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The Turner Tales - Chapter Three - Timothy’s Illness
She allowed the tips of her fingers to dance along the outside of Timothy's arm while he snoozed in her arms on his bed one afternoon, a soft smile on her lips as she was able to feel his warm breath beating against the side of her neck as he was snuggled into her side. It had been almost a week since her soon-to-be stepson had come down with a head cold and it had made her heart hurt to know that he was spending all day in the flat on his own while his father was at the surgery, hence the reason she had suggested to Patrick that she stayed in the flat with Tim in the day just in case he needed her.
Her fiance had been fully on board with her idea and so every day without fail - for the last six days - she had either been sat on a chair at Timothy's bedside or laying beside him as she held him in her arms. Her love for him was so deep and so pure - deeper than she had ever imagined it would be - and she knew that that love was just going to continue to get deeper and deeper as the years passed.
Turning her head in Tim's direction she gave his forehead a delicate kiss. 'I love you.' She allowed her lips to graze his skin as she spoke to him, the hand that was around his waist tightening its hold of him before she snugged him closer and allowed him to nuzzle further into her neck. There was something so perfect about knowing that he needed her; about knowing that he didn't want her to leave him. Even though the wedding was still far off she was already starting to feel like his mother.
She had always had a soft spot for him - even before she had been sent to the sanatorium to have the triple treatment. She had known that he and Patrick had drifted apart after Marianne's passing and she had been there for him, reassuring him that even if he felt as though he couldn't go to his father about something then he could always come to her. She supposed that that was why he found it so easy to approach her and ask her to cuddle him whenever he was upset about something now.
It was a few moments later when she felt him stir in her arms and she turned his head towards him again, a loving smile appearing on her lips as she ran her fingers through his hair to help him rouse slowly. 'Auntie Shelagh?' He mumbled as he curled his fingers into the thin fabric of her dress.
'I'm here, dearest.' She reassured him with a kiss to his temple. 'How are you feeling?'
'I have a headache.' He admitted. 'Can I have some more paracetamol now?'
She glanced over at the clock for a second before sweeping her hand through his hair one she was satisfied that it had been a number of hours since he had last taken the medication. 'Yes, darling, you can. Would you like to stay here while I go downstairs and get them for you?' Tim nodded while he looked up at her, the discomfort evident in his eyes when she stroked his cheek with the back of her hand and removed herself from his hold. 'I'll be back in two ticks, I promise.' She gave him a smile.
She then drew his quilt up to his chin before stepping out onto the landing and heading downstairs to find the paracetamol.
It wasn't long until she returned to his bedroom and saw that he was sitting up in bed while leaning against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded as he watched her approach him. 'Here you are, dearest.' She kept her voice soft as she tipped two pills out into the palm of her hand before offering them to him, Timothy accepting them from her before he popped them into his mouth and took a sip from the glass of water that sat atop his nightstand.
Once he had set his glass back down on the nightstand he shifted over on the bed, Shelagh feeling her heart swell as she knew that it was his silent request for her to sit with him once more. 'Auntie Shelagh?' She heard him say once she had joined him on the bed again and had let him settle in her arms, a quiet hum escaping her as she buried kisses in his hair. 'I like your cuddles.' He sighed softly.
'I'm glad.' She smiled against the top of his head. 'You know that I love you, don't you? I may not be your birth mother and I know that I'll never be able to replace her - not that I would want to - but I do love you, Timothy.' Tim tilted his head back on her chest before pressing a kiss onto her cheek.
'I love you too.' He told her before draping his arm across her stomach again. 'Thank you for saying that you'll marry my Dad; I've missed having a Mum.' Shelagh felt her heart flutter. Even though he hadn't called her "Mum" directly, he had just revealed to her in his own way that that was how he viewed her and it made her happier than she could explain. 'I know that you have to go back to the boarding house tonight, but will you come back again tomorrow? I want you to be here with me.'
