subtracting and even then she got confused with putting one on the doorstep and carry ten ... She knew her pounds and ounces, how to check her change in shops, how to measure fabrics and the like, and that seemed to be about all she needed. Patrick said he thought she was probably right. That was the way of it. His mother was the same.
While Audrey idled away her fourteenth summer in London, lying on a rug in the sun and reading books or filmgoer magazines, or splashing about in the Lido, or giggling about the streets with some of her friends, Patrick was busy. In their garden in Coventry, where others might grow vegetables or keep pigeons, Patrick began to build constructions - of wood, of metal, of steel, or anything he could get his hands on. He lusted after Meccano as others lusted after cider and girls. His father, wishing for no further trouble, did not remind his son of what was hidden away in the now overgrown shed at the bottom of the garden. As far as Florence could remember, the stuff had been thrown out. Patrick got everything new. Shiny and new. And his father watched with quiet pleasure as his son worked away at his creations. Perhaps he had given the boy something, after all.
He bought Patrick a book on Great Victorian Builders, with a picture of Isambard Kingdom Brunel on the cover. Patrick stared at it reverently. There was his hero in a cocky stance, with cigar and tall hat, standing like a king against the vast links made for his Heroic Ship (as the book called it) the Great Eastern. Inside were pictures of everything he had ever created - and, crowning them all, the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
'You made a model of that once,' he said to his father.
George nodded. 'Once,' he said. 'And now you can. But you'll have to see it first.'
Hope rising from the ashes, George suggested that they visit Brunel 's great bridge together, just the two of them. He emphasised Just The Two Of Them, and Patrick nodded. This was a man's adventure. While George and Patrick pored happily over maps, Florence ate her heart out. But she cheered up, for with ten days to go, George was told he had to cover for a fellow worker - the chap had broken his leg. It was too near the end of the school holidays to hope it was only postponement - suddenly the trip was not going to happen. Father and son were miserable. And then Patrick had a wonderful idea. Abandoning all thoughts that it was a man's adventure, he remembered Audrey. He telephoned her straight away and suggested that she come instead. They could set off by train, with their bicycles in the guard's van, and Youth Hostel the rest of it. Dolly, called to the telephone by an excited Audrey, agreed, providing little brother Sandy went too. And providing they looked after him. Florence was half furious, half frightened. 'I just don't think it's on, Dolly,' she said, as calmly as she could. "They're far too -' she searched for the right word - 'inexperienced.' "They'll love it,' said Dolly.
'How could you let your boy go away so young?' Florence asked, meaning, of course, her own.
'Oh, Aud's a sensible girl,' said her mother. 'She'll look after them both.'
And then, without so much as a by-your-leave, George stood behind his wife, took the telephone from her hand, looked her straight in the eye and, speaking very slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece, said, 'It's a grand idea, Doll. And they'll be fine. We've got it all mapped out, Patrick and me. He knows where to go and what to do.'
When the telephone was replaced both father and son stood foursquare in front of a speechless Florence. And that - was that. Audrey and her brother arrived.
"Thanks Dad,' said Patrick, later.
George nodded. 'You have a good look at those piers. Beautiful they are. Beautiful.'
There was nothing for Florence to fault except the unlikely possibility of a plunge in the temperature to minus several degrees. They had thermos flasks, puncture outfits, cycling capes in bright yellow, torches,
While Audrey idled away her fourteenth summer in London, lying on a rug in the sun and reading books or filmgoer magazines, or splashing about in the Lido, or giggling about the streets with some of her friends, Patrick was busy. In their garden in Coventry, where others might grow vegetables or keep pigeons, Patrick began to build constructions - of wood, of metal, of steel, or anything he could get his hands on. He lusted after Meccano as others lusted after cider and girls. His father, wishing for no further trouble, did not remind his son of what was hidden away in the now overgrown shed at the bottom of the garden. As far as Florence could remember, the stuff had been thrown out. Patrick got everything new. Shiny and new. And his father watched with quiet pleasure as his son worked away at his creations. Perhaps he had given the boy something, after all.
He bought Patrick a book on Great Victorian Builders, with a picture of Isambard Kingdom Brunel on the cover. Patrick stared at it reverently. There was his hero in a cocky stance, with cigar and tall hat, standing like a king against the vast links made for his Heroic Ship (as the book called it) the Great Eastern. Inside were pictures of everything he had ever created - and, crowning them all, the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
'You made a model of that once,' he said to his father.
George nodded. 'Once,' he said. 'And now you can. But you'll have to see it first.'
Hope rising from the ashes, George suggested that they visit Brunel 's great bridge together, just the two of them. He emphasised Just The Two Of Them, and Patrick nodded. This was a man's adventure. While George and Patrick pored happily over maps, Florence ate her heart out. But she cheered up, for with ten days to go, George was told he had to cover for a fellow worker - the chap had broken his leg. It was too near the end of the school holidays to hope it was only postponement - suddenly the trip was not going to happen. Father and son were miserable. And then Patrick had a wonderful idea. Abandoning all thoughts that it was a man's adventure, he remembered Audrey. He telephoned her straight away and suggested that she come instead. They could set off by train, with their bicycles in the guard's van, and Youth Hostel the rest of it. Dolly, called to the telephone by an excited Audrey, agreed, providing little brother Sandy went too. And providing they looked after him. Florence was half furious, half frightened. 'I just don't think it's on, Dolly,' she said, as calmly as she could. "They're far too -' she searched for the right word - 'inexperienced.' "They'll love it,' said Dolly.
'How could you let your boy go away so young?' Florence asked, meaning, of course, her own.
'Oh, Aud's a sensible girl,' said her mother. 'She'll look after them both.'
And then, without so much as a by-your-leave, George stood behind his wife, took the telephone from her hand, looked her straight in the eye and, speaking very slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece, said, 'It's a grand idea, Doll. And they'll be fine. We've got it all mapped out, Patrick and me. He knows where to go and what to do.'
When the telephone was replaced both father and son stood foursquare in front of a speechless Florence. And that - was that. Audrey and her brother arrived.
"Thanks Dad,' said Patrick, later.
George nodded. 'You have a good look at those piers. Beautiful they are. Beautiful.'
There was nothing for Florence to fault except the unlikely possibility of a plunge in the temperature to minus several degrees. They had thermos flasks, puncture outfits, cycling capes in bright yellow, torches,
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