Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

30

Frederick couldn't believe how well the old man took it. And he hadn't lied, either. He had taken the medal and the handkerchief without thinking after seeing how much both had meant to Mister Dibbs. Even Frederick, who would never fail to admit wasn't the smartest of people, could see that the handkerchief was important and that the medal was only one of two things the old man displayed. The old, faded photograph the other.

Only after he had taken them, intending, from the very first second, to frame them for Mister Dibbs, did he realise what he had done, how upset the old geezer would become seeing them gone. Then, as he worried and hesitated, as the hours turned into days and the days to weeks, he could never find the courage to say anything, or take them back. It had spiralled away from him, so he had set to doing what he had wanted to do right at the start.

Mum had noticed the handkerchief and assumed Mister Dibbs had allowed him to take it, so certain that her son was not a thief. But he was. It didn't matter that he had taken them for a good reason and nor did it matter that Mister Dibbs had effectively forgiven him. Frederick knew what he had done and it still made him feel sick knowing it.

"And these are from me. I saw Frederick had yours and when he told me what he was doing, I thought you'd let him. Anyway, I took a picture of your handkerchief and, well, here. Happy birthday, Mister Dibbs." Mum pressed her present into Mister Dibbs' hand, tearing his eyes from the letters on the doormat. "They aren't the same, obviously, but they can still remind you of the real one."

"Aye. Thank thee, lass. And I think it's past time thy called me Alfie." Once again, the old man took great care opening the wrapping paper and smiled at what he revealed. "That's smashing. Thank thee very much, Ms Matheson. They're lovely."

"I'll call you 'Alfie' when you call me 'Esther'." Mum had that kind of smile on her face that she wore whenever Frederick opened his birthday presents. A strange, sad kind of happiness that Frederick never really understood. "Deal?"

Mister Dibbs didn't answer straight away. Instead, he lifted out one of the new handkerchiefs from the box, draping it over his hand, his thumb passing over the embroidery that looked exactly the same as that on the original handkerchief. This one was a lot whiter than the old one and Frederick had tried to get the old one cleaner, but age had dyed the material to a dull, off-white colour that no amount of washing could dislodge.

"Aye ... I mean, nay, lass. I reckon as I'm not quite so presumptuous as to use thy first name, but thy's welcome to call me as thee likes." That made Mum's eyes roll, and one of her usual sucking-at-her-teeth sounds that said she didn't care for the answer. Mister Dibbs wouldn't understand that at all, Frederick mused. "I shall still call thee Ms Matheson, if thy don't mind. Ee! The Duchess'd give me an earful! I shall make a cuppa. Please, sit."

The old man took great care to fold that handkerchief and place it in his pocket, where he would once put the original one, giving the pocket a couple of light taps as he withdrew his hand. To Frederick, it looked as though the old man had a fresh spring to his walk, as though he had dropped a weight he carried. He had reached the kitchen before mum could protest, if she even wanted to.

She moved to the sofa and patted the cushion at her side, but Frederick had noticed the old man looking at the letters. To save Mister Dibbs bending over, Frederick dashed back into the hallway, grabbed the letters and rushed back. He had no need to run, but he preferred to. As he started to put the letters on the table, he noticed the front of one, stamped with a big, blue 'NHS' and a name of a hospital. Not a hospital that Frederick knew, he wouldn't, of course, but perhaps Mister Dibbs did.

"Mister Dibbs, you've got something from a hospital here. It looks important." Frederick flipped it over, looking at the back, then flipped it back again. "It says 'Cardiology Unit'."