Teds Shorts - A Series of Short Stories

Father & Daughter 

Jerry Fielding arrived at Waterloo ten minutes early, which for him was the only respectable way to arrive anywhere. He would rather arrive an hour early than a minute late. Ten minutes early gave you time to observe other people’s lateness, which he found revealing. You could tell a lot about someone by how they handled being late. Some sprinted, breathless and apologetic; others glided in, unapologetic, like the world was a flexible thing arranged to fit around them. 

The clock hung above the concourse, huge and faintly smug. It had presided over life, and Jerry liked that about it. Reliable, impassive, and slightly judgmental, a bit like himself, if he was honest. 

He leaned on the railing by the WHSmith and checked his watch, although the giant clock was right there. A habit. He was the sort of man who double-checked things that didn’t need checking. 

At 10:58, he spotted her weaving through the crowd, a flash of blonde hair, messy bun, and an oversized green jacket that might once have been trendy but now mostly looked lived-in. Jo. His daughter. Twenty -two, bright, busy, and perpetually five minutes behind everything. 

She saw him and waved, with that slightly exaggerated enthusiasm people use when they’re aware they’ve kept someone waiting. 

“Dad!” she called, smiling. 

Jerry felt a quiet, involuntary lift in his chest, the sort that always took him by surprise, even after twenty-two of being a parent. 

“Morning,” he said, as she arrived, slightly flushed. “Punctual, for a student.” 

“Tube delays,” she said, predictably. “And also, yes, I did stop for coffee. But I got you one too!” 

She handed him a cardboard cup that was worryingly light. He took a sip and confirmed it was both lukewarm and milkless. 

“Flat white,” she said proudly, like it was a kind of moral choice. “Less milky, more flavour.” 

“It’s very… flavoursome,” Jerry said, politely. 

They began walking, threading their way through the Saturday crowds, heading towards the South Bank. The air smelled of roasted nuts and city dust, and somewhere nearby a busker was murdering Ed Sheeran’s Perfect with admirable commitment. 

“So,” he said. “How’s the glamorous world of medicine?” 

“Oh,” said Jo, rolling her eyes. “Absolutely ridiculous. This week someone tried to fake appendicitis for attention. He said the pain was ‘in his emotional appendix.’” 

Jerry smiled. “And what did you prescribe?” 

“Empathy and paracetamol,” she said. “He asked if empathy came in syrup form.” 

“Then there was the man with a inhaler stuck up his bum – we put him down on the notes as an aarsmatic.” 

Jerry spluttered, coughing up some of his flatwhite. 

They crossed towards the river, falling into an easy rhythm. Jerry listened, quietly delighted, as Jo launched into a story about her anatomy practicals — something involving a model pelvis, an unfortunate sneeze, and a tutor who fainted at his own PowerPoint. 

“You’d think medical school would make you immune to embarrassment,” she said. “But apparently, no one’s ever ready for the word ‘urethra’ on a Monday morning.” 

Jerry laughed. “I think I’d have struggled with that at any age.” 

She grinned. “You? You’d have made colour-coded revision flashcards.” 

He didn’t deny it. He’d been that sort of student, meticulous, earnest, unremarkably capable. Which was, roughly speaking, how he still was. Local government officer, Department of Public Amenities and Community Liaison. The kind of job that sounded fictional even when you said it slowly. 

“So,” said Jo, with mock seriousness. “What thrilling developments in the world of municipal excellence?” 

“Oh, you know,” he said. “We’re trialling new signage for the recycling bins.” 

Her mouth twitched. “Edge-of-your-seat stuff.” 

“I know. We had a whole meeting about the font.” 

“You joke, but you love that font,” she said, nudging him. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have strong opinions.” 

Jerry sighed. “It’s important work. Imagine if someone couldn’t distinguish paper from plastic.” 

“They’d probably fake appendicitis to cope.” 

They wandered along the river, past bookstalls and more buskers, the skyline gleaming with that odd combination of hope and pollution. Jo stopped at a stall selling second-hand books, leafing through a battered copy of Our Man in Havana. 

“Graham Green,” she said. “You like him, don’t you?” 

Jerry nodded. “moral and spiritual struggles in a political setting – at a pace.” 

“Bit like you,” she said absently, still flicking through the pages. 

He glanced at her, messy bun, old trainers, that fierce, distracted intelligence she’d always had, and felt that familiar, ridiculous swell of pride. 

They bought the book, because it seemed right, and carried on towards Borough Market, where the air was a blur of smells of  coffee, cheese, cinnamon, optimism. There was a huge queue for something not really obvious. 

Jo insisted on buying something called a “Croissant Cube,” which looked like a pastry attempting to escape its own geometry. Jerry had a sausage roll, because some traditions didn’t need reimagining. 

They found a bench and ate in companionable silence, occasionally interrupted by Jo’s stories. 

“There’s this guy in my flat,” she said, “who thinks he can self-diagnose everything with Google. Last week he decided he had scurvy.” 

Jerry frowned. “Scurvy?” 

“Yeah. Because he hadn’t eaten fruit for two days. So he panic-ate three lemons and now can’t feel his tongue.” 

