14th September 1991, 3 pm
A park somewhere in London
Connie had been right, of course. He should spend more time with his children, should be a better father for their sakes. He wants to, it's just that he doesn't exactly know how. He loves them both dearly, but translating that boundless love into something tangible, some action he can do to convey it is something that's always eluded him. He tries to recall what his parents did to make him feel loved, but he honestly can't remember. His mum used to read him stories at night and that's something he did before, when he and Jane were still together – assuming he was home by six, of course, which admittedly wasn't often. He still does read to them on the rare occasions they spend the night at his. But the rest of the time?
He's tried watching TV with them, but Postman Pat or some children's film or other isn't really his thing, and both of his children's disinterest in sport has confounded him. Board games are something he's never really got into, having spent most of his youth outdoors, even when it was pouring. Going to the park seems to be the only other thing they all enjoy doing, chasing them the only activity that allows for some connection.
His own father was a distant figure – he still is today – so nothing he learnt from him is likely to help with his children, and he just can't seem to get into the mindset of a caregiver – remember all the mundane things: the foods Graham won't eat, or to plan ahead for the weather, or recall what time bedtime is and stick to it, and all those other things that Jane has figured out and masterfully carries out to perfection. Why bother anyway? Jane's got it all down to a fine art and the children adore her. Their luke-warm reception of him and long faces at the prospect of spending a weekend with him often make him wonder if they'd all not be better off, in the end, if they always stayed with their mother.
A tumble on the pavement and Graham's cry of pain brings him back to the present as he hurries over to his son. "It's alright, Graham," he murmurs, crouching down beside him and resting an awkward hand on the boy's shoulder. When he was little, he'd pick him up, but he's seven years old already and embarrassed by that kind of attention. "Let's have a look, eh?"
Graham turns his palms up and Harry's surprised to see a cut on his right hand, which is rather deeper than he expected. A quick glance around them reveals a piece of glass hidden in the grass by the edge of the pavement. "Wankers," he mutters, picking it up and inspecting it before looking for further pieces from what is clearly a broken bottle. He sees no others, so he turns back to Graham. "It's alright, Son. It's not deep, but I don't have a plaster. Let's go to the tea shop and see if they have a first aid kit there, alright?"
Graham just nods and wipes his eyes with the back of his other hand, so Harry helps him to his feet and looks about for his daughter. Alarmingly, she's nowhere to be seen.
"Cathy!" he calls, spinning around in a circle. "Catherine!"
Shit! This can't be happening.
"Graham, did you see where your sister went?" he asks, still probing every direction with his gaze, his stomach tight with fear and the rush of adrenaline.
Graham points ahead of him, so Harry grasps his uninjured hand and hurries along the path, Graham reluctantly following. "You're hurting," he protests, resisting and impeding their progress.
He stops, takes a deep breath, and crouches down to look at his son, his eyes so very much like his own as he stares back at him mutinously. "I'm sorry, Graham," he says, doing his best to soften his attitude. "I know you're hurt and I know we need to fix you up with a plaster. I'm sorry I forgot to bring some with me."
"You always forget," he replies, eyes flashing.
"I know. I've let you down. Again." He takes another deep breath. "I don't get a lot of practice at this sort of thing," he tries to explain, "so I'm not as good as your mother. But I'm trying, Graham. I'm trying."
Graham doesn't reply, but he thinks his son's frown has softened, so he presses on. "I need your help though, Son. I need you to be brave for me and I need you to put aside the pain in your hand and help me find your sister. She's lost and it's our job to find her and protect her. Alright? It's what men do. Can you do that for me, Mate?"
He watches as his son takes in his words and lifts his chin, his chest expanding with determination. "Yes," he says. "She went that way." And he points to a row of bushes to their left.
Harry smiles at him and ruffles his hair, his heart full of pride. "That's my boy," he says and together they set off in that direction, calling her name.
She's standing some way off from the bushes they emerge from, talking to a woman of small stature, but at the sound of him calling her name, she turns and comes running towards him, jumping into his arms. "I'm sorry, Dad," she says as she clings to him. "Don't be angry. I'm sorry. I ran away to hide and got mixed up and I couldn't find you again."
He holds her, running his hand down her back, relief softening his heart and defusing his anger as he swallows the rebuke he was ready to make, breathing in the scent of her – his precious, little girl, all safe and sound. "It's alright, Cathy," he murmurs, pressing a kiss against her hair. "I've got you now."
He holds her for a moment more before crouching down and setting her on the ground again, turning to her brother. "Thanks, old sport," he tells him, ruffling his hair with his hand and drawing him into a hug when he sees the boy smile and lean towards him. "You're a champ. I wouldn't have found her without you."
