Chapter Text
Sometimes the route to joy is indirect, our journey home not quite what we expected.
-Heidi Thomas
The forecast hadn't been promising, but when it came down to it, the actual weather was even worse. By 4pm that afternoon, the busses had stopped running, and the vast majority of Poplar were keeping snug indoors. This wasn’t picturesque winter weather; this was something else.
The lights were on inside the old Society Rooms, however. A community space, it was generally used for afternoon teas, book clubs, meetings, awards presentations, and suchlike. Tonight, a chalkboard (tucked out of range of the sleet and snowfall) optimistically advertised its message to the empty street:
Christmas Card Writing Bee! All welcome!
Shelagh Mannion had it all planned out. She had a spreadsheet, with names of intended card recipients, and planned methods of delivery. She had tea and biscuits, ready to sustain the volunteers as they wrote. She had a range of cards, pens and pencils, glitter, and all manner of craft materials. She had carols playing softly from her laptop’s speakers.
What she didn’t have was any volunteers whatsoever.
And that was nobody’s fault. Who would want to come out, just to write cards for and with strangers, on a night like this? She certainly didn’t blame Lucille for bowing out as her co-organiser. Lucille lived further away, and once the busses had stopped, she’d hardly had a choice. Her text of apology had not been unexpected. Shelagh had decided to run the event anyway, if only because she herself lived only a few blocks away from the Rooms. (And owned a pair of sturdy, snow-worthy boots.) Nothing ventured, nothing gained!
But it seemed nothing was to be gained by sitting alone in an empty room, even with the heater blaring. She couldn’t write all these cards herself…and anyway, that wasn’t the point. Shelagh surveyed the untouched table that was the result of her best efforts, and sighed.
Best laid plans, hmm?
She was just considering switching the playlist from carols to Christmas pop, and having a sad little one-person dance party while she tidied up…when she heard the outer door bang.
For a moment Shelagh didn’t dare believe it, and thought a gust of wind must have caught the door. But then she heard voices, and then the interior door opened.
Two people came in. Bundled up in hats and scarves, at first the most obvious distinction was that one was an adult, and the other was a child. Maybe ten, or eleven years old? Once they’d unburdened themselves of their scarves, the picture became clearer: a father and son. Dark-haired, pink-cheeked, and out of breath. Both smiling nervously.
“Oh, hello!” Shelagh beamed, astonished, jumping to her feet. “Welcome!”
She checked herself a moment later.
Don’t look too desperate; you’ll frighten them off. And for all you know, they’re just looking for a warm place to make a phone call. They probably didn’t even read the chalkboard.
“Hi,” the man smiled. Rubbing his still-gloved hands together, he surveyed the room. He took in the sight of its empty chairs and tables, and his brow furrowed slightly.
“This is the card-writing bee, isn’t it?”
Shelagh’s heart sagged with relief. “It certainly is!”
“And you’re not just closing up, or anything?”
“Nope!” She smiled determinedly brightly.
The man politely refrained from commenting on the conspicuous absence of any other volunteers. His son was eyeing the table with interest. Looking at the father more closely, Shelagh thought she recognised something in his demeanour. That determined, upbeat, outward-facing good cheer…it was barely covering a bone-deep weariness. She could see it a mile off. (Probably because she knew it too well, herself.)
“Right, so, what’s the set up?”
It took Shelagh a moment to change gear from ‘dejected failure’ to ‘organiser extraordinaire’. These two had appeared so suddenly! But here was a chance to use the introductory patter she’d rehearsed.
“Well, as you see, we’ve got blank cards, and pens and glue and glitter…and tea and biscuits, to keep you going while you write. Hot chocolate too, if that’s your preference,” she added, with a smile specifically in the boy’s direction. He tore his eyes away from the biscuits to smile back.
“Excellent. Well Tim, shall we?”
The boy nodded, and the two of them pulled up chairs. Shelagh tried not to look too obviously gratified by their simple presence, but that proved difficult. She was so glad of their company. This whole evening hadn’t been a waste!
“My name’s Patrick, by the way.”
The man smiled across at her, taking off his gloves. There was a glint of gold – Shelagh clocked his wedding band. Along with the boy beside him, that painted a picture clear enough. Even if this man was nice-looking, that was obviously quite irrelevant.
(The pit of her stomach was unfortunately slow to get the message.)
“And I’m Timothy,” his son volunteered.
“Pleased to meet you both. My name’s Shelagh.”
“Did you arrange this all yourself?” Timothy asked, impressed.
“I organised it with my friend Lucille. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make it this evening, on account of the weather.”
The boy nodded, in a grown-up sort of way. “Well, that’s fair enough.”
Smiling at his son’s polite tone, Patrick was twisting open a container – when all of a sudden it slipped in his fingers, the lid unscrewing with unexpected rapidity. Glitter spilled in a sparkling flurry all over the floor.
Patrick swore. A second later, he screwed his eyes shut, as though fervently wishing to erase the past few seconds from the record of history. Timothy looked shocked.
“Dad!”
As the glitter settled, Shelagh gathered her wits. It was on her to speak.
“It’s alright…”
“No, it isn’t. Glitter’s an absolute nightmare to get out. I am so sorry…”
The man looked sincerely dismayed, and Shelagh’s heart went out to him. She tried a smile.
“Well, the carpets aren’t exactly new…”
“Even so, I’m not sure this is the spruce up they were needing!”
Shelagh laughed, feeling the mood turn to a helpless near-hysteria. Fixing Patrick with a smile intended to communicate that it really was okay, she stood up.
