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The dream was mild. In fact, it wasn’t a dream that would normally wake him, even if it was connected to those long days of 1944. There was no blood, no dying soldier, no encampment ringing with the sound of an intense shelling. It was only him, holding his bag, looking out of the window as the troop transport left London. He could see his face in the reflection of the glass, unlined and unaware of what was ahead. And even as awareness that he was dreaming overtook him, it seemed as if he could not awaken, and would have to remain on the train, moving forward toward the front.
Patrick opened his eyes. It was dark. Next to him Shelagh slept quietly. One hand was tucked neatly underneath her pillow. He didn’t wish to wake her, but was unable to resist gently smoothing a lock of hair from her cheek. She was unburdened for the moment and he was determined to let her rest. The last few weeks had been hard enough on them all. His arm dully throbbed as he carefully sat up. Colles fracture generally healed in eight weeks, though in some cases it could take months. Barely two weeks since the accident, Patrick glumly realized he still had quite some time before he could begin physiotherapy.
Restless, he left the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. Timothy was already back at medical school, but he didn’t wish to wake the little ones. Yet as he neared Teddy’s bedroom, he could see that his youngest son was also sitting upright, hands held in tight little fists as he rubbed his eyes. “What’s all this?” he whispered, walking into the room. “You’re meant to be asleep!”
Teddy hopped onto the floor. “I’m not sleepy,” he said, hugging Patrick around the leg. “Did you go to work, Daddy?”
The children were used to him coming and going at odd hours. But there was a locum in place now and Patrick was becoming accustomed to being home at night. “I’m still recovering,” he reminded, showing Teddy his cast. “Bones take quite a lot of time to mend!”
“I want to color it again!”
The plaster was covered with drawings now, barely any white space left. “In the morning,” Patrick said, arranging Teddy’s blankets. “Back to bed, little soldier.”
“I need a drink of water,” was Teddy’s immediate answer.
It was quiet upstairs, the girls and Shelagh sleeping. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” Patrick said, holding a finger to his lips to show that Teddy must keep his voice down. “You’ll have your drink and we’ll go back to bed.”
Nodding eagerly, Teddy stepped into the corridor, exaggerating his silence by walking on tip-toe. Patrick couldn’t help but smile. Teddy was always lively, full of fun and an eagerness to enjoy everything he did. Going downstairs in the dark was an adventure for him and his eyes were wide as Patrick turned on the lights in the kitchen.
“It’s really dark!” He pointed to the window. “I can’t see the garden!”
“I promise that it’s still out there,” Patrick said with a wink.
Teddy groaned. “Dad!”
His exasperation was stated in a tone so like Timothy’s that Patrick’s heart constricted. Sometimes it still sneaked up on him that Teddy was already five years old. It hardly seemed possible for Timothy to be twenty, and in medical school. But there was a certain melancholy to knowing that Teddy was the youngest and that his babyhood had ceased.
Filling a glass with water, he handed it to his son, but hesitated in sending him straight back to bed. A memory came to him of late evenings with Tim. “How about some fried bread?”
“At night?” Teddy’s wide eyes grew even wider. “Yeah!”
There had been trial and error in learning to use his right hand for everyday tasks. But he was somewhat ambidextrous by nature and capable with tools and instruments in either hand. Cooking had always been another matter with him, however, but he did well enough to butter the bread and flip it with a fork.
Teddy was content to kick his legs at the kitchen table, making a list of all the things that looked different in the dark. “The stairs look taller,” he said, tilting sideways in his seat to look beyond the stairs to the play area underneath. “Maybe I could sleep on the pillows,” he suggested.
Part of him worried that he should not keep Teddy up so late, but it was the weekend. And it felt good to care for his son and to not dwell on dreams from the past. “You’re meant to sleep in your bed!” Patrick took the burnt piece of toast for himself and presented Teddy with a perfectly golden slice.
“Maybe I can pretend to sleep there,” Teddy continued, waiting for a serviette, just as his mother had taught him. “And trick May and Angela!”
Patrick laughed. “Maybe you shouldn’t trick your sisters!”
Scrunching up his face, Teddy said, “Maybe.”
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, Teddy’s bread rapidly disappearing. Patrick thought to ask him if he wanted another, but stopped himself, realizing one piece of rich bread was probably enough for a little stomach. He finished his own piece and sat back in his chair, eyes feeling somewhat heavier than they had before.
“Why do you do that, Daddy?”
Blinking hard, Patrick looked at his son. “Do what?”
“This,” Teddy said, holding up his little hand and rubbing his forefinger against his thumb.
“Oh.” Patrick looked at his right hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d been rubbing his fingers together. “It helps me to think,” he said, not wishing to fill Teddy’s head with any scary thoughts. The last few weeks had been frightening enough. “And to feel calm.”
“Like when we pray,” Teddy said, pushing his plate away. “Mummy says prayer calms the soul.”
“Yes,” Patrick agreed. “Your Mummy is very smart.”
“She prayed quite a lot after you got hurt.” Teddy frowned. Reaching out, he touched Patrick’s cast. “Are trains bad?”
