patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] || Also on AO3 and my personal website
Chapter 4: Hope's Illusion
The ticking of the clock on the wall was almost preternaturally loud, sharp and precise as it sliced seconds off of Antony’s life. Not, he told himself, that he was worried. There was nothing to worry about. This was routine surgery, after all, it was something done almost every day. The hospital was rated highly for this kind of thing, and most importantly, neither of his girls were worried, so why should he be worried?
Antony scanned the waiting room and noted several other families with children, some older, some younger. The smallest children were pressed tightly against a parent or guardian’s side, often with thumbs in mouths or tears on cheeks; one child, who looked to be about two or three, was actively wailing as she was bounced in the arms of a woman who was looking anxiously from the surgery door to an older girl sitting with head bowed and concentrated stillness in her shoulders. The older children seemed more aware of what was going on, and even the ones working puzzle books or pretending to interest themselves in the television mounted on the wall looked anxious and nervous.
The twins, in contrast, seemed perfectly unbothered by what was happening. In contrast to the other children, who all seemed to want the contact and comfort of an adult, they were sitting next to each other rather than to either side of him, squeezed into the same seat, dark heads pressed close together, brows furrowed in concentration as they twisted alternate knobs on the gigantic Etch A Sketch they’d jointly received for Christmas the previous year. They did, at least, seem aware that they needed to keep their voices down and were coordinating their movements in something between a murmur and a stage whisper. Jon kept periodically wrinkling his nose and squinching his eyes as he leaned forward. Antony watched him for a moment and made a mental note to call his optometrist and make appointments for the twins in the morning. Jon’s need for glasses was perhaps more obvious, but Melanie was struggling with learning her letters and he wondered if it wasn’t because she was having trouble seeing them well enough to distinguish one from another.
Every adult’s head—and some of the older children’s as well—looked to the door every time it opened, and periodically a doctor or nurse did come in and call a name; other times it was just someone walking through or joining the crowd. Antony was not immune to that, even though he knew, logically, it hadn’t been long enough for anyone to come looking for him. Yet.
Two to three hours, the surgeon had said. For each surgery, and for obvious reasons they couldn’t be done simultaneously. The logistics of the day had been a nightmare, even if neither Gillian nor Susan had seemed to think so. Indeed, they were treating it like a spa day almost—an excuse to relax and be pampered for a bit.
Certainly they hadn’t hesitated to shoo Antony out of the room with the twins.
They’d all thought, at first, that Gillian was just being run ragged trying to keep up with a pair of precocious preschoolers. They had tried giving her a break by signing the twins up for a play group at least a couple of times a week—Antony firmly believed they needed to learn how to be children, and their mothers had eventually agreed—but the one they had picked hadn’t been a good fit after all and both Jon and Melanie had requested to not have to go when asked what they wanted for their fourth birthday. They were still looking for an alternative when Gillian collapsed at the park without warning.
Antony wasn’t going to forget bursting into the A&E, Susan hot on his heels, to find Melanie and Jon curled on top of Gillian’s chest, her skin sallow and her eyes sunken, in any kind of a hurry. He still blamed himself for not noticing, even though both Gillian and the doctor insisted it had come on suddenly and he couldn’t have known. Harder still was convincing Susan that she wasn’t to blame, since she’d seen Gillian collapse once before and felt she ought to have spotted it earlier. She’d kept that observation private to Antony, though. In that moment, in her typical steadfast, practical fashion, she had begun firing off questions like she was crossing a witness and demanded she be tested for compatibility immediately.
Gillian hadn’t been surprised, had just laughed. Later Antony had learned that they’d known since they were children, since Gillian was first diagnosed with her kidney condition, that they had the same blood type, B negative. It probably wasn’t normal for children to worry about that kind of thing, but Susan had pestered her doctor until he’d allowed her to be typed specifically so she could do this if necessary. Antony was A positive, so he hadn’t even bothered asking about testing—he’d have killed Gillian faster than her own kidneys would have—and the twins were far too small to donate to an adult even if they’d been willing to have either of them tested, or even typed. It hadn’t been necessary, anyway, because Susan was described as “probably the best match you’ll get outside a relative”.
And since the waiting list for a kidney from a dead donor was likely to be too long for her chances, even on dialysis, here they were.
Not for the first time, Antony glanced at the clock and wished he’d put his foot down about going to see Susan as soon as she was in her room rather than being barred until Gillian was there too. At least they knew Susan’s was finished. The nurse had come out to tell them she was done and they would take her to her room as soon as she was awake and that they would be putting Gillian under shortly, and then added that her instructions were to give him the instructions to “take Melanie and Jon to get something to eat and for God’s sake stop fretting”. Antony had done the first without protest or complaint, but with the best will in the world, he couldn’t manage the second.
A tap on his thigh nearly made him jump out of his skin, but he caught himself just in time and turned to see Melanie grinning up at him proudly. “Daddy, we did it, look!”
Jon proudly—and carefully—held up the Etch A Sketch. They had drawn five figures—three tall, two small—holding hands and smiling literally from ear to ear. All of them appeared to be wearing glasses. Antony smiled warmly. “Well done, you two! It’s a very good family portrait.”
The twins beamed. Melanie studied it critically. “Can we show Mummy and Mama?”
“Ah…” Antony winced. “I think it might shake itself apart while we wait for them. But,” he emphasized, seeing their faces fall, “I brought this.”
He reached into the bag at his feet, rummaged around for a bit, and came up with the well cared for black Polaroid camera that had once been Paul’s.
At that, they brightened again. Both of them posed behind their picture; Antony snapped a photograph and winced again at the loud whirring sound as the picture developed. Nobody really seemed to notice, or at least care. He supposed they had enough problems of their own to worry about.
Satisfied, Jon set the Etch A Sketch aside and reached for the bag. “Daddy, did you bring books?”
“I brought one.” Antony reached in and pulled out the thick, sturdy tome he’d found at his favorite secondhand book shop, in remarkably good condition considering its age, with the dust jacket intact. He’d actually been looking for this one for a while; Paul had owned a copy, one of his most treasured possessions, and he’d looked forward to reading it to the twins when they were older. It had gone missing after the funeral, and while they all knew Mabel had probably taken it, they couldn’t prove it. Certainly nobody was going to risk her learning their new address or phone number by writing or calling to ask her for it. This would be good enough. He hoped.
Jon leaned over his arm and traced the letters, reading aloud slowly. “Stories…From…Around…the…World. How many stories?”
“Seventeen,” Antony said. “Do you want to read it yourself, or do you want me to read some of it to you?”
