Northfield

"Venus and Saturn are now in alignment. It is entirely appropriate that you should appear! Welcome to Nonnatus House."

Shelagh was wondering if this old woman in the habit was really a nun or, if she was a guest at Nonnatus Halfway House. It was, after all, a temporary home for former psychiatric patients and other people in need of community life. The nuns of the order of St John ran the place. She had heard only good of this institution so far, and this model of preventive and supportive psychiatric care was the reason she had applied for a post as a nurse here. Now she wasn't so sure of her choice.

A voice rang out from the hall: "Stop frightening the newcomer, Sister Monica Joan."

A round and rather stern-looking nun in her early sixties guided the older Sister aside and offered her hand to Shelagh: "I am the matron in charge. Welcome, Nurse Mannion. Please, come in."

Shelagh followed the matron. The old nun had vanished into the kitchen mumbling something about a cake.

"We are so glad you could join us. I will show you your room later, but first I will tell you about the life here and about your duties..." Sister Evangelina guided Shelagh in to her office.

Later, sitting in her room, waiting for the dinner gong, she mused on what Sister Evangelina had told her. The Halfway house ran on community life, with common meals, rehabilitative work and common prayer at the Chapel. There were eight single or double rooms in the guest wing for former psychiatric patients or other people who needed a temporary shelter or retreat. "Loneliness, that is the great affliction of our times", Sister Evangelina had sighed. "We try to offer what we can: the best medicine of company, prayer and suitable work". There was a vegetable garden, a carpentry shed, and a room for handicrafts and needlework on the ground floor. Laundry shifts were rotated between the residents. Many of them took part in these activities. Cooking and other kitchen duties were organized by the housekeeper and the cook, Mrs. Fairfax.

Sister Evangelina said Mrs. Fairfax worked part-time at Nonnatus and part time as the live-in housekeeper of Doctor Turner, the doctor-in-charge.

He ran his large general surgery out of Nonnatus House in addition to looking after the Nonnatus patients. He got a quarter of his salary from Nonnatus Foundation, and the resident nurses rotated as his receptionists. There was also a small ward of six beds, a mini-hospital, on the ground floor.

On the other wing, the so-called nurses wing, there were rooms and apartments for nurses and nuns who worked as district nurses or midwives. Two working nuns were living there right now, Sister Mary Cynthia and Sister Evangelina herself. Nurses Trixie Franklin and Jennie Lee were the other residents in that wing.

Shelagh had been shown the chapel, a beautiful place. Partly she had been drawn to work here because of her religious beliefs. She was fascinated by the idea of working adults, patients and guests living and praying together.

Hearing the dinner gong, Shelagh walked the stairs down to the great hall leading to the Common Dining Hall. She heard a door slam and at the bottom of steps she nearly stumbled on someone.

"Gangway!"this tall, dark man cried and ran towards the hospital ward, his coat flowing.

From the door of the ward, he hollered at her: "Do not startle me like that. And the visiting hours are over, you should leave immediately."

In the dining hall, Shelagh met Sister Monica Joan again. "Oh, you have met Doctor Turner . He must have thought you were a visitor from realms apart from ours. You look a little like elf, you know, "she said with a whimsical smile.

Sister Evangelina arrived just in time to hear this. She shook her head. In a low tone, she explained to Shelagh that Sister Monica Joan had the early marks of senile dementia and how you should sometimes just ignore her. Shelagh knew of Sister Monica Joan's work as a nurse and her pioneering work on rehabilitative occupational therapy and therapeutic communities. Now she was living with them in her old age "giving us cheer and moments of exasperation, in equal turns", Sister Evangelina had laughed.

At the dinner table Shelagh had met the other nurses and some of the present guests. It had been a remarkably cosy meal. I am really going to enjoy this, Shelagh thought. After dinner, Shelagh helped Mrs. Fairfax with the washing-up. The housekeeper-cook had then left for home, leaving Shelagh to finish the cleaning of the dining hall.

She smelled cigarette smoke. She heard noise. Someone was in the living room. She approached the door tentatively. Doctor Turner sat there smoking and staring at the fire in the fireplace.

"Please come in Nurse Mannion. I won't bite," he said without turning his head. How had he known it was her? She noticed a narrow mirror above the mantelpiece and a tall, large one in the hall behind her. He was inspecting her reflection in the small mirror, basically seeing only her back.

She entered the room, only to hear the footsteps of Sister Evangelina after her. She was bringing a glass of sherry for Doctor Turner. "A glass for you, Doctor. Thanks for today. Excellent work, but please do not scare our new nurse. She has already met Sister Monica Joan, that is enough for one day."

