#old school turnadette fic

[weshallc]

THE SUITCASE

Alternate Title for @miss-ute Birthday: SHE WAS A NUN!

Happy Birthday Utie 🍰🎁🎉🎈🥰 Thank you for allowing me to be your beta. We have such fun and best of all I get first peak!

This one is for you. I meant to write something funny, but it didn't turn out that way. It is, however, most definitely Auld Skool Turnadette!

Hope you like it, you lovely person, you 💗

She thought Nurse Peters was never going to leave. Ten minutes must have passed since the un-rewardingly cheerful nurse had placed the suitcase on the end of the bed. Her bed. Her suitcase. 

She hadn’t been expecting this. When she had asked Sister Julienne for some clothes, she trusted her friend to sort through the charity box and find something that would fit. Wrap it up in brown paper and string and post it to Woodford Green. 

If she was honest, she hoped that her colleague would hand deliver the package to St Agnes Sanatorium. She knew she was being selfish, but she was getting accustomed to that.

Staffing levels were already depleted because of her and her unwelcome guest, her invasive intruder, her wake-up call. Chummy had returned, but she would be otherwise engaged any day now.

‘Thank the Lord��� Sister Julienne had the presence of mind not to send it with Trixie. That was a conversation she wasn’t yet ready to have, if ever. 

The stand-off was finally over and Nurse Peters admitted defeat. Nurse and patient had learned a lot about each other over the last two months. The patient had discovered that her carer was kind, compassionate, and trustworthy under her brash exterior. The Caregiver had deduced her patient was brave and resilient under the reservation and introspection. There was no way the nun was going to open that case until she left the room, so she did.

Once the bedroom door had clicked shut behind the nurse, it was time to click open the locks on the suitcase. It was definitely her suitcase. She recognised it by the discolouration of the brown leather on the lid. It had got wet stored in her parent’s airing cupboard when the old boiler had sprung a leak. It had been her father’s case then. She hadn’t really cared about the watermarks on the brown leather, but had done her utmost to dry it off for him and prevent any of the paperwork and documents he had stored inside being ruined. 

She never imagined back then that one day it would be hers and it would travel with her down the East Coast Mainline on the Flying Scotsman to Kings Cross. Ten years ago, when she had handed it over to an impatient Sister Evangelina, she didn’t think she would ever lay eyes on it again or its contents. 

She picked up the luggage label and recognised Sister Julienne’s handwriting at once. The same script she’d been familiar with for over ten years. She knew the curve of her letters, the dips and troughs of her words almost as well as her own hand. She paused for a second as another’s handwriting flashed into her mind and wrote across her heart. It was addressed to ‘Sr Bernadette’. She had put her friend in a difficult position, she knew that. The shock and disappointment written across her visitor's face, when she had made her request for something other than the habit to wear, was now eternally etched on her soul.

Her request had been answered, whatever pain it may have caused the one who had honoured it. There was no going back now. It would have been so much easier if it had been a brown paper package tied up with string. There would be a sense of curiosity, maybe even a thrill at seeing what sort of mismatched outfit had been put together for her from the jumble. The fact that it was her suitcase, the suitcase she had parted with in 1948, had dampened her excitement. She had been looking to the future, now she was going to be faced with the past.

If her mind had any doubt that it was hers, her fingers didn’t share it. Her left thumb pressed harder against the button lock than the right thumb did. Her hands had remembered the left clasp was slightly misaligned and needed a more assertive push to persuade it to open.

The lid of the suitcase sprung away from her and so did her fears. The first thing she recognised was a small cosmetics bag her mother had bought her for her thirteenth birthday. She’d told her she was too young for make-up, but it had contained a comb and hair grips, a compact mirror and a small tin of Nivea. The hand cream was long gone, but the comb and grips were still inside and the mirror. The lipstick and powder she had placed in there many years later were still snuggled alongside a tin of face cream and a bottle of Coty L'aimant. 

The hair fixings would come in handy, but she wasn’t sure about the rest. Did make-up go off? She gently twisted the lid on the scent and pulled it off, bringing the attached applicator to her nose. The pink cream had lost none of its potency and for a moment she was no longer in a hospital suite in Essex, but in her parents' bedroom in Inverurie letting her mother place a dab of the sweet liquid on her wrist whispering, “Don’t tell your father.” As they both giggled at the shared act of secret rebellion.

