"Liz was the most beautiful girl I'd ever met. Her long dark, curly hair framed her fair oval face. Her dark, almond eyes sparkled. She had a wonderful figure and lovely legs, and that smile! But I loved her most for her caring nature, her compassion, her patience, her gentleness, her ability to do or say exactly the right things in every situation. She was wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. She was my world."

Patrick sniffed, trying to stifle a sob.

"My beautiful Liz was diagnosed with breast cancer. She fought the disease so valiantly. She never complained when the treatment made her ill, or when she was so weak she could barely stand. She looked after Timothy and me selflessly until the very end. As she grew weaker, and the oncologist had given us the dreadful news that all he could offer was palliative care, I wanted her to be admitted to hospital, but she refused.

'If I'm to die, Patrick,' she said, 'I want to die here, at home, where I know I am safe, surrounded by those I love and all the happy memories which I have had here.'

One night, a few weeks later, she gently slipped away. She had been falling in and out of consciousness for most of that day, and I was sat by our bed, too frightened to go to sleep. She opened her beautiful almond eyes, then whispered. '

Goodbye Patrick.'

And then she was gone. I was her GP and her husband. I should have spotted the symptoms before I did. I could have helped her. I had to tell Timothy the next morning. How do you explain to an eight-year-old that their mother has just died?"

Patrick paused, his lip trembling.

"I could not bring myself to grieve until after the funeral, I had to be strong for Timothy. I used to sit in the car, staring out of the windows for hours at a time, like a sheepdog without his sheep, as Timothy reminds me. Bringing him up by myself was so hard. The Sisters and nurses at Nonnatus House supported us in every way that they could, asking after us, sending bread and cakes home in a paper bag, and your mother, Sister Bernadette as she was then, was always particularly kind to both of us. She was always so good with children."

He smiled and stroked his daughter's back.

"It was during this time that I began to get to know her. I had already known her for many years, working alongside her at the ante-natal clinics and during complicated deliveries. But things happened, things changed. I don't know whether I fell in love with her first, or the other way round, but for many months, I don't think either of us could comprehend what was happening. She, still a nun and bound by her vow of chastity and me, a widower almost old enough to be her father falling in love with each other. Was it really happening? Although she was hidden behind her vows and a monastic habit, I found that I could not help looking beyond those barriers. I could not just see a nun. I saw a woman, an intelligent, kind, compassionate, and, dare I think it, beautiful woman. Her eyes, like fine Topaz, sparkled, providing a light in the darkest of places in my life. Then one day, I could not contain my feelings for her any longer. She had injured her hand doing the three-legged race with Timothy, and I offered to look at it for her. But then I kissed it. I kissed a nun's hand."

He allowed himself to grin. "I am naughty aren't I?"

He continued, with a more solemn tone to his voice.

"Not long after this, she was diagnosed with TB, and sent to the sanatorium for treatment. I drove her there, with a terrible feeling of dread. I feared it would be like it was with Liz. I blamed myself again; I should have spotted her symptoms earlier, like I should have spotted Liz's. I could not lose another woman I loved. I wrote to her during her treatment, trying to express my passionate feelings for her, without trying to frighten her. And I suppose, as they say, the rest is history. She renounced her vows and, after a few hiccups caused by an unexploded bomb and Pollio, we married. We barely knew each other, but we couldn't be more certain. We soon learned much about each other, but I hoped that I would never have to tell her anything about what I have just told you."

He paused, chewing his bottom lip.

"Unfortunately, your mother found out about my treatment at Northfield, in the worst way possible. Thinking we were unable to have children together, we were being interviewed by an adoption agency. I remember that conversation as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Everything was going so well, your mother was so happy, so excited. But then, the representative dropped a bombshell.

'What occupied you between the period April 1945, to December of that year, Dr Turner?' she said coldly, 'your detailed service and work history, there seems to be, an omission'

'Ah, ah, I was injured.' I replied, my voice shaking.

'Could you be more specific?'

'I prefer not to,' I growled, I felt my anger rising. I glared at her.

'Patrick' your mother said. I could not see the look on her face, but from the tone of her voice I could tell she was scared.

