Woo - look at me, getting updates out in less than 3 weeks!
First off: thank you to all the lovely people who've a reviewed full stop - or those of you who've reviewed to say how sad you are that the story is coming to an end. There are 2 or 3 chapters left in my head after this one, and after an excellent suggestion from Beau2809 I am thinking of some one-shots to do in the future featuring my version of the CTM team! So there's always that. As always I love your reviews and am always very flattered and grateful that you guys take the time to review and read my stuff, so please do continue up till the end - I love them!
This chapter's songs are:
What becomes of the broken hearted - Jimmy Ruffin
Heroes - David Bowie
Enjoy! x
*Shit is hitting the fan Patrick Sxx*
*I told you not to change Nina beside it. Px*
*You are intolerable! We are at war! Sx*
*I'm lost Px*
*J texted, she overheard the ELC talking about the appeal Sx*
*What did she hear? Px*
*They called me a bored housewife Sx*
*Well – they signed their own death warrant there Px*
*They've just made me want to crush them even more. Apparently they're not worried about the appeal Sx*
*They should be – with my little Scottish Che Guvara at the helm we should be all be scared! Sx*
Shelagh threw herself back on the sofa and screwed up her eyes tightly fighting against frustration and tiredness, the appeal date was less than 24 hours away and despite her best efforts she was struggling, Jonathan Broughton and Marcus Langworthy had sent in their reports from Barts and Guys respectively, Mark Harley had sent in his support letter from the children's services at the Tower Hamlets social services. She had data from Emlyn about the success rates of clinics like hers and graphs and tables complied from the council's data about the ever increasing birth rate in the area and the need to keep the maternity unit open, and yet she had almost no confidence in her bulging file of evidence. It refused to come together and refused to make sense or sit in a reasonable order, perhaps, she thought, she would just throw it at Patrick when he got home and make him turn it into a reasonable document to impress the NHS and the ELC. Opening her eyes slowly she surveyed the room and leant forward to pick up her empty mug, now filled with orange peel to make the living room vaguely more tidy. She turned slightly, glancing out the window as a van rumbled past, the noise seeping in through the open window as she enjoyed the end of the late spring day, her eye was caught by something as she turned back. Something that was in no way spectacular or unusual but something that was permanently there, so permanently that it had become part of the furniture – almost invisible. A black picture frame, a white card boarder and in the middle – a photograph, from what seemed like an age ago, her wedding day. Despite the album of professional photographs taken on the day stashed away on a shelf, the framed picture, a candid shot taken by her father, was one of her favourites, it showed her and Patrick, skirt and jacket blowing respectively in the wind outside the church. Patrick with one hand on the small of her back, with her palm pressed against his chest as they both laughed at Patrick's outstretched hand beckoning Tim over for an official picture. The official picture of the newly formed Turners was good – it was sweet and well framed and up in their bedroom, but it didn't show the life and heart and love that her fathers did. It seemed an age, she could barely remember her flat in the estate, or not being with Patrick – it seemed odd to think that they hadn't even reached their second anniversary yet. She could barely remember being a McDonald or imagine what her life would be like if they had never taken the leap and left their souls bear and she was still single Shelagh with her cat and her job and her music. Perhaps she would have met someone else, perhaps she'd have still been single, perhaps – perhaps – perhaps. Life was a string of decisions, lefts and rights, yeses and noes, I cans and I can'ts, I wills and I wonts, everyone makes a million decisions a day, and any one of those can change everything. Shelagh smiled at the photograph and thanked the world for it, she was happy, married to the man she loved with two wonderful children and despite the daily niggles and the arguments and Patrick's inability to take the cardboard toilet tube off the holder when the roll was finished she was happy with all she had.
As I walk this land of broken dreams I have visions of many things, but happiness is just an illusion filled with sadness and confusion. What becomes of the broken hearted, who has love that's now departed? I know I've got to find some kind of peace of mind, baby. The roots of love grow all around, but for me they come tumbling down, every day heartaches grow a little stronger, I can't stand things pain much longer.
