Most of the following day was spent in the car, travelling across northern France towards the Belgian border. Patrick had spent his time in Belgium moving from temporary camp to temporary camp, rarely staying anywhere for more than a few weeks. He knew that there would be nothing remaining of anywhere he had been stationed, but there were places in the country that he wanted to see, and wanted his family to see also. The weather had turned wet and grey, and by mid-afternoon, the rain was coming down in torrents. The changing weather seemed to reflect the mood in the car. Timothy was bored and irritable and Shelagh seemed restless and fidgety.
The long journey dragged on, but by early evening, the Turners had arrived in the town of Ypres. It was still raining heavily, so Patrick found a hotel. Given the weather, and after four days on the road and sleeping in fields, they were all very glad of a hot shower, a proper bed, and walls and a roof made of something sturdier than canvas around them. After freshening up, they had dinner in a restaurant nearby. By the end of the meal, Timothy was struggling to stay awake, and Shelagh, looking almost as exhausted, was trying to comfort a very grumpy baby.
"I think we all need an early night," Patrick said, stroking Shelagh and Timothy's forearms.
They walked back to the hotel and Patrick and Shelagh settled the children into bed. They then climbed into their bed in silence. Patrick had noticed that Shelagh had been quiet all day, and he hoped he had not done anything to upset her.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she retorted sharply, not looking at him.
"No you are not," he said, "You've not been yourself all day, I haven't upset you have I? I know I have expected a lot from you, coming on this trip, it's not too much is it?"
"No, don't be silly Patrick," she replied, turning to face him, "it's just I am very tired, and, uncomfortable."
She turned away again as she said "uncomfortable". Patrick immediately understood, and reached out his hand and began to gently rub her abdomen. At his touch, she looked back round at him. No-one had ever done that to her before, and she was surprised by the relief that it brought.
"Liz always used to say how much better it made her feel," Patrick said quietly, "is it helping?"
Shelagh nodded.
"Let's get some sleep, we both need it," he said kissing her forehead, "goodnight my love."
Patrick flicked the bedside light out with his spare hand, and he did not remove the other until Shelagh was fast asleep.
It was mid-morning before all four Turners were awake, cheerful and refreshed after a good night's sleep. The previous night's torrential rain had ceased, leaving a cool and fresh edge to the air. As they had missed breakfast at the hotel, Patrick decided that they should find somewhere where they could have waffles. Shelagh and Timothy, neither of whom had heard of, let alone eaten, a waffle were both highly intrigued about what was going to arrive on the table with their coffee, but were both delighted by the unusually shaped, sugar-coated treats.
The rest of the day was spent exploring the old town. They wandered through the Grote Markt, and visited the Cloth Hall, the centre of the town's former linen trade, "and where they used to throw cats off the roof," Patrick informed them, and the beautiful Gothic Cathedral of St Martin.
"Both the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral were originally built in the thirteenth century," Patrick had told them, "but they, like most of Ypres, were razed to the ground in the Great War and were then rebuilt. Tonight," he said thoughtfully, "we are going to witness a ceremony which is a powerful reminder of that war. And I'm going to try and find somebody lost long ago."
Patrick did not elaborate any further on the evening's planned events. Both Timothy and Shelagh wondered what he could have meant by "find someone lost long ago," but they neither asked him not discussed it between themselves. After they had had their evening meal, they walked across town until they arrived at a huge, ornately decorated, white marble and red brick gateway, spanning the main road in and out of Ypres. A large crowd was beginning to gather on both sides of the road.
"This is the Menin Gate," Patrick said, "it is a memorial to all the British and Commonwealth soldiers, who died in the first three years of the war, and who have no known grave. There is a remembrance ceremony here at eight o'clock every night. Can you see all the names on the walls?"
Timothy and Shelagh nodded.
"Somewhere on here, is my mother's brother James. He died in 1917, at the Battle of Passchendaele and his body was never found. I was only nine when he was killed, I don't remember much about him, only that he was very tall and had a deep voice."
Patrick took a few deep breaths, Shelagh held his hand.
"We'll look for him later," she said with a tone of reassuring kindness, "it looks like the ceremony is about to start."