“You, Daddy,” Jon and Melanie said in unison.
Antony encouraged them both to crawl into his lap and opened the book. The first pages were not a story, but an introduction. He knew, however, that if he didn’t read it, Jon would protest, and so he began, as the King of Hearts had said to the White Rabbit, at the beginning. For a wonder, both of the children were rapt, and remained so when he got to the first story, which was Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.
With any other children, he would have had to skip around, reading the shorter stories first and ignoring the long, ponderous tales with their limited illustrations, but Jon and Melanie were enthralled. They got through two stories and were just starting the third when the door opened and yet another doctor stepped in.
“Who’s here for Gillian King?” he called softly.
Melanie and Jon both looked up at that. Antony carefully closed the book and stood, one twin on each hip. He wasn’t a particularly big man—not like his da, or like Paul—but he held them anyway. He needed the comfort, more than they did. Something secure to hold on to, just in case…
But the doctor was smiling as he came over to them. “Mr King? I’m Dr Brackett, I did the surgery on your wife. We’ve just finished up.”
“How is she?” Antony asked. Melanie reached across his chest for Jon’s hand.
“Fit as a fiddle. Clean removal and a clean reattachment. We’ll need to watch her for a few days to make sure everything is working properly, but she ought to be able to come home by next weekend if all goes well.”
Just in time for Paul’s birthday, Antony thought but didn’t say. It was amazing how much he still haunted their lives two years on—and how much he still missed him. Jon looked from Antony to the doctor and back. “What about Mama?”
“Susan Sims?” Antony clarified for the doctor. “The donor? They specifically requested to be in the same room…”
Dr Brackett’s face took on a slightly more guarded expression. “Are you…family?”
“Yes,” Melanie and Jon said in firm unison.
Antony couldn’t help but laugh softly. “She’s my wife’s best friend, and my best friend’s widow. I’m Jon’s godfather and Susan’s medical next of kin.” It was slightly more complicated than that, actually, but the doctor didn’t need to know their personal business. He gave Jon a quick warning glance as he set the twins on their feet. Jon, for a wonder, kept his mouth shut.
“Oh, I see.” Dr Brackett relaxed. “Yes, she’s doing fine also. She came out of anesthesia about an hour ago and we’ve got her settled in their room. We’re bringing Mrs King back there now, so give us a few minutes and I’ll have the nurse come and get you.”
“Thank you.” Antony smiled and turned to the twins, but they were already quickly and efficiently packing the bag back up, so he forbore.
The nurse who came out to get them was the same one who’d come to tell them Susan was out of surgery and Gillian was going in. She introduced herself properly as Nurse McCall and led them up to the ward, explaining all the while what to expect and answering all of Jon and Melanie’s questions. Yes, both Susan and Gillian would have scars, although Susan’s would be much smaller; yes, laparoscopic was a similar word to microscopic, in a way, but not precisely the way Jon thought; no, Gillian would have a harder time recovering than Susan, so she would have to stay longer; well, they had taken something out of Susan that she still had one left of, so it was just getting used to doing the same thing with a little less capacity, but Gillian had had two things taken out and something new put in and they had to make sure it worked properly; no, they wouldn’t put it back in Susan if it didn’t work for Gillian; no, of course not, they would find her another kidney or hook her up to a machine that would take care of all that for her while they looked; yes, sometimes, but they had tested her very carefully so it wasn’t likely; no, they were too small and it would need both of their kidneys to make one good one for an adult; no, even if they were identical twins they couldn’t take one from each and stitch them together, it didn’t quite work like that. Since Antony had also wondered about some of those things (not the viability of using the twins’ kidneys, for multiple reasons, but most of the other questions), he was grateful for both his children’s lack of reticence and the nurse’s kind and patient manner.
When they reached the proper ward, Nurse McCall led them over to the charge desk. An older woman in starched uniform sat behind it, while a younger man—well, younger, he was around Antony’s age, if he was any judge, perhaps a bit older—studied something on a clipboard. Both looked up as Nurse McCall approached; she smiled and gestured at the man. “Mr King, this is Nurse Wilkinson. He’ll be in charge of your wife and…your other wife during their stay.”
Okay, maybe he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d hoped, or maybe she was just more perceptive than most. “Nurses really ought to rule the world.”
Nurse McCall laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”
“I’ll vote for you when I’m old enough,” Melanie promised.
All four of the adults laughed at that one—Antony couldn’t help himself—but at least Melanie seemed to recognize it wasn’t malicious, which was good, as if she got angry enough they would be extremely fortunate to already be in a hospital. Nurse McCall turned to face the twins, but didn’t bend down to speak to them, which Antony knew they appreciated. “I have to get back to A&E now, but you’ll be in good hands with Nurse Wilkinson. He knows plenty, too, so if you have any more questions, you can ask him. Just remember he’s working, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” Jon and Melanie chorused. Nurse McCall laughed, patted them both on the head, tossed a “see you later” over her shoulder at the nurse behind the counter (or so Antony presumed—Nurse Wilkinson didn’t look much like a Cindy), and left.
“Is being a nurse better than being a doctor?” Jon asked as soon as they were alone.
“It depends on what you mean by ‘better’,” Nurse Wilkinson said. “Doctors make more money, and if you want to diagnose people or do surgeries, then being a doctor is the best choice. I like being a nurse because I like the hard parts of taking care of people. Even when it’s a little gross. Are you ready to go see your mothers?”
Antony added that interaction to his list of reasons why nurses ought to rule the world and followed the nurse and the twins to room 507. Two neatly lettered labels outside the door read S. SIMS and G. KING; two clipboards with medical charts sat in a pocket on its front. There were two brightly colored stickers next to Gillian’s tag and one next to Susan’s. Nurse Wilkinson kindly explained that the blue dot meant to make sure they always had plenty of water and the green one meant she had to have a low salt diet, and then he opened the door and let them in.
The curtains on both beds were pulled all the way back, and Susan and Gillian sat up in their respective beds, which were near enough to one another that they could hold hands across it if they wanted to. Gillian still looked a little groggy, but they both seemed cheerful and more or less alert. Susan smiled broadly when she saw them. “There you are!”
“Mama!” Melanie started to rush forward, then checked herself and walked more calmly into the room, Jon at her side. Nurse Wilkinson winked at Antony and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“Does it hurt very much?” Jon asked. He sounded more curious than worried.
“Not yet, but we’ll see when the medicine fully wears off.” Susan smiled to take any sting out of the words. “It’s such a little cut, honest.”
“Does yours hurt, Mummy?” Jon pressed, turning to look at Gillian.
