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It would be wrong to suggest that Timothy felt reassured after talking to Peter Noakes. The old fog of uncertainty was replaced by two fresh and sharply focused approaching storms. However, there were different forms of ease he considered while raiding the biscuit tin, and he did feel better: whatever horror was to be faced, it was far, far better to know what it was than to blunder in darkness.

Despite his initial panic, organising a party had steadily shrunk in fearsomeness. He was still not entirely sure what they would do, but his security was Uncle David, in whom he had implicit faith. Contacting him was an entirely different matter: his father was more indulgent that he often appeared, but not using the telephone was one of the few unbreakable, unshakeable laws of their household. From the earliest time that he understood this rule and his father's vocation, Timothy's most terrifying recurring nightmare had been of a desperate man, expiring breath by guttering breath, repeatedly calling his father, only to receive the engaged tone while Timothy prattled nonsense to an unspecified irrelevance somewhere beyond the handset. He knew Uncle David's address from writing thank you letters for his Christmas and birthday presents, but while he could send a letter, obtaining the reply without his father intercepting it was impossible. He trusted his father to respect his privacy, although letters to Timothy were so infrequent that he was usually only too enthusiastic to share them, but it would raise suspicions.

Conversely, the speech had sprouted new tentacles to trip him up. Simply having to speak at all filled him with dread; he enjoyed acting and was always comfortable playing his violin, but public speaking appalled him. He felt suffocated and his skin tensed. He didn't even particularly enjoy answering questions in class in case he got them wrong, although he frequently asked them. Additionally there were Peter's hasty words 'to entertain the guests'. Just speaking was insufficient. He didn't imagine there would be many guests; he had few relatives, his father's circle of friends was small and the thought of Sister Bernadette having any connections beyond Nonnatus House never entered his head. However, who could know? At his mother's funeral a sea of unknown faces had mumbled condolences to his father's frozen stare. And even if the guests were confined to those whom he knew, they would include Sister Evangelina, who Timothy found one of the world's more terrifying people. He knew that it had been she who first pulled him into the world and sometimes wondered whether she privately regretted her actions.

But, nagging at his mind like a ragged nail, was one selfish fantasy he could not stop indulging: his father watching and listening to him, with the same loving, rapt attention Shelagh blessed him with. And deeper still lay his small epiphany: while his father gave so much to his patients, he gave everything else to him. So often each of his father's failures - sharp words and hasty reactions, late arrivals, clumsy oversights as he struggled to be father and mother both – clung to Timothy's mind, stabbing at his goodwill. Now each memory of affection, laughter and confidences between "Us Two" was illuminated, magnified into something of great worth; and drenched in remorse that he had never truly appreciated them. But if he could conquer his terror and fulfil his father's request, perhaps, just perhaps, he could make amends for a guilt he could not explain.

Beyond his anxiety, however, was a simple, practical problem; how could he deliver a speech about his father when he was younger, when he, Timothy, hadn't been there? His sketch pad lay temptingly on the sitting room bookcase, a half-finished picture he had been creating for Shelagh within it, the pencils on top, but duty tugged stronger than pleasure. Regretfully he turned away, extracted his English exercise book from his school bag, removed the middle two pages and started to plan.

Friday night was Cubs night. Timothy's white flame of sacrifice had been somewhat extinguished by the time he arrived, twenty minutes late due to a quick stop to check-up on an elderly patient which evolved into a lengthy examination for suspected emphysema. The boisterous opening game had finished by the time Timothy irritably slammed the door of the car and ran into the parish hall, without looking back. However, in his pocket crackled the pages from the exercise book, now covered in a gravely composed list to be surreptitiously slipped to Akela for her husband.

However, Akela was not there. The troop were settled cross-legged at the front of the hall, and Fred was grandly explaining the plans for this year's Christmas entertainment; no mere nativity, but, emboldened by the success of Robin Hood, a short pantomime.

"Dick Whittington. Very appropriate for a group of young Londoners, it being about an ambitious young man in London."

"And a cat!" put in Jack. "Oo's going to play the cat?"

"Dick Whittington's cat is a pivotal role," intoned Fred, "requiring a certain thespian expertise." From different points of the hall, miaows wailed. "It will be a non-speaking role, with no miaowing." At this point someone barked. Laughter erupted. "Or any other animal noises."

"Yeah, but how d'you play a cat?" persisted Jack. "Will it 'ave a tail?"

Fred was unhelpfully vague on this matter and, after pontificating about the major roles, he bustled the troop onto their feet and over to the piano, where Cynthia Miller was sitting, to learn the opening song. Timothy was elbowing his way to the front when he heard Fred whisper. "Young Turner. Lad."

He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next. The last time Fred had accosted him in such a fashion had been to cast him as a woman in Robin Hood. Having believed that the most embarrassing role in the world was a woman who was in love with Jack, he had the grim suspicion it would prove only second most embarrassing behind playing a non-speaking feline.