He smiled a little. "Nurse Mannion and I have already met." He rose and offered her his hand." I am sorry for being so curt. There was an emergency. " Shelagh could sense honesty underneath this brevity. Here is someone I could like - if he'd let me, she thought.

"Oh, good, you have already let her feel your typical bedside manner, "Sister Evangelina laughed. "So I do not have to issue a warning about that."

"Thank you, Sister Evangelina,." he commented with a perfectly friendly, amused manner, not at all perturbed by her teasing.

As Sister Evangelina left for her office, Shelagh came forward to warm her hands in front of the fire.

Shelagh sat down in the armchair, observing him. He had a craggy face and long legs that were currently spread apart on the low sofa. There was some silver in his dark hair, although Shelagh guessed that he was not older than forty. He was not a handsome man, per se, but he had a kind of rugged charm. There was, however, an air of heaviness around him that seemed to subdue it.

"You should not run in the corridors." Her tone was neutral, she didn't want to sound reprimanding.

"Sometimes running is the only option. You'd know that if you'd served in the war."

"I mean I served by taking care of the victims of war. I worked with war victims at Hampstead Heath Nursery. Children, displaced by war."

He rose a little from his hunched position and took a look at her. "I am sorry, Nurse. I didn't mean to dismiss you. You look quite young to your age, then. I presumed you were a child during the war. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-five."

"At the London Central Nursing School. But I entered the Hampstead Heath Clinic* as a war victim myself, at the age of fourteen. I've lived there ever since. I've been helping with their practice. I completed my nursing school with their financial and....other help."

"Hampstead is a very good institution. Those women are quite the trailblazers. I only hope that that kind of training and research will someday become the norm in the psychiatric training. It wasn't easily available when I was studying."

"I have heard that Northfield Hospital is quite a place. Great progressive work."

After a silence, he asked: "May I ask what happened to you when you were fourteen?"

Shelagh pressed her hands against her knees. It was an odd interrogation. Yet she felt that despite his rough manner, he was seriously interested.

If Shelagh had been able to take a look at him, she would have seen his face turn gentle.

He had risen, to tend the fire and add a log into it. While he was doing this task, he seemed to mutter something to himself.

"Hmm. How much psychological help was needed to overcome that? A lot of survivor's guilt, I reckon. With a heavy dose of stubborn will to live. An interesting condition."

Shelagh was not sure if she was required to answer or even if he was talking about her at all. His voice was diffident, his manner absent, his gaze fixed on the fire.

His focus returned with a clap of his hands. "Well then Nurse Mannion, welcome to the regiment. I am glad we have you as a re-enforcement. Please, shake my hand."

He seemed to read her mind. "You think I am silly or that I think that you are silly. No, Nurse Mannion, I only want to shake the hand of a good comrade. A comrade-in-arms."

"Do not think that war is over. There is an ongoing war against disease, poverty and...dare I say...stupidity. Surely you share this fight with me? You could be a companion. Of mine. In that fight."

He chortled. "You do not shrink from telling me to mind my manners, do you? I meant ignorance and fear. They are the most stupid things to conquer. "

He was looking so different now; there was life and urgency in his appearance. "You must learn my battle cry. No fuss, no silly propriety rules. Then we will get along fine. Nice to have met you, Nurse Mannion."

Despite feeling as if she had been run over by a bus, Shelagh felt fine. Elated even. This is going to be interesting.

Chapter 2

By and by, Shelagh was learning the Nonnatus House routines and schedules. There were from six to eight guests at a time, and the meals, prayers and the community life were open to any people at Poplar who wished to take part in them. She had learned how to keep the community life going: the garden tended, laundry taken care of, logs available for the fire, food for kitchen bought at the local shops and the handicrafts and needle work kept in progress. Quiet hours at the chapel were her recreation; singing hymns together seemed a blessing, an oasis in the middle of busy days.

There was also nursing work in the district which occasionally fell to her. Last, but not least, there were the surgery hours, working together with the enigmatic Doctor Turner.

On her second full day at the Nonnatus House, Shelagh learned more about him in a series of quickly escalating events.

She had entered the hall in the first floor to see Sister Monica Joan knocking on the door to a cleaning cupboard.

A voice came from inside the cupboard. "Wait a minute, Sister, I haven't finished the development yet. The photos are at a delicate phase."

Sister Monica Joan harrumphed and turned away waving her hands in the air. "That boy should have kept to his drawing and water-colours. This photograph business is getting out of hand."

