Tim and his dad lumbered out of Capriani's, their bellies full to bursting with fried bread, sausages, eggs and that most perfect of foods, bacon.
"Can we come back to Capriani's for my birthday?" Tim asked, licking the last of the grease from his fingertips.
"Absolutely, if that's what you want," Patrick replied, though after that meal he wasn't sure he'd ever want to eat again. Oh, he loved Capriani's - had since his days a young, green medical student - but perhaps Shelagh was right about not overdoing it. He swallowed back a belch and adjusted the waistband of his trousers again.
"What about Angie's birthday?" Tim asked.
Patrick laughed. "Now you're pushing your luck."
Tim shrugged. "You're right. We should probably wait until she's old enough to eat bacon."
The sun had come out since they'd entered the café, and both father and son lifted their faces to enjoy the warmth. As they walked, they talked about school and Scouts and what Mum would say if she'd seen what they'd eaten for lunch. Tim surprised Patrick by asking him about his rounds, and if he could borrow some books from his office.
"When did you take such an interest in medicine?" Patrick asked.
"After I was in the hospital, I guess," Tim said. "Being around all those doctors made me start thinking about it more. And it's what you and Mum talk about at home - when you aren't making mushy faces at one another."
Patrick laughed loudly, his head thrown back. "One day, son, you'll find all that mushy stuff interesting, too."
They turned the corner and approached a small park. Reverend Hereford had organized a cricket game for the Scouts and they passed the bat back and forth.
"Oi, Turner!" one of the older boys yelled and waved.
"Go on ahead, Tim," Patrick said. "I'll catch up."
Patrick smiled as his son ran to join his friend. If he thought back far enough, he could remember those days. His parents hadn't been rich by any stretch of their pocketbooks - no one was at that time - and he'd spent most of his afternoons as a child in his father's newspaper office, working as a copy boy and running errands. But Sundays after church were always free, and he and the other boys would organize rough games of cricket and football in the street. He'd come home dirty, with scraped knees and bruises, and his mother would just roll her eyes and bandaged him up. She'd been a nurse during the Great War, and she teased him that his Sunday antics at least put her medical training to good use. He could remember her efficiently cleaning the dirt from his wounds, soothing him when he winced or cried out in pain.
"Take the pain like a man," his father would admonish when the tears came.
"You cry if you want to, Patrick," his mother would say as she smoothed down the plaster. "I've seen grown men cry during the heat of battle."
He hadn't really known what she'd meant by that until years later. She was gone by then.
She would have liked Shelagh, he thought, and she would have doted on Tim and Angela, no doubt. He wished she could have seen all of this - his family, his medical practice, the children, how London had changed and was slowly inching toward better days. She would have been proud, he hoped.
"Hello, Dr. T," the reverend greeted him as he walked up.
"Hello, Reverend. I see you found a way to keep the boys busy. It's too bad about the camping trip."
His brow furrowed. "Camping trip?"
Before Patrick could question him, Tim came running back toward him. "Sorry, Dad. We can go now."
Patrick frowned. His son certainly was acting odd today. "You can stay and play if you want to, Tim."
Tim shifted from one foot to the other. "I told Mum I wouldn't. She - she doesn't want me getting my clothes dirty."
"Well, that's never stopped you before," Patrick said drily. "And exactly how were you going to stay clean camping?"
Tim just shrugged and wouldn't meet his eye. Something was definitely up.
"Tim, what's going on? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he muttered, toeing the dirt. "Don't you have to go back to the surgery?"
Patrick felt guilt stab him in the gut. Was that what this about? Work still getting in between him and his son? His practice was extremely important to him and to the people of Poplar...but he didn't want to end up like his father, always at the office, always working. Tim and Angela deserved more than that, at least for one day.
"Not today," he said. "Today, I am playing cricket with my son."
Tim looked up, his eyes wide. "But Dad -"
"What do you say, Reverend? Got room for a couple of half-decent bowlers?"
"Absolutely. If you think you can keep up," the younger man said, with a good-natured smirk.
"I'll take that challenge," Patrick replied, tossing his suit jacket across a park bench and beginning to roll up his sleeves. "Let's show them how it's done, Tim."