He stood in silence transfixed by the empty doorway through which she had vanished just moments ago. If he stared hard enough, waited long enough, perhaps she would re-emerge telling him he was wrong, the specialists were wrong, the tests were wrong, the X-rays were wrong. Perhaps it was all a mistake and they could get back in the car, go back to where they belonged, go back to a life where he could hope each day to catch a glimpse of her smile or her sparkling blue eyes, where he would accept so little but want so much.

The urge to run after her was almost overwhelming but instead he climbed back into his car, started the engine and set off down the driveway. Reaching the road he found himself heading aimlessly away from the sanatorium with little idea of where he was going. He pulled over and sat, gazing sightlessly through the windscreen. At another time, in different circumstances he would have enjoyed the vista in front of him, taken pleasure in the long straight road cutting through rolling green fields, admired the distant trees and hillsides so different from the drab streets of Poplar, but at this moment all he could see was the image of a small figure in dark coat and white veil walking away from him, perhaps forever. There was so much he wished he could have told her, so many things he should have said. Regret pierced him with the realisation that it might be too late, maybe the triple treatment wouldn't be the miracle they were hoping for.

How long he sat there, unmoving, unthinking, he wasn't able to say but when he was eventually able to regain some focus on the world around him the late summer light was beginning to fade and the sky had clouded over spreading a dismal greyness over the landscape that did nothing to lift his mood. He ran a hand over his face, took a deep breath and started the engine. He had patients to care for, a son who needed him and a life that somehow he must find a way to carry on living.


Darkness had fallen by the time he arrived back in Poplar and a steady drizzle dampened the roads and pavements. Slamming the flat door behind him he shook the raindrops from his coat before hanging it on the rack in the hallway. The scraping of chair legs on the floor followed by thundering footsteps heralded the arrival of Timothy.

"Dad! You're home! Mrs Penny said you were taking Sister Bernadette to the hospital but you've been ages. What's wrong? Is she ill? I don't want her to be ill, I like Sister Bernadette!"

"Timothy, calm down. Come and sit with me," Patrick ushered the anxious boy into the living room where they settled onto the yellow sofa. "Sister Bernadette had some tests that show she has an illness called tuberculosis. It's an infection that mainly affects the lungs but can affect other parts of the body too. It's a serious illness but I took her to a special hospital where she can have all the very latest treatments to help her get better."

"I've heard of that. There was a headline in The Lancet. It said there was a new treatment that was..." Timothy paused as he fought to recall the words. "That was very promising. What does that mean?"

"It means that it has a good chance of working."

"Is that what they're going to give Sister Bernadette? She won't die will she? I only saw her a couple of days ago, she didn't look ill then, she can't be sick enough to die."

"We found the TB early, before it had a chance to make her really unwell. That means it's much more likely that the treatment will work. I hope she'll make a full recovery but it will take some time. It'll be a long while before she's home again, Tim"

"Can we go and see her? She'll be lonely in the hospital. We can cheer her up!"

"I'm sorry, Tim, but no. Children aren't allowed to visit, but you could write to her if you want, or send a drawing."

"I'll send her a letter and a drawing. Can I do it now?" Timothy leapt to his feet, full of enthusiasm and ran to a drawer pulling out paper, coloured pencils and a pen.

"Not now, Tim, it's getting late. You need to have a bath and get to bed. You've got school tomorrow but you can write to Sister Bernadette when you get home."

"Okay," Timothy sighed, dropping the paper, pencils and pen onto the table, "Goodnight, Dad. Oh, Mrs Penny said to tell you she's left you a sandwich in the fridge. She went to give Mr Penny his tea but she said she'd be back unless she saw your car was here and to call her if you had to leave again."