Laughing, Mrs. Fairfax appeared at the door of the kitchen. "No chance there, Sister. The boy has his father's tenacity. And photography runs in the family."

Mrs. Fairfax beckoned Shelagh to the kitchen' "Come here, Nurse Mannion. Have one of my rolls, they are just out of the oven."

Shelagh took a seat at the kitchen table where Sister Monica Joan was already tasting the rolls. Mrs. Fairfax poured a cup of tea for Shelagh. "Have a little snack, Nurse. You look like you do not eat enough. You need some fattening up."

Shelagh took the cup and a buttered a roll. "Who was that in the cupboard, Mrs. Fairfax? I thought it was a cleaning cupboard.

"It is indeed. But we have given young master Timothy Turner a permission to use it as a studio for the development of his films. There is a sink, and he has put a red lamp bulb there. That is why the Sister here calls it a Red Room."

"I would not be astonished if it does not in the end produce events of unpleasant horror similar to those of its illustrious namesake. I of course mean Jane Eyre's Red Room, Sister Monica Joan smiled innocently at Shelagh. "A most extraordinary heroine."

"She died after the war, in 1945. Tuberculosis, I have heard. I originally come from Birmingham, as do the Parkers, Mrs. Turner's family, and as does the good doctor himself. I know old Mrs., Parker slightly and she asked me to be their housekeeper when they moved here in 1948. I never met Mrs. Turner, though."

At that moment, the door of the closet opened, and a slender, brown-haired, boy with a dazzling smile came out. "Hey, look at these. My photographs of the last school outing in the New Forest turned out really well. There is Jack and me by the trail head. That one I took with the self-timer. And I managed to take a very good one of Dad leaning against his car."

While he was eating, the boy chattered on about the school trip and all the aspects of the photos he had taken there. How different from his Father he is, Shelagh mused.

Sister Monica Joan intervened in the chatter: "Tim, you should show Nurse Mannion your water colour works. They are more tasteful than those snapshots. There is the fine one based on the photograph of your Mother. "

Timothy went to the living room and came back with a portfolio. "I keep my portfolio here instead of home," he said in a tone of conspiracy to Shelagh. "To tell the truth, there is always a much better audience here than at home. I think my Dad gets sad with my pictures. Perhaps I remind him of Mum too much."

Shelagh was shown both the original photo and Tim's water colour version of it. Tim's hand was very good for a child of his age. Shelagh could see a likeness between mother and son. Mrs. Turner seemed to have had the same brown hair as Timothy as well as the same delicate chin and nose. She had been a stylish woman.

"I have to go," Tim said, closing his portfolio, "Jack is waiting for me. Goodbye Sister, goodbye Nurse Mannion. See you later Mrs.F."

And he was gone. When it came to moving rapidly, he was his father's son, Shelagh thought, smiling a little.

"Poor boy." Mrs. Fairfax sighed. "A fine character, I think, but in need of more adult supervision. His father is too busy, and men are not naturally inclined to child-rearing. "

"How old is Timothy? Isn't photography an....expensive hobby for a boy so young?"

"He is twelve. The camera was a gift from his grandmother. The Parkers are an eccentric, but a fairly wealthy family. The old Doctor Parker was the head of Northfield Hospital. I think these kinds of artistic interests are not unusual in their circles."

A week later, Shelagh had another opportunity to get acquainted with Doctor Turner and his character. It was Sunday supper, a small affair after the big Sunday lunch. Mrs. Fairfax had taken the evening off and Maureen Warren, an 18-year-old dark-haired girl with a very sure manner in the kitchen had taken her place as cook.

Doctor Turner and Timothy were present, Timothy having turned down his Dad's offer of fish and chips. Doctor Turner related this news himself in a happy manner.

There was a large congregation around the table, eating leftovers from the weekend.

Shelagh sat between Doctor Turner and Sister Monica Joan. Sister Monica Joan made her opinions heard aloud, while Doctor Turner preferred to talk to Shelagh in a low voice. He was introducing her to the life stories of the people there.

It seemed there was a recently discharged couple from The Countess of Irby hospital, Victor and Ellen Tenby. Then there was a retired Methodist pastor: according to Doctor Turner, he was forced to retire because he was suspected of embezzling from his church. His wife was there too, with long dark hair and saintly eyes. She had been a novice at the Order of St. John when she had met her husband.

At that news, Shelagh turned to him and asked if he was absolutely sure it was true. "It happened before my time, you may have heard that I arrived here with Timothy in 1948, but yes, I think it is true. Ask Sister Evangelina, if you do not believe me." He had a slightly mischievous look.