She watches with relief as the lost, little girl runs to her father, smiling to see the reunion and giving them a moment of privacy before she walks over to introduce herself and hand back the toy bunny. But as she approaches the family, she can't help feeling that there's something familiar about the man, and a few steps further she gets the surprise of her life when she recognises Harry.
Her steps slow and her insides begin a familiar dance, flipping and churning at the sight of him and the gentleness with which he treats his children.
She stops a few paces from them, waiting to be noticed as she observes their interaction.
Catherine's the first to spy her, exclaiming, "Baggins," and reaching for her toy.
Ruth smiles as she hands over the rabbit. "All safe and sound," she replies and watches with some amusement as Harry whips round to face her at the sound of her voice. "Hello, Harry," she adds, eyes twinkling at him.
"Ruth! What are you doing here?"
"I've been flat hunting," she replies. "There was one in this area that I rather liked, so I thought I'd have a look at the neighbourhood. Do you live around here?"
He nods, suddenly rather tongue-tied. Despite his promise to leave her alone, he hasn't stopped wanting her. In fact, the wanting has only increased with each day he passes in her company, and running into her like this, unexpectedly, with his children to bear witness, has rather thrown him. "I do," he says, then adds, "but I hope that doesn't diminish the attraction of the neighbourhood."
She laughs. "Not at all," she assures him and drops her gaze to Catherine. "Are these your children?"
"Yes. Sorry," he says. "This is Catherine and Graham. Cathy, Graham, this is a friend of mine from work."
"Ruth," she says, smiling. "It's lovely to meet you both. And nice to meet you too, Baggins. I'm glad we found your dad, Catherine." She nods rather shyly and clutches her bunny to her chest. Then Ruth turns to Graham who's patiently waiting to show her his hand.
"Look," he says.
"Oh dear," she replies, leaning in to see better. "That's quite an injury you've got there, Graham. I bet it hurts a lot. You're being very brave."
He beams at her then says, "We're going to get a plaster. Do you want to come?"
"Graham," Harry begins, feeling that he should intervene and let Ruth off the hook.
"I think I might have one in my bag somewhere," she says and promptly starts rummaging in her handbag, pulling out an umbrella and a half-empty water bottle, muttering, "I know it's in here somewhere."
"It's like Mary Poppins' bag," Graham says in awe, leaning in to get a better look.
Ruth laughs. "Not quite, Graham, but I do end up carrying an awful lot of- Aha!" she exclaims in triumph. "Found it." And she pulls out a small, metal box that's white and has a red cross on it.
"Why's it got a cross on it?" Graham asks, moving closer still.
"Because it's for first aid, silly," his sister replies with an air of superiority.
"That's right. It is a first aid box," Ruth smiles at her. "It's a very special first aid kit because it was my father's and he was a very good, homeopathic doctor."
"What's a homofic doctor?" Graham asks, garbling the word a little.
"It means he practiced a special kind of medicine. Show me your hand," she instructs, then seems to remember him, lifting her eyes to his and asking quickly, "Is this alright with you?"
"Of course," he replies, flashing an easy grin. "You saved my life with that voodoo."
She frowns and looks quite severe, just as he'd hoped she would, as she replies seriously, "Homeopathy is not voodoo, Harry."
"What's voodoo?" Catherine asks over the sound of his chuckle.
"It's a bit like magic – nobody knows if it works," Ruth replies without missing a beat as she gently takes Graham's hand in hers. "Homeopathy, on the other hand, is a legitimate branch of medicine. The royal family use it. Now, let's see here," she says to Graham. "The first thing to do is make sure there's nothing in the cut."
"Like what?" Catherine asks, her shyness having been replaced by her ever present curiosity.
"Well, this cut looks quite clean round the edges so it was probably something sharp that made it. Maybe a piece of glass? So we need to check there's no pieces of glass in there and no soil or bits of leaves or anything. Hold still a moment, Graham. I'm just going to use a wipe to wipe your hand clean since we don't have soap and water."
"Dad found some glass," Graham says.
"Some git broke a bottle and didn't pick up all the pieces."
"What's a git?" Catherine asks.
He sees Ruth's lips twitch at that, but she doesn't step in to save him from having to explain that one.
"You said it was wankers," Graham pipes up, lifting puzzled eyes to his.
"What's a wanker?" Catherine asks.
Ruth starts laughing. "Okay, Graham," she says, successfully distracting both his children, rescuing him yet again. "Your hand's clean now and I don't see anything in there, but we're going to clean the cut all the same, just to make certain. I need you to be a brave boy now because it'll hurt a little."
Graham frowns, not at all pleased to hear that. "How much?" he asks.