“It’s a little uncomfortable, but it’s not too bad,” Gillian assured him. “Be careful with the hugs, that’s all.”
“Nurse McCall said no climbing on the beds,” Melanie said with authority. “So no hugs until you’re up.”
“Wise words.” Gillian caught Antony’s eye and smiled, a bit more loosely than usual—the anesthesia clearly hadn’t worn all the way off. “Hey.”
“Hello, Wife.” Antony bent and kissed Gillian gently, then turned and gave Susan a kiss as well. “Hello, Other Wife.”
Gillian gave a surprised giggle, then stifled a groan. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”
“You said it didn’t hurt!” Jon protested.
“It didn’t, until Daddy made me laugh.”
Susan, too, looked like she was choking down the urge to laugh hard enough to tear her incision. “Other Wife?”
“Nurse McCall called you that.” Melanie found Susan’s hand, the one not hooked up to an IV, and hugged it. “She said Nurse Wilkinson was going to take good care of his wife and his other wife. Daddy said nurses should rule the world.”
Antony rolled his eyes. “And I am once again reminded that you should never say anything around children you aren’t prepared for the whole world to hear. Here, show them what you did.”
He handed the Polaroid to Jon, who eagerly showed it off; Susan and Gillian both cooed when they saw it. “Oh, what a good job you did!”
“Can we keep this here?” Susan asked, looking at the twins. “That way we can see it while we get better.”
Jon immediately propped the picture against the water jug. Antony glanced at the door briefly, then back to Susan. “The doctor said if all goes well you ought to be able to go home tomorrow.”
“And leave me all alone?” Gillian said with an exaggerated pout.
“I’ll come sit with you all day,” Susan promised. “It’ll be like when we were pregnant, except I’m not allowed back to work for two weeks.”
“How long do you have to stay, Mummy?” Jon asked.
“At least seven days.” Gillian held up one hand and struggled briefly before holding up two fingers on her other hand. “And I’ll have to go to see the doctors at least a couple of times a week while they make sure the kidney likes me. But it won’t be very long. And we’ll go out to dinner all together when I come home, okay? Promise.”
“For Mama’s birthday?” Melanie asked shrewdly.
Gillian blinked and looked over at Susan. “Shit.”
“Swear jar,” Jon and Melanie sang in unison.
“Likely not mine,” Susan said gently. “But Paul’s for sure.”
Gillian groaned dramatically and flung herself back against her pillows. “It’s not faaaaaaaair. I want to go hoooooooome.”
Jon pursed his lips and put his hands on his hips, turning to Melanie with an expression that seemed familiar. Antony couldn’t figure out why until he said, in a spot on impression of Antony himself, “I think somebody needs a nap.”
Melanie flicked her tongue a couple of times before she finally managed to make the tiniest of tsks, the way Susan often did, shaking her head sadly. “A very, very long one.”
Susan screwed up her own face and folded her arms over her chest. “No nap without a story.”
In unison, the twins turned to look hopefully up at Antony, who couldn’t help but grin. “Well, it just so happens…” he began, pulling out the book.
There was a chair in between the two beds, and Jon and Melanie settled into it and looked up at Antony expectantly. Antony seated himself on the other visitor’s chair and opened the book to where they had left off. “Right. ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’, from Denmark, by Hans Christian Anderson.”
This one was a story Antony knew forwards, backwards, and sideways, but he knew better than to attempt to recite it from memory lest Jon discover a discrepancy in the text, even if he was too far away to see the words clearly when he turned the book to show them the pictures. Glancing up as he got nearer the end, he suppressed a smile. Susan was still listening, albeit with a vague look on her face, but Gillian had drifted off to sleep.
He finished the story, closed the book carefully, and pressed a finger to his lips, then reached into the bag and pulled the camera out again. Susan smiled and looked over at the twins and Gillian fondly as Antony snapped the picture. Once it had developed, he held it out to her. “Do you want to keep it here?”
Susan traced the faces lightly with a forefinger, then shook her head. “Put it on the fridge,” she murmured. “We’ll get a frame when I get home.”
She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to Melanie’s cheek, then Jon’s; they grabbed her hand and hugged it in turn. Antony leaned over the other bed and pressed a gentle kiss to Gillian’s forehead. She shifted slightly in her sleep but didn’t otherwise stir. Turning back to Susan, he said softly, “We’ll be back in the morning.”
“Good night, Mama,” Jon and Melanie whispered together.
Susan smiled. “Good night. Mama loves you.” She smiled warmly up at Antony. “Good night, darling ‘husband.’”
Antony laughed quietly. He leaned over and gave Susan another quick kiss. “See you soon, dearest other wife.”
Repacking his bag, he took Jon’s hand; Jon took Melanie’s, and they walked out of the hospital room.
After saying a good night to Nurse Wilkinson, who assured them he would look after their mothers carefully and let them know if anything happened, they headed out to where Antony had left the car. As he drove away, he felt considerably calmer than he had just a few hours before. The girls were fine. The surgery had been a success. He had, as Gillian had said, been a fool to worry. Everything was coming up roses.
He fed the twins supper, bathed them, and tucked them into bed; they had long ago given up the pretense of having to let them sleep in separate beds. He’d expected they would want the next story in Paul’s book—a Polish one involving a monster and a pair of siblings—but no, they wanted Paddiwack and Cosy yet again, and he was happy to oblige.
“‘…And in the morning, they licked each other clean.’” Antony glanced over his shoulder with a slight frown at the distant sound of the telephone. “Right. Good night, you two.”
“Night, Daddy.” Melanie snuggled into Jon’s shoulder, and they tugged the covers up to their chins.
Antony turned out the light, hurried down the hall, and caught the phone just before it stopped ringing. “Hello, this is Antony King speaking,” he said crisply.
And listened, suddenly numb, to the voice at the other end as the bottom dropped out of his world once more.
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.
It was deeply unfair that Paul wasn’t here for this moment, but Gillian supposed that, in a way, he was with them and always would be. He still ought to have been physically present, should have been the one fumbling with the key or holding Jon or Melanie—or both—on his shoulders. It just didn’t seem right to be doing it without him.
Still, here they were, and they were going to have to live with that.
Gillian found herself holding her breath as Antony fitted the key into the lock, turned, and then pushed it open.
patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
[Prologue] [1] || Also on AO3 and my personal website
Chapter 2: Blood and Stars
“You’ll never be able to have a proper reception with the house in this state. It’s a disgrace. I can’t see how you can bear to have people over.”
“I generally don’t.” Susan spoke more than half mechanically. The flat had never felt smaller, or colder. She’d expected it to feel empty, but honestly, this was worse.