The young cook was bringing out the desert leftovers: jelly, cake and vanilla custard.

"Our temporary cook, Maureen, is from a famous Poplar family. She is the eldest daughter of Conchita Warren, the heroic mother of eighteen children," continued Doctor Turner.

Sister Monica Joan joined the conversation, "I remember when she came to Poplar from Spain. Mr. Warren, Len, took her home with him from the Spanish Civil War. She couldn't have been much older than fourteen at that time." Her voice was loud, and Sister Evangelina was making gestures to Shelagh to make her lower her voice.

"Len was always the odd one out, wasn't he, Sister Monica Joan? " Doctor Turner gave a sideways look to Shelagh. "He always knew his mind and didn't stray. He has become a model of a family man. His sons are now helping him with his booming carpentry business. And the girls are all bonny and bright, like Maureen."

"Oh yes. I think most men would have been pleased with enemy binoculars, but he had to have his girl. "Sister Monica Joan showed her wonderful capacity for drollness.

Shelagh laughed. She couldn't help herself. Doctor Turner looked at her with astonishment and grinned widely. "You have a good sense of humour, Nurse Mannion. You will need it in Poplar."

Posted on 2015-06-23

Northfield, Chapter 3.

In this AU story, Alec Jesmond does not die.

Listening

Timothy Turner enjoyed having a new audience; Shelagh was soon given many opportunities to see his new photographs and drawings. He visited Nonnatus House quite often, and Shelagh developed a good rapport with the sensitive, lonely boy. Working alongside Mrs. Fairfax in the Nonnatus kitchen, Timothy told Shelagh of his days at school and his Cub meetings. Shelagh had also been shown his treasured family photo album with pictures of a young Doctor Turner, Mrs. Jennifer Turner and other relatives in it. The family ties to Birmingham were now loose, but it seemed that before Mrs. Turner's death and their removal to London, the couple had belonged to a very close circle of family and friends. These friends were mostly old Doctor Parker's colleagues and their families. Below the pictures, Shelagh came across many familiar names, scribbled there apparently by Granny Parker, as Tim called his maternal grandmother.

"Doctor Bion and Mrs. Faulkes playing croquet." "Lydia Rickman having tea with Jennifer in the garden" "Uncle Trotter with his nephews and nieces".

For Shelagh, these were near-famous people whose articles she had read as a student nurse: Wilfred Bion, Siegfried Faulkes, John Rickman and Wilfred Trotter*. In one group portrait, there was even Ernst Jones**, of whom she had heard quite a lot from Anna Freud.

At the surgery, Shelagh developed a similar rapport with Timothy's father. He liked to talk shop with her.

Through these conversations, a new world was opening for Shelagh. They talked of the cases of the day and new treatments –but that was not so unfamiliar to her. The man himself was a new experience. It seemed he had a deep interest in the history of medicine and that not many people in Poplar shared this interest.

He could still be blunt but he was no longer dour in those times when she let him think aloud, and he seemed to enjoy her popping questions or remarks at him.

On one spectacular day, they had one of these conversations.

"That was a close call."

Doctor Turner came back from the telephone clearly relieved at the news he had just received. Earlier that day, there had been a serious accident at a construction area. A young architect, Alec Jesmond, was badly hurt, and after Doctor Turner's first aid, Jesmond was transferred to the London. Now they got the news that the vascular surgery had been successful; his foot had been saved.

"That is good news, Doctor."

He sat down and stretched his arms above his head. "To think that only ten years ago this day would have gone quite differently. Without antibiotics, Alec Jesmond may well have died. And the progress of surgery has been enormous. During the war, we only dreamed of these things."

He chuckled with a hint of cynicism. "Do you know what my most desired diagnosis was in the war? Just four little words: No need to amputate. "

"Did you like serving in the army?"

"Yes, I liked to serve in the army. It was practical and you felt needed. Different from psychiatric cases, which can sometimes leave you helpless. The progress in psychiatry can be too slow for my impatient nature….".

He grinned a little. "Aha, you are smiling, Nurse Mannion? Do you admire my astonishing self-awareness?"

"Please go on, Doctor. The progress is slow in psychiatry…?" She had gained some resistance to his teasing.

He exhaled. "All right. Sometimes I am fed up with the poor resources we have. And there are not enough treatment options. We can give barbiturates, electric shocks or supportive therapy and that's it. Group therapy and other clinical experiments showed early promise, as did psychoanalytic research, but they are not fully feasible to all mental illnesses…."