The sensation of the cold metal on her wrist brought her back into the present. She swiftly replaced the lid, returned the bottle to the bag, and rubbed her wrists together to distribute the scent. An action she hadn’t performed for over a decade. Would everything be as simple as this? Had her body and subconscious mind been storing all the small everyday tasks and movements of being a woman? While she had tried so hard to forget.

Opening the purse, she found it contained a few coins, hopefully enough for the bus fare to Poplar. Under her utility shoes, that smelt strongly of Cherry Blossom shoe polish, was hiding her handbag. The green two-piece and the short sleeve blouse also didn’t smell like they had been shut up in the dark for a decade, but freshly laundered. 

After dressing and checking herself in the mirror, the religious garments, which were too bulky to fit into the suitcase she had carried her nightwear in ten weeks ago, were folded carefully into her old brown suitcase. She placed the wooden crucifix on the top, stroking its comforting familiar texture for the final time. 

She then once again closed the lid on her past, remembering the tricky left fastening. In a few hours, she would deliver the suitcase back to Sister Julienne. 

Shelagh heard another click as she opened the door and walked into the sunlit corridor to find Nurse Peters and ask if she could make a telephone call.

[nunonabun]

Hi love! What about number 16 or 24 for turnadette? Choose what you want!

#24… in danger

Thank you! An angsty one this time, though I promise there’s a happy one to follow.

Patrick looked around his office, trying to conjure up additional work. It shouldn’t be like this, his mind whispered to him. They hadn’t even been married a year and already the cracks in their relationship were so large that a deep chill blew through their previously cozy existence. 

But had it been cozy? Their relationship had been a rollercoaster since before they even acknowledged it existed. The peace, the rosy joy of that brief period after their wedding had been the anomaly. And even then there was the strain of Timothy’s recovery. Shelagh had pushed Timothy then too - continued to push him - to enjoy what she thought he ought to, imposed herself on their way of being as though that was how a cohesive family was made. Marianne had never done that. When she’d enquired about the war he’d politely closed that topic and she’d let it lie. A compromise. That was how relationships were built to last. Damn it, why couldn’t Shelagh let this lie? Maybe she’d been right when she’d worried that their inability to conceive a child meant God frowned on their relationship.  

He rubbed his eyes hard with the palm of his hands, the retinal ganglia sending brilliant flashes of light to illuminate the darkness behind his closed lids. What was he doing, turning to a God he didn’t believe in to let himself off the hook? What was he doing blaming Shelagh for loving so fiercely? Shame washed over him. I shouldn’t be like this. I’m a coward, a broken old coward who drags others down with me. The words stung with truth, and despair welled up within him. And he hated that too, hated that he was sitting here, wallowing in self-pity while his wife worked upstairs to restore normalcy. He could smell it, wafting down the stairs. A roast, he thought. 

Put it away, just put it away. If we both commit to restoring a normal life, it will fall back into place. All of the mess with the adoption will fade into the past and we’ll move on. If more children aren’t in the cards, well that’s just that. We were happy just the three of us and if we can just get past this bump, we’ll be happy again.

Decisively, he flicked off the lamp, hung his white coat on the rack, and marched upstairs. 

He opened the door to the warmth and brightness of his familiar flat. The speedy patter of Beyond Our Ken drifted out of the kitchen along with the smells of supper and the lighthearted chatter of Timothy and Shelagh. They were jokingly trying to imitate one of the presenters, Shelagh failing to capture his accent, sending Timothy into hysterics. The laughter stopped as he closed the door, the lightness instantly dissipating. Did you need any more proof that this is your bloody fault? He buried the bitter words as soon as they formed. He tried to school his features into an easy happiness, hoping they would shape the feelings they masked. 

“Hello dearest,” Shelagh stepped out of the kitchen to greet him, an uncertainty in her eyes dampening the brightness of her welcoming smile. 

He smiled back in reply, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. In spite of the warmth of the flat, her skin was as cold as marble under his chapped lips. Their movements felt stiff and mechanical, unsettling. She felt it too, he could read that in her eyes, guarded as they were. 

He pushed the thought out of his mind, the more they practiced this normalcy, the more natural it would become. They would get through this.

[send me a number and ship and I will ship you a fic]

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: Breathless

Based on an anonymous ask: “just a Turnadette fic idea, something old school when she's still a nun. I read through the Lips Touch series which led to the one where she has a panic attack, have you thought of writing it again to where there actually is a kiss, maybe more than just a simple peck?;)”. I didn’t do another panic attack, but we are talking some old-school Turnadette after the TB diagnosis. I hope you’ll like it! Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing. On the nonnatus kettle scale, I’d say this is 3 kettles, maybe 4.