“Nonsense,” Mabel Sims snapped, shutting the cupboard with unnecessary force. “You had company when I arrived.”
“Antony and Gillian aren’t company, Mother. They’re our dearest friends. You know them.”
Mabel sniffed hard. “This is a time for family.”
“They are family.”
“They are not, although I don’t expect the likes of you to understand that.” Mabel cast a cold eye over Susan before returning to her initial bout of criticism. “Honestly, this place is in a dreadful state. Show me your cleaning routine.”
Susan bit back a sigh. “We don’t have a routine. We clean up messes when we make them, we tidy up when we have the time, but we don’t expect to be able to keep the place up to showroom standards at all times.”
“You should have plenty of time to clean. What do you do all day?”
“I work, Mother.”
“Really, Susan, I thought you had given that nonsense up. You have a child. You shouldn’t still be playacting at having a job. How can you possibly fulfill your duties as a wife and mother if you’re spending all your time outside the home?”
This is the 1990s, not the 1890s, Susan retorted, but only in the privacy of her own mind. She got it. She did. Mabel was grieving and hurting and…okay, she’d never particularly liked Susan to begin with, but in this instance she was just defaulting to what she knew to make herself feel better. And yelling at the old bat would just cause problems she was not prepared to deal with. Paul maybe wouldn’t have minded her actually throwing his mother out on her ear for daring to speak to her like this—it was why she hadn’t been invited to visit since her husband’s death—but there was a good chance it wouldn’t work and she wasn’t prepared to call any of her colleagues to help her enforce it.
But damn it, she was grieving too.
Mabel kept going, yanking another cabinet open and then slamming it shut as she spoke. “A clean house is a Godly house, and a dutiful wife is a blessing to her husband.”
“Mother, please,” Susan began, feeling the edges of her self control beginning to fray.
A tiny sound from behind her drew her attention, and she turned to see two little figures standing in the doorway, slightly rumpled and far too downcast for their age. Jon was dragging his teddy bear by one leg, Melanie had a stranglehold on her rag doll, and they were clutching one another’s free hands like they were the only thing keeping the other from falling off the face of the planet.
Jon looked up at her with huge green eyes—Paul’s eyes—full of sorrow and bewilderment and pain. “Daddy come home soon?” he asked.
Susan glanced at the kitchen clock, but before she could even get her mouth open, Mabel turned around with a face like she was sucking on a lemon. “He won’t be home at all,” she said, her voice far too harsh to be used on a child. “He is dead.”
The teddy bear fell from Jon’s suddenly nerveless fingers, and Melanie’s eyes widened and flooded with tears. Susan gasped and started towards them. “Oh, no, sweethearts—” she began, hoping to head off the meltdown before it happened.
The door opened before she could get another word out, and Jon and Melanie both moved before she could register it, flying across the living room to launch themselves at the figure in the door and latch on hard as Melanie burst into tears.
“Here, hold on, let me in the door,” Antony said, trying to laugh as he did so. Jon’s only response was to wrap himself more tightly around Antony’s leg; Melanie, from the look of her hands, was not only bunching up his trousers but digging her tiny nails into the flesh underneath.
Susan whirled around and glared at Mabel. “Mother!”
“You won’t make things better by pretending,” Mabel snapped back. “If he keeps expecting a dead man to come in the door—”
“Tell you what,” Antony said in the voice Susan knew he used on recalcitrant witnesses to avoid his superior browbeating them. “Why don’t I take my new shoes here for a walk back across the way and get dinner started while you two ladies pack a bag for you and Jon? We’ve got that beef that needs eating up, and I think there’s the possibility of a strawberry bombe for dessert.”
Even the mention of their favorite dessert didn’t make either of the children loosen their grips on Antony’s legs. Mabel narrowed her eyes at Antony. “And what, exactly, do Susan and Jonathan need a bag packed for?”
Antony removed his hat and ducked his head respectfully towards Mabel. His tone stayed mild and his accent as crisp and clear as possible. “Well, ma’am, I know Paul’s brother and sisters are coming in soon, and this place isn’t really big enough for everyone, is it? My wife and I live right across the way, so we thought we would clear up that space before the rest of your family arrives and give you room to get things the way you want them.”
His winning smile, his guileless blue eyes, and above all his well cut suit charmed, or at least mollified, Mabel. She sniffed once more, then turned back to her cleaning. “Be sure she makes the appointment with the priest tomorrow.”
“You have my word that I will make sure Susan does everything exactly the way Paul would have wanted,” Antony said solemnly. He bowed to Mabel, dropped Susan a swift wink, and turned around, making big, exaggerated steps that normally made Jon and Melanie giggle until they couldn’t breathe.
They didn’t even really seem to react.
“God help me, Gil, I’m going to strangle her,” Susan muttered as they hustled towards the bedroom.
“That’s why we’re getting you out of here, Sue,” Gillian muttered back. “Come on.”
“What are we packing for, anyway?”
“Er, at least a week. Might as well bring your funeral clothes as well, if George and Mary and Martha are really going to be staying here.” At Susan’s confused look, Gillian shook her head and gave her a gentle, sad smile. “Jon needs Melanie. And you need us. And Mabel Sims needs a tranquilizer dart directly to her arse, but since I think those are a bit harder to come by in London we’ll have to go with ‘space’, so you and Jon are staying with us at least until the funeral. Or until she leaves.” She opened the closet and hauled out Paul’s Army duffel bag, then opened it on the bed. “Best to take everything you don’t want her to throw out or appropriate.”
Susan held it together—barely—until she and Gillian had packed the duffel, thrown a quilt over it to keep Mabel from pitching a fit, put together a bag of Jon’s things, done a dance of brittle politeness in getting past her, and crossed the road to where Antony and Gillian were still living. The second she stepped through the door, Gillian lifted the bag off her shoulder and pushed her unceremoniously onto the couch. “Sit. I’ll go put things up…kids! Mummy’s here!”
There was a sudden thunder of footsteps, and Susan only just had time to brace herself before Melanie and Jon launched themselves into her. She scooped them into her arms and kissed the tops of their heads, murmuring soothingly. “It’s all right, loves. It’s going to be all right. Mama’s here. Mummy’s here. Daddy’s here.”
Melanie looked suspiciously towards the door, eyes narrowed. “Dat Fucking Woman?”
A clatter and a crash came from the kitchen, and then Antony appeared in the doorway, tie and jacket off and sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows. “I did not just hear that.”
“Papa say,” Jon said defensively. Tears brimmed up in his eyes as he said it, and he scrubbed at them roughly with his arm.