His face turned a little melancholy. "I'd like to be of use, to be able to make things better. Just think that only forty years ago, a simple appendectomy was a great risk. Now it is a relatively routine procedure."

He looked at Shelagh with quizzical eyes. "I remember being told that Doctor Ernst Jones's first wife died during appendectomy. It is hard when a death comes so near. It makes our professional expertise seem futile."

He stared into the distance. "If something goes wrong…..you just have to bear it. Do you know what Jones chose for his wife's epitaph? ' Here the indescribable is done' ."

He winced. "Sometimes I understand where he was coming from. What's the point? Someday we will all be food for worms."

Shelagh understood that he wasn't talking only about the Joneses. She had an inkling of how he may have dealt with his own losses. It was good that he didn't keep it all inside.

Yet on a day like this, there was no need to dwell on such memories. She decided some tough love was needed.

"Well, I am not ready for the worms yet, and neither was Alec Jesmond. Let that make us cheerful today. Cheerful enough to finish writing these prescriptions."

She put a pile of papers before him. He raised his upper lip in an ironical manner and rose up from his lounging position.

"Aye aye, sir. I mean mademoiselle. As you wish."

After filling in a couple of forms, he stopped for a moment and looked up at her:

"It is good that you keep me in order. You are the first receptionist to succeed in that. "

"Well, you are quite a handful, Doctor."

"Yes. I am. "

*) Siegfried Foulkes, Wilfred Bion and John Rickman are the founders of group psychotherapy and therapeutic communities in Britain. Wilfred Trotter was a sociologist who created the concept of herd instinct and he was Ernst Jones’s brother-in-law.
** ) A British psychoanalyst and a biographer of Freud

Northfield Chapter 4
A baby delivered by Cynthia dies in mysterious circumstances soon afterwards. The police become involved, and other pregnant women refuse to allow the shy young midwife to attend them, bringing Cynthia to the verge of a breakdown.

The sad case of the Kelly baby

There is nothing sadder in the world than a baby dying. Sister Mary Cynthia had been forced to go through hell with the death of the Kelly baby, and the Nonnatus House community had lived it with her.

There was a sense of relief, in the middle of sadness, when she had been declared innocent of any malpractice.

Doctor Turner was sitting at the large desk in the Clinic Room, finishing the final report to the medical officials, when Shelagh brought him a tea tray.

"Is there anything else I can get you, Doctor?"

He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her.

"Some of your faith, perhaps. With cases like this, I wish I had one."

"With cases like this, I wish faith would matter."

Doctor Turner's face bore a mixture of alarm and an odd kind of relief.

Then he drew up a chair. "Please be seated. Have tea with me." He poured a cup of tea for her, without asking if she wanted it or not, and fetched a mug for himself from the cupboard.

He was clearly having one of his impish moods. Shelagh had a contrary streak in her character that whispered she should decline and leave the field victorious. But something in his similarly antagonistic nature forced her from her shell. It was as if he was a messenger sent to reveal the unseen corners of her soul, whether she wished it or not. His sarcasm, wit and humour made her drop her guard. She felt called to be courageous. She slipped into the chair.

"So, what do you think will cure the Kelly family?" he asked.

"A second baby. But that does not mean they will forget Thomas."

"You are so good with names. An excellent skill in district nursing. But what about Sister Mary Cynthia?"

"She has God to comfort and restore her, and she has her Sisters. And the joy of birth. There will be many other chances to prove her skills for her. She has been at difficult births before and has successfully saved the lives of both babies and mothers. It will happen again."

"Hmpphh. Your trust in your God is good for you and for Sister Mary Cynthia. But what of us infidels? Our second chances do not rely on the idea of Providence. Is there a redemption in repetition?"

His face turned incredulous. "This conversation is odd. I am asking you, a mere girl, the eternal questions. "

"That is all right, Doctor."

He took a cigarette from his case and lit it.

"I should perhaps apologize for always being so brusque. Now I am at least trying to break that habit. But in general, will you allow me to speak to you as someone more experienced than you? Being twelve years older, will you allow me to patronize you a little?

She chuckled.

"Are you laughing at me?"

He offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. "I don't smoke." After a pause, she continued: "But I could take a puff."

"Of this?" Doctor Turner said, astonished.

"Yes." He gave her the cigarette. He looked slightly alarmed at her easy familiarity in taking a puff.

He took the cigarette back, inhaled sharply and asked squinting his eyes: "So, why the mirth, Mannion?"

She smiled internally. She loved the way he used her surname like an endearment.

