"Do you think you did or didn't to something that caused the death of Thomas Kelly? (…) Your instinct matters greatly. (…) "There is no blame, Nurse Miller. Not you, not the Kellys, not even fate. (…) There is nothing you or anyone could have done."
Cynthia lay in her bed, wide awake, replaying Dr Turner's warm voice over and over in her head. She was not to blame for baby Thomas' death. Nobody was. She should be happy – but still felt like crying. So much anxiety and despair during those past dark days after she had found little Thomas dead in his cot. The Kellys would not be happy in a long time. But she had not failed them, had not failed Thomas. She was a good midwife. And Dr Turner had confirmed it.
Every time Cynthia closed her eyes, she saw Dr Turner's encouraging look intended for her. Only her. Saw his lined face with those tender hazel eyes. She wondered why she would think about him more often than was appropriate. She could have justified the replacing of his button as a single act of supporting a busy colleague. But now, replaying his voice over and all over again was definitely beyond how one was supposed to act with regard to a colleague.
Could it be that she was in love with him? She had never been in love before. She had always been to shy. Back when she had been training as a nurse and now with Trixie and Jenny, speaking about love made her self-conscious. She never had been interested in any man or even in men in general. She was too shy. And no man had ever seen her. Her friends and colleagues kept telling her that she just had not yet met the right one. Could he be the right one?
Dr Turner was so much older than her, twenty years, or even more. He had a ten-year old son. He would never be interested in her; a young and not too experienced nurse , who, age-wise, could be his daughter.
Cynthia sighed. She needed to go to sleep. She was on call early tomorrow, and they had quite a few expecting mothers beyond their due date. She would certainly be needed a lot during the next day.
"Will you be alright with Sister Bernadette?" Cynthia heard Dr Turner ask his son while she watched Sister Bernadette tend to Timothy Turner's injured arm. She admired the young Sister's ability of doing the right thing in any given setting. They all were trained to do so but Sister Bernadette excelled in situations like these. Cynthia admired how gently the nun had caused Dr Turner's anger to vanish into thin air this time.
Not for the first time Cynthia wondered whether life wasn't just so much easier wearing a habit. Sister Bernadette certainly didn't need to waste any time thinking of love and men and all the implications which came with them. She was free to focus on nothing but her calling, Cynthia thought, before shaking herself out of her musings. She needed to attend to her patients.
Another few weeks later, Cynthia removed the ribbon that held her and Jane's legs together. They had just run the finals of the three-legged race at the annual church summer fete and laughed, freely, breathlessly, happy about their coming in third.
When she was freed, Jane quickly squeezed Cynthia's hand, gave her a smile and suggested they should get something to drink. Cynthia nodded in approval and was just about to turn after Jane, when she heard Sister Bernadette say: "There's no need to amputate!"
Cynthia wondered about Sister Bernadette's tone; an odd mixture of humour and edge, not at all typical of the usually gentle woman. Cynthia watched the nun quickly walk in the direction of the Parish Hall and Cynthia assumed she might have hurt herself; she had noticed her tripping over the finish line.
Cynthia's eyes wandered to Dr Turner. His eyes followed Sister Bernadette walking away and Cynthia almost felt pity when she noticed his expression. Full of pain, sadness and, yes, disappointment. Was he always this affected when someone in need refused his care, she wondered.
Then Dr Turner slowly walked into the same direction Sister Bernadette had vanished. Just then, she heard Jane call her name.
Cynthia turned around and nodded towards Jane, who indicated her to join her at a vacant table. When Cynthia turned around again, Dr Turner was gone. She felt a pang of disappointment. Had he stayed, she would perhaps have been able to find the courage to exchange a few words with him.
As easy as she found it to talk with him about their patients and other work-related issues, she had hardly ever exchanged more than two sentences in private. Not that she did not want to. But whenever she met him during the rare events outside work like a summer fete or a Cubs performance, she struggled to think of something, anything to say to him. Her shyness would always shackle her tongue.