Susan looked up at Antony. Despite everything, she found herself fighting the urge to laugh. “What is it they say? Children listen, and often repeat word for word exactly what you wish they hadn’t heard?”
“Something like that. Dinner’s almost ready.” Antony crossed the living room and threw the deadbolt on the door, then slid the chain into place. “There. See? Grandmother can’t get in now.”
Melanie hmmphed and nestled into the crook of Susan’s arm. Jon did the same on her other side, rubbing his cheek absently with his free hand. Susan sighed heavily and tipped her head back against the couch. “Thank you. For the space and the…barrier.”
Antony smiled kindly down at her and brushed her hair back from her face, then leaned over Melanie to kiss her forehead quickly. “As for the barrier, that’s what we’re here for. As for the space…it’s not like we’re giving up on the Plan just because we’re down one rat, Nicodemus.”
“Christ, I’m so tired I can’t even think about it,” Susan confessed.
“It’s been less than a day, Sue,” Antony said gently. “And you’ve had to deal with your mother-in-law. We’re giving you space to think, too.” He straightened. “I’m going to go finish up the stew. What are you drinking tonight? Pulling out the champagne we were saving for Monday seems a bit much, but there’s beer and probably whiskey.”
Susan opened her mouth, looked down at the tiny dark heads, closed it, and sighed. She didn’t normally drink, but…“The hell with it. I’ll take the whiskey.”
She ate because she had to, not because she thought Jon or Melanie wouldn’t if she didn’t but because they were watching her closely and she could not, would not add to their worries, little as they were. It was objectively good food, but she just…didn’t want to eat. She wanted to drink whiskey all night, but that wouldn’t be good on an empty stomach and wasn’t an indulgence she could risk allowing herself anyway, so she made herself eat. She gave Jon and Melanie their bath and read them their bedtime story—unsurprisingly, it was Paddiwack and Cosy for the two hundred and ninth time—then tucked them into Melanie’s brand new “big girl bed” with a kiss. She didn’t even bother putting them head to foot; she hadn’t even made it as far as the light before Melanie had cuddled herself around Jon, while he clutched the back of her nightgown like a lifeline. Their lashes fluttering shut over their cheeks was the last thing she saw before she hit the switch.
Antony, now wearing knockabout clothes, and Gillian were waiting with three tumblers of whiskey when she came out and collapsed next to them. “Tell me this gets easier,” she muttered, reaching for one.
“I don’t know, Susan,” Antony said quietly. “I’ve never lost a spouse before.”
“Well, now we all have,” Gillian said dryly, raising her glass in a mock salute. “At least you don’t have to do this alone.”
“I would not have made it through the last twenty-four hours without you two.” Susan took a swallow of the whiskey and coughed at the burn. “Especially when, as our daughter said, That Fucking Woman showed up this morning.”
“I still cannot believe she said that,” Antony muttered. “I’m just glad she didn’t say it in front of Mabel. We’d be having a double funeral.”
“Triple. You honestly think Jon wouldn’t have said something too?” Susan rubbed her forehead. “Christ. There are so damn many hoops to jump through, and now I have the added joy of having to race Mabel to them.”
“You’d think a reasonable mother would go with what her son would have wanted.” Gillian scowled. “Of course, that assumes the woman who made the appointment to have her grandson baptized without actually consulting his parents could be defined as reasonable.”
“She doesn’t care what he actually would have wanted. It’s all about her,” Susan said, fighting to keep her voice from rising and waking the children. “She wants a full church funeral. She wants him buried in the ‘family plot’ in Bournemouth—they don’t even have a ‘family plot’, it’s just where his father is buried. She wants me wearing all black and not venturing out of the house for a year—”
“Three months. And I don’t think that starts until after the funeral.” Antony hesitated, then asked, “Did, uh—did Paul ever tell her about Lucy?”
“I’m not sure,” Susan admitted. Involuntarily, her free hand went to her stomach, even though she knew there was nothing to feel. “I know he didn’t want her to know until we absolutely had to tell her because he didn’t want her coming up and trying to take over—”
“Gee, I can’t imagine why he would think she might do something like that,” Gillian muttered, glaring in the direction of the door.
“—and, well, he didn’t want her doing too much math, I don’t think,” Susan completed. “She thinks I’m a godless heathen as it is. Last thing she needs to know is about the arrangement.”
“You talk like that’s a formal thing and not just ‘we’re always in one another’s pockets right now so this might as well happen.’” Antony shook his head. “Anyway. We do have a family plot, so she can kiss our collective arse. We’ll reach out to the funeral director tomorrow to start getting that in motion, hopefully before Mabel calls the priest.”
“I’m not sure if they’ll be open on a Sunday, but we can try.”
Gillian groaned. “Christ, tomorrow’s Sunday. You know she’ll talk to the priest as soon as the service ends.”
Susan frowned. “She can do what she likes with the church, even if we don’t attend, but legally there’s nothing she can do about the funeral itself, or the disposition of his body. That was the whole reason behind any of us getting married, wasn’t it? So that nobody else could decide what happened to us after we died?”
“I think it was also for tax purposes.” Gillian took another swig of her whiskey. “The two inevitabilities.”
“And also so we didn’t have to pick out a microwave,” Antony quipped, then grew serious. “Is the office open Monday?”
“Should be. Old Dry as Dust doesn’t like letting the opportunity for billable hours to slip past,” Susan muttered. “I’ll be there with the milk delivery.”
“Whoa, hold up.” Gillian set her glass down with a sharp thump. “You’re going back to work already? Are you saying the son of a bitch you work for won’t let you have two weeks bereavement leave or—”
“No, it’s not work related, I won’t be going back for a couple of weeks at least,” Susan assured her, giving her a quick kiss on the temple. “But our wills are on file with them. I registered his death this morning, just before Mabel turned up, so as soon as I have the death certificate in hand we can apply for probate. And I know that sounds ghoulish, but—”
“No, you’re right. The longer you wait, the more likely it is Paul’s mother tries to do something sneaky and underhanded,” Gillian said with a sigh. “God. I hate that we can’t even grieve him properly because we have to spend all our time trying to stay one step ahead of his mother.”
“You don’t have to—”
“The fuck we don’t. Just because your name is the one on the marriage certificate doesn’t mean we didn’t love him, too. Or you.”
Susan sighed. “I know. I just don’t want to put you two in her crosshairs.”
Antony shrugged. “Better me than either of you. I’m a white man, she’s less likely to treat me like garbage.”
“I really hate that you’re not wrong about that.”
