They disembarked and headed out of the port. The sun was shining and the cloudless sky was a cornflower blue. Patrick drove a few hundred yards, and then stopped the car on the edge of a concrete jetty. There were no boats moored against it, and it looked as though it had not been used for a while. It was stained green with algae and rubbish, old oil drums and lengths of frayed, tangled rope lay strewn across it. He switched off the engine and looked out of the car window. "Yes", he thought, "this is the place."

Shelagh looked at Patrick's reflection in the rear view mirror. She could tell that he was reminiscing; his expression looked cloudy, as though he was in another place and time.

"Is everything alright Patrick?" she asked.

"The reason that we are in Le Havre today," he began, "is because of events which happened on that jetty last time I entered this port. After we got off the container ship, we were met on that jetty, our names were taken, and then we were put into vehicles and driven off."

"Who were we?"

"The, um, new, um, recruits," Patrick said, stuttering slightly over his words, "our adventure began on that jetty."

A light of realisation suddenly illuminated Shelagh's mind. The suspicions she had had the previous evening about the purpose of this trip seemed to have been suddenly confirmed. Did she dare ask him for a final clarification? "No," she decided, "not yet."

"I didn't get to see very much of Le Havre when I was here last time, you can't see much out of the back of a jeep, so we are going to spend the day here, find somewhere to stay and then continue on tomorrow, if that is alright?"

"I promised to go wherever you took me," Shelagh replied, "And if you want to take me to Le Havre, then, that is where I will go."

She stroked Patrick's hand, which was still gripping the gearstick. He loosened his grip and took her hand. "Thank you," he said. He let go of his wife's hand and sat just looking out of the window for another few minutes, then said, "right, we better be off" and started up the MG.

As Patrick turned onto the main road into the town, Timothy shouted,

"Stop, you're on the wrong side of the road!"

"Tim!" Patrick gasped, "Don't shout at me when I'm driving. And, no I'm not; you're supposed to drive on the right hand side in France."

"That's weird."

"Actually, we are probably the weird ones, Tim, the whole of mainland Europe drives on the right hand side."

Patrick parked the car in a side street just off a square in the old part of town.

"Come on," he said getting out of the car, "let's go and explore."

He turned to Shelagh, who was holding the baby. "Do you want to carry her or shall I?"

"How far are we going? She's getting heavy to carry around all day."

"I've thought of that" Patrick said, opening the boot and pulling out a paper bag, "now, can I remember how to do it?"

Shelagh and Timothy looked at him with intrigue. He took the piece of material out of the bag and began to form it into a sling around Shelagh and the baby, securing it with knots and safety pins.

"Is that comfy enough?" he asked.

"I didn't realise you had been to Cynthia's mother craft classes," she teased. "And it's fine," she added.

"I haven't, Sister Julienne taught me how to make it."

"She knows about this trip?"

"She knows that we are on a family holiday which involves walking in places where were we could not take a pram."

They spent the next few hours wandering gently round the streets of the town, exploring the pretty parks, the cobbled squares and the old buildings.

"This part of town was spared the bombings," Patrick said. He paused. "The town was occupied just weeks after I came through."

Shelagh took his hand, stroking his palm, wondering whether he would continue. He did not.

"I think it's nearly lunchtime," Patrick said, aware of the silence which had descended over the family group, "let's find a Crêperie."

"Dad, did you just swear?" Timothy gasped with mock horror, "There are women and children present!"

Patrick and Shelagh stared at their son.

"No I didn't, and anyway, if I had, you shouldn't know, you're far too young!" He couldn't prevent himself smirking. "A Crêperie is a café which sells crêpes, which, before you say anything, are a sort of pancake. I tried them last time I was in France. You can have sweet ones or savoury ones."

The Turners found a Crêperie a few streets away, and sat down first to plates of savoury ones filled with ham and cheese, chicken and mushrooms, and beef and mustard, before deciding that they had to try sweet ones too. By the time they had shared out a cinnamon, a chocolate, and a honey filled one, they were very full and very sticky.

"Well," said Timothy, patting his stomach, those crêpes certainly weren't cr…"

"Timothy!"

Patrick paid the bill and inquired whether there were any lodgings available nearby for that night. He was given an address two streets away and told the others to wait while he went to see if it was suitable. Shelagh, still carrying the baby against her, and Timothy made their way outside and sat on the edge of a raised kerb just outside the Crêperie. The mid-afternoon sun was hot, and there was very little shade to be had. Shelagh turned her back on the sun, trying to shade the baby. Timothy looked at his mother and sister.

"Mum, you're tired, I'll carry her."

"Are you sure?" "

Yes, absolutely."

Shelagh carefully undid the sling and then re-fastened it around Timothy, who gently cradled his sister. Patrick returned moments later and informed them that he had found them two rooms for the night, but that they were unable to check in for another few hours. Seeing how hot they all looked, he added that he had found a leafy park with lots of shade and suggested that they went there whilst he went back to get the car.