Tuberculosis.

The word kept bouncing around in her head till it became almost all-consuming.

Sister Bernadette turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. It was late, and those who were not on call had gone to bed long since. She’d retired hours ago herself, but had not yet fallen asleep. She’d prayed for hours, hoping that the familiar words would allow her consciousness to slowly fall away, but to no avail. God had been silent these past few months no matter how much she begged and pleaded and wept, and he was silent now, too. Instead of blessed rest, her prayers had only brought her a faint twinge of anger, and a powerful surge of despair.

How could she doze knowing that the thing that rattled inside her lungs like a spare penny was an affliction that could very well kill her?

How could she sleep knowing that a potentially fatal disease held her body hostage?

And how could she relax when her mind kept going back to his sweet face?

Doctor Turner had examined her today, but she’d only felt the cold kiss of his instrument, never the warmth of his fingertips. He had been so close to her, and yet she could not step into his embrace and bury her face in his jumper, could not draw a little bit of comfort from him as her mind, still reeling, tried to encompass the enormous truth now before her.

She could die.

She could die without ever having told him that she loved him.

It was unbearable.

She threw the blankets off and sat up, fumbling for her glasses with trembling hands. Her breath was coming in short gasps, but whether from fear or disease, she didn’t know.

She smoothed the folds out of her nightdress, put on a pair of stockings, then slipped outside with her shoes in hand.

It was surprisingly easy to leave the convent. Once, on the stairs, a floorboard creaked, and she waited with baited breath, but nothing stirred. Sister Bernadette took her coat, then her bike, and pedalled away.

Soon, her lungs were burning, but she didn’t slow till she had reached the surgery.

She knew it was folly, knew he was probably at home, with Timothy, where he should be, but she would check here first. She had to talk to him without Sister Julienne present, had to speak the thoughts that had weighed on her mind for weeks now, before it was too late.

The wind almost tore her cap off, so she plucked it from her head and stuffed it in her pocket.

Maybe God will strike you down for this, a mean voice told her as she parked her bike. She shook her head; she didn’t believe in that kind of God.

To her surprise, the door of the surgery was open. The hallway was dark, with splayed shadows on the floor and walls, but warm light spilled from underneath the doctor’s office.

Thank God.

Sister Bernadette walked faster, shoes slapping the tiles in an almost frantic rhythm. The door handle was colder than ice as she closed her hand around it, and for one moment, she hesitated. She thought of turning back, but surely he’d already heard her footsteps, and would come to see who would visit the surgery at this time…

She pushed the handle down and stepped inside before her nerve failed her.

“I’m sorry, I…” Doctor Turner said, snapping his head up and tearing his eyes away from the patient’s file that lay before him. His voice faltered when he saw who it was. “Sister Bernadette,” he whispered, getting to his feet so fast that he almost knocked over his ashtray. Cigarette butts lay curled within, numerous as the petals of a dying flower.

She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around his chest, hugging him to her very tightly. She inhaled the scent of his aftershave and cigarettes, felt his warmth on her wind-chilled cheek, and sobbed.

For a heartbeat, he stood petrified. Then, his arms closed around her. One hand cupped her head protectively, fingers caressing her hair. He kissed the top of her head.

“I’m so afraid,” she whispered, tears fogging her glasses, “and I couldn’t bear the thought that I could never say this to you out loud.” She wanted to say much more to him, but she couldn’t find the words, and she was so breathless that she couldn’t have spoken even if she’d known what to say.

“I am afraid, too,” he confessed. She could feel his voice rumble through his chest.

She tilted her head back so she could look at him, but her glasses were too smeared with her tears. She took them off and pushed them in the same pocket that held her cap. “When you examined me today, I was so ashamed, and… I prayed for you not to touch me, because I didn’t know what I would do if you did, but at the same time, I wanted nothing more but for your fingers to slip, because…”

“Because?” he asked, eyes filled with something infinite.

“Because there is something inside me that comes awake when you’re near, and it is stronger than anything I’ve ever known. Because I love you.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

“And now I’m afraid that there’s no time anymore,” she said, breath hitching as another sob threatened to overtake her. “That’s why I wanted you to touch me today: because I might die, and then you’ll be left with only the memory of my hand in yours.”