“Paul did, too, which is why he did his level best to cut her out of his life.” Antony glanced down the hall. “He didn’t want Jon or Melanie exposed to that. It’s ironic that the only person in the family who was more their father’s child than their mother’s is the only one that lives close enough to have to deal with her.”
Susan swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Lived, past tense.” She paused, then added, “And his sister’s in Paris, which isn’t that far, all things considered.”
“Seven hours to the three it took her to get to us,” Gillian reminded her. “Where are the others? One’s in Potsdam and the other…”
“Kilmarnock, I think. I forget what her husband does. They were the ones that were too busy to come to Edward’s funeral.” Susan snorted. “I’ll honestly be shocked if they actually turn up for Paul’s.”
Antony hummed. “Well, he was the baby.”
The three of them sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the rattling of the pipes and the soft, sighing snores coming over the baby monitor. Susan finally broke it quietly. “He was so close. So close. Just two more weeks and…it wasn’t even anything impressive. Just a stupid accident.”
“On the other hand,” Antony pointed out, “at least he wasn’t deployed. Imagine if he’d been gone on a mission or whatever and we’d all been looking forward to this being the last Christmas we had to spend apart.”
“I…honestly can’t decide if that would be worse,” Susan confessed. “I’m just thankful we didn’t have to see it.”
Gillian dropped her head to Susan’s shoulder. “At least it was quick. He got a better death than your mum did, or my parents. And, hey, at least we’ve done that part before.”
“True. And we’re not going to school on top of it.” Susan sighed and snuggled deeper into the couch. “I’m so glad you’re both here with me.”
“Where else would we be?” Antony leaned his head against Susan’s. “Face it. You’re stuck with us for life.”
Susan smiled, for the first time in what felt like ages. “You know, I think I can be okay with that.”
patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
[Prologue] || Also on AO3 and my personal website
Chapter 01: Training Wings
“Objection! Your Honor!”
It took every ounce of willpower Antony possessed not to groan and smash his face against the table in front of him. At best, that would earn him a reprimand from Barrister Edmund Hightower; at worst, it would earn him a censure. Neither of which would get him out of here any faster.
He sneaked a glance at the clock on the wall. The short hand was on the wrong side of the five for how close the long hand was to the seven, and still there was no ending in sight. Damn it all, he knew Hightower and the judge both wanted to get this over with today rather than have to come back on Monday, but up against this pettifogging, pompous, litigious moron, it would be more cost effective by far not to eat into the weekend. Their hourly rates didn’t change after normal working hours, but surely they could finish it faster on Monday morning when they were all fresh. There ought to be a law…
“Overruled.” In the judge’s defense, he sounded at least as bored and impatient as Antony felt. “Continue, Barrister.”
Antony tried not to visibly bounce his leg as he willed his superior to get to the point already. Barrister Hightower, however, hurried for no man nor beast, and continued gently, slowly leading the witness on an amble down Primrose Lane, taking time to stop and smell every flower on the path. Christ Almighty, Antony loathed this on a good day, but today of all days, he had next to no time for it.
Why hadn’t he listened to Gillian? Yes, she’d been quite hormonal at the time, what with the illness and the high blood pressure and the small matter of her creating an entire human inside her body, which was a marvel and a miracle Antony couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but she’d also been absolutely correct: a man who would put a case with a five hundred pound payout above a family member going into actual surgery was not a man with the best interests of his subordinates at heart. He ought to have put in his notice, found another practice, and left this one in the dust at least six months ago. Or, truthfully, gone into self-employment like most other barristers did. By rights, he shouldn’t even have had to work this week, but no, he wasn’t needed, he could delegate perfectly well to his aunts and just go up for the actual burial on Saturday. He might have got more of a response if he’d told Hightower how the old man had died, it being a highly publicized incident and all, but knowing Hightower he’d have dismissed it as a mere attempt to capitalize on a tragedy to obtain some personal time.
“Your witness, sir,” Hightower said at last, bowing stiffly to the opposing counsel, who eagerly bounced to his feet, prepared to cross. Antony bit back a sigh and glanced at the clock.
“Impatient, Barrister?” Hightower whispered in his ear.
“I have an appointment…Barrister,” Antony muttered back. And I’m already going to be cutting it fine.
The jury foreman beckoned to the bailiff, then leaned over and whispered in his ear. The bailiff nodded, then turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the jury requests a recess due to the late hour.”
The judge frowned and glanced at the clock. Antony mentally crossed his fingers. “Mrs. Caldwell, I had hoped to finish your testimony today…”
“I don’t mind waiting, sir,” Mrs Caldwell said timidly.
“Objection, Your Honor,” protested the opposing counsel, rising to his feet. “To require my client to wait a whole weekend in order to get answers—”
Antony shot to his own feet before Hightower could, secure in the knowledge that this part was technically his role. In his clipped, careful RP accent, he interjected, “Your Honor, it would be more prejudicial to the case to force the jury to make a decision based on information they obtained so late in the evening after a very long day. For both sides, and for Mrs Caldwell’s sake, we move to recess for the weekend.”
The judge stared at Antony. His gaze dropped briefly to his tie, then back to his face before nodding and reaching for the gavel. “Motion sustained. This court is adjourned until eight o’clock Monday morning.” He banged the gavel twice.
“All rise!” the bailiff bellowed.
There was a general rustling as the court rose, and the judge left the chambers; the jury filed out next, and the defendant was led away, leaving only the barristers. Hightower gave Antony a disappointed look, but said only, “See you on Monday. Sharp, mind.”
“Of course, Barrister,” Antony said crisply.
Hightower nodded and left; the opposing counsel swept out after him, leaving Antony to gather the last of his papers along with the opposing second. The other man, whose name totally escaped Antony, met his eyes and nodded at his neck with a wry grin. “Old school tie, eh?”
“Always know your audience.” Antony grinned back as he shoved the papers haphazardly into his briefcase. “I reckoned he’d be more likely to listen to a fellow Etonite if it came down to it.”
“Of fucking course you went to Eton,” the other barrister mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, that was—”
Antony snorted and let a little of the West Riding back into his voice. “I’ve for sure heard worse, mate. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too.” The other barrister grinned. “Got a hot date, have you?”
Antony, who was halfway out the door, turned around and hopped backwards a few steps as he called back, “It’s my kids’ first birthday.”
It was a cold and rainy day; people shuffled along the sidewalks under black umbrellas or covering their heads with newspapers. Antony had forgotten his umbrella in his hurry that morning to get to the bakery and confirm their order before he had to be in court, and he wasn’t particularly keen on sheltering himself under That Bloody Woman wittering on about Hillsborough or whatever else she’d decided was more important, so he turned up the collar of his coat and hurried down the steps, careful not to slip. Last thing he wanted was to fall and break his neck, today of all days.
