This story began as a little missing scene of Patrick remembering his first days as a new father of Timothy while holding new-born Teddy. And then it took a life of it's own and grew into a multiple-chapter backstory of Patrick.

I am eternally grateful to RogueSnitch, a wonderful person and talented writer, for betaing and for encouraging me to publish the story – however any errors are mine exclusively.

December 1962

It was a week before Christmas when Patrick Turner parked his car in front of his house. He remained seated for a few minutes to catch his breath. It had been a very busy day. His surgery was full of flu patients; this year, a particularly nasty strain of the virus must have hit the whole country. There had been the mother and baby clinic, too, then afternoon rounds and, just when he wanted to call it a day, an accident at the docks.

He checked his watch. It was 8.30 p.m., past dinner, and Angela would be sound asleep already. He sighed. He always regretted arriving home late but ever since the birth of his youngest son four weeks ago, he had a particularly guilty conscience. After all, Shelagh had not yet fully recovered from giving birth and deserved some rest - at least during evenings. And Patrick hated not being able to see three-year-old Angela awake for at least a few moments before tucking her in - if she let him. Recently, with baby Teddy requiring so much of their mother's attention during the daytime, Angela was more in favour of Shelagh taking her to bed.

Patrick climbed out of his car, retrieved his doctor's bag from the boot and crossed the few steps to the front door. He let himself in and smiled at the smell. It smelled of baking. Shelagh must have made some biscuits. She had told him this morning that she planned to bake but - just as anything she wanted to do these days - it would have depended on Teddy's moods. Apparently, he must have been in a good mood.

Patrick hung his coat on the coat rack and placed his hat on the shelf above. He almost fell over Timothy's winter boots and carefully swept them aside using his foot. Timothy, who used to complain over an untidy flat now kept making extensive use of the space they had gained with their new house, Patrick thought. "Oh well," he muttered. Since their housekeeper Mrs. Penney had asked for an extended leave in order to care for her terminally ill sister, the house was not as orderly as it used to be, even though Shelagh tried more than she ought to keep up with the chaos.

Patrick had taken over the duty of washing dishes at night and cleaning anything that littered the dining table in the evening so the family could have breakfasts in the morning without much delay. It was not much, he was painfully aware, but he felt he should at least do something around the house.

The house was quiet and light shone into the hallway from the sitting room. Patrick assumed his wife would be in there with the baby and was astonished to find his two sons there but no sight of Shelagh. Timothy sat on the sofa, reading a book. Next to him, swaddled into a neatly crocheted blanked, courtesy of Sister Monica Joan, the baby was sound asleep.

"Good evening, Timothy," Patrick greeted his son.

"Dad", Timothy exclaimed, startled. "You are late again."

"I am. And I am sorry," Patrick replied. "Emergency at the docks. Young lad got hit badly by a loosened conveyor – but he was lucky, he only suffered a few bruises and a shock. He should be fully recovered within a few weeks."

"There is some leftover pie in the kitchen," Timothy said. "And do you mind me going to my room now, could you watch the baby? Mum must have fallen asleep while tucking Angela in. She's been upstairs for about an hour now. I really have to finish some homework," the boy said.

"Thank you, son, for watching the baby," Patrick said. When did his boy get so reasonable and mature, he wondered. "I'll stay here with him, up you go." He paused briefly, looking at Teddy before turning to Timothy again. "But before you leave, how was your day? We don't get to speak much these days, do we?"

Timothy shrugged his shoulders. "No, we don't really," he said. "My day was all right. Not much to tell. Mum had a bit of a day, though."

"Why was that?" Patrick asked.

"She had to pick up Angela early from the nursery because she had a fever".

"A fever? Why didn't she call me?" Patrick sounded alarmed.

"Dad, mum is a nurse, remember? She can handle a fever. And it was only a mild one; Angela seemed quite well when I came home. She was baking biscuits with mum."

"I see," Patrick sighed, calmed. He was a doctor, after all. Whenever someone in his family was taken ill, he could not help but be alarmed. "Let me check on them quickly and I'll take over with the baby, alright?" he said.

Getting up from the sofa and turning towards the stairs, he was stopped in his movement by Timothy carefully asking, "Oh, Dad?"

"What is it, son?"

"There is something else. I…erm, I need to go to the hairdresser's," Timothy went on reluctantly.

"You don't need me to go with you?" Patrick asked bewildered. "I thought you had been going on your own for quite a while now."

"No," Timothy replied with a little more force than necessary. "It is just… mum normally sends me there every few weeks and she also gives me the money. But I think she forgot. And I don't dare ask her with all the things she has to do right now."

"Oh Timothy," Patrick smiled, "Take what you need out of my wallet. It is in my coat pocket. And I am certain your mother won't mind if you ask her about such matters."

"Thanks, Dad," Timothy replied.