'I'll come back every day until you're well again, sweetness.' She stroked his face. 'There is nowhere else I would rather be, I mean that with all my heart.' The two of them shared a smile then before Tim buried his head beneath her chin and pressed his face into her throat, Shelagh giving him a gentle squeeze before she felt him sigh in contentment against her skin.
Even though she hadn't carried him inside of her for nine months and hadn't been the one to push him into the world or to nurse him, she would never view him as anything other than her son.
As soon as she and Patrick had been pronounced husband and wife she would be Timothy's mother for the rest of her life and just the thought of that made her all the more impatient for her wedding.
She couldn't wait to hold him in her arms whenever he was ill and never have to leave him.
She couldn't wait to tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight every evening.
But most of all, she couldn't wait to have the title of his Mum.
A title that she knew she was going to honour for the rest of her days.
I’m really enjoying writing these little one shots and I hope that you’re all enjoying reading them! Please let me know what you thought of this one with a comment if you have the time!
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This has been kind of lingering in my brain for a bit, so forgive me if it’s only interesting to me.
The day before Shelagh was due to become Timothy’s mum, Patrick’s promise to Tim’s mummy (to keep him safe) was broken, and then when Tim woke up, Shelagh was holding him (well, kind of holding his head). His first mum’s goal was to keep him safe. His second mum - on the day she was due to officially become his stepmother - started by helping him back to life and health when, inevitably, that safety was shattered.
Also, the first scene where Shelagh/Sister Bernadette enters the Turner family picture is when she and Patrick are talking about Tim’s emotional wellbeing coming up on the first Christmas after his mummy’s death, and Sister Bernadette offers advice as someone who also lost her mother young. The start of her involvement with Tim onscreen is to (albeit indirectly) help when Tim is hurting.
Third, the first scene Tim and Shelagh/Sister Bernadette actually have together was when she came over in clinic to tend to the scrape on his elbow and soothe the conflict with his father; again starting by helping him through his hurt.
Circling back to the first point, Shelagh helps Tim re-learn to walk after his bout with polio. She’s helping him do something his mummy must have done years ago, but again Shelagh’s involvement as his mum - in this very parental act to boot - starts via a painful event.
I don’t know if these smaller moments of Shelagh stepping into the breach to help Tim through moments where he’s hurt were meant to be symbolic of their overall relationship - Shelagh becoming Tim’s mum after the painful loss of his mummy and Tim re-learning the mother-son dynamic with a new, different mum - but it just strikes me a very well written and played features of their relationship (one of the many). Shelagh’s the one to help Tim through the darker moments of life, back into happiness.
Shelagh was in the kitchen peeling the potatoes for dinner when she heard the muffled rustling from the other side of the front door. Wiping her hands and making her way to investigate, she heard the knob jiggling and another muffled scrape against the door before it finally swung open, banging against the wall with force.
“Timothy? Is that you? Whatever have you got there?” she asked the boy, her view of his face obstructed by a box full of tiny plants.
“Science experiment for school,” he said proudly as he swung his foot around to kick the door shut, earning him a stern glance from his mother. “Sorry,” he muttered, moving to place the box on the table.
“But why do you need quite so many plants?” Shelagh asked, taking a moment to examine the contents of the box before moving back into the kitchen to go back to her earlier task.
“That's the cool part - you and Dad get to take part in the experiment too!” he explained through the hatch as he unpacked the box, “everyone in the family is supposed to take care of a set of plants, then we compare what we did, where we placed them, and how well they grew.”
“I'm not sure your father is going to be as excited about this experiment as you are, but I'm glad to help with your schoolwork, you know that,” she smiled lovingly. “But clear that table off, we'll not want dirt in our dinner!”
Four weeks later, Tim gathered his carefully labeled plants back into the box, examining each one and taking note of its condition. His plants looked in decent enough shape - he'd given them plenty of sunlight and enough water, so they grew nicely.
Looking over the next batch of plants, he turned to Shelagh, “Mum, how did your plants grow so well? What's your secret?”
“Just sunlight and water, my dear,” she said simply, then adding as if the answer should be quite obvious, “and of course I sing to them.”