A battered estate wagon in a riot of colors that they affectionately called the Harlequin pulled up alongside the steps as he reached the bottom, and the window rolled down. “Get in, mate, it’s pissing out there.”
“Ta.” Antony yanked the passenger side door open and threw himself into the seat, tugging his tie off as he did so. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking your ungrateful arse up.” Paul smiled to take the sting out of his words and waited for Antony to wrestle the belt into submission before pulling away from the curb. “Just got done myself, so I thought I’d swing out this way and make sure you weren’t still here. Buses are going to be hell today.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s Friday and it’s raining.”
“Fair point.” Antony rubbed at his face. “Suppose I should be grateful. At least I don’t have to run around in full kit jumping out of perfectly good airplanes in this weather.”
Paul snorted. “Take a tip from someone who’s spoken to his fair share of gearheads. The phrase ‘perfectly good airplane’ is an oxymoron."
They fell silent for a few minutes as Paul navigated the hellish tangle that was London traffic in preparation for a weekend. Once they were past Trafalgar Square, Paul asked, “So what time is the service tomorrow?”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Antony said, even though he wasn’t looking forward to facing the weekend alone.
“I’m aware. That wasn’t the question I asked, though.” Paul glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “Even setting aside the Plan, you and Gil were there for me at Dad’s funeral, and that involved dealing with Mother. Obviously Sue and I are coming. So again, what time is the service, and are we keeping the kids out or taking them?”
“Auntie Liz will never forgive me if we deprive her of baby time during the funeral, even if they are cutting teeth. Viewing is at eleven, service at noon.”
“Bets on which one’s comes in first?”
Antony couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know why you still bother trying to get me to do that. You know the only thing to actually bet on is who gets to the phone first.”
They passed Downing Street, and out of habit both of them stabbed their middle fingers in the general direction of Number Ten. Antony flopped back against the seat. “If she’s there tomorrow, please stop me from beating her to death with a decorative urn.”
“No promises,” Paul said solemnly. “But I will swear blind that her head just did that all on its own. Doubt it’s likely, though. She visited that kid, she’s done her duty. By the way, remind me, I’ve got a copy of that card for you and Gillian each to keep in your wallets.” He slammed his hand down on the horn and spat a blistering string of invective towards the driver who had just cut him off.
“Good. We’re clearly going to need it.” Antony reached for the Jesus strap.
They made it to St Pancras with just enough time to get their tickets before their train pulled out of the station, and two hours later they stepped out onto the platform in Sheffield. Antony had assumed they would need to catch a cab, but a gruff voice called his name and he turned in surprise to see his grandfather rising from his seat and folding up a newspaper.
“Gramps, didn’t expect to see you here.” Antony gave the old man a tight hug.
“Where else would I be?” Arnie King, the prototype of a Yorkshire miner and still spry despite closing in on a hundred, hugged him back so hard he felt his spine rearrange itself, then turned to give the same embrace to Paul. “Good to see you, too, ye tall bastard.”
“Good to see you, too, Gramps.” Paul, who may not have been as strong or wiry as Arnie but at least could hold his own against him better than a junior barrister, hugged him back. “The girls and the kids get up safe and sound?”
“Aye, they’re all twitterin’ about the place and getting things just so. Hope you weren’t trying to teach them to walk this weekend, I don’t think either one’s feet have touched the ground since they got to the house,” Arnie grumbled as he steered them towards where he had, presumably, parked his truck. “Something to focus on, at least. Why are you dressed up in your funeral best already, boy?”
Antony felt the blush starting up his cheeks as he mumbled, “This is my work suit, Gramps. Gillian brought my suit for the funeral up with her.”
“You’ve got finer feathers than this? Job must be paying well.”
“It was a Christmas present, Gramps.”
Behind his grandfather’s back, Paul patted Antony’s shoulder sympathetically.
The house was a riot of sound, most of it the chattering of women—or, as Antony’s da had uncharitably called it when he’d had a few, the clucking of hens. He’d been the youngest of seven and the only boy, and since only two of his sisters had married—one of them four times to date—and both of them only had daughters, he’d grown up surrounded by women, which was probably why he’d scrimped and saved and put his only son’s name down for Eton as soon as he worked out how to. It wasn’t just to get him out of Sheffield and away from the mines and the steel mills, it was to ensure he was surrounded by more men than women. (In Antony’s private opinion, all it had really accomplished that he couldn’t have done on his own was to keep him from realizing he was bisexual and not gay until he got to Cambridge, but that was neither here nor there.) There was a slightly wobbly record playing on the Victrola, being accompanied by four different voices singing with more spirit than tune from various parts of the house, and Antony’s aunt May was cutting a rug in the middle of the living room with her “friend” Nell.
Antony turned to Paul. “Did we accidentally walk into a World War II Army reunion?”
“No, there’s not enough beer for it to be the Army.” Paul looked around distractedly. “Where are the kids? Or their mothers?”
“Kiss me goodnight, Sergeant Major…” Antony’s aunt Rose came sashaying through the door from the kitchen, singing as she did so and exaggeratedly bumping her hips from side to side, much to the delight of the two tiny tots perched on either one. They clutched at her shirt, giggling in that way babies had that made Antony understand why J. M. Barrie had said the first faeries were created when a baby’s laugh broke into a thousand pieces, as she gyrated towards her oldest sister.
Antony raised an eyebrow. “Found ‘em.”
“Girls! Look who’s here!” May had finally caught sight of Paul and Antony as they tried to edge into the house proper.
“Sergeant Major, be a mother to meeeeee…” Rose casually sashayed back out of the living room. It was incredibly obvious she wasn’t giving up the babes until she was damn well ready to, and maybe not even then.
The rest of Antony’s aunts came out to fuss over him; he bore up with as much grace and good humor as he could, and was extremely thankful that Paul was there to absorb some of it. They were finally released with orders to “go and change into something you won’t be upset about getting icing on” and managed to escape to a guest bedroom. Thankfully, Gillian had, in addition to Antony’s best suit, brought some more comfortable clothes. While part of him would have liked to take a bit more time to hide out, he heard his aunts—and his grandfather, for that matter—singing “There’ll Always Be an England” and knew they didn’t have more time.
