Author's Note: Originally posted on Tumblr, in response to this prompt - atearsarahjane said: Shelagh or Patrick have a secret talent that nobody would expect

Timothy Turner let the front door slam behind him and dropped his school bag in the hall. He was starving. He always felt starved after maths; it was all those equations, and the fact that maths was right before the midday break. He hoped Mum had something good for lunch – maybe some of that leftover roast from Sunday dinner. His stomach growled again.

"Mum?"

No answer, and worse, no wonderful smell in the air suggesting she might be cooking. But the curtains in the kitchen were open, letting in the sun. She always closed them when she left house, so she must be upstairs.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen to sneak a biscuit or two out of the jar, but stopped when he saw her.

Well, he could really only see her legs, stretched out on the floor and clad in a pair of black slacks he'd never seen before. The rest of her was hidden in the small space underneath the sink.

"Mum? What are you doing?"

"Repairing the sink," she replied, her voice taking on a strange echo. "It keeps leaking."

He frowned. Dad had always taken care of the repairs in the house, even when it took him ages to get to them. "Do you know how? Shouldn't you wait for Dad to help?"

She sighed and pushed herself out from her hiding place. "Of course I know how to repair a leaking sink, Timothy. The old convent was very old, and Fred's only one man. I'm quite capable." She adjusted the red checked scarf covering her hair and pursed her lips. "And your father has a lot on his mind at the moment."

Like what? Timothy almost asked, but he bit his tongue. He gathered his parents had had some sort of row on the day of the adoption interview, but he couldn't begin to guess what about. They didn't yell or argue like most parents; it was the opposite. Dad had just been very quiet, while Mum was chattier and busier than ever. A stranger to the house might not think anything wrong, but Tim knew better. When Mum smiled now, Dad didn't smile back – at least not in that goofy way that made Tim roll his eyes. He smiled like something inside him hurt, almost like he had right after Mummy had died.

He had so many questions he wanted to ask. Did this mean there wouldn't be a baby after all? Why couldn't they just apologize to each other? What was wrong? Would things ever get back to normal?

Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do you want me to help?"

She smiled at him and pushed her smudged glasses farther up her nose. "Thank you. I'm nearly done. If you could just hand me that wrench and that rag there."

He did, and after a few more moments of tinkering, Mum slid out from under the sink again and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. "There. That's sorted, I think. Turn it on, just to be sure."

Tim twisted the handle on the tap slowly. "Any leaks?"

"No. Tight as a tick."

Tim bent over and looked under the sink. "Wow, you really fixed it."

She laughed. "Don't act so shocked, Timothy. And help me up, if you please."

Tim grasped her outstretched hand and helped her to her feet. "Did you really learn that when you were a nun?"

She nodded. "Fred showed me a few pointers, but it was mostly trial and error – lots of errors." Her expression darkened, just for a moment. Before Tim could even wonder what was wrong, she was in a flurry again, prattling on as she untied her apron and took the scarf off her hair.

"Oh, look at the state of me – is it noon already? There are some cold roast beef sandwiches and some fruit you can have in the icebox – not the apples though. I thought I'd make something special for pudding tonight," she said with a wink. "I'm just going to tidy up a bit and then I'll join you." She disappeared up the stairs.

Tim settled down at the table with the plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk. He wondered if he should tell Dad about this afternoon.

No, he thought, tucking into his roast beef. Let him be surprised. He might laugh, and then things would almost be back to normal.

Later that week, when things were back to normal, Patrick came into the kitchen after breakfast, wearing his oldest shirt and carrying his toolbox.

"What are you doing with that?" Shelagh asked, looking askance at her husband's choice of clothing. Based on the frayed cuffs and the number of odd stains, that shirt had definitely seen better days.

"I'm going to fix that leak in the sink." He began rolling up his sleeves. "And Tim is going to help."

At the mention of his name, Tim stopped spinning the propeller on his Spitfire and frowned. "No, I'm not."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you are," he said sternly. "Now, put that down –"

"But Dad –"

"You can go to Colin's after lunch. You're growing up, Tim and you're going to be a big brother soon, and part of that is helping out at little more about the house –"

"But Mum already fixed the sink!"

Patrick's brow knit in confusion. "What?" He turned to Shelagh. "You fixed the sink?"

Her cheeks pinked and she smiled – a little smugly, he thought. He looked under the sink. The bucket that had been catching the drips was gone, and everything looked neat and tidy. He tried the tap – smooth, with no squeaks or drips. Better, possibly, than when he and Margaret had moved into the house years ago.

"You fixed the sink," he said, slightly stunned.

Shelagh sighed and rolled her eyes. "A little less surprise would be nice. I do know how to fix things. There were no shortages of repairs needed at the old convent."

"But Fred –"

" – is only one person, as I told Timothy," she said, her smile widening. "We all learned to pick up the odd job here and there. Sister Julienne is rather skilled at carpentry."

Patrick couldn't tell if his wife was teasing or not, but he didn't much care. There was a glint in her eyes – a sparkle that always appeared just before she laughed –and he hadn't seen that look in a while.

"Does this mean I can go to Colin's?" Tim asked.

Patrick thought about telling him off for his cheek earlier, but Shelagh's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Yes, but be back for lunch," she said. "And remember you have piano this afternoon, so no dallying, please."

Tim sighed. "All right. Bye Mum. Bye Dad." He loped quickly down the hall and out the door, slamming it behind him.

Shelagh rinsed the last two tea cups and set them on the rack to dry. She reached behind her back to undo her apron, but Patrick got there first, loosened the knot and slipped it over her head.

"Thank you."

"You could have asked for my help," he said.

"You had other things on your mind." Her smile was gentle and forgiving. "Besides, it's done now."

"Yes," he sighed. "You are full of surprises, Shelagh Turner. What other talents are you hiding?"

She threw her head back in a laugh. "Well, if you're not too busy –"

"I've got the entire morning now." His hands slipped around her waist and he dipped his head toward hers, his voice a whisper. "And with Tim at Colin's—"

"Yes."

For a long moment, nothing was said.

"But first," she continued, when she'd regained her breath. "You have to get rid of this shirt."

He pulled back slightly and frowned. "What's wrong with this shirt?"

"Patrick, have you looked at it? I don't even want to contemplate what half of these stains are." She toyed with the buttons, teasing him again.

"It's not that bad."

She met his eyes, and the heat he saw flickering in their blue depths nearly undid him. "I'm sorry," she said, loosening the top button. "But it has to come off."

"Yes, dear."