SORRY! I'm sure you all know by now that I am crap at updating regularly, but here we are - updated at last!
This chapter was a long hard slog to write, (but I hope it doesn't show!) because I was making a decision about the direction I wanted the story to take. I have decided, after much deliberation that it's time to call it a day on this particular fic. It's going to end after the conclusion of the Turners appeal to the ELC, how it will end I'm not quite sure yet – either with a successful appeal and the Turners returning to work, or with a failed appeal and everyone moves on. We shall have to see!
But in the meantime enjoy, thank you for all your lovely reviews, they make me very happy - and thank you to the couple of lovely people who recommended my story on Tumblr! (Yes I lurk - what of it!)
This chapter's songs are:
Two Shoes - Cat Empire
East End Girls - Pet Shop Boys
Enjoy! x
"Ouch!"
"Oh shush – you're like a child."
"Well it's painful."
"I'll give you pain in a minute Patrick, I mean what kind of person uses a kitchen knife to open a packet of bacon anyway?"
"Alright alright – you've made your point love, I'm an idiot."
"You won't hear me disagreeing anytime soon … there, is that a big enough dressing for my poor injured soldier?"
"Do I get a sticker for being brave?"
"No – because you weren't bloody brave Patrick!"
"Do I get a kiss then?"
"You don't ask for much do you, but I suppose as a reward for not getting blood all over the kitchen tiles."
"I may lack many qualities Shelagh, but neat bleeding is one of my better ones."
One day one woman asked him 'what do you to survive?', he said 'oh my dear listen here', and this is what he cried. On my feet I wear two shoes for dancing, 'dancing to be free', my feet they're paying tribute to the Bobby Marley legacy. My knees they've got some cuts and bruises from skating all my days, when i'm skating with my friends my troubles drift away
Patrick unbuttoned his jacket and pulled his chair against his desk and turned up the radio as he waited for the computer to log him in, the hospital computer system seemed to be getting slower and slower by the day but this particular morning it was worse than usual. With a sigh he started sorting through the pile of post on his desk and humming along to the music distractedly before he was brought back to earth by a knock at the door, looking up he smiled.
"Jenny, hi – how are you?"
"Oh fine, how's Shelagh and the baby?"
"Nina's doing really well, and Shelagh's doing a marvellous job of sorting out this appeal."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about actually, I was going to ring Shelagh – but since you're here."
"Go on." He said, nodding at the chair on the other side of his desk, the young midwife slipped in and closed the office door conspirationally and sat down,
"I have a friend … well a bit more than a friend but … well you don't need to know that."
"No, not really Jenny."
"Sorry. Phil … he's a barrister, he's just taken up Chambers in Whitechapel and he's eager to help."
"A barrister? I'm not sure we're going to need him do dust off his wig and robes just yet – it's just an appeal."
"No I know, but when I told Phil about what you were all planning he said that he'd have a look over everything. Your appeal letter and evidence … it's just an offer, and he'd do it for free!"
"A philanthropic lawyer – now I've heard everything, well – ring Shelagh, ask her – she's sorting everything out."
"Good morning, Tower Hamlets Social Services."
"Hello, I'd like to speak to Mark Harley please, Whitechappel."
"I'll just see if he's available – who's calling please?"
"Uh … it's the senior midwife at the Royston Clinic in Poplar."
"Ok, hold for a minute please." Taking a sip of tea carefully Shelagh found herself rolling her eyes as the strains of The Sugar-Plum Fairy played down the phone, she didn't have the East London social services down as Ballet lovers but apparently they were. There was a click on the end of the line and the cool calm voice of Mark Harley came down the phone,
"Morning Mark Harley speaking."
"Hello …"
"Hi, is this about one of my referrals?"
"Not as such no … Mark it's Shelagh, Tim's stepmother."
"Oh Christ! Hi … hi … hi Shelagh, what can I do for you? I mean how are you?"
"I'm fine thank you. I'm telephoning because I'm in the middle of organising an appeal against the re-organisation of the maternity services at the hospital and the clinic."
"I didn't know you were at the Royston."
"No … no I know. Well, you're the only social worker who's done more than one or two referrals in the last year. I was wondering if I could get a letter of support for the clinic, it may well help with the appeal to the ELC."
"Right … I mean, yes, of course I will. Why don't I … I mean … perhaps I should come over one evening to discuss it with you?"
"I'm really not sure that that's necessary Mark."
"So that I can get a clear idea of what you need from me … I'll bring a bottle!"
"No really Mark. We don't need to have a discussion … just a letter voicing your support for the clinic will suffice thank you."
"You're sure?"
"I really couldn't be more sure Mark … Sorry."
"What for?"
"Nothing … so will you be able to write me the letter?"
"Of course. I'm in meetings all day today – but I'll try and get it done tomorrow at some point."
"Thank you – see you then."