He led Paul the back way down the hall and into the kitchen, where, unsurprisingly, they found Susan and Gillian sliding a cake out of the oven, two brown bottles on the counter next to them. Gillian glanced up as they came in, took a look at Antony’s face, and handed him one of the bottles. “Here. You look like you need this.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart,” Antony groused, but he accepted the bottle and did in fact neck half of it in one go. “Christ. I’m sorry I dragged you lot up here for this.”
“You didn’t drag us anywhere, dear, we came voluntarily.” Susan handed Paul her bottle and went to the fridge for two more. “Where did Rose get to with the twins?”
“Has anyone said anything about you calling them that?”
“Are you kidding? Rose has been calling them Nan and Bert all afternoon.” In response to the look Antony gave her, Gillian clarified, “The Bobbsey Twins. American book series that used to be decently popular. I always thought they were dreadfully soppy.”
Paul slung an arm around Antony’s shoulders and squeezed him in a quick hug. “I already told you we were never not going to come for your dad’s funeral, so I know that’s not the ‘this’ you think you dragged us up here for.”
Antony sighed. “No, but great jumping grasshoppers, I know none of you expected us to be celebrating their first birthday up here, with…all of this.”
There was a crackle and a scratch, and then loud applause came from the living room, followed by rhythmic drumming. Susan glanced towards it, then turned back to Antony and shook her head. “What, exactly, would we be doing if we were back in London? Gillian and I would have spent all afternoon prepping on our own and been annoyed that you two were late, and it’s not like we have that many friends in the area who would have come over.”
“I just…feel like this isn’t about the twins.”
“It is. Or at least it is as much as first birthdays usually are.” Gillian took a sip of her own beer. “Face it, these sorts of celebrations aren’t really about the babies, they’re too little to remember it anyway. It’s more a celebration of ‘hey, you managed to keep these fragile little beings alive for a whole year, good job.’ And your grandfather isn’t getting any younger, you know. This might be his only chance to see them on their birthday. The reason we’re up here might be horrible and I feel awful for you—and them—but this part? This is fine.” She glanced towards the living room and added, “Besides, if we were at home we’d be singing nursery songs or trying to wrestle the radio into submission rather than listening to Vera Lynn and the Corries.”
“This is a Corries album?” Antony tilted his head and identified the particular drawl. “Must be a new one.”
“There’s a song about the general election on the B side,” Susan said. She crossed over to the door and stuck her head through. “Oi! Are we ready for cake?”
“Roger! Get the high chairs!” Jean ordered in the sharp voice she hadn’t lost since her time in the WRAC, and from the loud click, Roger—whom Antony still wasn’t sure he should call his uncle, since he was both husband number four and only about twelve years older than he was because his aunt Peg had a taste for younger men—had saluted out of habit.
“Right,” Paul announced as he strode for the living room and stepped in. “Give ‘em here, Auntie Rose, I’ve been on maneuvers for two days and I need my baby fix.”
"Papa, Papa!” Two excited voices cheered in unison.
Antony followed his best friend, feeling a smile cross his face, and entered the living room in time to see Paul scoop the babies into his arms and sweep them over his head with one hand each, much to their mutual delight. He came over to rescue one—didn’t particularly matter which one—and help settle them in the high chairs before their mothers came in and had simultaneous heart attacks.
As he stepped back, he found himself glancing at the newest framed photograph on the wall—the one of his father, grinning like a fool, with a baby under each arm like a rugby ball caught in the act of spinning them around like a helicopter until, as Antony recalled, both had been so overstimulated they threw up. His smile turned a bit melancholy, but he took a deep breath. At least the old man had had one Christmas to enjoy being a grandfather.
“Right!” Liz produced a pair of gold party hats and plunked them down on the infants’ heads. “Where’s that cake?”
“I’m not setting this on fire,” Susan warned from the doorway.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Not at this age. They’re as like to try and eat it as blow it out.” May shooed the rest of her sisters back from the circle and lifted the needle clear of the Victrola. “Go on, then.”
“Here, give me the big plate.” Nell reached over and liberated the majority of the cake from Susan, leaving her to hold two plates with a single slice each on them as Gillian followed her with the rest of the plates and forks.
Susan crossed towards the high chairs and began to sing. “Happy birthday to you…”
All the rest of the family joined in. Antony slung one arm around Gillian and the other around Paul as they sang, watching the two little faces light up as their mama set cake in front of them. Surprisingly, neither one touched it…yet.
“Happy birthday, Jonathan and Melanie…happy birthday to you!”
“And many more…” Edmund, Aunt Dolly’s husband, sang out in a baritone that was surprisingly strong for his age.
May dropped the needle back onto the record, allowing the Corries to introduce their next song before the lilting guitar began playing, and Nell began serving out the cake. Antony accepted a slice from Nell only to see Liz, standing behind her, covering her mouth with one hand as she stared over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“Look at the twins,” Liz managed from behind her hand.
Dreading the mess he was about to see, Antony turned around—and blinked. He could have sworn he hadn’t looked away for more than a second, but both slices of cake were gone. Jonathan was carefully sucking the last of the icing off of his fingers, while Melanie had her plate in both hands and was enthusiastically licking it clean. There wasn’t a crumb to be seen anywhere around either.
“Well, they made short work of that,” Liz said, and now it was clear she was trying to hold back her laughter.
“Did you like that?” Antony asked.
Jonathan dimpled up at him and raised his hands. “Dada,” he said with a winning grin.
Melanie banged her plate against the tray and stretched her hands out, too. “Dada!” she cried, then slapped the plate with an open palm and held out her hands again. Jonathan repeated the gesture.
This was probably a bad idea, but, hell, birthdays only came around once a year, right? Antony turned to the woman who would have been his aunt if the government weren’t such backwards cowards. “Auntie Nell, would you mind cutting another couple of slices for the birthday babes?”
“You’re changing their diapers tonight,” Gillian warned him.
“I’ll change them tomorrow, too.” Antony looked down at the children again, something inside him softening. It would be worth whatever mess was coming to keep them smiling like that. Life would slap them down hard soon enough, but for now, there was still time for them to be innocent and carefree yet. Let them eat cake.
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.
“Oi! Are we ready for cake?”
“Roger! Get the high chairs!” Jean ordered in the sharp voice she hadn’t lost since her time in the WRAC, and from the loud click, Roger—whom Antony still wasn’t sure he should call his uncle, since he was both husband number four and only about twelve years older than he was because his aunt Peg had a taste for younger men—had saluted out of habit.
“Right,” Paul announced as he strode for the living room and stepped in. “Give ‘em here, Auntie Rose, I’ve been on maneuvers for two days and I need my baby fix.”
"Papa, Papa!” Two excited voices cheered in unison.