With a mumbling half a sleep slur Shelagh rolled over and stared at the alarm clock for a moment, she wasn't wearing her glasses and so the entire action was utterly futile but still she persisted until she gathered the early morning strength to pick up the thick black frames from her bedside table and pushed them onto her face. 5:30. Why was she awake? It was Patrick's alarm clock but for some reason he hadn't switched it off before she had woken up, stretching out her arm and sitting half up to berate him she found his side of the bed strangely empty and cold. She was sure he had gone to bed with her the night before, hadn't he? Pushing her hair back off her face and stumbling out of the bedroom, switching off the radio alarm clock as she passed she wondered out onto the landing. The lights were off and there was no noise from the rest of the house bar the occasional ticking clank of the water pipes and the noise of the first cars of the day driving through the streets. Padding downstairs dressed in an old Fruit of the Loom t-shirt of Patricks and a pair of bed socks, she peered into the kitchen, still in darkness although the back door was open a crack which, given she had locked it when she went to bed, meant that Patrick had gone out for a cigarette at some point in the night. Continuing back on the hallway she stepped into the living room, her husband was laying on the sofa, a cold half-drunk cup of tea with a cloudy skin of milk sat on the floor beside him and on the coffee table in front of him was a green lever arch file. The creak of floorboard under her feet stirred Patrick and he looked at her, bleary eyed from the arm rest,
"What happened to you?"
"I couldn't sleep … I did the appeal file for you … what time is it?"
"Half 5 … you fell asleep on the sofa?" looking about himself and glancing down at his clothes from the night before, rumpled with sleep.
"Apparently so … I need to get up for work."
"You're not in work today."
"Then why are we up?"
"Because someone didn't switch off his alarm clock!"
"Shit … sorry love!" Said Patrick, with genuine regret – he knew that if anyone in the house needed more sleep it was Shelagh,
"It'll alright, I'll survive I suppose. Shift over a bit." she said as she stepped over and joined him on the sofa, curling her feet up underneath herself. Patrick rubbed his sleep filled eyes and lay a hand casually on Shelagh's exposed thigh,
"It's very good actually."
"What is?"
"The appeal file, obviously my contribution of filing is the best part."
"Obviously! And all my hard work?"
"Well that's alright I suppose, but if anything is going to swing this for us – it'll be my use of colour coded file dividers."
"I shall bear that in mind when I'm receiving my knighthood for services to midwifery."
"Dame Shelagh Turner! I love it … and I love you."
"Soft get."
"I mean it." he said turning earnestly to face her. "I mean it. We will be alright … wont we?"
"What, me and you? Ach we'll be fine."
"No no – I meant our jobs, we will be alright, won't we Love?"
"Oh I don't know Patrick, but whatever happens, things will be OK – we might be penniless and destitute but we shall survive."
"In the words of Tina Turner."
"Gloria Gaynor."
"What?"
"Gloria Gaynor sang I will survive."
"Bollocks! It was Tina Turner."
"It was Gloria Gaynor! Right … you go and put the kettle on and I'll google it!"
"How many marriages have been saved by google!"
Re: Appeal meeting on the 21st
Hello everyone,
I'm just emailing to confirm a list of everyone attending the meeting this afternoon. Please email me any apologies or anyone attending on behalf.
Many thanks,
Jan Jensen
Executive Director
East London & The City of London Health Board
Dr T Bowler – PICU
Sister Mel Arky – PICU
Dr P Turner – Maternity
Staff Nurse S Turner – Maternity & Royston clinic
Mr J Jensen – ELC
Mr G Kelly – on behalf of NHS directors
Miss D Reynolds – on behalf of NHS England managers
"Tim, what do you think of this blouse?"
"Uh … fine I guess."
"Anything more?"
"It's a blouse. They're not that exciting to be honest."
"No … they're not. What about that dark green dress – the one on the back of the door."
"That's nice, I mean it's nicer than the blouse."
"You think? I haven't worn it since I've had Nina, I'm not sure how it'll look. Tim … are you wearing aftershave?"
"No!"
