𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔

PART FIFTEEN

Word count; 2,153

Frances

I twisted my key, pushing open the door and reminding Pat to wipe his shoes. Putting my handbag on the nearby table, I picked up the vase of dying tulips from it, remembering that was another chore to do.

"Baby?" Papa called, more to guide me toward him than to see if it was me.

I looked over my shoulder, at Pat who had a paper bag of groceries in his arms. "Through there, hon."

He nodded, following my order as I stepped aside.

"Could you bring me my glasses, baby?"

Already having grabbed them from beside the vase, I smiled. He was in the living room, a small chamber to the left of the entrance hall. Normally bereft of human affection, we rarely resided there, preferring the natural sunlight of the kitchen or back garden.

"What are you doing in here, Papa?"

He was wobbling around with his walking stick, flipping through pieces of sheet music.

"Mrs Hughes insisted."

"She was here?"

"You just missed her."

Before I was born, and into the early depths of my childhood, Papa was a part of a band, able to pick up any instrument and play it flawlessly. Though, his favourite was the guitar and he was rarely seen without it; down at the town cafe, at the park, at school. Unfortunately, he had to abandon it as he grew victim to the troubles of his age. Nothing could stop Mrs Hughes from insisting, however.

I handed him his glasses, still carrying around the vase of flowers, "You need to stand your ground, Papa."

He bobbed his head softly, shoving on his glasses and admiring the sheet music in a despondent nostalgia. Behind me, hard footsteps met with the ground, more gently as if he didn't want to startle those he approached. Papa looked up, able to hear more strongly than anyone I knew.

"This is-"

"Melvin Russel." Pat answered, craving to shake the hand of the man in front of him but seeing he had none free. "But I go by Pat."

"Or Tomato." I interjected, remembering the fond nickname from when he was a patient at the Manor.

He raised his brows, utterly surprised.

"I used to take care of him. Before... Scotland."

"Which I'll forever be in her debt for."

Settled by the fact it wasn't another man from Operation Judy, Papa looked over the top of his glasses at me, "Are you sure you're not spawning these gentlemen?"

I gushed, "Papa!"

"She is, actually, I-"

"Don't start, Tomato!" I reprimanded.

"Will you be joining us at Mrs Hughes this evening?"

Pat paused, allowing me to answer, "Is it all right if he borrows some clothes?"

"Of course, of course, baby." He cleared his throat. "If he can fit in any of them. What are you, three times my size?"

Not giving Pat the time to respond, I ushured him away, "We'll be back."

Almost hearing Papa shake his head, I hurried through to the kitchen, shoving the vase into the sink. When I returned to Pat, he was waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs, examining a photo on the wall.