Ugh I really shouldn't be posting this because I'm ever so teensily behind BUT HERE GOD UGH I JUST LOVE YOU ALL OKAY
12 August 1952
"Dad? Dad, what are you—will you get down?" Minerva laughed, stepping out the back door of the manse. Her father was standing on the garden wall with a pair of long shears, attempting to prune the large beech tree that shaded most of the yard. "You'll crack your head open, and I won't be able to get you to town by myself."
Mother had taken Robbie and Malcolm with her and a group of neighbors to Dalkeith for a visit to a festival celebrating the town's newly remodeled rail station, so Minerva and her father were quite alone for the day. Dad had given Minerva permission to skip the outing owing to her tremendous need to complete the homework she had actually finished in July; he would stay home with her to 'supervise.' Mother knew it was a charade, because Minerva avoided festivals and busy public gatherings even more deftly than Dad, but she'd made no protests and let them stay behind.
Dad leaned back and balanced himself on the wall, wiping his forehead on his rolled-up sleeve. "I'm fine, lass!"
"Why don't you borrow the Macaulays' ladder?" she said. "I don't feel like explaining to Mother how you fell off the wall when she gets back."
"It's only a few branches, Minerva," he assured her, taking a step to the side and reaching out with the shears again.
"All right—Dad—just, get down, all right? I'll do it."
Dad hesitated and looked down at her as she removed her apron. She made an exasperated noise. "Not like that," she said, feeling a rush of impatience. "I've got a longer reach than you. Get down."
"I think not," Dad said in a shocked tone, but he smiled and offered Minerva a hand to climb up. She steadied herself and stood up on the wall as he jumped down.
"What do you want cut?" she asked, hefting the shears and opening and closing them a few times.
He pointed. "There's a big branch right on top, there, do you see?"
"The dead one?"
"Aye, with the brown leaves. Cut that, will you?" Dad scratched the top of his head, watching her balance and reach out with the shears.
In a few clips, the bit of branch tumbled down, landing with a whump on the tree's roots. Dad directed her to the next branches, inserting anecdotes about a massive chestnut tree outside his childhood home whose branches had gotten too heavy, and one night a particularly large one snapped off and fell right through the dining room window, smashing most of the china and furniture.
"And your granddad—here, that one, Minerva, just on the left—he always knew to make the best of a bad situation, he did," Dad said, pointing at another dead twig, "so he hewed the great branch into our new dining table, and used the twigs and the littler branches to make new chairs."
"Ah-huh," Minerva grinned, walking slowly over the bricks. This was a very old, very embellished story. "And what did he do for the china? This one? Got it." Clip.
Dad looked thoughtful. "He took the biggest leaves and baked them dry into plates."
Minerva laughed. "All right, how does it look—argh!"
Under Minerva's right foot, one of the bricks wobbled loose from the top of the wall, and she lost her balance. For a moment, she flailed her arms like a windmill—and then she fell backwards, right over the wall. The hedge clippers flew twenty feet away, over her head, and she flung out all her limbs at once, trying to break her fall. Her left foot made contact with the ground first, but with a nasty-sounding crack, she landed hard on her backside.
"Minerva!"
At her father's shout, she sat up in the overgrown grass, coughing the wind back into her lungs. There was a sharp, horrible pain in the lower part of her left leg, and half a glance at the odd angle of her ankle was enough to make her stomach churn. She quickly looked up at the sky, taking a few deep breaths.
"Are you all right? Hey, are you all right?"
She jumped. It wasn't her father who had called to her, though he was already jogging around the side of the house. Tom Macaulay, the sixteen-year-old son of their nearest neighbor, was sprinting towards her. He skidded to a stop and made a face when he saw her leg, stretched out before her. She hastily yanked her skirt down and made to stand up.
"Careful!" Tom cried, dropping down on his knees. "I wouldn't do that—"
"Minerva!" Dad gasped, coming to a stop beside Tom. "Oh, Minerva, love—"
"It's nothing, Dad," she tried to assure him, though she looked at her foot again and felt another nauseated twist of her stomach. Nonetheless, she fixed him with a fierce stare and placed her hands on the ground, ready to get up. "I'm—"
"We've got to get you to the doctor. That's a bad break, it's already swelling," Tom said, crouching down and bringing his pale, pimply face close to Minerva's and peering into her pupils. "Did you hit your head?"
She recoiled; it had been many, many years since Sunday school, the only time she and Tom had ever encountered each other at all.
"No, I didn't. I'm all right, I tell you, I—"
She looked up at Dad, willing him to read her mind, to make Tom leave. But he either couldn't or didn't want to. He simply stared down at her, horrorstruck.
"Minerva—perhaps it would be best to see a doctor," he said, positively ashen.
"Dad, no—"
"Here, let's get you to the truck—I heard you scream from the road, I thought you'd really done something to yourself. Lucky thing I was passing by," Tom said, and before Minerva could do anything but squawk and try to twist away from him, he scooped her up in his arms. "'Scuse me, minister," he said to Dad. "We'll go to Dr. Gibson?"
"Yes, Tom…fine," Dad said quietly, following them up to the road. His eyes were wide and shocked, and he apparently could not see that Minerva's furious gaze was undeterred by his apparent departure from sanity.
"We'll get you fixed right up, Minerva," Tom told her brightly. "Don't you worry a moment!"