"I'm laughing because I am a paid underling of yours here at Nonnatus House. I am not used to doctors asking for permission to be patronizing. You get used to that as a matter of course in nurse training."

He grinned. "I'm sure you do. I had forgotten that you are my subordinate here. So, will you sometimes let me talk to you informally without mistaking that for insolence because you work here?"

"No, not on that basis. I think I can tell the difference between informality and insolence. One I rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a salary. But I will let you talk however you like because you forgot that I was just a nurse."

Doctor Turner's countenance melted into gentleness. Shelagh thought he looked rather sweet that way. Then he let out a contemptuous harrumph and the cynical expression returned. "I think you underestimate the human ability to accept humiliating treatment if the price is right. So, back to the topic, do you think I could get a second chance? For happiness? For redemption? What does your God say or those wise psychoanalysts you have been living with? You are familiar with the concept of a corrective experience?"

"I believe in corrective experiences. I also believe that you have to let your conscience guide your choices."

"The conscience. Does that voice speak always the truth?"

"That is my experience."

"Hmm… Not mine." There was again that shade of sullenness.

He rose.

"Well, Mannion, no clear answers for today, but it has been an education, as always. You should be paid extra for acting as my personal Sibylla."

He pressed both his palms on the desk and bent down to Shelagh.

"Do you mind me calling you Mannion?" His tone was serious.

"No, not at all."

"Thank you, Mannion. Keep up the spirit. Sorry, I have to go. My son and other duties call. Goodbye." He left.

As ever, he had created more enigmas than revealed. Who is really the Sibylla here? Why the talk of second chances?

Shelagh felt her face glow. She should not, ought not, wonder. And yet she did.

Posted on 2015-06-26

Northfield Chapter 5

The three-legged-race

"Come on, Nurse! Come on, Timothy! You can do it!" Doctor Turner was running and cheering on the sidelines of the three-legged-race. It was the Harvest Moon Festival in Poplar, and the three-legged-race was a legendary family sport there. Originally, Doctor Turner had been meant to participate in the race with Timothy. Unfortunately, he had been called out to a sickbed, so Nurse Mannion had taken his place. He had returned just in time for the time of the final run, Shelagh and Timothy having already won their two preliminary heats. They aced the final, too, although, in the end they stumbled over the finishing line.

Doctor Turner came over to help them get up off the ground.

"Timothy, you can't go anywhere yet. Hold still and don't move your leg." He smiled, embarrassed, at Shelagh. "Let's get this band off. " He became chivalrous and uncharacteristically nervous. "May I? Perhaps you'd prefer to unbind it yourself."

Shelagh was already fingering the knot. "Let me do it. My fingers are more suited to this."

He grumbled something under his breath. Shelagh wasn't sure, but it sounded like "those small, white elfin wings".

He remained bent down and watched over her as she unknotted the tie. Then they all stood up.

"There, Timothy, now you can go after your mates. But no more running. You know the Doctor's orders."

Shelagh watched Tim leave and turned to Doctor Turner, giving him a questioning look. "What Doctor's orders? Is Tim not feeling well?"

"He had polio a year ago. Not a very bad case, and the physical therapy was very effective. Still, he can't strain himself too much."

"And you let him take part in this three-legged-race? When you knew he would compete seriously?"

Doctor Turner was startled at her reproaching tone. "Nurse Mannion, it was safe enough. He is a twelve year old boy, and must be left to his own devices every now and then. He must be allowed to test his strength."

"Do you really think so? Is that being a responsible parent?" Shelagh felt her anger rise and she took a deep breath. She pressed a handkerchief in her hand hard to distract herself from a sudden urge to cry.

Only now did she notice that she had hurt her hand. So did Doctor Turner. "There's blood. You have hurt your hand when you fell. Damn."

"Oh, I am perfectly safe to be left to my own devices with that, Doctor," she snipped at him. "No need to amputate." She turned her back to him and hurried away toward the surgery.

She heard him say sharply: "Nurse Mannion! I didn't mean….Oh blast."

She was seeking a bandage in the cupboard when she saw him standing at the door. "You may not think much of me as a parent, but as a Doctor might I suggest that you clean the wound with water first? Then I could help you disinfect it, I brought spirit with me." He showed the bottle in his hand, and he wore a very humble hang-dog expression.

"All right. I will wash the wound first." She held her hand under the running cold water. The sounds of water running, children shrieking and the general hum of the bonfire party from the alley created a magic circle around them. Dusk had settled and in the eerie light, he stood there by the sink and watched her in silence, his fist under his chin like a meditating gnome. She stopped the water, dried her hands and offered the injured hand for him to inspect.

