.
"Yes," she smiled, "in a good way." In a way that tempted wonderfully for the future, if she could find the way to it. "Now, tell me," she asked, replacing her spectacles, "why is it that I 'have' to be here at teatime?"
Trixie and Cynthia chuckled at each other. "You'll see," replied Trixie.
"It's ever so nice!" said Cynthia.
As the front door bell went, Trixie sighed and pouted.
"I'll go," offered Cynthia.
"No, it's me on call," she said, hands on hips. "It's probably that awful woman again, wanting to borrow a baby for the nativity service or something. Honestly, I know men of the cloth need to love the unlovable, but I never knew it had to be quite as close to home!"
"Which awful woman?" asked Shelagh.
Cynthia looked embarrassed. "Mrs. Clark."
"Cynthia!"
"I know we shouldn't say that about the Rector's wife. She's been terribly rude though, even worse than she was over the summer fete." As Cynthia detailed the incessant demands for assistance, each one entirely ignoring the house's work, its perilous future or the nuns' long practice of Advent reflection and prayer, Shelagh could not help but sympathise with Trixie's irritation. But the second voice emerging from the hall, though indistinguishable, was low, while Trixie's cadences were playful. It was hard to hear over the sharp slap of the kitchen door closing, however the sounds were not the tactless efficiency of the Rector's wife.
"I think you'll find exactly what you're looking for in here!" Trixie said, reappearing in the doorway and then stepping back as she finished the sentence, beckoning Cynthia to follow her.
"Good afternoon, Nurse Miller," said Patrick, as Cynthia padded away, her eyes flitting in wonderment between Shelagh and the man now leaning against the doorframe, indulgently shaking his head. "Back to work in January, then?"
Shelagh hung her head. "There were so many delivery packs to be distributed and Jane had so much to do." When she looked up, he was still shaking his head. "Don't scold me, Patrick!"
"I wouldn't dare," he said, his voice sepulchral and amused.
"They need the instruments, Patrick."
"Of course."
"Maybe even a few doctors need them too for their evening calls?" she queried. "They'll be ready in ten minutes."
He laughed. "Perhaps. But this one's only here because he wants to see you." His eyes softened. "And here you are. Back where you belong."
They had talked many times in this room about their work. Once they had spoken of Timothy and grief. The last time, she had entered beaming with pleasure at his day of triumph and exited like a sleepwalker, numbed and breaking. He was right that this was a return, but not as a circle to the beginning. Shyly, she walked over to him and gently kissed him, taking his face in her hands when she felt his lips part and respond to her. "Now I am," she whispered.
"Can I steal you for a little while?" he asked, arms around her. "I've got calls all evening so I was going to go home for dinner with Timothy now. I know that sounds ridiculous at four o'clock."
"I can't," she said forlornly. "I'm sorry. Not today. I promised the others that I would have tea with them. They've been terribly insistent. Stay," she suggested. "Take tea with us? Just for a few minutes? Perhaps it won't take long."
Patrick tightened his hold. "I took a step in that direction a moment ago and the door was resolutely shut in my face, so I suspect this time I might not be welcome!" His expression was hangdog as he continued. "I hope you won't think any the less of me for this, Shelagh, but when you all get together, I find it terrifying!"
"Really?"
"Definitely. A screaming patient is easier than that kitchen without back up. Fred's not around?" She shook her head. "Peter Noakes?" She was rippling with laughter. "Takes a man with more courage than I have," he said, with a slight, comic shudder.
Shelagh gave a small chuckle. "A little like the Sierra Leoneans' description of Chummy? 'A lot of woman'?"
He snorted. "Exactly." He was leaning down to kiss her again when they felt a sudden draft behind them.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" puffed a voice irritably. "I hope this isn't what we'll have to put up with in the future. It's bad enough with silly young girls with their heads full of dances and lipstick and nonsense all over the place. You should both know better!" Sister Evangelina dropped her bag on the table with an ominous thump and stalked away.
