Chapter Text
New Year's Eve 1956
“Mummy’s ready for you now Timothy...Och, the wee man is already asleep.”
The young nun stared at the boy sprawled out across the golden fabric of the two-seater settee. He was barely ten, but she could see he might one day be even taller than his father. She turned to the father in question, who was looking down at his son. His eyes were full of love and a half smile crossed his tight lips. His furrowed brow and sunken cheeks betrayed his smile.
She hadn’t realized she had been staring at his face until she noticed he was returning her gaze. The over exuberant recounting of a fatherly observation shooed away the shared split second of fleeting awareness.
“It always amazes me how quickly children can turn from running around full of beans to sound asleep in less than it takes Roger Bannister to run a mile these days.”
“Oh, he’s dead to the world, bless his wee heart.”
She barely got the latter part of her sentence out, before for all the world she wished hadn’t uttered the first. If there had been anyone else in the room apart from the two colleagues and the sleeping child, they would have noted the father’s composure and lack of reaction to the nun’s comments. But it was Sister Bernadette who noticed him ease away the tension in the way he always did, the rhythmic rubbing of his thumb against his indexfinger of his righthand. Sooth it away like he always did; before imparting bad news, countering frustration with a colleague, impatience waiting for results, exasperation following a question asked by his curious son, knowing he could do nothing to save the boy’s mother.
Sister Bernadette always knew what Dr Turner was thinking. That’s why they made such a good team. She had the appropriate forms filled in before he ordered them, just ready for his illegible signature. Before he asked, she knew what instrument he required. She always stood in the right place by his side to make it easier for a lefthander. Not all the midwives understood that, and she had had to confess a little too often to her weakness of pride. Or, as Sister Evangelia would call it, the sin of smugness.
“He was desperate only ten minutes ago for me to let him stay up to see the New Year in and now look at him. He hasn’t even seen nine o'clock.”
“He wanted to say goodnight to his mother, but it seems a shame to wake him.”
"No, best leave him. He'll be a grump if we wake him. I’ll carry him to his bed.”
“Why don't you just let him lie there? He’s comfortable and in his pyjamas. I’ll fetch some blankets for him.”
“Do you think so?” The doctor, usually so confident in the clinical arena, looked completely flummoxed when it came to the simplest of choices regarding his son's care.
“Best not to risk waking him and if you would forgive my impertinence in making a suggestion, Dr Turner. You could make use of his bed for a few hours.”
He turned to her with a look of confusion, as if he was begging her to make the decision for him. Was he simply exhausted? With everything that was going on in his private life, he still ran a busy General Practice and Maternity service or had Timothy's mother in parallel ran the entire household, made all the parenting decisions and also ran her husband?
Firmly, she prompted, “You need your rest. It’s been quite a day," softer now, she continued, "and there will be more difficult days to come."
It had been said now. The unspeakable was now spoken. There was no going back and unsaying it. "I've settled Marianne following her analgesia and it would be a shame to disturb her. Why don’t you go into Timothy’s room and catch-up with some sleep while they are both at rest?”
She paused a moment to give him time. That finger and thumb were doing overtime. She hoped she had some vaseline in her bag. “I will sit for a while and watch over them both. Sister Juliene knows my whereabouts and will telephone if my presence is required at Nonnatus."
Increasingly aware she was becoming slightly dictatorial; what had Trixie once confided to her? The others called her 'Sister Bossydette'.
She changed course and with a smile, "Unless that is, you were also waiting to stay up for the bells?”
He smiled back, but the bells would be tolling soon enough and they both knew it.
“You are very kind, Sister Bernadette. I’don’t know what we would do without you.”
After weeks of nursing Mrs Turner, Sister Bernadette knew where the clean linen was stored in the Turner’s flat. Once the boy was tucked in, she gently brushed a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes. Just like his father, she smiled and then quickly straightened and put out the table lamp.
Scurrying into the well-lit hall, she decided she would leave the landing light on so the boy wouldn't be disorientated or afraid if he awoke. She stopped by Timothy's room, raising one hand to knock, simply to enquire if the doctor had everything he needed. The sister dropped her hand when she heard a gentle purring. It wasn't really what you would call a snore, like you would hear on a night shift on Male Surgical. It was much more soothing than that. He had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Maybe, overwhelmed by grief or fear. She didn't think he was afraid of letting Marianne go; he knew too much, her prognosis and disease progression were something he couldn't deny. She thought; it was more what he didn't know that haunted him. What life would be like without her? What kind of parent would he be without her guidance? How would Tim react? Would he get it right?
Sister Bernadette knew these questions well. She had seen her own, dear father, try to answer them when her mother died. She, in turn had asked some of them of herself when the blessed Lord took her Da to be with her mammy. But this wasn't about her family, it was about the Turners, a family she would never be a part of. But she could help. She could, as she promised Dr Turner, watch over them.
She moved back into the main bedroom. Another unwelcome question came to mind. One she had no business asking, but it lingered like the scent of a not quite put out Henley that her Da used to leave smouldering in the tin ashtray.
How did a man married for so many years come home to an empty bed? Her father had paced the floors in the first few months after her mother's death. Eventually, probably exhausted by the effort, he would fall asleep in his old threadbare armchair. When she was ready for school, she would regrettably nudge him to sort out the deliveries so he could open their greengrocers shop. Sister Bernadette or Shelagh, as she was then, wished she could stay home and help him. He just seemed so lost in a place that had always been home.
Shelagh. How long had it been since anyone had called that? Some of the young mums said Bernadette was a pretty name, even romantic. She scoffed at that. Saint Bernadette was not some silly love struck teenager. Although even she had to admit Bernadette was a bit French and anything French had a certain air of suggestion. But there weren't many Scottish saints apart from Margaret. Her namesake, Princess Margaret, hadn't been acting too saintly recently. Well, not according to that awful Sunday newspaper Fred read and always left polluting the kitchen table. How many times had she had to flick through it to discern it's unsuitability then throw it on the fire to burn in hell? Almost every Sunday it seemed.
Dr Turner had moved an old leather armchair, Fred had found from somewhere, next to the bed. She wrapped a crocheted blanket around her knees and lit a candle, providing enough light for her to observe her patient but not quite enough to read the book on her lap. The words of St Julian of Norwich were in her heart, so it mattered not.
What? Do you wish to know your Lord's meaning in this thing? Know it well. Love was it's meaning.
As predicted, the clock kept ticking and time moved on and the All Saints' bells did toll. The nun looked up from her book and whispered,
“A peaceful New Year, to you, dear Marianne. Have no fears, as I promised, those you love will always be loved, and watched over, just like I’m watching over you tonight.”
She started to hum, a familiar tune she had known since childhood. She couldn’t remember ever having learned it. She took Marianne’s hand and sang the words.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne?"
“And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere and guise a hand of thine.”
She slowly soothed the tempo and softened her voice and continued in English, ensuring Marianne understood.
“And here’s my hand, my trusted friend, and give me your hand too.”