A/N: A quick shout out to anyone who's been reviewing any of my stories. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it. It's nice to know your work is being read
I hadn't been to London in a long time, I reflected as I crossed the busy street with Dr Clarkson. There seemed to be an awful lot more motor cars on the road. Or perhaps I was simply spoilt by the peace of our idyllic little cottage in Whitby. The town house John's two surviving children were living in was certainly not in what I would describe as a peaceful location. But perhaps my own feelings of anxiety made the street appear busier, the crowds denser and the traffic noisier. This would be my first meeting with John's daughter Betty and on the train ride over I had shredded several sweet packets that I had brought from the dining cart for the purpose of shredding. I was an absolute wreck and John was caught between amusement, exasperation and concern.
We'd meant to come before now, back as early as March. But setting up our small practice in Whitby had been more time consuming then either of us had realised. John had been down a few times to see his children, while I'd looked after the practice, but he'd absolutely insisted we make the trip down together for Christmas. The thought of the holiday made the idea of meeting Betty all the more daunting. Christmas always made me nervous; possibly because when I was younger it usually consisted of my dad drinking himself into a stupor and yelling at me before my aunt came over with pudding and they yelled at each other.
Before I knew it, John was knocking at the door and Jeremiah was answering. The two exchanged the kind of manly embrace that involves a lot of backslapping, before Jeremiah extended his hand for me to shake. I felt almost shy, taking it; the last time we'd met I'd acted like a complete fool. But at least I'd had the advantage of not having to make conversation as I'd been unable to talk.
"I hear you're talking now," Jeremiah said, a little too kindly.
"I had to," I mumbled, "I'm rubbish at sign language".
Jeremiah laughed easily before informing us that Betty was in the kitchen, making Christmas lunch. I noticed John exchange a significant look with his son, but was too relieved that meeting Betty had been delayed to read too much into it. After this brief interaction, Jeremiah showed us upstairs, having insisted upon carrying some of our luggage. "We've only got the one spare bedroom," he commented. "Not that it matters," he added, as an afterthought. I almost spluttered; I was unused to people making allusions to my private life and it was worse coming from John's son.
When we made our way back downstairs I found myself feeling awkward in Jeremiah and John's company. Deciding to give them a few moments to talk among themselves, I asked if I could get myself a glass of water. Jeremiah pointed me in the direction of the kitchen and I made my way towards it, forgetting that Betty was currently occupying it. I opened the door to chaos.
Smoke billowed from the open oven, as well as several pots on the stove. Dishes littered every available surface and a fine coat of flour covered the entire countertop. A short woman with a curly brown head, who, I was surprised to notice, was wearing trousers, kneeled in front of the open oven. She was attempting to take out some kind of roast without using oven mittens or even a tea towel. As she jerked back her hand, I saw what was going to happen as if in slow motion. Ripping a wet tea towel off the countertop, I quickly stepped in, gently pushing Betty aside. I got there just before lunch fell on the floor and feeling relieved; I made a space for it on the countertop before attending to the numerous pots on the stovetop.
"There's not much we can do about the roast," I said as I inspected, stirred, tasted, added seasoning to and removed various pots. "It'll be edible though and we can smother it with gravy. We can save everything else though"
"Thank you," Betty breathed, marvelling at the kitchen that I'd restored to order. "But...who are you?" and here a slight frown creased her white forehead.
"I'm...erm...your father brought me," I explained awkwardly. I wasn't sure how much Betty knew, or was supposed to know, about my relationship with her father.
"Oh," Betty said in an uncomfortably knowing voice. She clearly knew everything. "You're younger than I thought you'd be..."
"I'll ...um, just...," I gestured to the door, indicating I was going to leave.
Betty rather unexpectedly grabbed my sleeve. "No!" she said, a little desperately. "You have to stay and help me make the pudding!"
Helping Betty make the pudding ended up involving me making the pudding, while she leant against the stove smoking cigarettes and chatting. John hated cigarettes so much that I was surprised to see his daughter smoking. In fact, he hated them so much that I'd recently given up; one of the small battles that I let him win. But watching someone else enjoy the pleasure of a hard earned cigarette was too much to bear. Unable to stand it any longer, I reached for the packet and took one. She looked taken aback, but she lit it for me without hesitation.
"I can't believe you smoke!" she exclaimed. "Pa hates cigarettes"
"I know. That's why I've given up," I answered with a wink.
"Me too," she said, winking back and giving me a conspiratorial smile before we lapsed into a fit of giggles.
At that point in time the door opened and Betty and I both guiltily hid our cigarettes behind our backs. However, instead of a middle aged, moustachioed doctor, the door opened to reveal a young woman of about twenty two with slightly curly blonde hair and a plain freckled face with strong features. I recognised her from the picture Jeremy had shown Dr Clarkson and I during his visit.
"Jesus Mary!" Betty swore, taking another drag on the forbidden cigarette.
"Wrong Mary," Mary countered dryly, observing the scene. "You two looked like naughty children when I opened that door"
Betty and I smiled sheepishly at each other before Betty introduced me to her friend and brother's fiancée. I shook her hand, adding by way of explanation, "I'm Dr Clarkson's colleague."
"My Uncle had a colleague," Mary shrewdly commented, "for almost fourty years. They were very happy together". I blushed at her frank evaluation. Why did everyone have to know?
The girls helped me plate up lunch, something Betty was able to do. Mary seemed surprised at how appetising everything, excepting the meat, looked and Betty begrudgingly gave me the credit. I denied it, saying I'd only helped at the end. She beamed at me as though I were an angel.
Jeremiah and John were sitting at the table, both looking a little apprehensive as we carried the food out. The relief was almost palpable when they noticed nothing was too badly burned. We all sat down and between the food and everyone else's conversations I was relieved not to have to say too much. The family atmosphere of it all was unfamiliar to me and I felt slightly uncomfortable and out of place.
In the lazy after-glow that follows a hearty and overindulgent meal, Betty began to clear the plates. This time I did not see the plate falling as if in slow motion; I was looking into John's face and laughing at something he'd said. Then I heard a crash and my breathing suddenly became audible.
An explosion sounded behind me, as I dropped to the ground and began to crawl towards two wounded men I had spotted...
"Thomas?" Dr Clarkson asked a familiar expression of concern on his face.
One of the men screamed as blood gushed from the gaping holes where his legs had once been, yet his screams mingled with the roar of machine guns and the screams of other wounded men...
I stepped abruptly up from the table; my movement was so sudden that my chair fell to the ground behind me. I did not stop to pick it up as I sprinted out of the dining room and up the stairs to the spare room Jeremiah had shown us to earlier. Having reached my sanctuary, I bolted the door shut behind me and sank down on the bed as my flashback became more vivid.
Would he have wanted to live as an amputee? Did he have a wife and children at home? No, think logically...the other man has a better chance at survival...
"Thomas!" the flashback was momentarily punctuated by a loud knocking outside the door. "Thomas, please let me in". But I didn't want him to see me like this, not when he'd thought I'd recovered from my experience. I stayed where I was and let the memories wash over me.