It was Shelagh that was better at History and Geography so as Patrick casually wandered past his son around the back of the dining table, he was relieved to see a diagram of the innards of a frog. Biology. Biology homework he could do. That was a relief.
It was a plain and ordinary Thursday night. Shelagh was upstairs putting Angela to bed and he could hear her walking about upstairs after a fractious day with their daughter who was entirely determined that there was no way on earth she was going to Nursery again tomorrow and was kicking up quite the fuss; one that he was happy to leave in his wife's capable hands. He'd forgotten what it was like to have a three year old in the house and how that young child's vocabulary seemed to exist entirely of the word 'no'.
Patrick picked up his book from the mantelpiece and sat in his arm chair, the worn leather welcoming him after a hard day. Seeing Timothy seemingly engrossed in the text before him, he opened the book, turning the folded corner of the page over where he had left it last night. Or was it the night before? He really couldn't remember as all his days were starting to merge slowly into another recently.
As he relaxed he did notice that the content of that text book on the dining table that his son was staring at must really be rather interesting. So interesting in fact that it was holding his attention almost hypnotically and not a word had been written or a page turned and it worried him.
"Tim?" Patrick asked quietly, deciding he would try and engage him in conversation if he was stuck on something. "If you want help, just let me know".
There was a moment's pause before Timothy realised he was being talked to. "No, it's fine" he replied, quickly picking up the pen he had put down and at least superficially looking like he was working. Patrick knew his son though. He wasn't a shirker when it came to homework and he knew the house rules about it too! There was obviously something wrong, but trouble was Patrick had been that age once – creeping slowly towards his fourteenth birthday - and he knew that if his own father had asked him if something was wrong, all he would have said was 'it's fine' or 'nothing' too.
He turned his eyes back to his book and settled down again but he could see his son was still twitchy and tried to concentrate on the lines before him until out of the corner of his eye he saw Tim chewing on his lip, clearly thinking something over. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
Timothy paused. "No, it doesn't matter…."
"Yes it does" Patrick started, putting the book face down on the arm. "I can do Biology. It's only when its History night you have to ask Shelagh to make sure Angela's in bed early".
"No, its…it's not that" Timothy replied. Would that it was what was in front of him that was perplexing him so. "We dissected a frog today and we've got questions about it. I've done those. They were easy" he added quickly and confidently. No, it was something far more fatiguing than a frog's intestines.
"So it's not homework?" Patrick ventured, seeing his son swallow.
"It is about school" Timothy began, wondering where he could start, but knowing he had to talk to someone about it otherwise it would continue eating away at him. It was all far too confusing and difficult but he had thought it over repeatedly and he just couldn't speak to Shelagh about it. It wasn't a thing for Mum; maybe only Dad might understand. "Well not really about school but sort of…." he concluded vaguely.
"I don't follow" Patrick replied, shaking his head briefly and he would freely admit, now rather worried at what was coming. Timothy had generally been a rather good kid; barely had an ounce of trouble with him but he had been mixing with the boys at the Grammar School for two years now and Patrick knew from his own experience it was far, far different. Too many outside influences to be had.
"It doesn't matter..." the boy sighed.
For a moment Patrick became concerned; really quite concerned. He knew boys could be boys but was it bullying? Had he been in a fight? Patrick quickly looked him up and down. He didn't look like he had any injuries, nothing seemed to be missing or indeed no rips or tears in his uniform and he hadn't asked for more pocket money any time recently. Certainly he hadn't asked Shelagh to repair anything and she would have told her husband immediately if there was. 'School, but not about school?'
"It does matter Timothy" Patrick insisted sitting forward, hoping he could catch the boy's eye. "If someone at school has said something or done something to you or one of your friends…."
"They haven't Dad" he responded, shaking his head, still not looking up. "Honestly. It's nothing about school. Not school really".
"Then what is it?" Patrick asked; a touch confused now more than anything else.