"You are! You smell like a 70's Soho pimp – what's going on Tim?"
"Nothing ..."
"Tim?"
"I'm going out … to see Megan."
"Megan – as in Subway Megan?"
"Yeah … we're only going to the picture! … Do you really think I'm wearing too much?"
"You smell like an explosion in a Lynx factory … just go and run your head under the shower eh."
"Ok … and if you really want my advice, wear the green dress. I think you look fine."
Three large wheely bins around the corner from the front door of the ELC building, blocked the pair from view of the road. Shelagh and Patrick stood huddled together smoking their respective cigarettes,
"It's a bugger about Mel, I rang her this morning and she really does sound like death." began Shelagh.
"It's fine, it's not anyone's fault. Did you see that email though?" Asked Patrick taking a deep drag on his cigarette, "It's level pegging now – three against three, which is a bit of a bugger." the doctor and the midwife looked at each other and each gave the same battle weary smile of hope as they each took the last drag of their cigarette and ground them down into the concrete, as they turned to leave the figure of Dr Tom Bowler rounded the side of the bin with a smile.
"Electing a pope?"
"Morning Tom. Nothing nearly so exciting I'm afraid – just being naughty school children hiding behind the bins. How are you?"
"Oh not too bad, I suppose you've heard about Mel?"
"Yes – we were just saying, it'll put us at a level pegging numbers wise."
"I know … but Shelagh, your file sounds like it's got a fair amount of heft to it?"
"Oh aye, there's so many people who've leant their support, one of our midwives even got her boyfriend, a barrister, to look over it all for us so that it had the most legal clout."
"Excellent, I must say you've both done so well."
"It's all Shelagh really, she's been the real star."
"Yes! Absolutely – I think one way or another you deserve a pint or four for all the work you've done. Organising this whole appeal with a newborn baby … well I couldn't do it. Well done."
"Ach I've done nothing, it's an entirely selfish endeavour – I'm just trying to keep my job!"
"Modesty is not endearing Shelagh – it's annoying!" The doctor replied with a smile, looking between the couple he took a deep breath, "Shall we then?"
"Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more!" said Patrick, reaching down to squeeze his wife's hand tightly,
"Into the valley of death rode the six hundred." she replied.
"Well that's a little dramatic love – it's the NHS not the Russian Army!"
I will be king, and you, you will be queen. Though nothing will drive them away, we can beat them, just for one day, we can be Heroes, just for one day. And you, you can be mean, and I, I'll drink all the time. 'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact, yes we're lovers, and that is that. Though nothing, will keep us together, we could steal time, just for one day, we can be Heroes, for ever and ever - what d'you say?
Lying across the sofa, with her legs resting in Patrick's lap as he absentmindedly ran his hand up and down her leg, taking a sip of his wine he turned his head a fraction towards her to see her face, head tilted back against the arm rest as she rested her wine glass on her stomach. Her skirt was hitched up slightly, showing half her thighs while the tan tights she had worn to the meeting were long discarded due to the early summer heat of the day.
"Shall we just stay like this for ever?"
"David Bowie and Summer evenings?"
"With wine and you - it's perfect."
"No bacon though ... or cake for that matter."
"Well - get in the kitchen then wife!" He replied with a playful slap to her exposed thigh, knocking the side of his knee with her foot she grinned playfully back.
"I may have just saved your job Dr Turner, if anyone in here deserves cake and bacon it's me!"
"But I'm an old man - I'm infirm and ancient!"
"That's true, I'm only with you for the pension. I'm planning on bumping you off in a few years, yet a boob job and an even older man."
"With a wheel chair and a weak heart?"
"Perfect! You're really a bit to healthy for my liking - it's going to take ages."
"Shouldn't have married me then."
"I know ... bit late now though."
"And divorce is so expensive."
"Yeah, shall we just stay married then?"
"Why not, I've grown quite fond of you to be honest."
"Oh love - that's so sweet. I don't really like you very much, but you're tolerable."
"Oh thank you Patrick, who ever said romance is dead clearly hasn't met you!"