He'd already lost enough time with Dolly. That had been possibly the quickest examination he had performed this year, and he could see that Chummy was looking at him strangely the whole time. He wondered how much of the telephone call Chummy had heard and whether she realised who he had been speaking with. It was obvious from her apologetic tone and the smile creeping across her face as he finished speaking with Dolly that she realised something was going on with him.

And what about Sister Berna…. What was he even supposed to call her now? Never mind, he would deal with that later. It had sounded to him, hopeful at least. She had sounded so full of life, and then, he had been interrupted and she had sounded so dismayed. He felt as if he was letting her down. He had often felt like he was letting her down over the last few months – kissing her hand, not spotting her TB until it was serious, writing to her repeatedly. He knew now, from her letter to Timothy, that she had at least read his letters. Had this been her response?

Throwing aside all rationality, he dashed out of the maternity hospital, and flung open the door of the MG. Tim was sat in the front seat. Patrick stared at his son, as a million thoughts rushed around his head.

"You're meant to be washing equipment"

"I've finished. And you owe me Half a Crown. I thought I'd come with you on your rounds"

"I'm not going on my rounds"

Patrick reached a decision; Timothy would have to come with him. He needed to talk all of this through with the boy anyway, see what his thoughts might be. He turned the engine over, fidgeting impatiently as the car wheezed into life.

As he pulled out onto the East India Dock Road, and turned the vehicle in the general direction of Essex, a myriad of thoughts were running through Patrick's mind. Timothy looked out of the window at the unfamiliar sites,

"Dad, where are we going?"

"Oh, umm, we're going to St Anne's Sanatorium"

"To collect Sister Bernadette?"

"Erm, yes. Hopefully".

"Oh, smashing" replied Timothy, thinking that his day was looking up. Maybe he could convince Sister to do something fun with him, that didn't involve cleaning medical equipment. The two of them fell silent for a minute, Timothy distracted by the neat rows of houses he could now see, they were cleaner than the small terraces in Poplar, with gardens with neatly cut grass and flower beds.

Patrick coughed, attempting to swallow the lump rapidly forming in his throat, "Timothy, you, umm, you like her, don't you?"

"Who? Sister Bernadette? Yes, she's whizzo fun. She was much better in the three-legged race than you would have been. And she looked after my arm that time I scraped it at school. And she said I shouldn't worry about playing a girl in Robin Hood. She's nice"

"Allright, good" said Patrick, slightly relaxing as he released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"But you like her too, don't you dad?" asked Timothy, innocent to the dual meaning of his question.

Patrick's head nearly hit the windscreen as he slammed his foot on the brakes.

"What? Who? Why?" stammered Patrick, fearing his feelings had been deduced. He swallowed, re-engaged the clutch and gear stick, and continued along the road. "Erm, yes, I like her. Very much".

Timothy fell silent. His dad was being weird. Even weirder than he had been for the last few months. "Dad, are you OK?"

"Yes, Timothy, yes, I'm fine. But, erm, there's something we need to talk about." Patrick hesitantly replied, adjusting his tie out of nervous habit.

"Allright" responded Timothy warily, his mind quickly recalling anything naughty he'd done in the last few weeks. He was fairly sure there was nothing his dad had found out about, "what are we talking about?"

"Well. You know I love mum, very much, and that's never going to change…" Patrick faltered. He hadn't been prepared for any of this he realised now, hadn't broached the subject in even any vague way at all, and he was suddenly terribly worried that Tim was going to react very badly to what he hoped lay ahead in his future. He worried his wedding band with his thumb as he changed gears and they slowed down at a set of traffic lights.

"Yeah. I know" Tim paused, he swallowed deeply, "Dad, are you OK? You're not, ill, are you?" the boy stammered.

Patrick looked over at Tim quickly, reaching out to pat his shoulder in reassurance. "No, No, Timmy I'm fine".

"And Sister Bernadette's better now, yes?" queried Tim, worry now etched on his face, "that is why we're going to collect her, because she's better, not because she's…" He paused, the pain and worry written across his eyes, "not because she's, worse?".

"No, no, she's much better. I understand she's responded very well to the Triple Treatment." Patrick paused, he was just going to have to come out with it. "And, well, about Sister Bernadette." He paused again, despite his better intention.

The lights changed and Patrick put the car into gear and pulled away from the junction. Maybe if he focused his eyes on the road this would be easier. "Well, I've been writing to Sister Bernadette, whilst she's been in St Anne's for her treatment".

"Oh! That's what she meant in her letter to me. I wondered. How many times did you write to her?"

"Erm, every week."

"Every week Dad, gosh." Tim considered this, "what on earth did you have to tell her about? All you've been doing is working." The boy said with alarming frankness.

"I'm not that boring, thanks" replied Patrick, tartly.

"What has this got to do with mum?" asked Tim.

"Ah, well, yes, you see", Patrick was starting to sweat like a nervous teenager, "right, it's like this. I'm in love with Sister Bernadette". He took the chance to glance quickly over at Tim as he manoeuvred the car round a roundabout. Tim's jaw dropped.

"Dad! She's a nun! You can't be in love with a nun – it's not allowed! Sister Julienne will kill you. And Sister Evangelina".

"I think, Timothy, that maybe, maybe she isn't a nun anymore".

"What? How do you stop being a nun? Is that even possible?"

"Yes. Maybe, I'm not sure."

"Dad, you're talking nonsense. Take a deep breath, tell me everything".

Patrick decided it was time to just make a clean breast of it all: "Allright. Well, I've been falling in love with her for some time. And I have, erm well, let's say, indicated, to her how I feel. Which, obviously, was not the entirely correct way to act. And I've been writing to her whilst she's been away, to, as delicately as possible, let her know the depth of my feelings for her", Patrick explained, seriously.

"The depth of your feelings?" mimicked Tim, astonished at what his father was telling him.

"Less cheek Timothy please" retorted Patrick. There was a brief moment's silence.

"And does she love you?" asked Tim, looking squarely at his father now, who was getting redder and redder by the second.

"Erm. Well, I'm not actually sure. I think she might? We spoke on the phone this morning, and, well…" Patrick trailed off. What if he was reading this all wrong? What if she didn't feel the way he did? He was going to feel like a prize turnip and no mistake. "Actually, I'm not sure. We got interrupted by Akela."

Patrick found suddenly that they were at the sanatorium. The journey had been much quicker than he had been expecting. It had felt much longer when he had last driven this road to bring Sister Bernadette here for treatment. Patrick parked the car up and turned off the engine.

He turned to Timothy, "I'm sorry, we haven't really had a chance to talk about this as much as I would have liked. Do you have any questions?" Timothy considered this. He had a lot of questions, actually, but he was fairly sure his dad wouldn't be able to answer them right now. He could see that his Dad was fairly fizzing with nerves and excitement. "Not right now" Timothy said.