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He and Carol were always having to remind Daley not to pick at his scabs. Didn’t matter how many scraped knees, battered elbows or bashed up shins the boy got, he couldn’t leave them alone. Didn’t matter how many times Pat or Carol would tell the lad that it would take longer to heal or get infected or leave a big old scar, Daley just couldn’t help it. The plaster would be off and his fingers would find the scab, over and over again, until he got a new scrape – or a new toy, perhaps. Carol would roll her eyes and tell him, Daley, we’ve talked about this, I’ll put mittens on your hands – I will – but Pat would just smile through his teeth, tell the lad not to worry, try to keep him busy, but inside, he’d be squirming. It drove him almost round the bend, but he bit it down – what good would it have done to Daley if he hadn’t?
Thing was, Pat was pretty darn good at leaving things alone, of not picking the scab. He’d only needed to be told once that it was rubbing dirt into the wound and undoing all the body’s hard work and that it could lead to infection, and he wasn’t going to risk that! He’d had trees to climb, orienteering to do, and he wouldn’t have been able to do that from a hospital bed! And well, maybe Pat had always been just a little too good at not scratching an itch.
Not to say that there was anything wrong with sticking to what you knew and not asking questions or prying or digging too deep. After all, why start a new book when you could just go back to your reliable Horatio Hornblower books, delve back into the latest Sharpe novel, or flick through the Scouting manual? Why try out the new Italian when it was Fish and Chip Friday and you knew the saveloy hit the spot? Why quit your job at bank when you knew all the people, all the rules, all the rhythms? Why quit when it at least paid well and kept you busy? Why take up Bingo when you had the Scouts and the radio? Why try the avocado when you knew the scrambled egg was delish? Why ask your mother about what happened to the aunt no one talked about anymore when you could ask about her favourite brother instead? Why ask your best friend why all his clothes were strewn up your staircase when you could just say hello? Why ask your wife if she fancied trying out somewhere new, rather than going ahead and booking the same pub you’d been having your anniversary dinner in since your twenties, when you knew it was traditional and that the sausage and mash was brill?
Rocking the boat hurt. Drawing blood hurt. And that’s not to say it wasn’t ever necessary. You had to ask, after all, if everything was alright with Billy Brighstone when he came in with un-ironed uniform four weeks in a row and then didn’t want to go home in the evenings. You had to change up your greetings when the new neighbours moved in and poor Mr Malcolm got spooked every time you grinned out a Hello! You had to rip the scab when an important piece of Lego disappeared and your four-year-old was looking shifty and it was a good thing you had because he’d pushed it up his nose, just to see what would happen if he did.
Still, Pat was usually happier to let things amble along at their own pace, to leave the rocks where they were, to keep the doors to the spooky basement shut. Ghost stories were great, sea anemones were fascinating and driving fast could be good fun, but it was better to just let these things happen. Pat went to the bank, listened to show-tunes, read one chapter of one book per night. He took Daley to football and to swimming, he went through the badges, A through to Z, with his Scouts, and then he repeated it, and then he repeated it again.
He didn’t like to pick at old wounds, or new ones, come to think of it, but, since his demise – since – certain revelations – had come to light – since, well, since someone had whipped off the plaster without warning him first – since then, it was hard not to dig his fingers into wounds he’d forgotten about, to push against bruises he hadn’t known were there.
When, for example, had it all started? Near the end? Right from the start? Somewhere in the middle? Had anyone else known? Had Daley known? Did Daley ever call Morris Dad and at which point had that begun, if it ever had? How long had Carol waited before moving Morris in? How had she explained it all to Daley? Was Pat really that dull? How could he have done things differently? If he had agreed to go to that new Italian, would things have changed? Had he always, sort of known, deep, deep down, that something was going on and just chosen to look the other way, to where all the flowers were still in bloom, all the butterflies still fluttering in the sun? Had everyone been secretly laughing behind his back, and not in charming, family-joke sort of way, but in a straightforward what-an-idiot way? Was Patrick Jr’s middle name actually Morris and if it was, did that mean they had equal footing in Daley’s regard? Had Carol ever really loved him? Had Morris ever really liked him? What would have happened if he’d mentioned how odd it was that Morris’s knickers were on his stairs? What would have happened if an arrow hadn’t gone through his neck? Would he and Carol have got a divorce? Would they have gone to the Italian place? Would Daley have still called his son Patrick, if Patrick had still been around? Would he ever have left the bank? What would have happened if, on that day in Blackpool, in ‘81, he’d asked Carol if she was happy, and then actually questioned the no in her yes instead of offering to buy her a Flake 99 as if that would solve everything? What did Carol really think of him now and did she only visit for Daley’s sake? Had she and Morris ever told anyone that –
It got worse when his Death Day was approaching. The questions, unanswerable most of them, would itch in his mind all day, one new one every half an hour, one more horrible thing to consider. And Pat did consider them, as much as he tried not to. But not in a way that Alison would call healthy or healing, not what she’d describe as ‘engaging’ with your feelings. Pat would just let it run round his head, over and over, until the Death Day arrived, along with Morris, Carol, Daley, Daley’s wife, Kavita, and of course, Pat Jr, and then he’d be able to leave them mostly alone, sort of, for the next year.
