Mixed Emotions Chapter 22, a call the midwife fanfic

This is a bit of a weird chapter, it's a two parter … in the same chapter … and the two parts in the one chapter occur simultaneously! Confused? It will make sense as we go along … I hope.

Just as a quick warning, this chapter (un-usually for me!) contains no dialogue. It's just Patrick and Shelagh alone with their thoughts on the night before their wedding. I hope that that doesn't a) annoy, or b) put any one off, I really like this chapter. It was great to write and I feel like it was an important chapter to have included because for all the jokes and sarcasm, they're a real(fictional), 20th century couple, and they're going to have patches of time when they have very real emotions and they don't convey that to one another.

Thanks for all reviews so far, you're all amazing individuals and it means so much to me that you take the time to review my little fic! So thank you, truly and sincerely – and if you're still enjoying my story then please do continue. I love to hear what you all think and it means so much to me to know what you all think.

Further A/N – I wrote the word "weevil" down in part one, as the chapter progressed I became less and less convinced that "weevils" are real insects, I now get the feeling that it may have been one of the aliens from Torchwood … but meh – either way lets go with that particular late night potential typo and pretend that it's an insect!

Further Further A/N – For those of you who either don't listen to BCC Radio 4 late at night, or are from overseas and don't listen to the BBC world service then. The doubtless slightly confusing bit of text at the beginning is the Shipping Forecast, broadcast at 00:45 after the hypnotic Sailing By is played, before the BBC World Service kicks in to be played across the globe. For insomniacs, night shift workers or for those with small babies it is a stalwart of late night BBC radio.

"And now the shipping forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, on Friday 27th September 2013.

Viking: Variable 3 or 4 becoming northwesterly 4 or 5, increasing 6 later in east. Slight or moderate. Thundery showers. Good, occasionally moderate. North Utsire: Variable 3 or 4, becoming northwesterly 5 to 7 later. Slight becoming moderate, then becoming rough later in north. Thundery showers. Good, occasionally moderate. South Utsire: Westerly or northwesterly 4 or 5, occasionally 6 later. Slight or moderate. Thundery showers. Good, occasionally moderate. Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, Humber: Westerly veering northwesterly 4 or 5, occasionally 6 except in north Forties. Slight or moderate. Thundery showers. Good, occasionally moderate. Thames, Dover: West or southwest 4 or 5, occasionally 6 later. Slight or moderate. Showers. Good. Wight, Portland, Plymouth: West or northwest 4 or 5, occasionally 6 later in Wight. Slight or moderate. Mainly fair. Good …"

Shealgh rolled over in her bed and laid a hand against the cool exposed cotton of her bed linen, in the past week they had moved all of her things out of her flat and into Patrick's house, there had been much umming and ahhing about when she should give her flat back to the council, but they had both agreed that she should spend her last night as Miss McDonald at the flat, it was only right. All that remained was her bed which was being taken by Damon and Chantelle in a few days time, who had managed to get a flat together for them and the baby, and Bernadette who had been highly confused by moving and had now taken up residence at the foot of Shelagh's bed, her beady eyes watching to make sure that Shelagh didn't pack up and leave her in the middle of the night. Shealgh's eyes watched the electronic numbers of her radio alarm clock tick over and she blinked slowly, willing sleep to come, she was exhausted but inside her stomach a weevil seemed to be burrowing around. She sat up and switched off the radio after a moment's thought, she didn't think that the world service was what she needed at this precise moment in time. Looking about her bare and abandoned bedroom she reached down to stroke Bernadette who turned, purred and stood up slowly to make her way carefully over the duvet to push her head against Shelagh's chest, rubbing her ears along the strap of Shealgh's vest her purrs got louder.

Sighing Shelagh moved the cat gently off of her lap, and go out of the bed, pulling her thick cardigan off the floor she put it on and made her way into her now empty kitchen, she wanted a cup of tea but,

"Of course …" she murmured, the kettle had been packed up and sent away, along with everything else except her and Bernadette. Hanging off the coving in her living room was the white plastic floor length cover that hid her wedding dress, two boxes next to the dress, pushed against the skirting board held her shoes and the veil. Squatting down Shelagh ran a finger along the edge of the top box, deciding against opening it she meandered back to the kitchen. No cups, tea bags, no milk, no kettle. Switching on the cold tap she bent over and hung her head down and drank straight from the running stream, after a moment she stood up and ran her hand over her lips to wipe off the excess water.

Her ruc-sack lay on the sofa, an ancient sofa that the council had given to her when she had first moved in but one that held a lot of memories. Walking over she lifted up her bag and sat herself down slowly, looking around the flat. She remembered when she and Gladys Pugh, her late neighbour had baked the colossal cake for her granddaughter Paige when she had got into university. When she had spent a long, wine soaked night with Karen planning how they were going to leave nursing and become world famous dancers after a particularly heavy dance session in one of London's seedier clubs. The night she had come home from work on a rainy night to find she had left the window open and had spent much of the rest of the evening with a hairdryer trying to rescue the room. Patrick described their relationship as a new chapter, not the end of anything, nor the start of anything – merely the continuation of their own stories, in a new age.