"Not as much as it hurt when you cut it, but it'll sting a bit."
"Like a wasp?"
"Not as much."
"Okay," he replies, setting his jaw, his lips pursed in determination. "I'm ready."
Ruth smiles and turns back to his hand, cleaning the wound with hydrogen peroxide, then adding a dab of calendula cream, and quickly covering it with a plaster. "That's it. All done. You're a very brave young man, Graham. Bet your dad is proud." She turns her eyes on his and winks.
"Course I'm proud," he says softly. "I'm always proud of both of you," he tells his children, somehow Ruth's presence and her gentle prodding unlocking the words he rarely speaks out loud to them though he feels them deeply.
They both beam at him as Ruth busies herself putting everything back in its box and the box in her handbag. When she stands, he says, "How about an ice-cream? Ruth, will you join us?"
The children cheer, but he thinks Ruth looks a little like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "Oh no. I couldn't. I should get going. Lots to do today."
"Go on," he gently cajoles, giving her his most persuasive look. It melts most women's resolve, but not hers, it would seem. Not yet. Still, there are other weapons in his arsenal and words are by far the most effective so far in persuading Ruth Evershed. "That's twice you've saved me now. The least I can do is buy you an ice-cream."
She smiles and drops her gaze in pleasure and embarrassment before sighing and nodding her assent. "Okay. Thanks."
And so it is that they end up walking along to the tea shop, his children dancing around Ruth, peppering her with questions, his heart expanding at the sight, filling with a mixture of joy and hope, his body relaxing for the first time since custody visits began with his children. He would never admit this to anyone else, but being alone with his children causes him more stress than facing a whole group of armed terrorists. Perhaps it's the lack of adrenaline in the situation, or the realisation that his deep love for his children gives them the capacity to wound him more deeply than any knife or bullet ever could.
"Baggins is a very unusual name for a rabbit," Ruth says once they've all sat down at a table, the children licking their ice-cream cones, Harry sipping his coffee, she drinking tea and working her way through the slice of cake Harry had insisted he order for each of them.
"It's from the Hobbit," says Catherine and turns back to her ice-cream.
Ruth smiles. "You seem a little young to have read The Hobbit, Catherine."
"Mum read it to me and I liked Baggins. It's a funny name."
She wonders where their mother is, but she daren't ask. Connie had implied that Harry only gets the children for some weekends – "It's your weekend, is it?" she'd said – which would mean that they're divorced, most likely.
"Jane teaches English A levels," he volunteers, causing her to lift her eyes to his. He has beautiful eyes – she can't help thinking – not for the first time, especially when there's a touch of emotion in them as there is now. Is it sorrow, regret? She can't be certain.
"That explains it then," she replies, smiling softly at him. "My dad read me the Lord of the Rings when I was six," she confides. "I loved it."
"The actual book?" he asks, looking rather incredulous. "Not the children's version?"
She laughs. "The actual book," she confirms. "Not the children's version."
"Blimey, Ruth." He seems a little awestruck. "I knew you were smart, but..." He whistles. "I'm feeling rather intimidated."
That makes her laugh harder, then catching Catherine watching them with interest, she tells her, "Remember, Catherine, that it's perfectly alright for a woman to be smarter than a man, no matter what anyone else tells you. Don't ever pretend to be less intelligent to please a boy, alright?"
Catherine nods. "Alright," she agrees solemnly.
"My friend Daisy's smart," Graham pipes up. "We do homework together, and we play hide and seek and chase too."
"See? That's the best way. Accept yourself and other people and use everyone's talents. Everyone's good at something. All together, we're good at everything and there is nothing we can't accomplish."
"What's accompish?" Graham asks.
"Accomplish means to get something done," she explains. "And speaking of getting things done, I really should get going. I've got another flat to see. It was lovely to meet you, Catherine and Graham. I hope to see you again soon." She turns to Harry. "Thank you for... this. The tea, I mean, and the company. It was nice. I'll see you Monday."
"My pleasure, Ruth. Good luck with the flat hunting," he replies, smiling and getting up as she stands, the lessons in civility ingrained in him by his father demanding that he stand when a woman leaves the table. She seems flustered and he can't help feeling pleased. He knows their attraction is mutual and he can't help hoping that she'll give into it soon and let him shag her senseless. She's like a drug that's got into his system, from which the only relief is more – more of it, of her, more of her company, her smiles, her gorgeous eyes and musical laughter, and all of her body, frequently.
"Bye, Ruth," Catherine says.
She smiles. "Bye." And she's gone, leaving them to finish their treats without her.
"She's nice," Graham says as Harry resumes his seat.
"Yes," he replies softly. "Yes, she is."