Now though, it was the 27th October, a sunny, clear day and all Pat could think about was what if he’d said, yes, alright, I’ll come down to Bingo with you, that night in '82, when Carol’s mum had not long died, and she was down in the dumps and had blown a lot of money on a new haircut and that meant they weren’t going to be able to get the man in to do up the garden like they usually did, and it was a Thursday, so Pat was working on the bus for the Scouts that evening so he couldn’t possibly have gone to Bingo, except, he could have, because he was just washing the windows, and hadn’t Carol come back late that night, hadn’t Morris dropped her home, hadn’t Bingo overrun by five hours, and hadn’t Daley asked has Mummy gone out? Has she gone out with Uncle Morris? and hadn’t Pat put a stop to any suspicion in his mind right there and then without even prodding, without even wondering, and what if he’d just gone to the Bingo? What if he hadn’t been such a – such a – wazzock – about the whole thing?
Did it really matter though? Could little things like that really change the world? Could a little scratching at a scab really cause so much damage? Look at Daley now – strong, successful, alive, despite it all. What if, what if, what if?
‘Oh! They’re here! Pat, Pat, Pat! They’re here!’ Kitty had come rushing in to the kitchen, bright smile on her face, that fell when she noticed his expression. ‘Has something happened? Has someone died? Has someone –’
‘No, Kitty, love. Nothing like that. Just being sentimental,’ Pat forced a smile back onto his own face and Kitty seemed to relax. She smiled again and Pat wondered – how much were they all pretending? How often were people lying, even now? How could you ever trust anyone? No. He needed to sit on his hands – or rather, his thoughts – stop right there, now, stop picking.
He stood up from his place at the table and followed Kitty out to the front of the house. And there they were. Morris, short as ever, Carol, still beautiful, Daley, with a rucksack on his back and looking ready for anything, Kavita, smiling at Daley, at Carol, at the little man, Pat Jr, running now, when last year he was still toddling. Pat’s heart swelled, ached in his chest. He returned Kitty’s expectant smile, nodded at The Captain, looked appreciatively at Alison as she made her way towards Carol and co.
If he had of gone to that game of Bingo, if he had asked about the clothes, if the arrow hadn’t gone through his neck, if they’d eaten at the Italian, if he’d have left the bank, if he’d been into Dune and Lord of the Rings instead of Sharpe – what then? Would Pat Jr still exist? Would Daley be so happy? And what – what about the little family Pat had for himself here, mismatched as it was, as difficult and ridiculous as they could all be – what about that? If anything had changed, if he and Carol – if Carol and Morris – if Daley – if, if, if. Stop, Pat told himself firmly, then, no. Gently, he told himself, no more, leave it alone, you’ve got what you’ve got and it’s alright, at the end of the day, it’s alright.
Pat Jr came hurtling towards the house suddenly, cheeky grin on his face, and he was heading straight towards Pat. Carol had spotted the runaway, and she was coming after him, and Pat had almost called out, don’t worry, love, he’s with me, but he was dead. He was dead and Pat Jr was still running and Carol had nearly caught up with him, and they both looked right past Pat, but it was alright. He pulled at the edges of his shorts, just something to do with his hands, with his mind.
‘He run fast!’ Robin said, pointing to the little boy who was laughing, veering off from his original course and heading towards the gates instead. ‘No bear catch him!’
‘Indeed, Pat – he would make a fine solider – or Scout – one day,’ The Captain said.
‘Doesn’t stick to the rules either’ Julian added. ‘Good for him.’
‘But he’s so cute,’ Kitty said. ‘Just look at him! And you’re right, Pat, he really does have your knees!’
Pat smiled, lifted his glasses to wipe at his eyes. He might have eternity to pick at old scabs and think on all the what ifs but he only had today to see his grandson when he was four. Next year, he’d be five, then six, then seven, and what had happened had happened and no amount of thinking could change that. Pat replaced his glasses and watched, proudly, as the little boy tripped, picked himself up, dusted off his knees, and carried on running.