A bugler appeared, and the gathered crowd fell silent. He began to play, the Last Post resonating around the Gate's cavernous arches. Silence fell again; the emotional tension of the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Patrick stood through the ceremony deeply moved, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. His arms, almost unconsciously, had found their way around his wife and son. The ceremony ended and as the crowds began to disperse, Timothy said,
"Shall we go and find your Uncle James?"
"I'm sure he served in the 39th Regiment, or Division, one of the two," Patrick said, scanning the names on the panel directly behind him.
The family wandered round the monument, trying to find a Regiment or Division called the 39th. Shelagh, carrying her sleeping daughter, stopped by a wall, stood on tip-toe, and craned her neck to read the name of the Division high above her head. She had found the 39th Division.
"Patrick," she called, beckoning him over to her, before pointing up at the panel above her head.
Patrick looked up to where Shelagh was pointing, and began scanning the list of names. His eyes widened as he saw a familiar name. He kissed his wife and daughter.
"Thank you girls" he said.
He reached up above his head, and traced the inscribed letters with his fingers.
"Hello, Uncle James," Patrick said, "I'm so glad I have found you. I hope, wherever you are, you are now at peace."
Patrick stood back from the wall, staring up at his uncle's name and the names of those around him. Again, almost unconsciously, his arms seemed to find their way around Shelagh and Timothy. He stood staring for another moment, before gently guiding Shelagh and Timothy away from the wall, onto the road and then back across the square towards their hotel.
At breakfast the next morning Patrick announced that he was going to take them all to Bruges. After the challenges of the last few days, he had decided that they needed to go somewhere he had never been before and spend the day creating positive memories.
"Bruges is somewhere I have never been, so we are just going there to have a nice day out," he said. "I've heard that it is very pretty, and it's rather famous for something, something you're quite fond of Tim."
"And what's that?" Timothy said indifferently, eying up his father over his cup.
"Well, since you seem so unenthusiastic about it, you won't mind waiting until we get there to find out," Patrick teased.
"Dad!" Timothy protested.
They arrived in Bruges by late morning. After finding somewhere to stay for the night, they walked through the cobbled streets of the city, stopping to visit the city's churches, its medieval belfry and, despite Timothy's protests, the Groeningemuseum.
"I don't think much to that painting," Timothy sneered.
"That's an original van Eyck!" Shelagh replied.
Patrick laughed. "Clearly our son is a philistine."
"What's a philistine?" Timothy asked.
"Look it up in a dictionary when we get home." Patrick grinned.
After lunch in a restaurant just off Burg Square, they took a boat ride along the city's canals. Although he had not asked directly, Patrick and Shelagh were both aware that Timothy was still trying to work out what Bruges was famous for that he was fond of. Clearly it was not medieval architecture, boats or Flemish art, but he could not work it out. Stepping off the boat, Patrick decided it was too unkind to keep Timothy in suspense any longer, so took them to one of the shops for which Bruges was renowned.
"A chocolate shop!" Timothy gasped as he looked through the window.
"I said Bruges was famous for something you were rather fond of," Patrick replied.
"Can I go in?"
"Well if you don't, I will," Shelagh giggled. She was also very fond of chocolate.
As they walked in, they saw that the whole building was full from floor to ceiling with chocolate, in all colours, shapes and sizes. The warm, sweet aroma was intoxicating, both Shelagh and Timothy found themselves instinctively licking their lips. Patrick grinned as he watched his wife and son flit between shelves and counters, images of glee and delight painted across their faces. The girl behind one of the counters offered them some samples to try; truffles, caramels and off-cuts of a rich, near-black bar. Their faces lit up and their eyes widened as the chocolates melted in their mouths. They all agreed that it was the nicest thing they had ever eaten.
"No offence to your cooking Mum," Timothy said, putting a second truffle into his mouth.
Ten minutes later the four Turners left the shop carrying several bags and boxes of chocolate, some for themselves and some as presents for their friends back in Poplar. They put their chocolate into the main part of the car, and the presents into the bottom of the boot out of sight where they would not be tempted to eat it.
That night as they lay curled up in bed Shelagh put her arms round Patrick's neck and whispered,
"Today has been a lovely, thank you."
He kissed her nose.
"Yes," he replied, "it has been a very happy day."