"Akela would like to speak to you about an important piece of entertainment at Christmas time. Would you nip along to Nonnatus House?"

Timothy gawped, totally baffled.

"A piece of entertainment which only you will be providing."

This clarification was of no assistance. "Does she want me to play the violin again?"

Fred peered at Timothy, raising his eyebrows cryptically. This, too, was of little assistance, partly because he resembled an outraged egg which had sprouted tufts of fluff, and partly because Fred was, in fact, as ignorant as Timothy was about the meaning of the strange message.

To Cynthia, however, Chummy had confided slightly more. "Timothy," she whispered, "it's Akela's husband who needs to speak to you. About something important just before Christmas."

"Oh!' he cried, comprehension and a flash in his eyes sudden and simultaneous; muttering his thanks, he sidled out of the hall and ran to Leyland Street, ringing the bell lustily before he had time to worry about who would answer it.

While he waited, he found that time. Explaining his presence in the middle of the evening to one of the nurses would be bad; Sister Evangelina would be worse; but worst of all would be his father. He did not know his father's plans for the evening; based on the abnormally tidy hair, the perfectly knotted tie and brushed suit and the attempt to finish his rounds before dropping Timothy off at Cubs, he had strong suspicions that they did not involve being on call. Yet he knew equally well that his father's intentions were always subject to the whims and needs of the people of Poplar. One siren call from that capricious mistress and he followed; it was not impossible that he would be there. From the other side of the door came a muffled exchange, a creak and the dull thud of a lock pulled back. Timothy clutched his cap in his hand, looking down at his feet as the door opened.

The smell was old corduroy and shaving cream. The voice was deep. But on the feet at the end of the too short legs were slippers.

"Great. You got my message from Nurse Miller, then? Come in, Timothy."

Timothy had only twice been in the parlour of Nonnatus House. Once was just after his mother died. He had sat with his father while Sister Julienne offered quiet comfort, with words he could not recall but were like soft music. The room stood in tidy stillness, January frost seeping into the air. The second was some months later when his father had been called to an emergency and he was left with Sister Bernadette, in the days when she was Sister Bernadette. The room was brighter then, with blossoming hyacinths and portly workbags becoming prime features in the game of 'I Spy' they played until she was summoned to prayer. Now it was different again, disorderly but alive, with cups of tea and a half-finished crossword on the table, a teddy atop soft towels on the couch and Akela in the deepest armchair, a tiny baby snuffling in her arms.

"Hello, Timothy."

"Hello, Akela," he said, shyly, twisting his cap in his hand.

"Hope you don't mind, Timothy, but I told Akela about our chat, and she suggested inviting you over to have a bit of a private conversation. Better than plotting in the street, eh?"

"I think it's a wizard idea of your father's to make you Best Man and you'll be marvellous. We told Nurse Miller that it was to do with the wedding, but nothing else. I do hope we didn't betray too many confidences." Her words barely registered with Timothy, who was staring fascinatedly at the baby. Chummy and Peter exchanged smiles. "And this little chap is Freddie, who I think is slightly too young to be betraying any secrets about wedding days to his GP!"

"Are you well now?" Timothy asked, sincerely. Despite the earthquake in his own life, he remembered that she had been in hospital and had been on his father's list of house calls two days earlier. She seemed paler than usual, although she was hardly quieter.

She beamed. "All tickety-boo. Both me and the little bean. A very tired little bean now." Awkwardly, she started to rise.

"Camilla, I'll do it." She started to protest, but her mouth closed as Peter briefly touched her cheek, then extracted the baby, asking as he exited, "Timothy, do you want some Horlicks?"

When Peter returned ten minutes later, Baby Fred tucked up in his cot and Horlicks in hand, Timothy and Chummy were already mid-discussion, poring over Timothy's crumpled list.

"Peter, Timothy's been wonderfully organised and has been planning strategies that would have impressed Monty at El Alamein! He's far ahead of us. Have a look at this."

Peter sat down in the armchair next to Chummy and, picking up the piece of paper, read:

PARTY

Go to theatre Ask Uncle David

SPEECH

GROWING UP and SCHOOL Uncle Michael (Granny Parker?)

UNIVERSITY Uncle David, Auntie Louisa & Uncle Kenneth

WAR Don't know

WORK Sister Julienne?

HOME Me

PROBLEMS

War

How to contact people

"I was trying to work out what I needed to put in the speech," Timothy explained, "and who could tell me stories about Dad's life before I remember him."

"Very sensible," replied Peter. "Is Granny Parker your mum's mum?"

"Yes. Mum and Dad grew up in the same street so she knew him when he was little. Grandpa Parker doesn't really remember things now, but Granny's got lots of stories. But I think I'll wait. I think Granny'll like Sister Bernadette, I mean Shelagh, but they've not met yet and it might make her sad because she'll think about Mummy. We're going to her house tomorrow and then I'll know."

Just as had happened the previous afternoon, Peter's eyes pricked at the child's keen sensitivity. Quickly, he pointed to the last line. "What's the problem about contacting people? Because if it's what I think it is, we might've come up with a solution already."