Turning finally to his father's, Tim had to stifle a laugh. “I think you might need to teach Dad a thing or two, his are practically dead!” One had clearly been forgotten, it's dried out leaves and stems testimony to the fact that it had never been watered. The others were in slightly better condition, but not by much.
Shelagh came to examine her husband's results. “I think, Timothy,” she said, tossing a grin over to Patrick, “this is quite clearly a case of failure to thrive. Best stick with practicing medicine, dear.”
This chapter is longer than the other ones, but there was a lot to be resolved! I could’ve opted to split it into two chapters, but for structural reasons I wanted this fic to have ten chapters. I hope you guys will enjoy it; I certainly had a lot of fun writing it 😉.
A little disclaimer: everything I know about childbirth is through the internet and CtM.
The contractions started in the night. Shelagh felt them, decided they were probably Braxton Hicks, and forced herself to go back to sleep. When she woke again, Patrick had already left for work, leaving a hastily-scribbled note in his illegible handwriting.
Shelagh made breakfast for herself and Timothy, doing her best to ignore the pains in her lower back.
“Are you all right?” Timothy asked her, frowning. The way he knit his brows was exactly the same as Patrick’s.
“Yes. Don’t worry about me. You must go to school,” she said, giving him a tight smile.
“You look pale.”
“Yes, well, your little brother or sister is not giving me much time to sleep,” Shelagh said, patting her belly. “Baby keeps moving around an awful lot.”
“That’s good,” Timothy said, spooning the last of his porridge into his mouth. “And it’s normal, isn’t it? For babies to move around a lot in the last few months?”
“It’s perfectly ordinary,” Shelagh agreed. Another sharp twinge of pain sizzled along her nerves, robbing her of the breath she needed to say anything more. She bit the inside of her cheek so as not to make a sound.
What if these are real contractions?
She looked at her watch, counting the seconds to see how long the pain lasted.
Forty seconds. That’s not good.
“Do you mind… if I don’t walk you to school?” she asked. She hadn’t done it often, not in the last few months, but still…
“I’ll be fine, Mum,” Timothy said. He took his coat and bag, hesitated on the threshold, and turned back to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’ll call Dad if something is wrong, won’t you?”
“Of course, dearest,” she said, smiling that strange, tight smile again, keeping it up till Timothy was no longer in sight. Then, she let her mask slip, and went to the phone immediately, trying not to whimper as another stitch tore through her.
Five minutes since the last one. I need Patrick, she thought as she rung the surgery.
But Patrick was not there, and his assistant had no idea when he’d be back.
Don’t panic. You’re a midwife, for crying out loud, and these are probably just Braxton Hicks, she admonished herself.
She made herself another cup of tea and forced the sweet brew down. To calm herself, she took her Bible, and read some of her favourite passages, singing a hymn or two. There was a familiarity in the words, in the steady cadence of her own voice, even if she was rather short of breath these days.
She rested the heavy book on her bump, stroking the soft leather with one finger, her stretched flesh with another. The pain had eased a little. Shelagh smiled. “What’s all this fuss about hm?” she said, looking at her belly. She splayed her hand on her stomach . “It’s a bit early for you to come out, you know. Besides, you’re perfectly all right where you are. Not to say I don’t want to meet you, of course. Your father and big brother would like to meet you, too. Not yet, though.”
The baby kicked against her palm. She patted the spot softly. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I like having you so near me.” I can keep you safe.
Shelagh did not like admitting it, but she was terrified of giving birth. There were so many things that could go wrong, and she, in her capacity as a midwife, had seen almost all of the worst-case scenarios first hand.
Though a part of her ached to meet this child, this new soul that was part of her and part of Patrick and part of something all its own, there was another part that ached with the knowledge that this baby would have to be ripped from her body.
“Not yet, though,” she repeated.
She stood so she could clear the table. Something inside her popped, sounding like Timothy cracking his knuckles before sitting down to play the piano. Water gushed between her legs, soaking her socks and slippers. She stared at the glistening kitchen tiles in horror.
“I said not yet,” she whispered.