“I’ll get the vacuum.”
He followed her immediately.
“I’ll do it.”
“Really, it’s fine-”
“No, I will. And look,” he insisted, as she pulled the vacuum from its cupboard, “you’ve even got my familiar make and model.”
He pointed down to the distinctive British ‘Henry’ vacuum, its trademarked friendly face rendered in sticker-form on the front. Patrick smiled for the first time since the spill. He tried turning to humour, in a transparent attempt to win her compliance.
“Honestly. Henry and I go way back.”
Shelagh bit back a laugh.
“It’s true,” Timothy confirmed, over his shoulder. “He used to make our one talk.”
Caught off-guard by his son’s all-too-casual admission, Patrick’s eyes widened.
“Only when you were very little, Tim!”
He looked mortified, keen to have it understood he hadn’t recently been conducting conversation via personified-vacuum. But although he was embarrassed, she thought there was something else there too.
“I didn’t know you even remembered that,” he muttered – as though to himself, but with a tiny smile in the boy’s direction. That glimpse of sweet vulnerability was not lost on Shelagh, and she relented, handing him the machine. He took it gratefully.
While Patrick plugged the vacuum in and wheeled it over, she returned to the table to see how Timothy was getting on.
“Who are these cards going to be for, exactly?” he asked her. Shelagh smiled.
“All sorts of people. Patients in different wards in the hospital – which is where I work – and people in local care homes too.”
The boy nodded thoughtfully, and reached for a pen.
Meanwhile, Patrick was on his hands and knees working on the carpet. He was doing a very thorough job. Shelagh couldn’t help being slightly impressed; plenty of people would have done less.
“Dad,” said the eleven-year-old all of sudden, “how do you spell ‘surreptitious’?”
Patrick’s head popped up from underneath the table. His expression was wary.
“Why do you need to use the word ‘surreptitious’ in someone’s Christmas card?”
“It’s a good word! I learned it this week. And I don’t want my message to be boring!”
Patrick quirked an eyebrow.
“Small chance of that…” he muttered under his breath, as he disappeared once more beneath the table. “S-U-R-R-E-P…”
Shelagh bit the top of her pen, in an effort to keep from laughing.
Despite his unorthodox choices in vocabulary, Timothy was actually an ideal card-writing volunteer. His handwriting was neat, but also obviously that of a child – and people’s hearts were often especially warmed by a message from a young person. Shelagh hoped her own cards would be half as well-received!
When he had finished his first one, the boy turned to Shelagh again.
“How should I sign it?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be anonymous. So you could sign it ‘From a friend’ – or just give your first name. And your age, too, if you like.”
Patrick stood up, dusting off his hands and knees, and inspecting his own work critically.
“Right, that’s done.” He took a seat. “Now, what can I do?”
“Well, you could write some cards…”
He smiled regretfully. “Best not. My handwriting’s notorious. I’m a GP.”
“Ah,” Shelagh’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps you could put cards in envelopes, then.”
The laughing smile between them was all warmth and light. Then he ducked his head, to start work on the envelopes. (And Shelagh reminded herself firmly that even if he was attractive, under the circumstances that was really neither here nor there.)
They made an effective production line, albeit a short three-person one. They did not create the huge box of cards Shelagh had imagined when she’d planned on having a room full of volunteers. But they made a very respectable start – and perhaps she and Lucille could book the room for another night, in better weather. She was lucky to have had anyone turn up at all. Especially such good-natured people as this father and son.
They decided to turn in for the night by mutual agreement. It didn’t take very long to tidy up. As they were all shrugging their coats on, Patrick lingered awkwardly for a moment, taking an unnecessarily long time to adjust his gloves. Finally he turned to face her.
“How are you getting home? You’re not driving, with the roads like this?”
“Oh, no, I walked. I’m just a few blocks away. Hence these, um, highly-fashionable boots.”
She laughed in self-deprecation, looking down at her feet.
“We walked, too. And we’re only four blocks away. Could we see you to your door?”
Shelagh was surprised.
“Oh, that’s a kind thought. Well, if it wouldn’t take you out of your way…”
The street they stepped out onto was not picture-postcard, with perfect drifts of white. It was just cold, and grey, with slush and grit beneath them. And yet, it didn’t feel bleak. It should’ve done, perhaps, but it didn’t.
“Be careful, Tim,” Patrick urged as his son went ahead, sliding his boots through the slush, deliberately seeking out slippery patches. Timothy came sliding back.
“Did you know,” the boy told Shelagh, in a tone of great authority, “that’s the best place in Poplar to get a strawberry milkshake?”
He pointed one gloved hand to a nearby shopfront. Shelagh raised an eyebrow, smiling.
“You know, I haven’t tried their milkshakes. But I do pop in there once in a while, usually for coffee. I must try a milkshake next time.”
Patrick’s smile was small and subtle, but it didn’t go unnoticed.
On Shelagh’s doorstep, they bid each other a cordial goodbye.
“Thank you both! Get home safe, now, won’t you?”
“We will. Thanks Shelagh!”
Patrick smiled. “And I’m sorry, again, about the glitter.”
“Oh, shush. You were both excellent volunteers – GP’s handwriting notwithstanding!”
They chuckled as she waved, and fumbled for her door key.
As father and son walked away, she heard Timothy pipe up with a question.
“Hey Dad, do you have bad handwriting because you’re a GP? Is it, like, part of the qualification?”
“You’re very smart, kid.”
The evening had not gone to plan. And yet, as she prepared for bed, Shelagh was smiling.