Patrick and Shelagh awoke the next morning both still buzzing from the previous night's event. They had fallen asleep curled up together; Patrick's last memory before drifting off was the beautiful scent of his wife's hair in which he had buried his face. As he lay there a thought occurred to him.
"Shelagh," he whispered.
"Yes darling," she yawned sleepily.
"We left all our clothes outside last night."
They looked at each other, their eyes widening in panic. They crawled towards the opening of the tent, and pulled the flap apart. They looked out and, simultaneously, their jaws dropped at the sight that greeted them.
Timothy was stood outside in his pyjamas with an armful of clothes. Patrick and Shelagh gasped as they recognised them as the ones that they had worn the previous evening. Timothy's expression was a picture, part thoughtfulness, part bewilderment, part unease and just a hint of amusement. Patrick saw Shelagh flush scarlet as she noticed her lacy lingerie draped casually over their son's arm.
"I went to the loo," Timothy began, "and on the way back I noticed that these were all over the place, so I thought I'd better pick them up before anyone saw them."
Desperately trying to find an explanation for the situation, Patrick said, "they must have blown off the washing line," indicating the length of rope strung between the tent and the fence where some nappies and several shirts billowed in the breeze, "it got a bit wild out here last night."
He let out an inner groan when he realised what he had said. He begged that Timothy was naïve enough to think he was talking about the weather.
"Well, that's funny," Timothy replied, a devious, verging on omniscient tone to his voice, "because there are no gaps on the washing line."
Patrick felt his stomach lurch. He could not look at Shelagh; he knew that she would be absolutely mortified.
"And," Timothy continued, "I'm sure these were the clothes you wore last night, and I can't imagine you would want to do washing in the dark, not" he kicked something with his right foot, and it clinked "with wine and truffles anyway."
Both Patrick and Shelagh let out audible gasps.
"Tim," Patrick began, "we, um, er."
Shelagh continued, "what your father is trying to say is, well, we." "
It's alright," Timothy said kindly, his parent's obvious embarrassment softening his manner, "I know what," he paused, not daring to look at his parents "couples, who love each other, do, in the dark. I mean, well," it was Timothy's turn to go red, "you love each other, and I guess, stuff, happens, though" he started giggling, "maybe you should remember to tidy up after yourselves next time," and threw the armful of clothes at his parents.
Patrick and Shelagh could not help laughing at Timothy. Patrick, suddenly aware that his son was not as naïve as he thought, was curious as to where he had gained his knowledge. One hunch crossed his mind.
"You haven't been talking to Nurse Franklin have you?"
"Don't be silly Dad, the nurses only talk about men when they are in their rooms," Timothy said far too quickly, "I haven't been in Trixie, I mean, Nurse Franklin's room," he hastily added.
"I should hope not!" Shelagh exclaimed. "And that's not strictly true. They talk about them in the kitchen late at night when the Nun's aren't around."
"And how do you know that?" Patrick half gasped, half sniggered.
"Um, well, I, only heard them once, when Chummy and Peter were first courting. We sat up and waited to hear about their date."
"We?" Patrick enquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Jenny, Cynthia and Trixie, and well, I was, curious. Chummy told us everything, and then that Peter had invited her to a dance, and they all arranged to go." Her voice dropped. "Oh how I wanted to go too. They all looked so lovely that night in their beautiful dresses, their hair all lacquered and their faces made-up, I wanted nothing more than to be joining them, to own dresses like those."
"Really? You've never told me that."
"That was the night I first began to question what I truly wanted in my life," she said quieter still.
"Oh, Shelagh."
"Oh please, you are so soppy," Timothy giggled, rolling his eyes, "anyway, returning to your question Dad, it wasn't Nurse Franklin who told me, it was Sister Julienne, after your wedding, when I stayed the night with her.
Patrick and Shelagh gave each other a sideways glance, and then looked back at Timothy.
"She came to say goodnight and she sat with me for a while. We had hot chocolate and she made sure I was happy and settled. I asked her why you two were going back to the house by yourselves and I had to stay with her. I wondered why we had to wait another day to be a family, together, and, well, she, explained, why you needed to be alone that night. She said it was better that I found out from her, rather than the boys at school. It's alright," he continued after seeing the looks of concern on his parent's faces, "I understood that that was what had to happen. And," he put an arm round each of them, "you've both more than made up for that wait since. I love you both so much."
Patrick and Shelagh hugged and kissed Timothy. He wriggled away after a moment before saying.
"Wasn't it a bit cold out here last night?"
"Tim!"
After lunch they packed up the car and headed for the Italian border. Whilst Shelagh and Timothy were talkative throughout the journey, excited about where they were heading next, Patrick barely spoke. His mind was troubled, painful memories were beginning to resurface again, he knew he was getting closer to the place where he was at his lowest, the place which broke him with such devastating force. After the weeks spent relaxing and enjoying himself, crossing into Italy that afternoon brought him abruptly back to reality, back to the true purpose of the trip.
They left the Alps behind and set up camp for the night north of Venice. Patrick still had barely spoken to any of his family, and he was aware that Shelagh had noticed that all was not well. After tea he had sat smoking a little way away from the tent, staring into the distance, his thoughts a long way from his current time and place. He knew he would have to tell her soon. She knew that he had served in Italy, as his colleague Frank had acted as his referee for the adoption agency. And she knew that he had ended up being treated for War Neurosis at Northfield. He needed to fill in the gap in his wife's knowledge, the last of the secrets of his past.
"Patrick." His wife's gentle voice brought him back to the present. She was stood a little way off, rocking their daughter.
"Is everything alright?"
"We are getting close, geographically, to a difficult place in my past. However I am not yet ready, mentally, to, to…"
His voice trailed off. He balled his hands into fists. His lip trembled. His breathing became shallow. He felt Shelagh put the baby into his arms, and then wrap herself around him. Both his girls felt soft and warm against him, but despite their contact, there was a dark, cold feeling in his heart.
"What do you want to do Patrick?"
"I want to run, I want to run as fast as I can and not stop until I am safe. But, but…"
He began to cry, tears running down his cheeks. He felt Shelagh's white handkerchief wipe them away.
"You've come so far, we all have," she said gently. "All of us have learnt so much about each other, things that will help as all to grow closer to each other, to understand each other, to be a family. We can't give up now."
"I, I know, but I'm so frightened."
He hugged his daughter to him. He cast his mind back to the night with her on the sofa. The icy coldness inside him was thawing slightly. Shelagh's head had found his shoulder.
"How far away are we, geographically?"
"A couple of hours I would think."
"Do you need another good day?"
"I doubt waiting another day will make it any easier, but it can't make it any harder. Perhaps I want, rather than need a good day," he turned to Shelagh, "is there somewhere you want to go?"
Shelagh looked at Patrick shyly. "Well, I know this is your trip, but I've always thought that, Venice, would be a rather lovely place to go, and we're not too far away are we?
"No, it's not far. Hmmm, Venice, isn't it supposed to be very romantic?"
Patrick looked round at Shelagh, and saw a pink tinge rising in her cheeks. Her eyes left his gaze.
"There's nothing wrong with being romantic, Shelagh," her eyes met his, "if you would like to go to Venice, then I'll take you. I want to take you; you've been everywhere I've asked you, it's the least you deserve."
"And then we'll go, the day after, to wherever you need to go. No excuses."
"There will be no excuses, I'm not giving up now, I can't, can I?"
"No Patrick."