After breakfast the following morning, Patrick announced that they were going to walk the mile or so from the campsite where they had spent the night into the next town. As they walked through the narrow, winding lanes, which were bordered by pastures and wheat fields, Patrick carried his daughter in the sling and held his wife's hand. Timothy skipped on ahead, zigzagging across the road, looking over walls and trying to catch butterflies in his cap. He then saw a stocky grey pony, trying to reach fresh grass over a fence. A little wary at first, he walked up to it, then gently patted its neck and rubbed its ears, before pulling up a handful of grass and offering it. The pony took the grass from Timothy's hand, and then rubbed its head against Timothy's chest.
"You've made a friend there Timothy," Shelagh said.
Patrick could not help smiling as he surveyed the scene. Shelagh noticed his face and squeezed his hand. He moved his hand from hers to wrap his arm round her waist.
"I've walked this road before," Patrick began his smile fading slightly. "We were fleeing the camp, trying to find safety. We walked for twenty five miles, in blistering heat with no food or water, we didn't know if we would make it."
"You don't need to flee to safety anymore," Shelagh said "Safety is here, with us, your family. And we are walking with you."
"I know you are, and that is why I wanted to walk this part of the journey, to, rectify, things."
"Timothy was quite word-perfect yesterday wasn't he?"
Patrick smiled "Yes he was. Well," he continued, "we were rescued and taken to a place of safety. That's where we are going next."
Five minutes later Patrick stopped at a junction just outside the old walls of a small town, medieval in origin he reckoned, its skyline dominated by a Gothic church spire.
"This is where we were rescued, by a priest and his horse and cart. He was a double agent, working for everyone it seemed. He hid us in that church," he said, pointing at the spire, "down in the crypt for four days. That's where we are going."
They walked into the town and into the square where the church was located. A wedding party were just leaving the church: the groom, tall and dark with a rugged features and a finely chiselled jaw line; the bride short and slim, and younger than him, her wavy golden hair cascading down the back of her white dress; surrounded by their loved ones.
The Turners watched the happy scene until the party had left, and then walked up to the mighty oak doors of the church.
"St Christopher's, that's what it's called," Patrick said, "I didn't ever find out last time."
"The patron saint of travellers," Shelagh remarked, "quite appropriate really."
They entered the nave of the church and saw the priest sat in the front row.
Patrick walked up to him and asked, "Pourrions-nous entrer dans la crypte?"
"Oui, monsieur."
Shelagh opened her mouth to ask him when he learnt to speak French, but stopped. "You fool!" she thought to herself.
The priest showed them through a series of doors, steps and narrow passageways, then unlocked a final oak door, and then stepped back to allow the family in. Patrick looked round the old stone room. There were perhaps a few more tombs that he remembered, but essentially it had not changed. It was cold, damp, and grey from floor to ceiling.
"Nine other men and I were hidden down here waiting to be rescued. The priest was able to get us small amounts of food and water, but we certainly had no comforts. We slept on the floor, trying to get comfy on the slabs. I slept here," he said, walking over to a corner behind an ornate sarcophagus. He sat on the floor. "We, those who nearly died, were residing with those who were dead."
He began trembling. Shelagh ran to him and held him.
"The smell, the blood, I…"
Patrick suddenly got up, and ran out of the crypt, his rapid footsteps reverberating around the stone passageways. Shelagh and Timothy followed him. They found him sat on the stone steps of the church, his head in his hands, tears in his eyes. Timothy reached him first and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Leave me alone."
"Dad, what's the matter?"
"I ran away, I'm nothing but a coward, you must be so ashamed."
"I'm not and neither are you, and I know that because we are here, helping you. If you were a coward we would still be at home, oh, I don't know, helping Mum decide what to have for pudding or which silly piece of music she wants the Choral Society to sing next."
Patrick felt his lips curve very slightly.
"You've shown us that part of the story," Timothy continued, "and we'll remember it. Remember also, that you don't have to go there again."
Before his father could protest, Timothy threw both arms around his neck and said.
"I love you Dad."
Once again, Timothy's astuteness and childish innocence had rescued Patrick from a dark place in his past. He wondered what he would do without him.
As Timothy let go of Patrick, Shelagh helped the two of them up and said, "Come on you two." She turned to Patrick, "where are we going next?" she asked.
"A café in a square," Patrick replied.
They walked down the steps across the square and back to the campsite hand in hand. They piled into the car and headed out onto the main road. When they pulled into the pretty cobbled square some hours later, Patrick was delighted to see that it was exactly how he remembered it. The stripy awning still adorned the shops and cafés, the fountain was still gently bubbling, the flowerbeds radiant with colour and trees still cast dappled shadows across the entire scene.