Now he was gone.
One night in late summer, Cynthia was on call. It was a quiet evening at Nonnatus House. The Sisters had already retreated, Trixie was out with a date and Jenny was sound asleep, catching up after long day.
Cynthia sat in the living room and was listening to one of her favourite records, Carnival of the animals by Camille Saint-Saëns. Her favourite piece from it, Le Cygne, The Swan, had just begun to play. It reminded her of a case she had worked on one year ago. Cynthia had been with violinist Margaret and her husband David Jones during Margaret's last hours. The woman had died of eclampsia, and so had her unborn baby, and Cynthia had been immensely touched by how deep David's love for his dying wife had been.
Her mind wandered back to earlier today. "Dr Turner sounds like he was quite the hero," she had commented after Sister Bernadette had reported about her and the doctor's appeal for a TB van for Poplar.
A hero. Not long ago, she had wondered whether Dr Turner might be her hero. Now, she was not so certain anymore. He was a wonderful doctor, man, and father. Then she thought of David Jones and his boundless love for his dying wife. Was this really what she was looking for in life? Was she really looking for a hero out of flesh and blood?
What was love? How did one love? "You have to be brave to be in love don't you? I mean knowing that your heart may get broken at some point along the way," Cynthia had said to Jenny the night after Margaret Jones had died.
She was not brave. Not when it came to love, not when it came to men. She doubted that she could have truly loved Dr Turner. It had taken her a while, but over the past weeks she had understood that what she had felt was a momentary infatuation, not love. And he certainly was never going to love her, save even notice her beyond her nurse's uniform. She was much too young. If he ever chose to remarry, it would be a woman much closer to his age, more mature and a lot more ready to love than she would ever be.
The record had ended, but Cynthia could not bring herself to turn it. She remained seated on the sofa and watched the crucifix hung on the wall.
God's love was unconditional.
Wasn't the love of God even more attainable than that of a man? It did not take courage to love God. And God's love would never leave her, never die on her, never disappoint her.
Cynthia had always drawn strength out of her belief. Working at Nonnatus House was a dream come true. A true calling. As of late she had begun to wonder whether her path had meant to let her to the Sisters for another reason than nursing only. But this required courage again. The courage to question her present life. The courage to make a decision for life.
She could speak to Sister Bernadette about it. The Sister was much closer to her in age than Sister Julienne and would certainly be able to counsel her, Cynthia thought.
Had Sister Bernadette ever been in love with a man? Or even thought about it? Cynthia doubted it. She was always so determined in anything she did. Truth be told, the young nun seemed to be quite preoccupied with something during the past weeks, but then, who wasn't really these days.
Cynthia would try and talk to her.
But the talk never happened. Just a week later, Sister Bernadette was diagnosed with TB.
It was another evening, months later. Cynthia walked into her room, still elated from the day's events. She looked into the mirror and admired herself in the pink bridesmaid's dress one last time, a dress so beautifully crafted by Chummy. How daft she had been just about one year ago, when she had briefly dared to imagine she might be in the place Shelagh was now.
Cynthia smiled at the day's memories of bride and groom, radiating with happiness. Like everyone else at Nonnatus House, Sister Julienne's announcement whereby Sister Bernadette had left the order had shaken her to her core. Followed by the unexpected and no less shocking news of Shelagh Mannion's engagement to Dr Turner not even a fortnight later.
Cynthia slowly unzipped her dress. She carefully stepped out of it and smoothed it onto her bed. She smiled again, thinking of the new Mrs Turner beaming with joy in her white dress.
Cynthia looked down her body. She wondered how it must feel for Shelagh. To have undergone this existential transition from nun, bride of God, to a woman, bride of Patrick Turner. Right now, she would be with him, joined with him on their wedding night.
Would she, Cynthia, ever muster up the courage to wear a bridal dress, to take vows, to fully commit her life to someone?