Another contraction rippled through her. She clutched the counter with white-knuckled hands, panting through it.
Every five minutes, and they last roughly a minute. There’s no denying it, Shelagh: these are not Braxton Hicks.
As soon as it was over, she wiped the amniotic fluid from the floor, then made her way to the phone again. She called Granny Parker first, asking the other woman if she could pick Timothy up from school; she could not have her stepson coming home whilst she was still trying to give birth.
Then, she called the surgery. Mrs. Feather, Patrick’s secretary, again told her that he was currently not available.
“Please tell Doctor Turner he has to come home as soon as possible,” Shelagh said, doing her best not to sound desperate. “I think I’ve gone into labour.”
She almost dropped the horn as she hung up. She pressed a hand against her mouth, and sobbed.
What was she to do? She could call for an ambulance to bring her to hospital, but what was the point? She was not in desperate need of that kind of medical attention; she would take up a precious bed that could be used for someone who really needed it. She could suffer through her confinement alone, waiting for Patrick, but what if something went wrong and she could not reach the phone in time?
There was only one thing she could do: call Nonnatus.
Shelagh picked the phone up with trembling hands. Who would answer? Did it matter?
But I can’t face them. They’ll judge me, and I…
A contraction spasmed through her, sending little shocks of pain through her system.
“All right, all right,” she murmured, patting her belly.
She dialled the number, trying to keep her voice steady so the operator would not hear how scared she was.
At least I know the people at Nonnatus. I wouldn’t want to go to hospital, to be treated by strangers. Though maybe anonymity is a blessing in my case.
But she didn’t believe that, not really.
The phone rang once, twice, three times.
“Be strong,” she told herself, glancing at her Bible. The book lay open on the kitchen table, sprawling like a sleeping child.
“Nonnatus house, midwife speaking.”
Shelagh pressed her forehead against the wall, doing her best not to cry. She could not prevent a sob from bubbling from her lungs as relief flooded her system.
“Sister Julienne? It’s Shelagh. My waters broke. I tried to call Patrick, but he’s on a case, and I… I’m so afraid…”
Silence.
“Sister?” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m on my way.”
***
Shelagh had gone to the bedroom by the time Sister Julienne arrived, and changed into clothes not reeking of amniotic fluid. The nun knew where to find the spare key, and let herself in.
Shelagh burst into tears as soon as her former sister entered the room.
Sister Julienne hugged her, cupping her head and dropping a kiss on her temple.
Shelagh curled her hand in her sister’s habit, groaning as another contraction reduced her world to simple sensation. When it was done, Sister Julienne guided her to the bed. “How often?” she asked.
“Every five minutes for over an hour now,” Shelagh said. Suddenly shy, she looked at the pastel sheets on the bed, straightening a corner.
Sister Julienne took out her pinard, and carried out all necessary examinations. “Baby is doing well, Shelagh. He has a strong heartbeat.”
Thank God for small mercies, Shelagh thought.
Sister Julienne tucked her pinard back in her bag. “You’re not fully dilated, though. I think it’ll be a while yet.” She folded her hands and played with her ring, looking at the golden band.
Shelagh took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “Sister, we must talk,” she said. They couldn’t sit in silence for hours, the air thick with things unsaid. In the end, their words would choke them, if the air didn’t become unbreathable first.
Sister Julienne looked at her with wet eyes, but didn’t speak, giving Shelagh the change to start.
Another contraction took her breath away. She did her best not to moan, but the pain was intense. When it was done, she was panting a little. “I need to move,” she murmured. To sit here, to have Sister Julienne stare at her, would not make it easier to speak.
“We could walk around the room, if you prefer,” Sister Julienne said. She helped Shelagh up, supporting her with a strong arm, holding her hand. They took small steps, circling the bed till they came upon the wall. Then, they had to turn around, and move in the opposite way, walking a horse-shoe pattern again and again as they spoke.
