The next morning Patrick took one long, final look at the boarding house where he had spent so many happy moments, alone, and his wife and children, before driving off through the back streets and out onto the open road. It had been three and a half weeks since they had left London, and as they headed north-westwards towards the French border, Patrick knew that it was time. Time to lay to rest the final ghost of his past, and then to go home.

"Home," he thought, "what will home be like now? So much has changed. I have opened the door into my world to my wife and children. They have seen so much. And in seeing and understanding my world they had shown me so much of theirs."

The first time Patrick had made the journey from the base to Southampton it had taken nearly four days. For that time, his course was steered by another. He had stared out of an army truck's window or out of a battleship's porthole, watching the outside world go by, a battered, war-torn world, reflecting his battered, war-torn, inner world. As the miles of this, his second journey, wore on, Patrick realised how different the two journeys were. He was driving, towards somewhere he wanted to go, not being taken where he did not want to go. Central France was so beautiful in peacetime, they passed through wheat fields, not battlefields, open roads, not barricades, the beauty of the countryside was as bright as his newly liberated soul.

Patrick intentionally took indirect routes and detours through France, ensuring that their journey back to Southampton also spanned four days. They stopped regularly, had picnics in the countryside, and enjoyed early nights and long lie-ins. Those days were happy, relaxed, and rectified the memories that those other four days had left in his mind. They rolled into the harbour at Le Havre on the third evening, just as the sun was setting on the horizon, its orange glow silhouetting the town against the sea and sky.

They boarded the overnight ferry back to Southampton. As they had done a month previously, Patrick and Shelagh settled the children in the cabin, and then strolled around the deck together.

"Last time I did this journey, all I wanted was to go home, back to London, to see my loved ones. Every wave that hit the boat, every blast of the engine, every chug from the funnels, they took me one step closer to home. I thought that as soon as I got to Southampton I could jump on a train and be home in a couple of hours. But that, it turned out, was just a thought, a dream."

"What happened, Patrick?"

"As soon as I got off the boat I was met by a nurse and several soldiers. They escorted me to an armoured car. I had no idea what was going on, all I had been told in Italy was that I had been discharged on medical grounds, they mentioned nothing of being sent for treatment."

"They didn't tell you anything?" Shelagh gasped cupping her hand to her mouth.

"Not until I was in the car sandwiched on the back seat between two soldiers."

"How could they?"

"I expect for the same reason they kept me in solitary confinement, why nobody would come near me. I expect they were frightened, frightened of me, frightened of what I might do."

"Ignorance is a terrible thing," Shelagh murmured, snuggling herself under Patrick's arm, "you were the frightened one, someone should have been protecting you from the world. They shouldn't have been protecting the world from you." Her arms found their way around his middle.

"To them I was a condition, not a person. They read my label, not my name. They saw War Neurosis, not Patrick Turner. I was just one more broken soldier. Not the first, and certainly, not the last, just one bead on a very long string, one drop in a vast ocean. And the worst thing was, was that I was fully aware of what they thought, yet they believed I wasn't. I was distressed, but not oblivious. I was me, Shelagh, I was still me, but nothing I could say would convince them."

He turned round so that he could bury his face into her shoulder and began to cry, the muted, pitiful tears of a frightened child.

"It's alright," Shelagh whispered in his ear, "I'm here, with you, and I'm not frightened of you." She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "You are Patrick Turner," she continued boldly, "my husband, our children's father, and nothing will change that. Nothing that has passed, or will ever come to pass, will stop you being you."

Patrick dried his eyes on the back of his hand and looked at Shelagh.

"Thank you my love."

Shelagh kissed his cheek in response.

"I'm worried about tomorrow Shelagh," he continued, "I don't know how I'm going to react. I don't know what returning to Northfield is going to do to me."

"It will heal you," she answered resolutely, yet gently, "now, we have a challenging day tomorrow, let's call it a night shall we?"

"Do you think this boat's bunks are any roomier than the last ones?" Patrick said, grinning mischievously.

"Hmmm" Shelagh thought for a moment, "No!"

The sky was grey and foreboding when they arrived at Southampton early the next morning; late summer was certainly making way for early autumn on the south coast. By the time they had reached the outskirts of Birmingham it had been raining for several hours and the wind was picking up.