Timothy explained the phone issue. "That's what we thought," said Peter. "Here's an idea. What if you give anyone you write to, like your Uncle David, this address? If you tell them to write to here and address it to me, then your dad would never know. What d'you think?"

Timothy considered it. It seemed so easy. "I think it would work."

"Wonderful," exclaimed Chummy. "Now, have you got a pencil, Timothy? The address is, Leyland - "

"Leyland Street, Poplar, London, E14. I know that!" He sipped his Horlicks, while Peter chuckled quietly. "Constable Noakes, what do you think I should do about the war problem?"

"Well, tell me what it is first."

Timothy wrinkled his nose. "I know Dad was in the Army during the war. But I don't know what he did. He doesn't talk about it. I found some medals once and he told me to put them away because they were just for being in that bit of the war and they weren't important."

Peter took his time before answering, putting down his own cup of tea and leaning forward. "Right, I see. Timothy, if your dad doesn't like talking about it, d'you think he'd want you to investigate it? War experiences can be pretty horrible, not what you'd want in a speech. My dad was in the first war and when people mention it, he gets very upset."

"Dad doesn't get upset. He just doesn't talk about it. And even if I didn't mention it in the speech, shouldn't I find out first? Then we could decide. If he was very brave, everyone should know, shouldn't they? If it's a speech about who he is, that's part of who he is, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose." It troubled Peter, but he saw the truth in what the child said. "It may be hard to find out anything. Do you know anything about your dad's war service?"

"I know he was in the Royal Army Medical Corps." Each word was distinctly enunciated, the last stressed as though carefully learnt. "I think there was something in France, starting with D."

Peter started. "You don't mean D-Day?"

Timothy shook his head. "No, it was a place. How do we find out? Can you find out as a policeman?"

Before Peter could explain the restrictions on using police resources for private detection, Chummy spoke up. "I've got an idea about how we could carry out our investigation. My friend Binkie's oldest brother, Hugh, is in the army. Hugh's just returned to England to start a new job at Sandhurst. If you can find out a little more evidence, perhaps the name of the place starting with D, I can write to Hugh and he could put us 'on the right track'. That would work, wouldn't it?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Not at all. It's all jolly exciting actually! Like being a detective or a spy, with secret meetings to plot our strategy!" They laughed conspiratorially. "Besides, I owe your pa a great deal, Timothy. I'm not sure I would have survived my first few weeks in Poplar if it hadn't been for some of that confidence he gave me," she added.

"How?"

Simply, she told him her earliest memories of his father while Timothy listened, the cooling Horlicks forgotten: words of congratulations after Sister Evangelina's sarcasm. She feared they were ironic until she saw the kind smile. The remark she overheard, 'Nurse is managing things beautifully', in the middle of the terrifying breech birth. She could not convey how she still cherished his words – 'the mark of a good nurse' – a thread in the thin red strand which sustained her, carrying them with her to Africa in the hope of giving something to the world. "I've never thanked him, and I should. He was the first doctor who ever treated me with complete professional respect."

"Weren't you a nurse before you came here?"

"Yes," she said. "For five years." Peter's hand slipped into hers, his thumb gently circling her palm, while Timothy knit his brows, the shrewd processing in his dark eyes so like his father it was eerie.

"Can I mention that, Akela? In the speech, I mean," he asked bashfully.

"Gosh. I'd be rather honoured if you did."

His pencil scratched as he noted down the details on the reverse side of his list, each comment she made recorded with painstaking care. Little sounds of a gentle evening rustled – his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, the shrill cry of the telephone two doors away, the clock's quiet heartbeat – while he handed her the notes to be checked for accuracy like homework.

It was the clock which broke the fine weave of their concentration, with the hour chiming. "My goodness, Timothy," exclaimed Chummy, returning his precious piece of paper to him. "This was only supposed to be ten minutes. If you don't dash yourself back to the hall, Fred will be marching in here accusing me of sabotaging the pantomime." She and Peter exchanged a very knowing laugh.

"What do you mean?"

She raised her eyebrows mischievously. "Fred has a rather jolly surprise for you at Cubs."

"What is it?"

"Go and ask him," chuckled Peter. "I'll let you out."

Wondering, he departed, groaning when he fell for Peter's mock handshake, which turned into a nose thumbing and only realising after the door had closed that what Peter had thrust into his other hand 'to give you a bit of a help out' was a handful of stamps. Then, for a moment, he stopped on the top step and looked down at his notes. The memories were kind and simple and true. He had made a start. Smiling, he rammed the paper into the back pocket of his shorts, bounded down the steps and sprinted back to the hall, banging the door as he entered, panting and cheerful.

"And here he is," declaimed Fred. Four boys stood on the stage next to him, two excitedly giggling, one embarrassedly squirming and the last, Jack Smith, nonchalantly leaning against the wall. "The role of Dick Whittington's cat will be played by Timothy Turner."