"Bye now Shelagh … and if you change your mind about the wine …"
"I don't think I will."
Too many shadows, whispering voices, faces on posters, too many choices. If? When? Why? What? How much have you got? Have you got it? Do you get it? If so, how often? Which do you choose, a hard or soft option? In a West End town, a dead end world the East End boys and West End girls
Patrick stirred the sauce slowly and methodically to the strains of the Petshop boys, Tim had always mocked his father's cooking, but Patrick decided that if nothing else this meal proved otherwise, he was very proud of his spaghetti bolognaise. The house was far too quiet for his liking, since his fall and subsequent recovery Tim had decided that he was invincible and was spending every waking hour out of the house with his friends but despite his son's frequent absence there was always Shelagh singing or talking to herself or Nina crying or babbling – since his remarriage his house was never quiet, it was full of life and people and colour that had been absent since he had been widowed. He regretted that he thought as he tried to dislodge a piece of mince from the side of the pan with a spoon, that so much of Tim's childhood had been marred by the dark sadness that Patrick had allowed to purvey every corner of his life. Perhaps he had been selfish, perhaps he should have made more of an effort to shield Tim from it all, did it make him a bad father? Did it make him an even worse father that it had taken a new, slightly younger woman to bring him back into the world, that the love of his own son couldn't cure him? Brought out of his thoughts by the front door he turned down the gas and stepped back from the cooker to look into the hallway – Shelagh, of course complete with Nina laying in one arm against her shoulder as she pulled the pram over the threshold behind her. Taking a step forward, Patrick unburdened her of the baby and leant in for a kiss,
"How was your day off?" she asked as she broke away from his lips.
"Lie in, bath, bacon – almost perfect. How was the baby clinic?"
"Full of babies, and by all accounts the bairn's taking after you and Tim in the height department."
"I said she was long didn't I."
"You did indeed, very long according to health visitor, I think she was a bit surprised when she measured her and looked at me."
"What does she know, you could have an absolute giant of a partner – tea?"
"Oh god yes!" She said beaming as she cut through the living room to place Nina in the Moses basket and met Patrick in the kitchen carrying the whole consignment and placing it in the middle of the kitchen table as he flicked the kettle on. "By the way Patrick -"
"Hmm?"
"I had a text from Jenny today, she said to ask you about Phil Worth?"
"Phil Worth? No-idea."
"She said that she forgot to ring me last night but to text her if I was interested?"
"Phil Worth … Phil Worth … Phil – OH! Phil Worth, he's a barrister or a solicitor or something, Jenny's boyfriend by the sounds of it, or a man who's hoping to be her boyfriend more accurately."
"Sounds about right for Jenny, she's so … careful with her heart. Do you remember Alec – that builder who was working at the hospital?"
"Oh lord yes … poor man. Anyway – Jenny said that he's offered to look over the appeal letter and our evidence and all the rest of it, for free and on the QT I presume."
"That's so generous! I'll text her in a second. People have been so supportive you know!"
"Well it's a good cause."
"Of course – but I didn't imagine that people would be so passionate about maternity services. I mean it's not the sexiest of hospital departments is it?"
"Oh I don't know – it's the product of sex isn't it? Think how many vaginas you and I look at every day – what other profession is as obsessed with genitals as ours?"
"Pornographers?"
"… Fair point, well made."
"Ey Julie." Said Trixie as she pushed her way into Julie's office balancing a pile of files against her stomach, she stopped in the doorway and stared at the scene in front of her, the ward sister was kneelt on the office floor, hard against the far wall with her ear tilted towards the office window open a crack onto the car park below. Spinning swiftly Julie looked up panicked at the younger midwife,
"Ey … what you doing Julie?"
"Shhh!" her colleague replied desperately as she beckoned her over towards her spot beside the mottled glass and wire window. "Listen…" She added softly, as she pulled Trixie in towards the wall, straining to hear Trixie mirrored the woman's movement, tilting her ear towards the crack between the frame and the glass.
"… which is why I think you'll agree David, that shutting the maternity department really is the best option."
"I find it difficult to disagree Ian, your figures are certainly compelling. And what about this appeal thing, there have been rumours flying about for a few weeks now?"
"Stuff of nonsense David, by the sounds of it it's a bored housewife – two much time on her hands. Wife of one of the registrars – it'll all blow over."
"You sound very sure."
"I've done enough streamlining to know how these things work; someone kicks up a fuss, everyone rallies round and then we carry on as we intended … oh, here's my taxi. Can I give you a lift to the station David?"
"If you're sure?"
"Of course …" The voices of the two men tailed off into the juddering rumble of the car's engine, looking at each other the two women crouched beside the 1st floor window shared a worried glance.
"Where's my phone, I'll text Shelagh."
"Ey – be sure to tell her that they called her a 'bored housewife' – then she'll really kick off!"
"You're right … she'll be furious – I'll tell her!"