Angels in the Architecture by Sue Fitzmaurice Read Free Book Online Page A

He was concentrating on the vertical line of the door frame, which he did by standing right up against it, with his nose touching and his head angled to one side. His eyes did a slow dance between the point at his eye level and the top of the door frame, and back again.
    ‘Tired him out for you sorry, but he’s kinda relaxed too I think.’
    ‘Oh , he’ll be fine, won’t you, Tim-Tim?’
    Tim’s eyes stayed locked in his up and down investigation of the door frame.
    ‘Sweetie-pie. Okay, seeya.’ Kaye turned down the path with a wave.
    ‘Bye.’
    Pete waited another moment as Tim studied the door frame. It was apparent that there was something to do with vertical and horizontal lines that drew his attention, regardless of where they were. When it seemed he was likely to be in this position for some time, Pete wandered past him, not resisting the suggestion of a hair tousle, and headed towards lunch-making duties, his couple of hours of freedom over for the day. Not that he minded.
    Pete told himself he was blissfully happy. He’d gone from student to almost professional prot estor, to political reporter and then to his version of house husbandry, as childminder, occasional writer and long-time car and engine tinkerer. Parenting Tim proved the most challenging and most rewarding of his roles. He considered himself lucky to have such a child, a gift of sorts.
    ‘Still talking to the Angels,’ the lead therapist had said one day, not quite mirroring Pete’s thoughts as Tim would smile up at something not there, or laugh out loud. At what?
    ‘Hey , mate, ready for some fuel?’ Pete peered round the kitchen door a few minutes later to see Tim still glued by his nose to the door. He took a slight tumble backwards and recovered. He turned towards his father, although did not apparently notice him. Instead, his attention to the door broken, he set off past Pete on some new mission – probably an attempt on the pantry.
    ‘Biscuit?’ w ould be the inevitable next thing.
    Right then, Pete said to himself, reviewing his list of possible diversions from biscuits.
    The phone rang .
    This might work.
    ‘Hello,’ he said into the phone, and then covering it, ‘look, Tim, the phone. Who is it?’ Back into the phone, ‘oh, hi hun; how’s your day? Tim, Tim; it’s mummy, come and listen.’
    Pete reached the phone out to Tim who stood with his ear to it. Pete could hear his wife’s chit-chat through the earpiece. Alicia took the view, much as Pete did, that it didn’t matter what they said to Tim as long as they said a lot. Alicia would lecture him on quantum physics, since she could talk on the topic endlessly and it fitted with the idea of simply saying a lot. She would practise actual lectures and speeches to him in the bath, on the sofa, wherever and whenever. Pete noticed that in this way she sometimes even clarified her own thinking on things.
    ‘Biscuit.’ Tim had had enough of the phone.
    ‘Well, that didn’t work for long. Hi, love. What’s up?’ Pete spoke back into the phone and reached for the biscuit tin..
    ‘Oh , we’re good. Just the usual sort of morning. You sound restless.’ Alicia’s phone calls to home were often a way of grounding herself or as a distraction from boredom.
    ‘Interesting. Well , I’ll look forward to hearing about it later. Yes, the washing’s in. Enjoy the rest of your day, hun.’
    ‘Biscuit.’
     
     
    ‘No, Timmy. Like this.’
    A pair of small and gentle hands guided even smaller loose fingers across brightly coloured wooden puzzle pieces, placing them correctly in the different shaped holes .
    ‘See?’
    But the little boy did not see and picked up the wooden box containing the pieces and shook it, enjoying the sound of it more. He laughed. At the sound? Who knew what.
    The two children were fair-haired with happy round faces. Toys were strewn about them, and there was a long row of different size cars and trucks lined up end to end across the room. The