Timothy sighed and just decided to get on with it. He could have asked Shelagh but that would be far too embarrassing. She was a woman after all and wouldn't understand what it was like. There was Fred Buckle but he was far too old and probably never remembered what it was like to have a dilemma like this. Sergeant Noakes was perhaps someone he could ask though. He was much younger than Dad and much, much younger than Fred but he had been with Sister Noakes when he saw him on the way home from school and she was a woman too and he couldn't work out how to get the officer's attention without his wife noticing too. Instead he just waved across the street; heart sinking at another missed opportunity to attend to this burning in his chest.
So there wasn't really anyone else to ask apart from Dad but, even though he had not realised it at the time, sometimes just Dad might be the best person after all.
"Opposite the school entrance, those shops" Timothy began, thinking if he set the scene it might give him some courage to carry on.
"A baker, a newsagent and a chandler if I am not mistaken?" Patrick replied smiling until a thought struck. Stealing? Is he about to confess he's been caught stealing something? Patrick's mind was going ten to the dozen now. Stealing? After all the talks and the words we've had over the years about right and wrong? No it can't be unless there was a visit from the Police pending and he was confessing in lieu?
"Yes" Timothy stuttered, still not feeling light enough to look up at his father. "There's….there's a girl there. I think she's the baker's niece or daughter, but I think she lives above the shop with him".
"Oh" Patrick replied; the noise sounding more like a puff of air than an exclamation as he tried desperately not to show the slight curl of his lip that was trying to force it's way into a smile. It was about a girl. Thankfully. "And?"
Timothy hesitated. "I…" he began, feeling just that slight burn to his cheeks. "I was going to ask her if she wanted to come to the park after Church on Sunday…for a walk. She goes to All Saints' too". He'd sen her last week there too.
Patrick nodded, trying to sound nonchalant, hoping that his manner would relax his son who was clearly extremely worried about this milestone in his life. He picked up his book again. "That'll be nice for you both" he replied, not wanting to preach or anything of the sort. He was bound to have an interest in girls at some point and a walk in the middle of the day was hardly scandalous.
"But she'll laugh at me if I do…." Timothy blurted out, wondering how his father could sound so calm about it all! If she doesn't say yes my life will be over! Just over!
"Now why would she do that?" Patrick asked, realising that he needed to adopt a more serious approach. He folded the same corner of his book over, realising there was no chance whatsoever for a while that he was going to be able to pick up where he left off. He balanced it on the arm.
"Or she'll tell everyone else I asked and they'll laugh at me" Timothy replied, sadly.
"No why would anyone laugh at you?" Patrick smiled as he leant forward, catching his son's eye. He tried to keep his face neutral but clearly had not succeeded; the relief that it was about a girl still coursing through his veins.
"You're laughing!" Timothy replied, his voice raised, quickly folding his arms across himself defensively and slumping back in his chair at his father's response. I should have asked Fred Buckle after all! He wouldn't laugh at me!
"Tim, I'm not" Patrick replied. In truth, he was feeling a little awkward too and the smile he had on his face betrayed that to his son. "If you want to ask her, ask her".
"But what if she laughs at me?" he asked again. It's not that simple Dad! You don't know what its like!
"Then if she does, she wasn't worth bothering with in the first place" Patrick replied carefully. He knew it was the answer he had to give his son; it was the truth after all but he had heard those words from his own father so many years ago and it had not helped at the time one bit. How difficult it was, in the rage of feelings and hormones, to separate off the humiliation of a rejection against 'the right thing' to say and the truth of it all underneath. Patrick doubted his son could see it; just has he couldn't without the benefit of a few more years added to his age and the maturity that time should provide.
Tim frowned and finally turned to his father properly.
"Son" Patrick started, getting up from his easy chair and sitting next to the boy at the table. "Anyone, anyone, who laughs at anyone else for how they feel is not a good person; talking pleasure in someone else's suffering. Do you remember Mrs French from the old street in Leytonstone?" Patrick asked, suddenly remembering a rather graphic example to give to his son.