Although they both laughed, Patrick pulled away immediately. "I should go." Only the interlaced fingers touched as they walked to the front door. "Will I see you for lunch tomorrow?" he asked, one finger briefly on her cheek. Shelagh nodded. "Until then." Checking they were alone, he quickly kissed her and paced down the stairs, wondering, not for the first time, how on earth Peter Noakes coped with living at Nonnatus House.
From the top of the stairs, Shelagh watched him, silent in thought, waving as the car turned the corner. It was only when she heard the little voice of Jane that she shut the door and walked into the dining room.
The cheers and claps of delight erupted as she entered from around a table laid with the grander spread they usually experienced only on birthdays. They were all there, Jenny and Sister Evangelina just returned from calls, Sister Julienne tranquil after a time of private prayer, Sister Monica Joan nibbling crumbs from a pilfered biscuit, Trixie gleeful, Cynthia relieving Chummy of a mewling Freddie. Even Rachel Simpson, weary from a disturbing case, smiled uncertainly, drawn into the festive atmosphere. In the middle of the table, flanked by sandwiches and biscuits, was a lemon sponge, baked and iced by Mrs. B.; two vases of flowers stood on either side, the gift of Fred.
"Congratulations!" cried Trixie, drawing her to the table with cosy familiarity.
Confused, Shelagh looked, by instinct, to Sister Julienne for explanation. "Is this – for me?"
"Of course you!" exclaimed Trixie. "No-one else's getting married, unless they're a very dark horse!"
A yowl from Freddie and a chair scraped across the floor disguised Sister Julienne's reply, but Shelagh still heard both the voice's joy and tremor. "We cannot take you to the theatre, perhaps, but we want to celebrate your happiness with you. Many, many congratulations, Shelagh!"
She had no words to express what she felt and Shelagh was starting to look down when Sister Julienne took her hand and held it closely between both of her own. Then were the others, Sister Monica Joan leaning across the table to her, Sister Evangelina blowing her nose and patting Shelagh's shoulder as she handed out teacups and chatter sparkling throughout the room.
"This is so kind. It's lovely. Thank you," said Shelagh, blinking and biting her lip as she looked fondly around at them all. Chummy, however, was still standing, her arms hanging as though they were disconnected from her body. "Would you like some tea, Chummy?"
"Um," she began, her voice unnaturally high, "in a moment. Something to show you first." In the blurred corners of her peripheral vision, Shelagh thought she saw the nurses start to lean forward. Certainly she heard an excited, giggling squeal. "It's not finished yet, of course, as we need to do final fittings and if there's anything you don't think is absolutely spiffing, then there's plenty of time to make it all ship-shape and Bristol fashion."
"Chummy!" said Trixie, in frustration. "Get on with it!"
"Gosh, sorry." From her chair, Chummy picked up the dress over which she had spent many hours and handed it to Shelagh. "I do awfully hope you like it."
Standing up, Shelagh unfolded the dress and she gasped. She had never read fashion magazines, but she read newspapers and she remembered the photographs of that wedding, its extraordinary magic and romance, where Hollywood met a fairy tale. And she remembered Grace Kelly's dress, the modest high collar and long sleeves, the lace which covered its fitted bodice and long skirt, its ageless beauty. The dream lay now within her hands, reworked by those who loved her.
"'Pretty as a princess?'" she asked softly, but the irony was light and she had no heart to tease as she touched the cloth, turning the dress over to examine it, struggling to reconcile this gift with herself. It was simple in its construction, but as far removed from the drab plain garments she saw as fitting for herself as the glamour of Monaco was from the humble world in which she toiled. No false clutter was added to mar the artlessness of its line, only tiny, meticulous details in hemming and buttons or the darts which would mould it to her form and make it perfect. It rippled over her hands, shimmering with the purity of the beautiful cloth. Going first to Chummy, she kissed her. Then she held the dress up against herself, smoothing it down, listening for their reactions in their murmurs, for she could not look at their faces any longer, knowing that if she did she would no longer be able to hold back her welling tears.