Digging into her bag she found her mobile and started flicking through randomly, Facebook yielded nothing of any consequence, a few notifications showed her a couple of friends sending out Good Luck for tomorrow posts. Twitter was similarly disappointing, at 1am the only people tweeting were either Americans or tired comedians on their way home from gigs. Turning back to her camera album she flicked through distractedly, pictures of Tim in his end of term music revue, pictures of Patrick cooking at the summer barbeque, Patrick and her sat in a restaurant on their anniversary in a picture taken by Tim. And then, her thumb paused as she stopped at a particular picture, taken back when her and Patrick were first officially a couple. She had gone around to Patrick's before he and Tim went out to a family meal for someone or others birthday, she forgot who. She had taken a picture of them as a joke, saying that she wanted to remember them both looking so smart for once, they were standing in their living room beside the mantel piece, on which sat a photograph. A photograph she had passed a thousand times, seen a thousand times and for a thousand times it had never bothered her. It was a picture Clare Turner, sat in a hospital bed, with a tiny baby Tim curled up to her chest, while Patrick perched on the edge of the bed, gazing down at his tiny new born son, his hand outstretched to touch Tim's exposed hand.

Patrick had a past, and that didn't bother her, why would it? It wasn't as though he had some dark and mysterious past that involved hoards of mistresses, or bitter ex-wives for whom she would always be the other woman. He had simply lost his wife. Why should that bother her, and did it bother her? Why was she marrying him, she knew why she was with him, she knew that she loved him and loved being with him and Tim. But was it really the right thing to be marrying him. Clare had been his wife, should that be a title that she, and only she retained. Shelagh was happy being Patrick's girlfriend, did she truly need a legal tie with him, was it right for her to try and claim Clare's place as Patrick's wife? Picking up her mobile off of her lap she tapped Patrick's name and started to type.

*We need to talk, I'm not sure that this is the right decision. I love you so much – I'm not sure if being your wife is the right path to take. It's not that I don't want to be with you … but should I really be the new Mrs Turner? I love you so much. S Xx*

Her thumb hovered over the send button, what should she do? Reaching down into her ruc-sack wandering if … and it was, a 2/3 smoked packet of Pall Mall, left over from her hen night 3 days back, seven had been got through during the night, leaving her, in her hour of need with three to see her through till dawn. She wandered over to the window and pushed it as wide open as it would go, leaning her stomach against the cool plaster of the wall beneath she lit the cigarette and placed her mobile on the window sill, the un-sent text remaining on the screen. She scanned the estate, silent and cold, illuminated by the orange glow of street lights, with only the distant hum and buzz of the late night traffic and over the London skyline the first tiny pinkish glow from the sun was ebbing its way across the pitch black night sky. Taking the last drag of the cigarette Shelagh McDonald threw the filter out of the window and watched the red fade away into the black towards the concrete. Picking up her mobile again, she read and re-read the text, trying desperately to know what to do.

"And now the shipping forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, on Friday 27th September 2013.

Patrick rolled onto his back and smiled as he caught sight of the clock on his bedside table, it was almost ten to one in the morning. In just 11 hours he would be stood at the foot of the church, watching Shelagh walk towards him, Tim at his side. He had been dreaming of it for long enough, but now that it was almost here he could barely believe it. For far far too long he had been stuck in a rut, he had felt like after Clare he could never love again, and didn't deserve to, every thought he had about his marriage was one of guilt, what if he had been in the car that day, what if he had spent more time with Clare and Tim, shouldn't he have seen more of his son growing up? Should he have ever thrown himself so completely into his work? Had his wife been truly happy, not that he thought that Clare was actively unhappy, but had she been happy married to Patrick, who was to all intents and purposes having an affair with his job?

As the World Service began on the radio, Patrick rolled over to see the other side of the bed. It had been Clare's of course, now the pillow case always smelt of Shelagh's shampoo and he was far more used to seeing her figure lying beneath the duvet than Clare's. Was that right? Should his memories of Clare really be being dissipated by new memories of Shelagh? Or was that the natural order of things, was him moving on completely right and as it should be? Sitting up slightly in bed Patrick looked around his bedroom, now there was a pile of women's shoes in the corner, vaguely arranged into rows, the partially open wardrobe showed that the space was now divided into his clothes, and hers. He liked that, it made him feel like everything was tidy, it made everything clean and ordered in his life. Shealgh was going to be his wife, and here was their shared wardrobe, and her perfume on the side, and her mug on the draining board. It was what he wanted, it was what he needed, it was really all he needed and wanted to make him happy!

Rolling back over to his side of the bed he picked up his mobile and looked at the wallpaper, a picture of him and Shelagh sat in a restaurant on their anniversary, he was smiling at Tim behind the camera, while Shelagh looked down at her glass of wine shyly, her smile small but it met her eyes, and there was a spark of joy behind her eyelashes. He broke into a smile as he looked at the picture, she was so obviously happy, the look in her eyes, and the smile that played on her lips reassured Patrick. She had kept him waiting long enough before accepting his proposal, which surely meant that she was certain, this wasn't a whim … or, he reflected, did it mean that she was un-certain, that she didn't know how she really felt? Was this as it was truly meant to be? Started out of his reverie by the beeb of his phone, a text from Shealgh. He frowned at the screen, why was she texting him at one in the morning, he tapped gently on the screen to open the text he read it slowly.

*Two melons sat in a bar. Melon 1: "Let's run away and get married!" Melon 2: "Sorry but I cantaloupe." Xxx *