Jerry smiled into his coffee. “I work with someone like that. Except his thing’s health and safety.” 

“Let me guess — he carries a high-vis vest to meetings?” 

“Two,” said Jerry. “For redundancy.” 

Jo laughed, the kind of laugh that made strangers nearby glance over and smile without knowing why. 

As they finished, a gust of wind sent a napkin skittering across the pavement. Jo chased it automatically, catching it mid-air, triumphant. 

“Still got it,” she said. 

“Got what?” 

“Reflexes. You lose them in medical school. Too much sitting, not enough chasing napkins.” 

They wandered again, past the Globe, the Tate, and along to St. Paul’s, where Jerry found himself remembering all the times he’d brought her to London as a child, the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum, feeding ducks in Hyde Park. Back when her hair had been plaited, her curiosity unfiltered, and her belief in him absolute. 

Now, she was an adult, opinionated, funny, brilliant, and his role had quietly shifted from hero to background character. It was fine, he told himself. It was right. Still, it stung, in the smallest, most fatherly way. 

“You okay, Dad?” she said suddenly. 

He blinked. “Of course. Just thinking.” 

“About bins?” 

“Always.” 

They crossed Millennium Bridge, pausing halfway to look at the river. Jo took a photo, then another, then frowned at her phone. 

“I swear this bridge moves.” 

“It does,” he said. “Slightly. They call it the Wobbly Bridge.” 

“Very reassuring name.” 

“Better than what they first called it.” 

“What was that?” 

“Design Flaw.” 

She snorted, and he felt oddly pleased with himself. 

By afternoon, they’d reached Covent Garden, watching a magician make a pigeon appear from nowhere. Jo was unimpressed. 

“Classic misdirection,” she muttered. “You can see the pouch in his sleeve.” 

“You’ve become terribly cynical,” Jerry said. 

“Occupational hazard. You study the human body long enough, you stop believing in magic.” 

“Ah,” he said. “That’s where you’re wrong.” 

She looked at him, half amused, half curious. 

“There’s magic in small things,” he said, surprising himself. “Like… your kid turning up on time, bringing you a flat white. Or still laughing at your terrible jokes.” 

She smiled, softer this time. “That’s sentiment, not magic.” 

“Sometimes they’re the same thing.” 

They wandered towards Soho, where Jerry pretended to understand Jo’s enthusiasm for vintage shops (“Look at this shirt — it’s ironically hideous!”), and she politely humoured his interest in old pubs (“Look, original brass fittings!”). 

By late afternoon, they found themselves in a café off Carnaby Street, sharing a slice of carrot cake. 

“So,” Jo said, stirring her tea. “Do you ever wish you’d done something different?” 

He looked at her, then at the swirl of milk in his cup. “Sometimes. But then I remember most people don’t actually love their jobs. They just try to make them bearable.” 

“That’s bleak.” 

“It’s British.” 

She laughed. “I think I’d rather love mine.” 

“You will,” he said simply. “You already do.” 

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I mean, some days, yes. But other days… it’s just endless. People, pain, paperwork. It’s hard to keep seeing the point.” 

Jerry nodded slowly. “That’s life, really. Endless people, pain, and paperwork. You just have to find your own version of meaning inside it.” 

She studied him for a long moment. “You’re better at this than I remember.” 

“At what?” 

“Talking. Being human.” 

“I’ve been practising.” 

When they finally walked back towards Waterloo, the light was turning gold and the crowds had thinned to a calmer hum. They passed a group of teenagers playing music on a Bluetooth speaker, two tourists arguing over a map, and a street artist drawing caricatures of people who didn’t really look like them. 

Under the clock again, the evening pressed close around them. 

Jo adjusted her jacket, looking suddenly smaller, younger. “Thanks for today,” she said. “It was… nice. Properly nice.” 

He nodded. “Likewise. You make London tolerable.” 

She smiled. “That’s almost affectionate.” 

“Don’t spread it around.” 

There was a pause, the kind that sits comfortably between people who know they don’t need to fill it. 

Jo reached into her bag, pulled out the Graham Green book, and handed it to him. “You should have this,” she said. “You’ll read it. I’ll just pretend I did.” 

He turned it over in his hands. “You sure?” 

“Positive. It’s very you.” 

He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“It is.” 

Another pause. 

“You’re doing well, you know,” he said quietly. “Even when you think you’re not.” 

She looked at him, properly looked, and there was something in her expression that reminded him of the small girl who used to fall asleep in the back of the car after long days out, sticky with ice cream and certainty. 

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, and hugged him, quick, unplanned, entirely sincere. 

And then, just like that, she was gone, swallowed by the crowd, her green jacket bobbing through the tide of commuters. 

Jerry stayed where he was, beneath the great, smug clock, holding the book she’d left him. Around him, the station pulsed with arrivals and departures, people coming and going with bags and stories and plans. 

He took a breath, felt the faint warmth where she’d hugged him, and smiled, the small, private kind of smile that didn’t need anyone else to see it. 

Then he looked up at the clock again, steady, indifferent, right on time, and thought that perhaps, for all the dullness and paperwork, life wasn’t so badly arranged after all.