“But you can’t die,” he said, embracing her so hard that it almost hurt.

She took his hand and intertwined her fingers with his, pressing her healed palm against his calloused one. “But I might, and to do it with only the ghost of your touch… I know now that that is not enough,” she confessed, not daring to look at him, cheeks flushing.

“But your vows…”

“I believe in a God of love and mercy. I believe that he can forgive when we sin out of love, and what is this if not love?”

“You don’t know what it means to me when you say that,” he said, voice thick, thumb stroking her knuckles.

She placed his hand on her chest. “Please touch me,” she whispered.

He stroked her clavicle, thumb dipping below the neckline of her nightgown. His fingers were rough, but his touch was very gentle as his hands touched her shoulders, skimmed her neck.

Doctor Turner looked at her with something written in his eyes which she could not name as one hand pushed underneath her nightdress and touched her between her shoulder blades, where he had placed his stethoscope before.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Sister Bernadette wanted to kiss him then, but how could she press her lips to his with this infernal disease coating her tongue?

She tugged at his jumper, placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling his warmth through the layers of clothing he wore. “I am completely sure,” she said, and pushed his breeches from his shoulders.

He stepped back from her so he could undo his tie, so he could pull off his jumper and his shirt. As soon as the fabric had pooled at his feet she pressed herself against him, tracing circles on his chest. He was warm, and hairier than she’d expected.

He kissed her throat, very softly, the hand that wasn’t on her back touching her hip.

She placed her hand on the nape of his neck, head lolling back as pleasure bloomed in her belly.

He walked her back till her legs hit his desk, then lifted her so she could sit. The wood was hard and cold, but he was warm as he touched her, still so tentatively, as if he was afraid she would change her mind.

She took her nightgown and hitched it up, then slung her legs around the doctor, drawing him close. “Anything less is not enough,” she told him, kissing his hand.

She held on to him as they made love, and he held on to her, both afraid that the other would disappear if they let go. Not even when she was overcome with pleasure and felt weightless did she let go.

He almost collapsed on top of her when he reached his completion. She cupped the back of his head with one hand, fingers threading through his hair.

“You can’t die,” he whispered, and then started to cry, holding her with shaking arms.

She was no stranger to seeing grown men cry; in her capacity as a nurse, she’d seen the toughest of men reduced to tears more than once. But now it was not just a patient she held, but the man she loved, and his anguish almost undid her.

She took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. “I’m not going to die,” she told him, voice almost harsh with determination. “Do you hear me? I’m not going to die. I’m going to come back for you, and for Timothy.” She kissed his eyelids, his cheek, then rocked him and hummed a psalm in his ear as he tried to calm down.

There was only room in her head for four words now.

I will not die.

[inspoartist]

this song came on and it brought me back to old school Turnadette fics ;)

[sincerelybluevase]

just a Turnadette fic idea, something old school when she's still a nun. I read through the Lips Touch series which led to the one where she has a panic attack, have you thought of writing it again to where there actually is a kiss, maybe more than just a simple peck?;)

ask and ye shall receive (though you never know when with me, I must confess). Anon, I’m sorta using this idea for my fanfic for this week’s Fanfic Friday, so keep your eyes peeled!

[thatginchygal]

This was lovely, Al!!!!! 🥰🥰 And happy belated birthday @miss-ute !!!! 🩷🩷

THE SUITCASE

Alternate Title for @miss-ute Birthday: SHE WAS A NUN!

Happy Birthday Utie 🍰🎁🎉🎈🥰 Thank you for allowing me to be your beta. We have such fun and best of all I get first peak!

This one is for you. I meant to write something funny, but it didn't turn out that way. It is, however, most definitely Auld Skool Turnadette!

Hope you like it, you lovely person, you 💗

She thought Nurse Peters was never going to leave. Ten minutes must have passed since the un-rewardingly cheerful nurse had placed the suitcase on the end of the bed. Her bed. Her suitcase. 

She hadn’t been expecting this. When she had asked Sister Julienne for some clothes, she trusted her friend to sort through the charity box and find something that would fit. Wrap it up in brown paper and string and post it to Woodford Green. 

If she was honest, she hoped that her colleague would hand deliver the package to St Agnes Sanatorium. She knew she was being selfish, but she was getting accustomed to that.

Staffing levels were already depleted because of her and her unwelcome guest, her invasive intruder, her wake-up call. Chummy had returned, but she would be otherwise engaged any day now.