Shelagh wetted her lips with her tongue. “I’m not sorry for loving Patrick, Sister. Our love is… it’s beautiful, and I’m never ashamed to love.” Baby turned inside her. She stopped walking and inhaled deeply before continuing. “But I am sorry for all the heartache it caused. I never meant to smear Nonnatus’ reputation, but I fear I did.” She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I never meant to cause a rift between us, either,” she whispered. She looked up, trying to read her sister’s face, but her glasses had misted over.
Sister Julienne plucked them from her face and placed them on the nightstand. “Best not wear them. They’ll only slide from your nose later on, and get smeared with all kinds of things if we’re not careful,” she murmured.
“Sister,” Shelagh pleaded.
Sister Julienne turned to her. Her face was vague, undefined, as if Shelagh was looking at it through a window splattered with rain. “I never doubted your love for him, Shelagh,” Sister Julienne said, “But…” She sighed, and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. They resumed their walking. “At the sanatorium, you told me you were a nun, yet you already had… improper relations with Doctor Turner.”
Just once, when we were both hurting so much, Shelagh thought.
They had to suspend their conversation till another contraction had passed. The pain was horrible, and left Shelagh sweating and trembling.
“I was a nun, Sister, I really was!” she said as soon as she could speak again, “But then I changed, and it became only a part of who I was, and no longer defined me entirely.” Confused, she shook her head. “I should not have broken my vow. It was not a decent thing to do.” And yet I feel as if it had become something almost inevitable. When she had gone to Patrick that night, when she was in his arms, it had not felt wrong, or sinful; it had felt as if that was the only proper place for her to be.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Sister Julienne said, voice tremulous. “I know you would not have done what you did if it wasn’t for love, but I had hoped you would have come to your sisters for comfort. Why didn’t you?”
“Because I needed someone who wouldn’t talk about religion. His lack of faith in God made me understand my own belief in Him better than anything else could have done.”
Sister Julienne sighed. “Maybe that’s partly why I am hurt: my pride has been bruised. I thought you would always come to me, and you didn’t. I thought I knew everything about you, but I was wrong.”
“Nobody can ever know all there is to know about a person,” Shelagh said.
“I know that, now.”
They were silent for a moment, walking up and down the room. Shelagh moaned her way through another contraction, doing her best not to cry.
It is so bad already…
“There is pain relief I can give you,” Sister Julienne said.
“I know,” Shelagh said, loosening her grip on Sister Julienne’s hand. She stopped walking, and looked at her former sister. “I missed you terribly,” she confessed, the tears that had gathered during the contraction spilling from her eyes.
Sister Julienne swallowed audibly. “And I missed you, too.”
“I want us to be friends again, because… well, because I don’t think I can go through this if I don’t have a friend at my side.”
“Then rest assured, my dear girl, because I am your friend.”
Another contraction. Shelagh grabbed hold of the bed’s headboard as pain rippled through her. She sobbed. “I’m so afraid, Sister,” she confessed.
“I know. But you’ve been afraid before, and you always conquered it. Nevertheless, I shall get you some pethidine to help with the pain.” She studied Shelagh’s face. “But first some water. Your lips are chapped.”
She went to the kitchen. Shelagh sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking to make the pain bearable.
A loud bang shuddered through the house. Someone thundered up the stairs, taking them two or three a step judging by the sound. “Shelagh? Shelagh, please answer me!”
“Patrick?” she whispered.
Before she could raise her voice, Sister Julienne said: “Doctor Turner?”
Shelagh tried to get to her feet, but another contraction made her sink down and grit her teeth.
Her husband’s and ex-sister’s voices came closer, till they were just beyond the bedroom door.
“Please let me in, Sister Julienne! I know you don’t approve of husbands in the birthing room, but…”
“I’m not objecting to your presence, Doctor Turner, but I am objecting to you wearing soiled clothing in the presence of a patient,” Sister Julienne said.
Patrick fell quiet. Then, he said: “Oh. Right. I’ll put on something else, and wash my hands.”
Sister Julienne came back with a glass of water. Shelagh drank it greedily. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. “Will you let Patrick be here with me?” she asked.
“It is unusual,” Sister Julienne said.
“I need him by my side,” Shelagh said.