"Hmmm." He had put a dosage of spirit onto a cotton pad. "This may sting a little". Shelagh felt the coldness of alcohol, but the hand that held hers was warm. She could feel his pulsing veins against hers while he kept her hand still. The odour of spirit and the odd intimacy of his ministrations made her dizzy. Now he was bandaging her hand, tying the knot a little too tightly. She heard herself let out a little cry.

"Too tight?" He loosened the bandage. "But it must be properly protected."

He let go of her hand, at last. Leaning against the desk, he started to talk. "I didn't mean to hurt you and I had no intention of letting Timothy hurt himself. And I don't think he did, Timothy knows his limits. Unlike his father, who is much more inclined to….be pushy."

His appearance of helplessness and regret was rather appealing.

He furrowed his brow and covered his mouth as if wishing to hide his face from her. He smiled wanly: "I like your friendship with Timothy. He needs adult friends." He cleared his throat. "I'd like us to be friends too. I need….I mean, I don't have many friends."

He offered his hand to her. "Truce?"

Shelagh took his hand. His grip was light, as if he was still afraid she would jolt. "Truce."

He turned abruptly and left, as was his manner. Shelagh watched his broad shoulders retreating. She felt that her world, which had been so enlarged after her arrival at Nonnatus House, was shrinking again. All the kingdom and all the glory she had ever needed was now focused on those broad shoulders.

Northfield Chapter 6

"What do we see when we look in the mirror? Our truest selves? Or a faint approximation of someone we'd rather be? The mirror sees it all. Our fears, our little triumphs, and keeps our secrets, holds our disappointments in." Call The Midiwfe, Ep 4.8

It was a cosy evening at Nonnatus House living room. Doctor Turner was sitting by the fire, smoking. Timothy was busy drawing his Teddy bear Cuthbert, of all things; he had placed the toy high on the book-shelf and was studying the colours in this setting with a comic seriousness, his pencils spread on the window sill. Shelagh was sewing in the arm chair.

Trixie and Jenny were gathered around the coffee table and they were egging on Sister Monica Joan, who was playing Solitaire. "Sister, we need some diversion. I have heard that you can read the cards. I'd like to know if my heart will be taken soon," Trixie giggled.

Sister Monica Joan shook her head. "It is not good to tempt fate, young ladies. I could see something you don't like."

Doctor butted in: "I suspect most of Sister Monica Joan's fortune teller's gifts are based on her long knowledge of human character."

"The good Doctor is not totally wrong," Sister Monica Joan benevolently agreed. "I see the signs, but to interpret them, I trust my instincts. It is a co-operation of the forces Divine and mundane."

"So you confess that it is just plain psychology?" Shelagh queried.

"In many medical practices, the patient's belief in her- or himself is half the cure. The same applies to fortune telling."

"Well, I still think it would be fun to see what you can read of my future. Please, Sister," Jenny pleaded.

Sister Monica Joan sighed. "All right. But I think I will read from a mirror this time. Timothy, could you give me that mirror above the mantelpiece?"

Timothy did as she asked. His father winked at Shelagh. "This is silly. But it could be fun,"he said under his breath.

"I heard you, Doctor Turner," Sister Monica Joan commented icily. "Even if you are a man and in medical profession, it does not mean you can control the forces of universe. The limits of our knowledge must be tested in every possible way."

"Of course, Sister, please go on. I think this is harmless enough."

Trixie was in the grips of eager anticipation. "I've heard that young women gazing into a mirror in a darkened room on Halloween can catch a glimpse of their future husband's face. If this doesn't work, we should try again in October, " she whispered to Jenny.

Sister Monica Joan was staring into the mirror. "Oh, I see a messenger coming, with good news. It is you, Trixie, of course. Beatrix. The one who brings happiness . Nomen Est Omen. How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace . It says so in the Bible." She looked at Trixie's feet. "Do you have new shoes?"

Trixie was impatient. "Yes, I have. Cost a fortune. But what about my love life?"

"I am afraid I can't be responsible for the triviality of the messages,"Sister Monica Joan regally informed. "I can't make the mirror reveal what it does not wish to reveal." Her face wore a mischievous smile. "Now I see a lot of white. It could mean anything. Like white lies. Do you know a lady in white? She appears in mist. It could be the mists of Avalon. Oh yes, it seems to be Queen Guinevere."

"That must mean you, Jenny." Trixie nudged Jenny. "Guinevere is Jennifer."

