Northfield 5-6. A Jane Eyre retelling

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."