'I don't see how this is relevant,' I began to plead, begging the representative to not head down the road which I knew she was turning into.

'You were discharged from the army.'

'You must understand, it was the end of the war, I, I, I was medical corps, trying to save lives at the front, I…'

And then she said it.

'You were an inpatient at Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital for five months while you were being treated for war neurosis.'

I couldn't look at your mother, I knew hearing those words would have destroyed all her hopes and dreams. 'I was worn out, there was, too much death, I recovered, I am recovered.'

Your mother, bless her wonderful heart, tried to defend me. 'We've both needed great strength,' but the representative must have read her ignorance of my diagnosis all over her face.

'We believe a child should be placed in a home where truth and trust are central to that home.'

Truth and trust. Your mother trusted me, but I had not been truthful with her. I knew at that moment I had failed her. She was angry with me, and rightly so. '

How could you not tell me?' she'd shouted at me after she had let the representative out of the door. She rounded on me as she said it, drawing herself up to her full height. I knew, after what she had been through, that that this revelation would have shattered her. We knew so little about each other when we married, but I knew she had put all her trust in me. I had just dashed that asunder. She tried to make me talk, but I couldn't. I tried to form words of explanation, but she retorted with.

'How can you treat others, when you so clearly cannot treat yourself?'

Those words stabbed me to the core of my being. She had no right to say that, how could she when she knew so little? That was the last straw; all I could do was run from the room in tears like a frightened child. I didn't dare look back at her. I knew her face would be too painful for me to look at. I knew it would be stained with the hurt and pain that I had caused. I ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind me, and hid. I curled up, foetus-like, facing the wall, crying under the covers, hiding from the hurt that I had caused. Painful memories which I'd suppressed for nearly fifteen years erupted inside me. It had been so long since I was in a place so dark. I had to be alone. I could not face anyone. I don't know how long I had been there when I heard her open the door, slip into the room and then lie under the covers behind me. She did not say anything, and she did not make any attempt to look at me. Perhaps she couldn't face me. Perhaps she knew I couldn't face her. I continued sobbing, trying to ignore her presence. Then I felt her hand on my stomach, her delicate arm round my waist. I flinched but didn't pull right away. She didn't say or do anything. After a few minutes I felt her chin rest on my shoulder and her golden curls brush my face. I stopped crying. 'Perhaps she doesn't hate me' I thought. But still I couldn't face her, and certainly couldn't talk to her. '

Patrick,' she whispered after a while, 'I love you.'

This made me start crying again. I knew she was trying to comfort me, but she was just making me feel worse. Why would a beautiful, innocent, young girl want to love a man like me? A man, broken, tainted, destroyed. I had no right to be loved by such a girl. She stopped talking, but carried on holding me. She knew that I wasn't ready to talk. As we lay there, and I contemplated the afternoon's events, I knew I had to say something to her. But what? I tried forming sentences in my head, but nothing but garbled rubbish materialised. Eventually I managed to spit out,

'I saw terrible things! Things no man should see, or do. I couldn't cope anymore. They sent me home.'

I cried harder than I think I'd ever cried, even after that night in Italy. Your mother held me tighter and I felt her press a gentle kiss to my ear, but she did not say anything. I knew that she would not be happy with what I'd said, or not said, but I think she accepted that that was all I was going to say at that moment. She got up, said something about going to start making dinner, and left the room."

Patrick paused again.

"She never pressed me directly on the subject again. There were times in the following days and weeks when she knew I was upset, and she would offer a listening ear or shoulder to cry on, but I could never bring myself to tell her any details. I wish I could tell her. I wish I could help her understand. I need closure, but without closing the door. That hasn't got me anywhere. I need to face those fears. I need to remove the evil from my mind, replace, those terrible memories with, something, beautiful," he said, an idea popping into his head, a smile creeping over his face.

"Oh little one, I love you so much, thank you!" he said kissing her cheeks, "that's what I need to do. I, no we, need an adventure!"

He grinned, plans and ideas forming in his head. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, and realised what that Shelagh would be home soon.

"We better go to bed," he said, "There is a lot to do tomorrow."