The memory of his dream flashed across Patrick’s mind. “No,” he said, using his right hand to hold Teddy’s. “Something bad happened to me on a train, but that doesn’t make trains bad.”
“I had a train,” Teddy said, fidgeting in his chair. “But I put it in the toy chest and covered it up.”
After the war, after Northfield, Patrick was determined to move ahead. The only way forward, he reasoned, was to push down every scary thought and feeling until the fear was so small that he would not have to deal with it. He hid it away and covered it, hoping it would never again see the light of day.
And now he’d been in a terrible accident. He had been very lucky to walk away with only the broken wrist and concussion. The horrifying realization of the wreck stayed with him more clearly than the impact itself. Some things were still fuzzy in his mind. He did not know how he ended up on the floor of the carriage. He did not remember the snap of his wrist. But he did remember yearning for home. For Shelagh, for their children, for a moment just like this one--sitting in his pyjamas with his beloved son.
“Did you hide the train because it was frightening?”
Teddy touched the wrist plaster once more. “I didn’t want you to be sad.”
“Oh.” Patrick left his seat to kneel in front of Teddy. “I’m not sad now. And never when I’m with you.”
Launching forward, Teddy hugged his neck.
Resting his right hand against Teddy’s back, Patrick squeezed him tightly. “Come on,” he said, pulling back and grinning. “Let’s find your toy.”
Teddy tip-toed to the sitting room, opening the top to the chest. Taking a seat with him on the floor, Patrick helped him to dig past several dolls, an art pad, dress-up clothing, and blocks. And there, at the very bottom of the box, was the familiar black and yellow train. With a triumphant tug, Teddy pulled it free. “My train!” He held it up in the air, swooshing it about.
“Is it a flying train?” Patrick grinned.
“It flies and it never crashes!” Teddy looped the train, making a variety of train and airplane sounds as it flew.
The sight of his son playing with the train was a familiar one. Resting his back against the settee, Patrick watched him for a moment before accepting the toy as Teddy handed it to him. Teddy leaned against Patrick’s side. Placing the train onto the small table, Patrick pushed it along. “I used to have a toy train,” he said, watching the tiny wheels move. “When I was a boy.”
“You did?” Teddy was amazed. “Did they have trains then?”
From Timothy it would be an insult. From Teddy it was a legitimate question. Still, Patrick scoffed. “Yes, there were trains when I was a lad,” he answered. “You’ve spent too much time with your brother.”
“Timmy said you might be sad. He told me and Angela and May to take care of you.”
Tears pricked at Patrick’s eyes. His children were precious. “It’s my and Mummy’s job to take care of you,” he said, hugging Teddy close. “But you and your sisters and Timothy--and your Mummy--are the best medicine I could ever have.”
Teddy giggled before yawning widely. “I’m not medicine! Medicine is--!” He wrinkled his nose to give his opinion.
“Medicine helps when you’re sick,” Patrick answered, standing and helping Teddy back to his feet. “And sleep helps when you're sleepy.”
“But I’m….” Teddy yawned again. “Can we have more fried bread for breakfast?”
“We’ll ask your mother,” Patrick answered as they climbed the stairs. At the landing, he ruffled his son’s hair and sent him to use the toilet before sleep.
Teddy’s room was quiet, dim light filtering in through the curtains. It felt safe and warm and after just a moment, Teddy came in and climbed into his bed. Placing a blanket over him, Patrick leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Goodnight, little soldier.”
Half-asleep already, Teddy whispered his own goodnight. Standing at the door, Patrick watched as the little boy fell immediately back into a deep sleep. A fanciful piece of his mind hoped that Teddy’s dreams would be of flying trains.
Returning downstairs, he tidied their dishes and placed them into the sink. The toy chest was closed, but the train remained on the table. Patrick picked it up. In many ways, the war would always be with him. It was too enormous to ignore and too many years of his life to forget. His own resilience, the gentle therapy he’d received, and Shelagh’s boundless love helped him to manage. He did not have to hide it away any longer, but he did have to coexist with it.
And now there was the train, and further realization that life was precious and all too brief. But he survived and returned to his family. And he was healing. It was a relief to realize that he did not have to carry the burden of it with him, as he carried the war.
Spinning the wheels once more, he carefully placed the train back onto the table. Teddy would want to play again in the morning.
Moments later, he entered his bedroom. Quietly, he removed his slippers and eased into the bed. But even as he settled, he felt Shelagh turn and then her arm was crossing his stomach to hold him. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered.
“Perhaps I wanted a slice of fried bread,” she murmured, kissing his chest.
Laughing softly, he cuddled her close. “Then you’re in luck. Teddy’s requested it again for breakfast.”
“Has he?” Amusement was in her tone as she said, “We’ll see.” Moving against him, she placed her palm against his cheek. “Is everything…” she paused only momentarily. “Well?”
Patrick leaned into her touch, turning his head to kiss her palm . “Completely,” he promised, relaxed and sleepy. “I’m a lucky man.” Even in the darkness he could see her dazzling smile.
“We’re the lucky ones,” she countered, cuddling against his arm. “Rest now.”
With a contented exhale, he relaxed against his wife, and hoped to meet his son in his dreams.