"Oh it's beautiful Patrick," Shelagh gasped looking out of the window.
"It's just how I remember it," he replied, "we are going to that café," he said, pointing to a small building to their right, "I've always wanted to spend a long lazy afternoon sitting outside it."
The Turners sat at a table outside of the café underneath the red and white striped awning. Patrick ordered them fish stew, salad and bread, orange juice for Timothy and a carafe of white wine. He took a sip of his, and laughed saying.
"Well the quality of the wine has definitely improved in the last twenty years!"
The food was excellent and after they had polished their main course followed by a Tarte Tatin and cream for pudding, they sat quite content, watching the world go by. The baby was fast sleep in her Moses basket, like her father, obviously content to spend a lazy afternoon in the square. Shelagh had been wondering throughout the meal why Patrick had brought them to this beautiful place, and this café in particular, as he had not given any indication of his motives either on the way or since they arrived. While Timothy went off to the lavatory, she seized the moment and asked.
"We are here because of something which happened in that room there," Patrick said, pointing to a window in the upper storey of the café, "something which I regret to this day."
"What was that?"
"Well, um, er," Patrick began to stammer. He felt his cheeks flush slightly.
At that moment Timothy arrived and sat down again at the table. An awkward silence descended. Acutely aware as always, Timothy said. "What have I missed?"
"Nothing darling," Shelagh said, though she knew she did not sound convincing.
"I've had an idea Tim." Patrick said, quickly taking a pen and a crumpled piece of paper out of his trousers pocket. "I want you to take this money," he handed him a few francs, "and then go round the shops and find," he began to write "some pain, buerre, jambon, fromage, lait, pommes, tomates and gateaux, and if there is any change left you can buy some of these for yourself," he finished, writing bonbons on the list. "It will be a good way to practise the French you've learned at school."
"Um ok then," Timothy said, and shuffled off to the nearest shop. With Timothy out of the way, Patrick began his story.
"After we had been rescued from the church crypt we were taken to another army base just outside of this town. We were given our first night off so we came here for a drink. Except we didn't just have one drink, we, well, we were young; we had never really drunk wine before, and certainly not calvados."
"What's calvados?"
"A type of brandy made from apples. I then, well, I," he felt his cheeks flush.
"Go on," Shelagh teased.
Patrick leaned into Shelagh and whispered in her ear, "I lost my virginity in that room upstairs."
Patrick watched Shelagh's reaction to his revelation, every one of her thought processes reflected in her sparkling blue eyes. Suddenly, her eyes opened wider than he had ever seen them, her jaw dropped slightly and she gawped at him for a few seconds before stuttering, "but you weren't, I mean, you hadn't, got, married, so who with, no, Patrick, really?" she began to blush pinker than Patrick.
Patrick nodded. "I told you I regretted what I'd done, and I still regret it today. I regretted it most when I was married to Timothy's mother. I felt I had deceived her, knowing another like that, before her. That feeling plagued me; perhaps that is why in ten years of marriage we only had Timothy."
"Why did you?"
"I was young, I was drunk, I was foolish, and one of the lads had shouted something about living for the moment as you might be dead tomorrow."
Shelagh took his hands in hers.
"I wish I hadn't, I hated every second of it. I had always imagined that my first time would be magical, just as it was the first time with you."
Patrick's hand left Shelagh's and found her thigh under the table. Shelagh flushed an impressive shade of scarlet.
"Patrick, we're in a public place in the middle of the day!" she protested. He did not move. She then realised what he had actually said. "Magical?" she asked coyly.
"Truly magical," he said leaning into her, "because I knew I was not deceiving you, you knew I had known another. And for the first time in my life, I felt, well…"
He did not finish his sentence, but planted a kiss on her lips, and moved his hand further up her thigh then rested it on her hip. Shelagh put her arms around Patrick's neck, drawing him closer to her. After what seemed like hours, Shelagh noticed Timothy leaving a shop on the opposite side of the square, and broke the embrace.
"Is this everything you wanted Dad?" Timothy said, handing Patrick the paper bags he was holding.
"Yes, son that's absolutely fine. Right, I think we have time for a small calvados, and then we better find somewhere to pitch the tent for the night."
He skipped off into the café, returning a few minutes later with two small glasses of calvados. Shelagh was not sure whether she liked it or not, it was much stronger than she was used to, but Patrick drained his glass and felt a warm sense of satisfaction. Timothy stole Shelagh's glass and tried some, and both his parents laughed at the faces he pulled when his tongue and throat began to tingle from the strong liquor.
"That serves you right," his parents chorused.
Later that night, Patrick drifted off to sleep in his wife's arms, thinking of all he had achieved over the past few days, and how lucky he was to have the wife and children he had been blessed with.
"Magical" he thought, "truly magical."