“I know.” Sister Julienne said, smiling a little. She took Shelagh’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll give you some pethidine. I think you need that, too.” Sister Julienne was preparing the syringe when Shelagh’s womb contracted again. The pain made her turn her focus inwards. Her nightgown lay plastered against her back. Her hair was like damp fur in her neck. She combed a hand through it. Her fingers trembled.
But then, Patrick was by her side, holding her hand, rubbing her lower back. She rested her face in the crook of his neck, smelling his sweat and cigarettes and aftershave. When the contraction faded, she sighed, and squeezing his hand. His wedding ring bit in her skin.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in her hair.
“You couldn’t know.”
“But still. You must’ve been so scared…”
“How could I be scared with Sister Julienne here?” Shelagh said, and smiled at her sister. “How could I be scared now that you are both here?”
It was true; she was no longer afraid. She patted her belly. “Time to meet Baby.”
***
The pain was still agony, but she had Patrick to hold on to, to ground her. Sister Julienne’s voice was clear as she gave encouragement after encouragement, instruction after instruction.
When it was time to push, Shelagh clung to Patrick, doing her best not to cry. “I’m so tired,” she murmured.
He kissed her brow. “I know, darling, but it’s almost over now.”
“It won’t be long, Shelagh, I promise. Now, you must push,” Sister Julienne said, patting her knee.
She bit her lip and forced herself to do what her former sister told her. After all, she could almost hold her baby, could almost see its face and determine how much it looked like the little face she’d dreamed up for herself. Excitement took hold of her, drowning her tiredness.
She did her best not to dig her nails in Patrick’s hand as she pushed, did her best not to grunt. He planted a kiss just below her ear.
“The head is born,” Sister Julienne said.
Thank God, Shelagh thought. She wanted to sink back, wanted to let Patrick’s thighs cradle her, his arms her blanket, his chest her pillow, but it wasn’t over yet.
“That’s my girl,” Patrick whispered. She smiled, and interlaced her fingers with his.
“Just one more,” Sister Julienne said.
Shelagh pushed, her toes curling into the sheets. Baby slithered out of her, its head cupped by Sister Julienne’s hand. “It’s a girl,” the nun said. The baby opened her mouth and cried.
“Can I hold her?” Shelagh asked, stretching her arms to her whimpering daughter.
Sister Julienne cut the cord, then handed her the baby. The child was slick and warm, her eyes the midnight blue of all new-borns. Patrick’s arms were heavy and warm around her. He stroked the baby’s head with his fingers.
“Hello. You were eager to meet us,” Shelagh whispered.
“We were eager to meet you, too,” Patrick said.
Shelagh leaned against him, cradling her daughter against her chest, dropping kisses against her damp, silken head. “All worth it,” she murmured. The pain, the heartbreak, the isolation…
“Placenta is out, all in one piece,” Sister Julienne said.
“Good.” Patrick kissed Shelagh’s face again. “Must give you a sponge bath, dear.”
“Not yet,” Shelagh said. She didn’t want this moment to end. Here, she was holding her child, was cradled by her husband, had Sister Julienne near. It felt like a spell that could be broken the way cobwebs could be brushed away.
“What are you going to call her?” Sister Julienne asked.
“Angela,” Shelagh said, “Angela Julienne.” She looked up. Her former sister’s face was tight with emotion, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
“Are you sure?”
“Completely,” Shelagh said, looking at her child again.
“She does look like an Angela,” Patrick quipped, tracing the gentle curve of his daughter’s skull with his thumb.
Shelagh twisted her head so she could kiss him. Ever since that fateful night at the surgery, she’d wanted to kiss him all the time. It was a desire that would never fade.
Love, she thought, the word becoming all consuming.
It’s because it’s love.
And now, I will forever realise how lucky I am.
I will be happy.
Because my exams are drawing neigh, it is really quite possible that I won’t be able to write a fanfic every Friday from now on till about the first half of January. I’ll do my best and I’ll try to let you guys know in advance if there’s no fanfic for a week. Hopefully all will be back to normal after my exams are done!