Patrick went upstairs, being careful to avoid any loud noises when opening the door to Angela's room. His heart warmed at the sight of his daughter and wife curled up together in Angela's bed. He decided to let Shelagh get some well-deserved rest. She would no doubt wake to Teddy's tears when he was hungry, until then, she deserved to catch up on some sleep.

Patrick softly closed the door and went back downstairs again. When he entered the kitchen he stopped briefly, noticing all sorts of baking dishes and utensils dispersed on the work counter and the dining table. This was an unusual sight and Patrick thought how discomforting it must have been for Shelagh, not having had the time for tidying up the kitchen before she had to feed the baby and then put Angela to bed.

He always admired how she managed to prepare food, tidying up as she went along so that by the time whatever she was preparing was ready, the kitchen looked spotlessly clean. Unlike him, who somehow managed to spill water from the kettle and dust the floor with coffee grounds when simply preparing himself a cup of Nescafé.

Patrick carefully placed a piece of the pie Timothy had mentioned on a plate. He didn't mind eating it cold; after years of hastily grabbing his meals in between appointments he had become used to eating food at any temperature, whenever it was available. He also poured himself a glass of water and tucked the newspaper that lay on the kitchen table under his arm. He would read it while the baby was still asleep. Ever since Teddy was born, he rarely had chance to look at the paper and was intrigued to see what was going on in the world beyond Poplar for half an hour or so, if he was lucky.

When Patrick entered the living room again, Timothy hastily closed the book he was reading and got up from the sofa. Patrick sat down and asked, "What's that you're reading?"

"A book on psychology," Tim said and turned away, aiming to leave the room, clearly uninterested in talking to his father any longer.

Just then, a yellow envelope fell out of his book. While the boy hastily bent down to pick it up Patrick caught a glimpse of "Timothy" written on it in neat handwriting.

"Oh, what is this?" he could not help but ask.

Timothy blushed and quickly slid the envelope back into his book. "Just a letter," he snapped and turned around to make his way upstairs.

Patrick chuckled. His oldest son was indeed growing up fast now. Timothy had always been a chatty boy but recently his parents found it increasingly difficult to elicit any kind of information from him. And if asked, he usually replied with cheek or some cryptic answer, indicating that he would rather not be bothered. Patrick knew this was how it was supposed to be but still, he missed his little boy.

He then turned to his baby son, still sound asleep in his little basket, and bent down inhaling in the scent of the new-born. "I love you, little chap," he whispered. As with baby Angela, the arrival of Teddy had brought back a lot of memories of his first marriage and of the unforgettable moment of becoming a father for the first time. And even though it had been a happy time back then with baby Timothy and his mother, Patrick's two younger children sometimes made him painfully aware of how much he had missed when Timothy was little.

After Timothy had been born, mostly Marianne and her mother had taken care of the baby since Patrick had been so busy with his work, especially with rolling out the new National Health in Poplar. Back then he had been home even less than he was now. He hardly recalled any milestone from Timothy's early months which he deeply regretted. He did not want to repeat this mistake with his younger children.

Patrick had enjoyed being able to bottle feed Angela during her early months. He had insisted on feeding her even on nights when he had come home late, despite Shelagh's protests. She had wanted him to rest and go to bed, but he insisted, explaining how much more relaxing it was for him to sit with the baby, to feed and to hold her until she was fast asleep. All of this, he told his wife, was bringing him more peace than anything else in the world could.

Out of a sudden need to hold his youngest son, Patrick gently picked up Teddy, careful not to wake him. Had Tim and Angela also been this little? He could hardly remember. The baby felt warm in Patrick's arms and the proud father examined the little boy's features. He could clearly see his wife's eyes and mouth and her fair hair. The nose, he was not so sure, could be his own. Not for the first time, he thought about taking a look at Timothy's baby pictures. Even though Teddy took strongly after his mother, there also was a certain resemblance to baby Timothy, Patrick thought every time he looked at Teddy.

Patrick took in a deep breath. Timothy was on the brink of being an adult. Apparently receiving letters from girls now. The boy was seriously considering attending medical school, secretly making his father even more proud of him, and it would not be long until he left home.

Turning sixteen in a few months, Timothy might even get married and have a child of his own before his younger siblings even became teenagers, Patrick suddenly realized. He occasionally caught himself becoming self-conscious, thinking about the fact that most of Angela's and Teddy's age mates had fathers way younger than himself. He would probably be closer in age to their grandfathers. Whenever she sensed his concern, Shelagh reassured him that age did not matter when it came to being a good father.

Patrick shook his doubts away and began to lightly stroke the tiny, chubby fingers of his baby, with his own long and slender ones. He marvelled in the softness of the baby's skin. His heart leapt and warmth filled his stomach. Had he known he would sit like this one day, holding a baby that had arrived against all odds, how much of the anger, sadness and despair he had felt in his life would have been unnecessary, he thought. But then, all that he had gone through was what had made him into the person he was now. Then, his mind began wandering off into his past, all of which combined had eventually led him here, on this sofa with his and Shelagh's son in his arms.