Patrick's heart began to race as he turned the car into Tessall Lane, and by the time he stopped outside of what had been Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital he thought it was going to burst out of his chest. A different name than the one he knew was now emblazoned across the large sign at the entrance, but the severe red brick buildings, with their grey slate roofs, tall chimneys, and whitewashed sash windows were exactly as he remembered, exactly as threatening, exactly as frightening.

"Well," Patrick puffed, desperately trying to hide his nerves, "we're here."

His wife and son's hands found their way to his shoulders, stroking them, gently, comfortingly.

"Do you want to go nearer?" Shelagh asked.

"Not really," Patrick replied, "but I need to."

"Come on then, be bold Patrick."

Patrick could not help a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"Oh Mrs. Turner…"

"Hey you two," Timothy piped up, "this is not the time for squashy stuff. Come on Dad," he said, pulling on his coat and opening the car door, "one final challenge."

When they got out of the car, Shelagh put the baby sling around Patrick and snuggled the little girl into her father's chest. She and Timothy then took one of Patrick's hands each, and they walked closer to the imposing red-brick edifice together. As they walked Patrick felt a growing warmth and confidence. He had never felt closer to his family, physically or emotionally. Nor did he ever feel closer to achieving the happiness and peace he had been craving for fifteen years. But fear was still his overriding emotion. Fear of the past, fear of the present, fear of the future. At the foot of the building, Patrick stopped, and stared.

"That's the ward where I was, treated," Patrick said, letting go of Timothy's hand and pointing to a row of windows on the top floor of the building. His whole arm trembled.

"What did they do to you?" Timothy asked, taking his father's trembling hand in his again.

"The psychiatrists here tried a new method of healing mental illness, to get all the inpatients to help each other, supporting each other, like we would have done in the army. They didn't focus on individual people, individual problems. We had all seen different things, we all hurt in different ways, but we were all treated with the same pill. We weren't individuals; we were a collection, a collection of broken men, here to be patched up as well as they could be. We all tried to help each other, but I never felt as though I could heal myself." He turned to Shelagh, tears running down his cheeks, rain running off his unkempt fringe. "Perhaps that's why I could treat others, but could not treat myself."

Shelagh burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry Patrick." She buried her face in her hands, unable to look at him. Timothy flashed confused looks between his parents, not knowing what to do. He settled on patting their arms.

"It's alright Shelagh," he said kissing her rain-soaked hair, "you were not to know, I should have told you."

"I should have asked. I was so excited, I did not pick up on your reservations, I was selfish, I just sought what I wanted, I didn't think about you. I didn't let you tell me."

"But you know now. There are no secrets of my past which I've kept from you."

"And I have nothing hidden from you Patrick."

"And let us keep it that way, I think that will keep us happy."

"Are you happy now Dad?" Timothy asked.

"I will be in a minute, Tim," Patrick replied.

He wrapped his arms around Shelagh and Timothy and the four Turners cuddled together, holding each other as tightly as they could. The rain was pouring down, and a cold wind whipped around them, but the warmth of their love, the closeness of their embrace, counteracted any chill that the weather could cause.

"I have felt more healing here today than I gained from the five months I was here in 1945," Patrick said, unable to let go of his wife and children, "because I knew you wanted to help me, just me. You cared for me by caring about me. And I wanted to help myself, to treat myself. And now, I am very, very happy. The wounds of my past are healed. I am free. I'm free!"

He let go of Shelagh and Timothy and threw his arms into the air triumphantly. A Cheshire-Cat-like grin erupted across his face and, holding his daughter to him, danced around the path, splashing in puddles as he did so. His shoes and trousers ended up soggy, but he didn't care. He was happy.

The rain then suddenly started coming down even heavier than before.

"Patrick," Shelagh squeaked, "come on, let's get back to the car," and they ran back to the entrance.

Wet, cold, but happy, the Turners got back into the car and took off their wet coats, Patrick changed his socks, and they found a jumper each. Once they were a little drier, and settled, Patrick started the engine, and after taking a final look at the hospital building behind him said.

"Let's go home. I think it's time. I'm ready."

"It's been quite a journey," Shelagh said reflectively, as they pulled away, "quite an adventure."