Mother and the boys didn't arrive home until nearly eleven o'clock that night, which meant that Minerva was in pain and fuming for hours after Tom Macaulay had deposited her and her father back at the manse. She was lying on the downstairs sofa and glowering at her wooden crutches, which were propped up against the wall, when her father came into the sitting room with a tea tray.
"Your mother will be home soon," he said for the hundredth time. He dropped a single sugar cube in Minerva's teacup; she pulled herself up into a sitting position and accepted it from him. Her broken ankle was elevated on a stack of pillows and covered in a plaster cast that went to her knee, so Dad sat down in Mother's chair.
"Will you say something, lass? You haven't spoken since we got you home," he said gently.
Minerva took a slow sip of tea, and lowered her cup. She didn't look at him, but nodded at her cast. "This is medieval."
Dad didn't say anything for a moment. "I—I'm sorry, Minerva, but I had no choice. I know you like your mother around for this sort of thing, but—"
"Because she can mend it in about half a second," Minerva told him, her irritation growing, though it was mostly fueled by frustration and the pain in her ankle. "There was no reason you couldn't have sent Tom Macaulay away!"
"I didn't know what to do, Minerva," he said quietly. "I've never been so scared in all my life."
Minerva ignored him. "And now I've got to be here for three more weeks, stuck with this! And it hurts!"
Dad's voice became even softer. "I'm sorry."
Minerva couldn't bring herself to say anything more; she was too angry and too sore. She folded her arms and glared at the wall.
"I'm sorry I've got you stuck," said Dad. "I—I'd never want you to feel trapped. I don't want you to be anywhere you don't want to be."
Her mouth fell open, and she looked around at him. "That's—that's not what I meant at all," she spluttered. "Dad, that's—that's not fair, that's not what I said!"
He was quiet for a long moment. "I know you must feel that way, though. Some of the time. Like you have to make a choice. I don't want to be the one to force you one way or the other, Minerva."
"I—I'm—"
"We're home! My goodness, Robert, with all the lights on and everything?" Mother's voice called from the front hall. "What on earth are you two doing aw—Minerva!" She had rounded the corner into the sitting room, with Robbie and Malcolm just behind her. "Oh, darling, what happened?"
"Whoa, Minerva!" Robbie said. "What'd you do? Look at these!" He hurried over to look at the crutches with Malcolm. Mother came straight to Minerva's side and knelt beside the sofa, taking Minerva's hands.
"She's all right, Isobel," Dad said, rising to make room for her. He stood at a cautious distance, watching as Isobel examined every inch of Minerva's scrapes and bruises, and told her all that had happened. He didn't even flinch when he said that he hadn't objected to Tom Macaulay helping him take Minerva to the doctor's office, but she crossed her arms more tightly.
"So Dr. Gibson says she'll be all right. She could use a bit of your help, though, I imagine," he said finally. "Boys, that's enough," he added, for Malcolm had seized Minerva's crutches and started hopping around the room on them, swinging his legs wildly. "Let your mother and sister alone, it's time for bed."
"Dad! We're not babies, we don't have a bedtime," Robbie informed him.
"In this house you do, Robert," Isobel said, snapping her head around to look at him. She was white to the lips. "Do as your father says, now."
"At least let us see what Mum does to fix it," Malcolm whined. "I never get to see—"
"I'll tell you all about it tomorrow," Minerva said loudly, pushing herself up. "Really, I promise, Malcolm. Just get to bed, I'll see you in the morning."
Malcolm frowned. "Are you all right?" he asked.
For the first time all evening, Minerva smiled; it was even a tiny bit genuine. "I'll be fine. Just do what Dad says, will you?"
Without any more than a few grumbling sounds of disagreement, Robbie and Malcolm stumped out of the sitting room. Dad followed, keeping his eyes away from Minerva, who sank back on the couch, feeling miserable.
"Does it hurt much?" Mother asked quietly, when they had gone. Minerva closed her eyes.
"I made a real mess of things with Dad," she said, mostly to herself.
"I doubt that," Mother said rather shortly, getting up. Almost absently, she checked the teapot. "I'll get you more hot water."
"If I have another cup of tea, I'll explode," said Minerva. Mother stared at her. "I—I'm sorry about all this. I'm all right, though," she offered.
Mother sighed. "You're exactly alike, the pair of you. Neither one of you ought to have been up on that wall. If it wasn't you here, it would have been him…" She shook her head. "I'm going to get my things. I've still got some remedy books, I'm sure. I won't be a minute."
"Mum—I don't know if you should," Minerva said. "Dr. Gibson's calling tomorrow to see how I am—"
"I think I can put together enough of a trick for Dr. Gibson," Mother said, her voice suddenly like ice. She stood in the doorway, staring piercingly at her. "I won't have you in pain this way, Minerva."
"What about Dad?" Minerva asked.
"For heaven's sake, do you want me to leave it until you go back to school?" Mother snapped. Minerva shut her mouth. "I—I'm too tired to worry about this, Minerva. Your father isn't stupid. He understands—he loves the three of you too much to let any of you suffer. My God, you know him well enough to know that, don't you? Give the poor man some credit. Why are you looking at me that way?"
"N-nothing," Minerva stammered, her eyes wide. She didn't know what else she could say. She had never heard her mother say anything like this before.
"Now, I'm going to get my wand. Just—stay here, and—think about what you'll have to say to your father in the morning," Mother said. "This isn't your fault, and it's not his, but I'm exhausted of seeing the two of you—" she shut her eyes suddenly, like she was trying to hold back tears. "I'll be back."
And she left the room, leaving Minerva alone with her thoughts.