"Sort of" Timothy replied eyes flashing at his father for a moment, still feeling wary but willing to listen.
"I went on one date with her sister" Patrick began. "Well I tried to. Long, long before I even knew your Mum existed. I was fifteen and it took me all my courage just to say hello to her and I asked her to the cinema. She took one look at me and went 'why would I want to go out with you?' Tim's head shot up in horror. "I had no idea what to say or do but I remember walking way and hearing her laughing to another girl that was with her. I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But I lived, I'm still here and a few years later I met your Mum"
"What did it feel like?" Timothy asked tentatively, wondering if his overactive imagination matched up to the awful reality.
"Like someone had kicked me in the gut" Patrick replied bluntly. "But!" he continued, raising a finger to make his point. "When you get a bit older, you'll realise that if one girl does that, a second might just to do it too but you can't let that stop you. One day, one will say yes".
Timothy scrunched up his face. It didn't help him now though!
"There's always a reason Tim" Patrick continued. "If she did laugh, well so what? It'll hurt your feelings for a few hours but then what? All that tells me is that she isn't a very nice person and you are wasting your time even thinking of taking her out if she laughs".
"Mrs French's sister wasn't a very nice person" Timothy observed, fiddling with his pen.
"No she wasn't", Patrick replied quietly. "And do you know what?"
"What?"
"It did feel horrible but I'm glad she laughed. I'm glad we never went out" Patrick observed. He truly did feel that way, even though it was over thirty years ago and the feelings were as clear as day; the rejection transpired to only lead him towards Helen and the wonderful, yet short, marriage they endured that gave them their beloved son.
"Why?" Tim asked.
"Because if I had and it lasted I'd never have married your Mum. I believe that" Patrick concluded, nodding his head to get his point across.
Tim smiled. "So if she laughs at me she isn't a very nice and….." he struggled to express himself.
"And you are far, far too good for someone like that" Patrick insisted, trying to build up the boy's confidence. "There are other fish to fry if she says no, then she says no, but she might just say yes too". Timothy frowned and let out a short breath. "Son, courage is the biggest thing you can have. If everyone didn't do things because they might get laughed or think they are going to get it wrong, the world would be at a standstill. No-one would go anywhere; no-one would invent anything or find new ways of doing things. What if no-one took the risk of inventing a bicycle because they thought they might fall off or inventing the engine in case it blew up. Where would we be then?"
"You too a risk with Shelagh didn't you?" Timothy asked, his father initially rather lost at the direct question; but it was logical and insightful.
"Well yes, I suppose I did", Patrick replied, sitting back in his chair, although the feelings his son clearly had never came into it. Those days were long gone and Patrick had realised years ago that you had to take risks in your life if you want something so badly and then if it all goes wrong, you learn from it. Do things differently next time.
"Do you think I should ask her then?" Timothy asked. If Dad thought it was a good idea, then that might give him the confidence to do it.
"Yes I do" his father responded emphatically before he leant forward and took his sons' hand. "When you get a bit older, you'll just realise this is part of life; getting things wrong and making mistakes, people not wanting what you want, but whatever you do, don't beat yourself around the head for it". Timothy nodded. "I won't think any different of you, neither will Shelagh or Angela and when that day comes that someone does say yes, then we will welcome her with open arms".
Timothy felt reassured. Yes, those most important people were his family, and he still wanted his father's approval. "As long as you and Shelagh like her too?"
"As long as we do too" Patrick replied with a smile and a squeeze of the boy's hand.
A handful of days later, he saw her – Sarah he now knew her name was – and remembered his father's words when he told him his decision. "Ask her. She may say no, but you might regret it more if she was going to say yes" .
Thankfully, for his heart and his confidence, she said the words he wanted to hear and come Sunday, that walk around the park after Church was looking rather wonderful.
FIN