"Thank you, Timothy. Goodnight, sleep well," Patrick gave him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head before watching him head off in the direction of the bedrooms. Returning to the hallway, he exchanged his shoes for slippers before fetching the sandwich from the kitchen and settling himself at the table. As he ate he attempted to read an article in the latest copy of the British Medical Journal but found himself reading the same paragraph over and over without the faintest notion of what it said. Frustrated, he threw the journal across the table where it collided with Timothy's pen sending it skittering off the edge onto the floor. Grumbling to himself he bent to retrieve it then sat turning the pen in his fingers. As he did so his heart began to race, an idea flooded his mind. It didn't have to be too late, he still had a chance to say everything he wanted to tell her. He would write to her and he would do it now. He pulled the paper towards him, uncapped the pen and began to write.


1st September 1958

Dear Sister,

I have returned from taking you to the Sanatorium and find that there is so much I wish I had said to you on that mostly silent journey. I fear that I may be acting selfishly by setting down in writing all that I want, all that I need, to say. It may be that you do not wish to hear it and if that is the case please be assured that you need read no further and I write with no expectation of a response from you.

I cannot express how much I value you as a skilled nurse and accomplished midwife. Over the past several months I have increasingly come to view you as a friend and to enjoy time spent in your company, however short. I have been charmed by your humour and quick wit and my heart has been warmed by the care you show for others and especially for Timothy. When you stepped in to run the three legged race with Tim at the summer fete, you made him so happy and I cannot thank you enough.

I believe that my actions in the kitchen that day will have given you some indication of my feelings for you. While I should never have lost control and kissed your hand as I did, I find that I am unable to regret doing so. Is that as unforgivable as the kiss itself? Is it wrong of me to delight in the memory of the feel of your skin on my lips? Is it possible that when you told me that you hadn't turned away because of me but because of Him you were hinting that you might feel something for me in return? It gives me comfort to think that may be the case even while I understand and accept that your vows and vocation mean that I can never know for sure.

If I have learned anything from the losses I have experienced in my life it is that sometimes we don't get a second chance to tell those we love how much they mean to us. I vowed to myself, after Marianne's death, that I would never again live with the regret of not revealing the depth of my feelings, that if I were lucky enough to fall in love again then I would leave my love in no doubt about just how important they were to me. So I am telling you now that I care deeply for you, my greatest wish would be to spend the rest of my life with you, to be able to show you each day just how much I love you.

We are not promised a future, there is no guarantee of tomorrow, but please know that every day I am granted will be made richer by my love for you and should you ever find yourself with the freedom to love me in return I will be waiting.

Until then I am content to remain,

Your friend always,

Patrick Turner


He signed his name with a flourish, then sat for a moment pondering the pages. Would she be able to read his doctor's scrawl? Would she choose not to try? He could tear up the letter, throw it away, never share his feelings but if he did could he cope with wondering what might have been? He read his words through again. Could he bear it if his words destroyed their friendship? Had he said too much or not enough? He sighed, lit a cigarette and rose to pace the room. He stared blankly into the mirror over the mantelpiece, slowly his eyes focused on the reflection of the letter on the table behind him. With a sudden sense of resolution he stubbed out the cigarette and rummaged in the drawer for an envelope. Grabbing the pages, he hastily folded them, shoved them into the envelope, sealed it and scribbled on an address. Another trawl through the drawer produced a stamp which he applied to the envelope before grabbing his keys and heading out of the door without stopping to change his shoes or put on a coat.

Patrick half walked, half ran to the postbox at the end of the road, shoving the letter into the slot before he could change his mind. It wasn't until he turned back towards home that he became aware of the continuing drizzle and his own inappropriate dress. Reaching his door he slipped inside closing it behind him before leaning back against it, eyes closed. He had beaten the final collection, the letter should reach her tomorrow, all he could do now was wait and hope that she might reply.

Exhaustion overcame him and he headed towards the bedroom turning off lights as he went. Perhaps, in a couple of days, he would write to her again, a casual, chatty letter this time to show her that he meant what he said, that he was content to remain her friend. Always.