When Patrick arrived at the park with the tartan picnic blanket and some cold drinks, he saw his wife and children sat leaning against the trunk of an old oak tree. He spread the blanket out, and handed each of them a drink. There was a public drinking fountain nearby. Timothy stood up and walked over to it, filling up his now empty lemonade bottle. He took a swig and then crept up behind his father and tipped the rest over his head.

"Aaaah!" Patrick gasped, "Timothy you little…" he started laughing, then, grabbing his own bottle, filled it up and ran after Timothy. They were soon both soaked.

Shelagh sat watching them play, laughing, and was unable to decide whether her husband or her son was the bigger child. When there was not a stitch of clothing left to get wet, they slumped back down on the blanket. The four Turners lay spread out on the blanket looking up at the sky through the branches of the tree. After a while, Patrick sat up, looked around him and said.

"I'm so glad that France is beautiful."

Shelagh propped herself up on her elbows so that she could look at him. She wondered what to say. After a moment she said.

"I'm glad you find it beautiful," she paused, and then whispered, "now."

Patrick looked at her. "Was she beginning to understand?" he thought. "Does she know yet?" But he couldn't bring himself to ask. He just stroked her face and smiled. He then looked at his watch.

"We could probably go and check into the guest house in a minute, freshen up a bit, dinner somewhere nice, how does that sound?" "

Anything you say sounds wonderful" Shelagh replied.

"Oh please!" drawled Timothy, "You sound like soppy teenagers."

The guest house was basic, but clean and comfortable. Patrick, Shelagh and the baby were in one room and Timothy had a small box room to himself next door, and the bathroom was at the end of the corridor. After they had eaten, settled the baby and said goodnight to Timothy, Patrick and Shelagh stretched out on the bed.

"Well, Mrs. Turner, there's plenty of room for two in tonight's accommodation."

"Yes, there is" she giggled.

"Well, I don't know where we will be sleeping tomorrow night, so we better make the most of this opportunity."

"Whatever you say P…"

But she could not finish her sentence. Her husband's lips were pressed too tightly against hers.

The next morning after a breakfast of coffee, juice and croissants, the Turners got into the car and headed out of the town and onto the main road. Patrick only had a vague recollection of where their next destination was located, and having left it so long ago, in the circumstances which he had, he had no idea whether there would be anything there to see at all if he did find it. Their route wound through many miles of rolling fields, quaint villages and apple orchards. They took regular rest stops, buying a picnic in one of the villages they passed through, and during them Patrick looked at the old map he had brought. He was desperately trying to remember place names, landmarks, church towers, anything in the landscape that would help him find where he was. He knew his destination was somewhere between two towns, which were on his map, but it seemed that the map was older than most of the roads they were travelling on, and could not see a sign to anywhere he knew. About eight hours after leaving Le Havre, Patrick admitted defeat and pulled the car over.

"We are lost," he said, resting his head against the steering wheel.

Noticing her husband was gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles turn white, Shelagh picking up the map from where Patrick had dropped it an hour or so before and said, "Where are we going?"

"It's not on the map, I don't even know if it is still there. All I know is that it is near a wood, somewhere between those two towns," he said putting his fingers on the map.

"What was the name of the village we passed through a while back?"

"I can't remember."

"Well, in that case, we need to drive to the next village, find out its name, and ask someone to assist us."

His wife's calm manner and common sense softened his tension and he started the engine up again. They rolled into the next village, and Patrick went into a shop to ascertain where they were. He emerged a few minutes later with some shopping.

"Well I know where we are, and possibly how to get to where we are going, but we are a long way off course. I'm too tired to drive much further tonight, and there is nowhere nearby to stay. The shop owner owns a fallow field at the other side of the village. He said we can camp there tonight. This is for tea," he finished, indicating the bag.

They parked up outside the field, opened the stiff, five-bar gate, and carried the camping gear from the car and laid it out in the grass. There were several big trees in the field, and a stream gushing down one side towards the road. Timothy and Patrick put the tent up. Chummy had given Patrick the smallest of the Cub's tents, but eight people would easily fit inside it. There was much clanging of metal poles, tangling of ropes, losing of pegs and a loud cry when Patrick hit his thumb with the mallet. While the boys were occupied with the tent, Shelagh had collected wood for the camping stove and some water from the steam to make tea. She opened the bag that Patrick had left the shop with and found a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, half a dozen apples and some sausages. She fed the baby while she waited for the stove to warm up and then settled her into the Moses basket. By the time the tent was up and the sausages, beans which Shelagh had found in the box of food they had brought from home, and toast were cooked it was getting dark, so they ate sat near the fire so that they could see.

Timothy went to bed as soon as he had finished his tea and within minutes his snores could be heard from the tent. Patrick and Shelagh washed up by torch light, put the fire out and gathered everything into the tent. They got ready for bed and curled up together in their sleeping bags. Patrick kissed Shelagh and said. "I will really need your support tomorrow." He wrapped his arms round her and nuzzled her shoulder. "And you'll have it," she replied. "Thank you."