There comes a time in every father’s life when he has to face certain questions…

Inspired by an anonymous prompt on CtMficpromts.

Timothy Turner was having a bad day. Walking home from the play yard, he glumly kicked a stone down the length of the road, hands in his pockets, chin to his chest. So wrapped up in his thoughts, he took no notice of the green car that slowed to match his pace.

“Timothy?” his father called from the driver’s seat for the third time. “Tim!” more sharply.

Finally coming back to the surface, Timothy glanced over to his dad, but quickly looked away.

Patrick Turner pulled the car up ahead and stopped at the curb. Getting out of the car, he rested his arms on the roof of the car. His eyes were concerned, but he kept his voice cheerful. “I’ve nearly finished my calls. Only one more stop, and that’s Major Sheldon. How about you come along, and we’ll get some chips by the river after?” Food was usually the best way to get Tim to open up.

“Mum wouldn’t like it. She says we eat too much fried food. And it’s almost tea time.” It seemed Tim was unwilling to be helped from his mood.

“Mum has to stay late at Nonnatus tonight to take care of the books for Sister Julienne so she’s left us a ham and egg pie. A few chips won’t keep us from that. Come on, it’ll be our little secret. I haven’t had a decent chip in weeks.”

Sighing heavily, Tim shrugged his shoulders. Opening the passenger door, he climbed in and answered, “May as well. Nothing else to do.”

Patrick put the car into gear with a lopsided grin. “Always happy to be the alternative to nothing better to do, son.”

Tim remained quiet throughout the car ride, and even refused to join his dad during the call. Major Sheldon was a favorite of the Turner men, who were always happy to hear tales of the old man’s time in India. By promising an extra long visit for the next week, Patrick was able to leave the old man a bit early. Whatever was on Tim’s mind, it was going to take a bit of time to solve.

The chip shop was near the river, and the two strolled down the embankment. Leaning against the railing, Patrick looked at his son. “Legs bothering you?”

“No.”

“Nervous about school?” Patrick tried again.

“Not really.”

Patrick considered. That probably wasn’t the complete truth. Timothy was the only boy from his class to have earned a place at the prestigious school he was to start in a few weeks, and Patrick and Shelagh were concerned that the boy was feeling a little anxious.

“Hmm?” he murmured. He could wait. Tim usually didn’t let these things fester for too long before opening up.

He was right. “Gary said something today,” Timothy revealed.

Gary. To be honest, Patrick was glad that boy was going to another school; the trouble he stirred, while trivial, always seemed to have lingering effects. “Gary’s always saying something,” he sympathized. “He’s rarely right, though, wouldn’t you say?”

Tim grinned. “Rarely.”

“So why are you letting him get to you this time?”

Tim’s mouth twisted. “‘Cause this time he’s right.” He stared glumly out over the flowing water.

This problem was going to take longer to root out, Patrick thought. He turned his back on the river, his elbows against the railing. “I tell you what. I’ll look at the street and you look at the river. When you’re ready, you say what’s on your mind.”

A few moments passed. Tim took a deep breath and said, “He said I think I’m so smart, but that I don’t know any of the important stuff.”

“What important stuff?” Patrick glanced at his son, his brow creased in concern. Tim was looking down at his feet, his hands gripping the railing tightly.

“You know, girls and stuff.” Tim’s ears started to turn pink.

“Stuff?”

“Come on, Dad.” The blush was fierce now.

Patrick’s eyes widened, his eyebrows meeting his hairline. He felt like a lorry had just smashed him into a wall. His entire body went numb and blood pounded in his ears. He swallowed. “Oh… Stuff,” he got out weakly.

They stood silently, neither knowing where this conversation should go. Medical topics were always openly discussed in the Turner household, and Patrick had made it a policy to answer any questions relating to his field as honestly as possible. He had not avoided this particular subject, not really, but thought to wait until his son was ready and curious.  There had never been any thought that perhaps he would need to be ready.

Patrick could feel panic start to rise up. How on earth was he going to handle this? Why, oh why hadn’t he explained it to Tim long ago? He should have said something back when Tim could understand basic mechanics, but had no concept of the complications. If only he had. The discussion could have been objective and theoretical. Bloody hell. Now there was Shelagh. A woman in the house. Any discussion on this subject was bound to be confusing and embarrassing.

Yet somehow, in the midst of the whirling thoughts, the thought of his wife was strangely reassuring. Patrick let out the breath he was holding and considered how she would handle the situation. Shy and naive, Shelagh was also open and eager, traits he surprisingly attributed to her time in religious life. Whilst leading that chaste life, Shelagh had never recoiled from the realities of those who had chosen a different path. The realities of birth control and venereal disease were as much a part of her midwifery as pregnancy, and Doctor Turner was always surprised by her realistic and understated approach to their effects. If she were here right now, Shelagh would tell him to close his eyes and think of Britain. It had to be done, and was best done quickly.

Patrick took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “Right.”  Keeping his eyes forward, he ripped off the bandage. “Let’s start with what Gary said. Why don’t you tell me what you think you know, and I can correct where necessary.”

Timothy audibly gulped. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned to his father, beckoning him down to his level. As Patrick leaned in, Timothy whispered a few brief sentences then turned back to the river, the blood drained from his face.

Patrick Turner, medical doctor for over twenty-five years, was completely at a loss for words. He stood against the railing, staring out into the busy dockyard. Long, silent moments went by before he shook himself alert and a slow, easy grin spread across his face.

“Well, then. I’ve got news for you, son. Gary does not a have clue what he’s talking about.” Patrick could feel his own heart lighten. “He’s got one or two of the parts right, but as far as function goes, Gary knows about as much about human reproduction as a rhinoceros.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Patrick turned back to the river and exchanged matching grins with his son. This had gone fairly well, all things considered. He didn’t know what other parent’s complained about.

“I knew he was wrong. A baby couldn’t possibly be made like that.” Tim rested his chin on his folded arms as they watched the river flow by in companionable silence.

“Um, Dad?” Timothy’s mouth twisted as he carefully chose his next words.

“Yes, son?” Patrick watched cheerfully as a small skiff passed by.

“So how are babies made then?”

Unnoticed, Patrick’s greasy newspaper filled with chips splashed into the river.