‘Thank the Lord’ Sister Julienne had the presence of mind not to send it with Trixie. That was a conversation she wasn’t yet ready to have, if ever. 

The stand-off was finally over and Nurse Peters admitted defeat. Nurse and patient had learned a lot about each other over the last two months. The patient had discovered that her carer was kind, compassionate, and trustworthy under her brash exterior. The Caregiver had deduced her patient was brave and resilient under the reservation and introspection. There was no way the nun was going to open that case until she left the room, so she did.

Once the bedroom door had clicked shut behind the nurse, it was time to click open the locks on the suitcase. It was definitely her suitcase. She recognised it by the discolouration of the brown leather on the lid. It had got wet stored in her parent’s airing cupboard when the old boiler had sprung a leak. It had been her father’s case then. She hadn’t really cared about the watermarks on the brown leather, but had done her utmost to dry it off for him and prevent any of the paperwork and documents he had stored inside being ruined. 

She never imagined back then that one day it would be hers and it would travel with her down the East Coast Mainline on the Flying Scotsman to Kings Cross. Ten years ago, when she had handed it over to an impatient Sister Evangelina, she didn’t think she would ever lay eyes on it again or its contents. 

She picked up the luggage label and recognised Sister Julienne’s handwriting at once. The same script she’d been familiar with for over ten years. She knew the curve of her letters, the dips and troughs of her words almost as well as her own hand. She paused for a second as another’s handwriting flashed into her mind and wrote across her heart. It was addressed to ‘Sr Bernadette’. She had put her friend in a difficult position, she knew that. The shock and disappointment written across her visitor's face, when she had made her request for something other than the habit to wear, was now eternally etched on her soul.

Her request had been answered, whatever pain it may have caused the one who had honoured it. There was no going back now. It would have been so much easier if it had been a brown paper package tied up with string. There would be a sense of curiosity, maybe even a thrill at seeing what sort of mismatched outfit had been put together for her from the jumble. The fact that it was her suitcase, the suitcase she had parted with in 1948, had dampened her excitement. She had been looking to the future, now she was going to be faced with the past.

If her mind had any doubt that it was hers, her fingers didn’t share it. Her left thumb pressed harder against the button lock than the right thumb did. Her hands had remembered the left clasp was slightly misaligned and needed a more assertive push to persuade it to open.

The lid of the suitcase sprung away from her and so did her fears. The first thing she recognised was a small cosmetics bag her mother had bought her for her thirteenth birthday. She’d told her she was too young for make-up, but it had contained a comb and hair grips, a compact mirror and a small tin of Nivea. The hand cream was long gone, but the comb and grips were still inside and the mirror. The lipstick and powder she had placed in there many years later were still snuggled alongside a tin of face cream and a bottle of Coty L'aimant. 

The hair fixings would come in handy, but she wasn’t sure about the rest. Did make-up go off? She gently twisted the lid on the scent and pulled it off, bringing the attached applicator to her nose. The pink cream had lost none of its potency and for a moment she was no longer in a hospital suite in Essex, but in her parents' bedroom in Inverurie letting her mother place a dab of the sweet liquid on her wrist whispering, “Don’t tell your father.” As they both giggled at the shared act of secret rebellion.

The sensation of the cold metal on her wrist brought her back into the present. She swiftly replaced the lid, returned the bottle to the bag, and rubbed her wrists together to distribute the scent. An action she hadn’t performed for over a decade. Would everything be as simple as this? Had her body and subconscious mind been storing all the small everyday tasks and movements of being a woman? While she had tried so hard to forget.

Opening the purse, she found it contained a few coins, hopefully enough for the bus fare to Poplar. Under her utility shoes, that smelt strongly of Cherry Blossom shoe polish, was hiding her handbag. The green two-piece and the short sleeve blouse also didn’t smell like they had been shut up in the dark for a decade, but freshly laundered. 

After dressing and checking herself in the mirror, the religious garments, which were too bulky to fit into the suitcase she had carried her nightwear in ten weeks ago, were folded carefully into her old brown suitcase. She placed the wooden crucifix on the top, stroking its comforting familiar texture for the final time. 

She then once again closed the lid on her past, remembering the tricky left fastening. In a few hours, she would deliver the suitcase back to Sister Julienne. 

Shelagh heard another click as she opened the door and walked into the sunlit corridor to find Nurse Peters and ask if she could make a telephone call.