Jenny laughed. "Perhaps Sir Lancelot will appear soon."

Doctor Turner added in a dry voice: "Guinevere comes from the Welsh for 'White shadows'."

Timothy looked up from his inspection of the shades of three brown pencils: " Queen Guinevere sought asylum first in London tower and then in a nunnery. We learned about the Arthurian legends at school a few weeks ago."

"Did she? It suits very well. That could be our Jenny here, who worked first at the London Hospital and now resides here with the nuns at Nonnatus House." Trixie's excitement had risen again.

Sister Monica Joan continued her rambling. "I see a sky with stars. One very bright star. Stella Polaris. The North Star. Above wide fields."

"What does it mean?" wondered Trixie. "North Star and fields. Oh, Northfield. It could be related to you, Doctor Turner. You worked at Northfield Hospital, didn't you?"

"Yes. More importantly, it was my wife's home. And her name was also Jennifer." He turned to look at Timothy who was working intently.

"Oh, she was? Sorry, Doctor Turner, perhaps Sister Monica Joan has a message for you instead," Jenny quickly retreated.

He laughed a little and shook his head: "I hardly think so, me being such a skeptic."

"Oh yes, Dad is a stalwart science man. I don't think Sister Monica Joan can convert him," Timothy confirmed.

"But you accept the idea of the subconscious and the importance of dreams to psychiatry?" Shelagh asked. "Aren't they fairly odd stuff, too?"

He chuckled. "Touché. None of us can be completely free from imagery." He took an intense puff from his cigarette. "We are all fools of our dreams". He had his sleeves rolled up and the back of his head leaned against his crossed hands. His appearance was relaxed, yet Shelagh felt an invisible tension.

Jenny pressed for further prophecies. "So, there is a Queen Guinevere, but Trixie and I are left without our Lancelots. That is a rather meagre result so far. What about Shelagh, Sister? Do you see anything for her?"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Trixie. "I get all these Arthurian figures mixed up. Wasn't there also an Elaine? Who was she, then?"

"There were in fact two legendary Elaines." Tim's voice was bright and eager. "One who was unhappily in love with Lancelot and died and another Elaine who bore him a son, Sir Galahad." His face fell a little. "Although I must say I was a bit disappointed to learn that they are just vague and sometimes contradicting legends and not history. When I was small I always thought there was a King Arthur, once and future king, and I believed in Robin Hood, too."

This created some hilarity. "Poor Tim, the age for fairytales is so short," commiserated Shelagh.

Sister Monica Joan turned to Timothy. "But you must never doubt my much wedded King Henry poem. That is history. One died, one survived …"

" …two divorced, two beheaded . Yes, Sister, that I know to be true," Timothy nodded.

"Maybe it is our Common Unconscious that makes these tales feel so real. But that is, of course, more a Jungian than Freudian concept," mused Doctor Turner.

"Doctor Turner, I think you should keep Freud out of the discussion when children are present," Sister Monica Joan chastised him. He exchanged an amused glance with Shelagh.

"Please, let me continue," Sister said. "I see a blue sky, I hear bells. Saint Cecilia is singing," she announced self-satisfied. "This could be for Nurse Mannion. A wonderful voice. Shelagh comes from Cecilia, and it means 'heaven'. "

Then she grew serious. "The image changes. I see fog and mist. I see a long hall leading to a sickroom. There is a lady with an ashen face lying there. Dying. She has blonde hair."

She stopped. "Why did I say dying? I don't know why I said that." She put the mirror down. Nobody dared to say anything for a while. The atmosphere had turned sombre.

" The mirror crack'd from side to side… " recited Shelagh in a low tone.

" The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott ," continued Doctor Turner, with lips barely moving.

"Whatever are you saying?" cried a confused Sister Monica Joan.

"Oh, we operate on pure telepathy with Nurse Mannion," Doctor Turner responded, keeping a light tone, in a room still reverberating with tension. "We were citing a Tennyson poem on Arthurian themes."

Sister Monica Joan asked Timothy to put the mirror back. Then she turned to Shelagh: "Well, it is time for the evening prayer. Will you come and take the privilege of silence with me, Nurse Mannion?"

"Of course, Sister."

Sister Monica Joan rose haltingly, as if she had turned very frail all of a sudden. She left the room with Shelagh.

"Dad, isn't it time for us to go home?" asked Timothy. His father was staring at the fire, not hearing anything. "Dad?"

He frowned and became focused again. "Of course, son."

Northfield

Sanna

Chapter 1

Chapter 2